The Fall Of Jacob Del Garda (18 page)

Shit.

How was it possible they'd grown so far apart that simple communication was now impossible between them? And what was the point of his ultimatum? She had to decide what? That she loved him? Of course she did.

Then the little voice in her head reminded her that he was right. From the very beginning of her diagnosis, she had, again and again, pushed him away.

She'd run away.

And he was also right that she'd been a coward.

A tsunami of the truth rose up and swept-away every particle of her self-delusion.

She'd believed that turning away from Jacob was for his own good, to give him a better future. But in truth, it was because she could not deal with the deep disappointment of the reality that the life she'd fought so hard for over the years, the perfect life, she'd imagined that they'd live together was gone.

Jacob hadn't changed.

He hadn't put her or their relationship on a pedestal.

But once they'd admitted their love and had committed to each other, she, Gabriella, had changed.

She was the one who had lived in an unrealistic dream of happy-ever-after and three or four children. And a fantasy life in the bright sun of the Bahamas. Never thinking for a moment that bad things can and do happen to good people.

Instead of fighting and standing up to help others by using her fame to spread the word of her illness and raise money for a cause, she'd surrendered into a deep pit of self-pity and a self-centredness that shamed her.

It was crucial that she proved to Jacob, not only that she loved him, but that the old Gabriella was back. Stronger and more determined to do the right thing.

Looking back, she realised she'd given up more and more of her authentic self while she'd lived with Jacob. Turning herself into some sort of Stepford girlfriend. He'd never asked it of her, but she'd been determined to be perfect for him in every conceivable way. And when times had become tough, she couldn't deal with the fact her perfect little world in her perfect little bubble had burst wide open.

Even the career she'd chosen had demanded she be self-critically perfect. Perfect skin. Perfect weight. Perfect hair. Perfect breasts. Perfect long, long legs. Perfect in bed. Organising the perfect wedding. Marrying the perfect man. Running a perfect home. The list was endless.

Fear fisted in her gut.

Dear God, she'd put herself under so much pressure to be perfect and didn't even realise it.

No wonder her whole world had collapsed.

She could see it all so clearly now.

What on earth had she been thinking?

Even today, she was
still
pushing Jacob away, begging him to find the
perfect
partner.

Was she crazy?

The red dress hanging on the door seemed to beckon her.

And her gaze lingered on the fabric and the cut.

She'd chosen it exactly because it was something she'd never usually wear when she accompanied Jacob in public. In the past, the image she'd wanted to portray, had been one of a classically cool blonde, the perfect... and there was that word again... visual foil for a dark and stunning Spaniard who was considered as one step down from Royalty in his country.

Certainly, Jacob had never seen her, except when she modelled on T.V. and magazines, in anything so revealing. And he'd never seen the craziness that surrounded her career either. Because she'd deliberately shielded him from that craziness. From the paparazzi, the gossip columns and the pressure she lived with inside her head every single day to be... perfect.

When had she changed and tried to be someone she was not?

For the life of her she couldn't put her finger on the precise moment when she'd felt that who she was and what she was may not be enough for Jacob.

But more importantly,
why
had she felt the need to be perfect?

Why had she felt unable to be her authentic self?

And how much pressure had that put on their relationship?

And then the fear fisted in her gut, did that mean the man she loved never really knew the real Gabriella?

Was that why she'd run from him, from their life together?

Like an automaton, she stood and moved to the bathroom to shower to prepare for their evening.

Mind in turmoil, hot water battering her hair, her body, Gabriella knew that the time had come to be real. Not only for Jacob's sake, but for her own.

Because the more she'd tried to be the perfect partner for him, the more she'd failed.

And the way she'd dealt with the diagnosis of cancer proved it.

Dear God, how could she have been so damn stupid?

Her fury with herself was a live and vicious thing.

Self-pity made another attempt to floor her, but she slapped it away as she energetically shampooed her hair.

Enough.

Tonight the real Gabriella Dolman would stand up before the world and be counted.

No more hiding from the truth.

No more perfect.

She just hoped Jacob Del Garda would be able to deal with the woman she really was.

Bronte Ferranti was not a happy woman.

She was also a very confused woman.

And so not in the mood for crap.

The twins had picked up on her do-not-mess-with-me attitude. Luca and Sophia Ferranti watched their mother with big wary eyes as they ate their supper, splashed playfully in their bath without causing a tsunami, had story-time without a call for more and gone straight to sleep like two perfect little lambs.

And last night, for the first time in her entire marriage, her husband had not slept in her bed.

Early this morning, Nico hadn't kissed her goodbye either before he left for an
important
meeting at Ludlow Hall.

Oh, he'd petted his babies and given them plenty of smooches.

But no smooches for her.

And since when had he worked on a Sunday?

Sundays were sacrosanct for her and their babies.

So she'd had the whole day, without the distractions of work and her pals, to simmer and steam over
why
he'd slept in the spare room last night.

As the day had ground on, the hours passed too slowly, giving her too much idle time to think, to work herself up into an emotional hot mess.

And what the hell did it all mean?

Did it mean he'd tired of her?

Had she become the quintessential nagging wife?

She never nagged, Bronte assured herself with a little sniff.

Well, almost never.

Occasionally, perhaps.

Try as she might, she just could not figure out what she'd said or done to make him turn away from her like this. And right on the heels of that thought, came the hot sting of pity tears. And those tears seriously annoyed her. She refused to feel so hurt over something that might be nothing. And she'd be
damned
if she'd shed a single tear over the likes of him.

Four times she'd gone to text him. Four times she'd gone to ring him, and then decided that she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of having her crawling to him like a pitiful, pathetic excuse for a woman.

Her phone pinged again with another incoming message.

Him: Are you okay?

Her: Silence.

Him: I have tried the house three times and the phone goes to the answer machine. Are you out with Janine and Boo?

Her: Silence.

Bronte knew she was being more than a little childish. But for some reason she couldn't seem to help herself.

Him: I am assuming you have left your cell at home or the battery is dead? I will be late. Do not cook dinner for me. I will message Janine and tell her, just in case you are there.

Her: Silence.

She made a horrible face at her cell phone, which was a serious waste of a perfectly good scowl because Nico couldn't see her. And he would
starve
before she ever cooked him another meal in her lifetime.

Out to dinner was he?

With whom?

Some nubile, big-breasted Latin, no doubt.

She knew he had a thing for dark-haired, doe-eyed, curvy women.

Women who tanned.

Not a woman like her, with her blonde hair that needed a cut. And her pasty skin.

Bronte drummed her nails on the breakfast table in her vast kitchen, which sparkled so much she could see her furious face in the glass. Then she realised she'd ruined her nails by all the scrubbing without gloves she'd done today.

Here she was in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant.

Hurt.

Alone.

Abandoned by her husband.

A husband who'd slept in the spare room last night.

The tears stung again, and this time they closed her throat.

Christ, she could just
hear
herself.

Her life sounded like a country music song.

She seriously was pitiful.

Her cell rang with the Annie Lennox tune, 'Sisters Are Do 'in It For Themselves'.

She picked up.

"Hi, Janine."

"Where are you?"

For a second Bronte hesitated, but knew she couldn't lie.

"At home. Alone."

"What's up? Just had a weird text from Nico. Why does he think you are here when you are there?"

Good question.

"Probably because I'm not speaking to him," Bronte admitted. And refused to feel guilty that she was talking about her husband, behind his back, to one of her closest friends.

Silence.

"Trouble in paradise?" Janine wanted to know.

"He slept in the spare room last night," Bronte said. And could have killed herself that her voice wobbled. "And he didn't give me a kiss or a hug goodbye this morning. He always gives me a kiss. He can't keep his hands off me. And now he's working all day on a Sunday. And he's not coming home for dinner..." The sob shamed her, but she couldn't help it.

"Whoa," Janine said. "Calm down. Where's all this come from? Why didn't you call me or come around to visit?"

Bronte gave another pathetic sniff. "I cleaned the whole house from top to bottom."

"Hmm. A displacement activity. You know better than that. And you also know that Nico worships the ground you walk on. Did you ask him
why
he slept in the spare room?"

The, "No," was a tiny whisper.

"Why the hell not?"

Another good question.

"Because maybe he's had enough of me. Maybe he's met one of his Latin lovelies. Maybe he doesn't love me anymore."

The snort of disbelief in her ear made Bronte feel marginally better. "And maybe pigs are flying in a circle above your house. That's a load of rhubarb," Janine told her.

"I don't know what I've done," Bronte whined.

"Maybe you haven't done anything. Ever think of that? Maybe he's tired or stressed, or got a lot on his mind?"

Perhaps.

"But that's no reason to sleep apart. He talks to me about everything. He'd tell me if he was stressed. And Nico Ferranti's never been tired for a single day in his whole life."

Her brain still spinning with
what if's
, Bronte slumped onto a couch and rested her aching head on the backrest to stare unseeing at the ceiling.

"Oops," Janine said in her ear. "I've another call on the line. It's Nico."

Bronte shot upright. "Don't tell him where I am."

"For God's sake. I'm not lying to the man."

"Then don't answer the call!"

The string of expletives in her ear made Bronte wince.

By putting Janine right in the middle of her domestic, she knew she wasn't being fair to her friend.

"You've got baby brain," Janine told her in a very tough voice. "This is so not like you. What's with the sudden lack of self-esteem and the Latin lovelies dig, anyway? You and Nico have one of the strongest marriages I've ever seen."

"I feel fat and ugly and one big mess."

"You're one big mess, alright," Janine told her, not mincing her words. "Pick up the damn phone and talk to the man. Or I will." Silence. "God, it's at times like this I miss Rosie."

"I miss Rosie, too," Bronte said.

"She'd kick your ass."

"Nope. She'd kick Nico's ass."

"That's because she's one fearless bitch. Call him."

"Okay. Okay. Some friend you are," Bronte tossed back.

"Nice try, sister. Won't work. And if this is what being married is all about, I'm glad I'm single. Who needs all this bloody drama."

Bronte narrowed her eyes at the phone.

"You won't be single for long if Joshua Erichsen gets his way," Bronte sang into the receiver, knowing exactly how to wind up one of her besties.

The snort of derision in her ear made her smile.

"He has two chances and one of them is none," Janine promised her.

"Don't forget you're both coming over tomorrow," Bronte reminded her. "Lucas and Becca and the boys are coming to spend the day. It'll be a nice surprise for Jacob."

Silence.

Janine was a good friend of Jacob's, too.

"You sicced Becca on Jacob and his ex?"

The little twinge of guilt didn't bother Bronte, after all she had Jacob's best interests at heart. His sister-in-law, and his brother Lucas, would have Jacob's back.

"I might have mentioned to Becca that Gabriella and her sister were staying at The Hall. Just in passing, you understand."

"You devious little bitch. I like that about you. Okay, I'll come. I'm dying to meet her properly."

Bronte was about to respond when the sound of a Range Rover roaring up the drive made her yelp.

"Omigod, Nico's arrived home."

"Well, thank the Lord for that," Janine said with feeling. "And I hope he spanks your arse for your behaviour, missy."

"Chance would be a fine thing. I'm pregnant. To Nico that means, handle with great care."

"TMI. 'Bye."

Nico Ferranti was not a happy man.

He was also a very confused man.

And so not in the mood for crap.

He'd read so many fucking memos, reports and projections regarding the merger with the Ferranti and Ortiz group, his head was spinning on his shoulders. Then he'd had to cancel dinner at Ludlow Hall with Don Norberto Juan Ortiz Conde Del Garda, Jacob's father. All because his darling wife had probably forgotten to charge her cell. Thank goodness Don Norberto was so understanding and supportive of an anxious husband and father's need to know that all was well.

Nico had been feeling
off
all day.

And he knew it was because he'd hardly slept a wink last night. Not a fucking wink. And all because he'd slid out of their bed in the middle of the damn night to make sure his wife got enough sleep. This morning, he hadn't kissed her goodbye either, because if he'd so much as touched her he'd have taken her right there on the kitchen floor. Probably done permanent psychological damage to their babies, too, if they'd seen their parents having wild monkey sex.

Parking the car, he slammed the door and strode into his house.

The scent of lemon oil and fresh flowers hit him first.

And she'd lit some of her favourite scented candles, too.

So she was home, was she?

Too busy to pick up the damn phone.

He paused at the entrance to the vast kitchen and family room.

No sign of her.

No sign of cooking either.

Then he remembered that he'd sent her a message telling her he'd be late and not to prepare dinner. The message had obviously been received. So why hadn't she responded?

Just in case he'd missed her text, he checked his cell.

Nope.

Nada.

And there was
her
cell on the kitchen table.

He picked it up and checked it.

Plenty of juice.

And there were his messages, opened and read.

What. The. Fuck.

A seriously pissed off man on a mission, Nico strode through the ground floor, popped his head into the sitting room. It, too, smelled of polish and candles. The room gleamed. The fabulous cushions and throws she loved so much had been arranged on the sofas, just so.

No sign of his wife.

The need to roar Bronte's name like a lion trembled on Nico's lips. Then he remembered his babies would be sound asleep. So he swallowed the urge and took the stairs two at a time.

Their bedroom door was wide open.

And he stopped dead at the entrance.

Bronte appeared to be in the act of filling a suitcase, with
his
clothes.

He blinked.

His mind raced, trying to remember if he was due to go on a trip.

Nope.

Nada.

She was wearing her usual skinny jeans, the top buttons undone to accommodate the soft swell of their child. A black tank. And bare feet. As ever, her skin was soft and pink cheeked. Her glorious hair was tied in a messy knot on top of her head. She looked sullen. And she refused to look at him.

Alarm bells finally broke through annoyance to peal nice and loud in his ears.

Uh oh.

Trouble.

"Am I going on a trip?" he wanted to know.

She stopped with the packing.

Folding her arms, she turned to face him.

And from the look on her beautiful face, Nico knew he was in deep, deep, shit.

He wracked his brain, but for the life of him he couldn't think of one thing he'd done to stress her out this much.