The Good, the Bad and the Wild (21 page)

Eva could hear the tension in his voice, see the rigid control in his face and wanted desperately to take the pain away he was trying so hard to hide.

She touched his arm. ‘It’s okay, Nick. You don’t have to tell me.’

‘Yeah, I do,’ he said, the tone gruff. ‘My dad was wild with grief. She’d told him the truth. That I wasn’t his biological son. And he lost it for a while.’

Tears pricked her eyes. She hated to think what that meant—and how deeply he had been hurt by an incident that even now he couldn’t bring himself to describe.

‘He apologised a few days later at her funeral,’ Nick continued, plucking a tuft of grass, flinging it away. ‘He said it didn’t matter. That he still loved me, still considered me to be his son. But I wouldn’t believe him.’

Eva sniffed, scrubbed away the tears.

Nick’s head shot up and he scowled. ‘Don’t you dare cry, Eva. Not for me.’

‘Why not? It must have been dreadful for you.’

‘It wasn’t that bad,’ he said, as if the trauma he
had suffered that night had been nothing at all. When she knew how bad it must have been, if he was unable to acknowledge the pain, even now.

‘I made him pay for that lapse for the rest of his life,’ he said grimly. ‘Him and my sister Ruby. I made their lives hell for two years.’ He thrust his fingers through his hair, the gesture defensive and full of frustration. ‘I got into fights, bunked off school, argued with him constantly. And then I ran off and got up to much worse on the streets. And I didn’t go back. Ever. Even when Ruby begged me to. Even when he was dying.’

The loathing in his voice was so intense, so bitter, she didn’t know how to get past it. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ she said, the tears flowing freely now. ‘You were a frightened, confused child.’

‘You think?’ he said, the cynicism brutal and unyielding—and nothing like the warm, wonderful man she had discovered in the last two weeks. ‘I know what I’m capable of,’ he added, his lips twisting in a bitter smile. ‘I’ve known it ever since I was a kid. And now I’ve read Leonardo’s journal, I know why.’

Standing up, he walked back to the picnic basket.

She ran after him, pulled him round to face her. ‘You’re wrong. You’re nothing like Leonardo,’ she blurted out, knowing it was true, wanting to make him believe it, but not knowing how.

He shook his head, his expression closed off and unreadable, deliberately shutting her out. ‘How would you know?’ was all he said—and her newfound courage deserted her.

Kicking the lid of the basket closed, he shoved it under his arm and glanced at the grey clouds that had covered the sun. ‘We better get back to the palazzo—it’s going to rain.’

She looped her arm through his as they walked back, but she could already feel him slipping away. And felt powerless to do anything about it—the fresh citrus scent of the lemon orchard a cruel reminder of the short-lived new Eva.

He made love to her that night, bringing her to orgasm countless times, and taking his own pleasure with ruthless efficiency, the seduction brutal and relentless as if to prove that sex was all he had ever wanted—until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

She woke groggy and sore the next morning to find him gone—and opened the note sitting on the dresser with trembling fingers.

Stay sweet, Eva. And go find one of the good guys
.

And then she sobbed as if her foolish romantic heart were shattering.

Because it was.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘H
EY
, what’s the matter, man? Something wrong with the beer?’

Nick tuned out the comment from his publicist Jay, his gaze locked on the tall, willowy blonde standing on the other side of the art gallery. He’d recognised her as soon as she’d walked in a minute ago.

Eva’s friend, Tess… Something. He’d been to three different openings at this godforsaken gallery in the last six weeks, ever since he’d returned to San Francisco, and he had never admitted to himself the reason why he kept coming back here.

But the miserable truth was suddenly staring him in the face with startling clarity. Because as soon as Eva’s friend had appeared, his heartbeat had rocketed into his throat—just as it did every night when he struggled to fall asleep in his empty bed, or when he switched on his computer only to spend the rest of the day staring at a blank screen.

He hadn’t got over Eva. Hadn’t been able to forget her. Because even the most tenuous link to her made him feel like crap.

‘Hey, Earth to Nick,’ Jay said, swinging his palm in front of Nick’s eyes.

Nick passed the lukewarm beer to his publicist. ‘Hold this,’ he said, ignoring Jay’s puzzled frown as he headed through the crowd.

Sweat popped out on his forehead and made his hands feel clammy. He ignored it.

This wasn’t a big deal. He wasn’t going to make it a big deal. Maybe all he really needed was closure? Something he’d denied himself by not saying goodbye to Eva properly. And here was the perfect opportunity. He could have a quick chat with Eva’s friend, just to see how Eva was doing. And then he’d finally be able to stop thinking about her. Every damn second, of every damn day. And every damn night.

He’d waited patiently for her to contact him. To ask him to come back. But it had been six weeks, and she hadn’t. So he had to let it go now.

As he approached the woman he formulated the best way to introduce himself casually in case she didn’t remember him. But then she lifted her head, laughing at something her friend had said, and spotted him.

The laugh died on her lips and her eyes narrowed sharply as he stopped in front of her.

‘Well, if it isn’t the playboy screenwriter,’ she said.

He frowned at the outright hostility in her tone. Seemed she remembered him all right. ‘The name’s Nick.’

‘I know your name.’ She flicked a derisive glance over him that had his temper prickling. ‘Although I can think of several other names which would suit you better.’

‘Have you got a problem with me?’ To hell with polite introductions. He’d hardly slept in close to two months, his writing had been shot to hell, and now he was getting the third degree from someone he barely knew. What was up with that?

She glared back. ‘You treated the kindest, sweetest, most genuine woman I know as your personal plaything. Then dumped her like she was nothing. So yes, we do have a problem.’

‘What are you talking about?’ His voice cracked, the shock at her attack nothing compared to the emotion banding around his chest.

That wasn’t the way it had happened at all. He’d done the decent thing. He’d had no claim on Eva and very little to offer her. So he’d walked away. And left it up to her. Even though it had nearly killed him. Was still killing him. He deserved a damn medal.

‘Don’t you get it?’ She fired the words at him. ‘You destroyed her, you creep. She cried over you for weeks. And she never cries.’ The girl’s
diatribe washed over him as temper gave way to regret and confusion. If she’d felt that much for him, why hadn’t she contacted him?

He’d given her a choice. Why hadn’t she taken it?

‘But the good news is,’ the girl continued, her eyes boring into him, ‘she’s over you now. She’s met a great guy. And he treats her right.’

The hell she had. The temper he’d been trying to muster came surging back to life.

‘What guy? What’s his name?’ He’d strangle the bastard.

She couldn’t have got over him so easily—not when he wasn’t over her.

‘It’s…’ The girl hesitated. ‘It’s Bill and he’s a…’ Another slight pause. ‘A computer programmer.’

A computer programmer called Bill! What the…?

No way. Eva wouldn’t be happy with someone like that. She needed adventure. She needed passion and excitement in her life. She was like a beautiful flower burst into bloom. And she’d damn well bloomed with him. Which meant she didn’t get to bloom with anyone else.

‘The hell with that,’ he snarled under his breath. Then turned and walked out of the art gallery, the emotion burning his throat bursting into flames.

So she thought she could just take up with someone else?

I don’t think so
.

It wasn’t over. Not till he said so. He’d done the decent thing and given her a damn choice. And she’d thrown it back in his face. He still wanted her. And he needed her. And she needed him. Not some computer nerd called Bill. End of story.

Hailing a cab, Nick shouted at the driver as he launched himself into the back seat. ‘Take me to the airport. I’ve got a plane to catch.’

He’d been through six long weeks of torture and now she thought she could just blow him off. Well, she could forget it. He was through hanging around. And he was through pretending to be a nice guy.

‘Eva, it’s me, Tess. We need to talk.’

‘Tess?’ Eva glanced at the clock on her computer—just past two o’clock in the afternoon London time on a Saturday afternoon. ‘Is everything all right?’ Why was Tess calling so early in the morning? She never got up before noon on a weekend.

‘Everything’s wonderful,’ Tess’s voice came down the phone line, but she didn’t sound too sure.

‘Okay,’ Eva said carefully. Tess could be a bit of a drama queen, but she sounded genuinely worried. ‘So what do we need to talk about?’

‘I did something a tiny bit rash last night.
And I thought I should let you know.’ There was a long pause. ‘In case there are consequences.’

‘Consequences?’ That didn’t sound good. ‘What did you do?’

‘I bumped into Nick Delisantro at the Union Square gallery.’

‘Oh.’ Eva felt the sharp tug of grief at the mention of his name, and hated herself for it. ‘I see’ she said dully, forcing the words out.

She was over him. She had to be. It had been over a month and a half since she’d woken up in the master suite in the palazzo to find him gone. And she’d changed beyond all recognition from that devastated woman who had cried herself hoarse for two solid weeks, until she was hollowed out and exhausted and simply had no tears left in her.

Admittedly, it had taken her even longer to call a halt to her pity party and put her wild fling with Nick Delisantro into its proper perspective.

Yes she’d fallen for him. Hard and fast and far too easily. And once she’d finally got past the howling grief of losing him, it had been pathetically obvious to figure out why.

In his own way, Nick Delisantro had been everything she’d always fantasised about in her dream man. Tough and untamed, unconventional and wildly exciting on the outside but surprisingly tender and thoughtful and troubled on the inside. He’d made her feel beautiful and
exciting and vivid. He’d lifted her life out of the ordinary and made it extraordinary. And most of all he’d made her feel important. The way her parents never had.

But it wasn’t until she’d received an email from Don Vincenzo a little over a month ago that she’d realised the bold, exciting person she had believed herself to be with Nick was as much of a fraud as the timid, mouse-like person she had been before she met him.

The duca had been as devastated as she was to find Nick gone that morning without a word. But unlike her, he hadn’t been willing to simply accept Nick’s departure. According to the email the duca had sent her a fortnight later, Nick had refused to acknowledge his many attempts to contact him and Eva could tell that had devastated the elderly man. But the duca had finished by thanking her for her part in his reunion with his grandson and stating that he hadn’t given up hope—assuring her that however stubborn Nick was, the Duca D’Alegria was more so.

Eva hadn’t doubted the old man for a moment, and as she’d read the email at her cluttered desk in Roots Registry she’d felt the first stirrings of something other than misery.

A fragile glimmer of hope had peeped through the fog of despair and then she’d had a devastating moment of enlightenment. Nick wasn’t responsible for her courage, or her lack of it. She was. He couldn’t give her the guts to be
herself. To be the bright, bold, confident woman she’d always wanted to be. Only she could do that. And even though she couldn’t make Nick Delisantro love her or make him accept the love she had for him in return, she could still be that woman.

And so she’d walked into Henry Crenshawe’s office that afternoon and handed in her notice.

The next month had flown past as she’d pushed her broken heart to the back of her mind and concentrated all her efforts on remaking herself into the real Eva Redmond. She’d chucked out her wardrobe full of biege. She’d got a business loan, moved out of her dull suburban semi, moved into a chic little studio flat in Stoke Newington, and launched her own web-based heir-hunting and ancestral research business. Her client list was still small, but, with her overheads minimal and the two big contracts she’d secured from her contacts at Roots Registry, she had made an excellent start.

The only big blot on her horizon had been her complete inability to start dating. Which she had a terrible feeling derived from some subconscious belief that she’d never be able to find anyone to replace Nick.