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‘And if I don’t want to divorce you?’
Skye froze, the success she’d already been inwardly celebrating shattering. Her face drained of all colour. ‘Don’t be absurd.’ The words were whispered from her before she remembered that she needed to be strong. Confident. Matteo preyed on weakness.
‘What’s absurd about wanting to stay married to you?’
And he strode across the room, closing the distance between them, his eyes locked to hers until she was quivering where she stood. Strength, apparently, deserted her at her moment of need.
‘This wasn’t a real marriage,’ she muttered, standing her ground with effort. ‘We both know that.’
His lips flicked with what she took to reflect silent agreement.
‘It felt real enough to me.’ The words were dangerously silky. His hand snaked around her waist, catching her completely by surprise. He jerked her against him, her softness meeting his hard strength in a way that was instantly familiar. Desire flooded her. Heat scorched her soul and a soft moan escaped her lips unbidden. It was foolish to stay so close to him, yet she did. She had denied herself this contact for long, miserable weeks, and now she wanted to enjoy it. Just for a moment. One last time.
‘It wasn’t,’ she said huskily. ‘I know that now.’
‘What do you know?’ The question was asked quietly. Almost gently.
‘I know everything.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I know about your father and my father. I know they fell in love with the same woman and your father married her. I know that my father was angry. I know that he went out of his way to hurt your family.’ Her words cracked as she glossed over the admittance of her father’s part in the angst. ‘I know he felt hurt and rejected and that he took it out on you financially.’
Matteo’s laugh was a grim rejection. ‘You make it sound so sterile. Believe me, this was not the case.’ He leaned forward, his expression menacing. ‘Carey Johnson bankrupted my grandfather. Your father destroyed everything my grandfather spent a lifetime building.’
His vehement passion paralysed her for a moment, but belatedly she found her voice. ‘And so you wanted to punish me?’
Silence fell around them, thick and caustic. She could see him weighing his words, carefully choosing what to say.
‘It was never about punishing you,’ he said finally.
‘Punishing him, then? Punishing my dad?’
What could he say to that? Wasn’t it the truth? Hadn’t he delighted in the final insult he’d held over that bastard Carey Johnson? Making Skye moan for him, Matteo, in his bed all night long? Yes. He’d wanted to take his revenge, one sweet night at a time, and Skye had been a very obliging pawn in his game.
‘You married me because you loved me.’ He returned to their original point with apparent ease, the question asked silkily. ‘Remember?’
God, she had loved him. She’d fallen for him, but it had all been an act. She noted dispassionately how he hadn’t included his own feelings in the neat summation. His feelings were irrelevant; no, his feelings were non-existent. ‘Love and hate are so close on the emotional spectrum, aren’t they? It amazed me, too, how quickly that love morphed into something else.’
‘You’re saying you hate me?’ he prompted, his free hand lifting to her hip, holding her where she was. She felt the stirring of his arousal and her breath snagged in her throat.
Sex.
That was the only truth of their marriage. Even he wasn’t that good an actor. The desire had been real. It had controlled him as much as it had her.
‘Of course I hate you,’ she hissed, knowing she needed to pull away from him—that she would, in a moment. ‘How could I feel anything else for you?’
His laugh was pure, sensual cynicism. ‘Careful, cara. You and I both know how easy it would be for me to prove you a liar.’ He rolled his hips, bringing his arousal into intimate contact with her body, and Skye felt a groan tear through her. Need, unmistakable and urgent, grew within her soul.
‘That’s just physical,’ she hissed, her eyes locked to the top button of his crisp, pale blue shirt. ‘And I’m sure you’ve had enough experience to know it doesn’t mean a damned thing.’
‘But you haven’t,’ he reminded her mercilessly, his eyes glowing with intensity. ‘You were all mine.’
More memories. Their first time together—her first time with any man. She bit down on her lip, hating the way her nerves jerked in response. He’d taken hold of her that night, body and soul. He’d unlocked parts of her she hadn’t even been aware of, and it had all been a part of his game. His plan for revenge. How easy she’d been to con into this marriage—into his bed!
‘And I think you still are.’
A garbled sound escaped from Skye’s throat. But it wasn’t a denial. Was it a sound of surrender? Because he was right. She was desperate to feel his body once more. To be with him one last time.
He would probably always have that power over her, but everything hinged on her being able to stay strong. To remember the reason she had to get the papers signed and get the heck away from him. There was no future for them. There couldn’t be. How could she stay married to a man she loved with all her heart, raise a baby with him, knowing that he’d used her in the most cynical of ways?
Her only hope was never to see him again. To go far from where he could find her. And that was her plan. Once he’d signed the papers she was going to disappear again. She thought of the ticket in her purse, a flight to Australia for later that night, where she planned to find her way to a remote corner of the country, somewhere with a view of the beach, and set about healing her broken heart.
‘You’re wrong.’ She pulled away from him with determination, moving back to the window and staring out at Venice.
‘Am I?’
‘Oh, fine.’ She shrugged her shoulders, not turning around. ‘Apparently, I still...desire you. So what? You were my first lover. I dare say my body won’t ever completely forget the lessons you taught me.’ Fragments of their nights cut through her determination. The way he’d kissed her for hours; the way his mouth had owned her body. The way they’d swum naked in the moonlit ocean off the coast of Sicily or in the rooftop pool at his Venetian mansion. The sensual massages he’d given her. She pushed those thoughts aside. ‘But nor will my heart.’
‘And what did I teach your heart, cara?’
‘Not to trust handsome strangers,’ she said, the humour of the comment sucked away by the desperation in her voice. ‘Sign the papers, Matteo. This marriage is over.’
‘And if I won’t?’ The words were thick with emotion. And for a second hope scorched her. But it was a foolish hope, the same blind love that had led her into the marriage.
‘You wanted revenge. You got it.’
‘I wanted the hotel,’ he said with a dangerous softness to his voice. ‘You were...a silver lining.’
‘A silver lining?’ she returned angrily. ‘For God’s sake, Matteo. I loved you! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
He stared at her long and hard. ‘That wasn’t love you felt. It was infatuation. Sex.’
She swallowed past a lump of bitterness in her throat. He was wrong. She’d loved him with her whole heart. She wouldn’t tell him that now, but somehow knowing that their baby had been conceived with goodness in her heart, at least, mattered a whole lot to her.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. ‘It’s all academic now. Our marriage is over. There’s obviously no way on earth I could ever forget what you’ve done. Nor forgive you for it.’ She sucked in a breath and stared at him headlong. ‘You can have the hotel.’
He was instantly still, every nerve ending in his body in a state of stasis. ‘You’re saying you’ll sell me Il Grande Fortuna?’
‘On one condition,’ she said frostily, devastation at this final, damning proof seeping into her blood, turning it to ice. ‘Sign the damned papers and stay the hell out of my life.’
* * *
When Skye had walked out on their marriage, having learned the truth behind his motivations for pursuing her, he’d had to reconcile himself to the reality that he might never recover his grandfather’s beloved Il Grande Fortuna.
He’d put all his chips on the one square, gambling on marriage to the rich heiress as the best way to get what he wanted. And to have a little fun along the way.
His plan had been simple enough—seduce her and blind her with the passion they shared, making her willing to do, say or sign anything he asked of her. And he’d come so close. She had been eating out of the palm of his hand. Until she wasn’t.
Their marriage had always been about the hotel.
About returning his family’s property to its rightful owner—him.
It had been about righting a wrong of the past.
About avenging his nonno.
Hell, he’d married her because it had been the only way to get the hotel back into his family’s trust. Now she was giving him the thing he’d wanted all his adult life on a silver platter, yet he found himself hesitating.
Why the hell wasn’t he just agreeing to her terms?
Because he didn’t like to concede defeat. And, even though he’d have the hotel, he didn’t like the idea of Skye walking away from him before he was ready.
‘Sign the divorce papers, Teo.’ She used the diminutive form of his name by mistake. The way her face paled showed her remorse. That wasn’t who they were any more. Hell, they’d never been that couple. Not really.
He’d never even wanted a wife. He’d wanted the hotel, and their marriage had been the clearest way to achieve that aim, but Matteo Vin Santo was a bachelor from way back. If he signed this paper, he’d be rid of the wife he’d never really wanted and he’d have the hotel. The only thing to regret was that he wouldn’t have the pleasure of his wife’s body again. A small price to pay for achieving a decades-old goal, though. ‘Fine.’ His nod was curt.
Her relief was palpable. He tried not to take it personally. She’d be all kinds of stupid to want anything other than a divorce from him—and Skye Johnson was definitely not stupid.
‘But I have a condition of my own.’
Her brows shot up, her lips parted, and he ached to kiss her. To wipe that look of disdain from her pretty features. To remind her of just how she came apart in his arms. He’d always loved her in yellow. It showed off her flawless honey skin, the darkness of her hair, the innocence of who she was.
‘I want one more night with you.’
Skye froze, her eyes sweeping shut, her lips parting wider as she struggled for breath. He watched the words take effect; the way colour spread through her cheeks.
‘No.’ It was just a whisper. A husky denial. ‘Never.’
He laughed, a harsh sound of cynicism and frustration. ‘Never say never, cara. Not when you fall apart in my arms as you do...’
Skye tilted her chin, her eyes locked defiantly with his.
‘Desire is one thing, but I have no intention of acting on it.’
‘Then I have no intention of signing those papers,’ he threatened silkily.
Panic flooded her. Fascinating.
‘What’s the matter? Is the idea of being Mrs Matteo Vin Santo so abhorrent to you? I remember a time when you couldn’t wait to be my wife—and be in my bed.’
‘I didn’t know who you were then. Nor what you were capable of.’
‘And what am I capable of?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Haunted, miserable words that slammed against him. Guilt was not something Matteo had much experience of, but he felt a flush of it. He didn’t like it.
His obligation was to his family.
Not Skye.
But her hurt was obvious and it was a hurt he had caused.
Yes, he felt guilt. He felt remorse. He wished...what? That he could change it? That he could have procured the hotel without hurting her?
It wasn’t possible. He’d tried that. He’d spent years trying to lure her father into selling and the bastard had been determined.
‘Over my dead body.’ Those were the last words Carey Johnson had said to Matteo. If Carey had only listened to reason, if he hadn’t been driven by the stupid grudge that had led to his taking the hotel in the first instance, it would never have come to this.
But, looking across his office at his wife, Matteo wasn’t sure he cared about the hotel, his grandfather or her father. None of them mattered. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he could salvage their marriage—nor did he believe he wanted to. But he needed, desperately, to kiss her.
To touch her.
To wipe away the grief that was saturating her slender frame.
Like he used to, as though it were his God-given right to hold her in his arms. They were tinder and flame—together the effect had always been extraordinary.
‘Don’t.’ Her eyes held a warning. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’ He moved closer, just a few steps, and there was still a table between them. Her ring caught his eye and he reached for it without realising, fingering its weight in his hand, remembering the day he’d bought it. He’d deliberately chosen something enormous, thinking it would be exactly what she would want. The heiress of the Johnson fortune surely valued enormity and extravagance over all else?
Only it had never really suited her. Over the weeks of their short marriage, he’d begun to imagine what he should have chosen instead. Something slender with an understated elegance, made of rose-gold and inlaid diamonds. Perhaps onyx, to match her hair.
He swallowed past the thought. It was a distraction, a red herring. What he needed was to remember the hotel. To remember the reason he’d done all of this.
‘Don’t look at me like you’re actually sorry this is happening. Like you didn’t expect it.’ She tilted her chin. ‘Like this has anything to do with you and me.’
‘It is our marriage we’re discussing ending.’
‘Marriage!’ She spat the word and his gut rolled. It was as though a blade had been plunged through him. Her anger and disbelief filled the room. ‘This was never a marriage! It was a damned trick. A machination. Nothing more. You win, okay? You win! Take the hotel! I don’t want it. I don’t want anything that will ever remind me of you!’ Her voice was loud. He’d put bets on his receptionist Anastasia having heard every word but he didn’t care.
Skye’s pain was palpable and he longed to kiss her to wipe it away. It was the only way he could think of to remove the ache from her eyes; the tears that glistened on her lashes were tiny, moist recriminations that landed squarely in his chest.
‘How you must have loved the knowledge that you had such a sweet revenge over my father! How you’d done something he would have hated, something I would never have agreed to if I’d known about your feud. How you must have been laughing at me! Every night when you came home you found me so happy to see you, and all the while you were lining up the pieces, getting ready to finally swoop.’
A muscle jerked on the hard ridge of his jaw. ‘Yes, Skye. I’m only human. Do you want me to lie to you now? To tell you that our marriage had nothing to do with the fact your father was the biggest bastard on earth? That the fact I hated him with every fibre of my being didn’t have anything to do with why I married you?’
She held a hand up. Her fingers were shaking and her face was so pale that, momentarily, he felt a clutch of anxiety for her. She looked terrible; ill. Matteo was torn between anger at the situation and a strange concern for his wife.
Tears spilled out of her eyes now, rolling down her cheeks. She was so weary. All the planning and coping had taken its toll, and she was utterly exhausted. It showed in the tremble of her voice and the grey of her cheeks. ‘No. There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear. In fact, I can’t bear to be in the same room as you for a moment longer. Just sign the divorce papers. Please. Take the hotel and leave me alone.’ She bit down on her lip as she tried to keep her sobbing at bay.
It was everything he’d wanted. He’d come to accept that he would never get the hotel back—not once Skye had learned the truth. And here she was, offering it to him on a silver platter just to be rid of him.
Was that it? Was his pride wounded by her desperation to be free of their marriage? Was that why he wanted to rail against her insistence? To remind her of what they’d shared—physically—one last time?
His eyes dropped to the divorce papers and then lifted with a heavy grimness towards her face. ‘Fine. If that’s what you want.’
‘I never want to see you again.’
* * *
The heat of Venice slapped her in the face as soon as she stepped out of his office. It was early afternoon and the city was packed. Workers were jostling along the street, tourists were busy taking photographs and Skye was in the midst of them, surprise at what she’d just accomplished moving through her.
She took a step towards the crowds, her mind numb. What now?
Her breath was shallow.
Shock, she supposed, reaching for a pillar to support her. Stars flew in her eyes and heat spread through her body followed by weakness and an odd, soul-deep exhaustion.
It was over.
She was free.
Her hand pressed to her stomach and another wave of tiredness hit her. She didn’t want anything to do with Matteo, but she was going to raise their baby. Could she do it and never think of him?
She’d have to. Matteo was in her past and this baby was her future.
The baby was all that mattered.
She sucked in a breath, but it didn’t seem to reach her lungs.
‘Eh, you okay, miss?’
A kindly gondola operator lifted his brows, waiting for an answer, so she nodded, even though she wasn’t sure she was. ‘Just hot,’ she said, fanning her face.
But the simple, tiny exertion of moving her hand up and down was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Darkness enveloped her.
CHAPTER TWO
MATTEO WASN’T LOOKING out of the window in the hope of seeing her. He’d simply been standing and staring in that direction ever since she’d left. Really, he was barely aware of the flow of traffic in and out along the busy tourist strip.
He saw Skye.
The anguish on her features.
The pain of her heart that she wore so visibly.
He’d used her, and that hadn’t bothered him. Causing pain to her had been something he’d been more than willing to gamble. It was her own father’s fault—if Skye was hurt, it was because of Carey Johnson’s intractable bull-headedness.
But he hadn’t banked on witnessing her pain. He hadn’t enjoyed that. He was a driven businessman, not an out-and-out bastard. Witnessing the tears gliding down her soft, pale cheeks, the accusation in her eyes...he hadn’t been prepared for how that would gut him. How it would make him feel unpleasantly remorseful, even when he knew he would make all the same decisions over again, given the chance.
He lifted his fingers to his chin, rubbing the stubble there, before a commotion dragged his attention down to ground level.
It was the pastel yellow of her dress that caught his eye first. The way it seemed to crumple as she fell, her body, slender and unmistakable, toppling backwards. She fell as she did everything—with grace.
It was the work of a moment. Skye was collapsing, then she was dropping over the edge of the railing into the murky, germ-infested waters of Venice. Had he stayed still a little longer, he would have seen the moment her head cracked against the side of a gondola.
But he didn’t.
Adrenalin galvanised him.
Matteo ran from his office faster than he’d known was possible, tearing through the foyer and bursting onto the footpath just as a gondola operator in his distinctive black-and-white-striped shirt dived into the water. The dress made her easy to spot. Though Matteo could see the boatswain had wrapped an arm around her waist, he couldn’t stand idly by. Instincts alone drove his actions. A gentle ribbon of blood swirled through the water; he dove through it.
‘Is she breathing?’ Matteo pulled Skye to him, holding her as he swam to the edge of the canal. A crowd had formed and someone held their hands down, urging Matteo to lift her out. He passed her body up, then climbed out himself.
She was so peaceful. As though she were asleep.
More blood.
It seeped onto the pavement beneath her head and he gently fingered her scalp, a grim line on his mouth. ‘Call a water ambulance,’ he demanded, used to being obeyed and not doubting for one second that someone would do as he’d commanded.
‘One is on its way,’ someone replied.
Thank God. He crouched down beside her, running a hand over her face. ‘You’re okay, cara. You’re going to be fine.’
He had the vague impression of the gondola operator being helped out of the water, but his entire focus was on Skye. He spoke to her softly in his own language, urging her to wake up, not to worry, to trust him, knowing that if she’d been awake she’d have thrown that invitation back in his face.
It was only minutes before the scream of a water ambulance heralded its arrival, but it felt like a lot longer as Matteo stared down at her ashen face and wondered just what the hell had happened to make her fall into the filthy waters of Venice. The water ambulance pulled to a hasty stop beside them and two men began to call orders to the crowd. They climbed up nearby steps and ran to Skye, lifting her onto a flimsy backboard.
‘You’re with her?’ one of them asked Matteo.
He nodded. ‘I’m her...husband.’
‘You can come, then.’
He could have laughed at the medic’s apparent belief that he had any say in Matteo Vin Santo’s actions. Matteo paused for the briefest moment, just long enough to toss a thick pile of soggy bank notes at the gondola operator with a quick word of thanks, and then he followed behind.
The speedboat, bright yellow and sleek, accommodated Skye on a bed, and he watched her as the boat made its way speedily through Venice.
Only twice during the trip did her eyes open, and both times she looked at him with a mixture of confusion and non-comprehension.
The boat pulled up at the ospedale dock and there was a medical team waiting.
It all happened so quickly. She was admitted after a cursory examination, and there was enough concern on the nurse’s face to make Matteo wonder if she was gravely ill.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, once she was ensconced in her own room.
No one answered. They were all busy working, checking her vital signs, rolling her onto her side and inspecting her head, checking for the damage that was causing the bleeding. A nurse drew several vials of blood and raced them from the room.
And then he was waiting, standing beside her bed, wondering what had happened, wondering if she’d be okay.
After an interminable time, a woman in a white coat entered the room and moved towards Matteo, her smile reassuring. ‘She is your wife?’
He nodded. ‘Yes.’ The word was hardened by years of being in command. Of calling the shots and asking the questions. ‘How is she?’
‘She’s had a bump to the head, but it doesn’t look too serious. Unfortunately, the tests we’d usually run to be sure are obviously impossible at the moment. She may be a little groggy when she wakes, possibly for a day or so. I don’t anticipate any other complications, though.’
None of her words eased Matteo’s concern. ‘What happened to her?’
‘My guess would be that she passed out. It’s not unusual, in her condition. The heat of the day wouldn’t have helped—’
‘Wait a moment,’ he said, lifting a hand to stop her. ‘What condition?’
The doctor pulled a face. ‘You don’t know?’
‘Know what, dottore?’
‘About the baby?’
The world stopped spinning. No. It lurched catastrophically off its axis, sucking Matteo with it. He was in freefall as the doctor’s words filtered through his mind. ‘What baby?’ he asked, the question gravelled.