He appeared out of the fog, tall, broad and dark as night as he moved stealthily between the funeral sculptures, and a shiver of recognition washed through her.

Raoul.

She had seen him at the service, and her heart had lifted at the prospect of seeing him again after so many years.

Raoul who, with his intense black eyes and passionate mouth, had been her every adolescent fantasy. Dark fantasies she’d had no right to imagine. Wicked fantasies that brought a blush to her cheeks just thinking about them.

And the air shifted and parted before him, and then he was there, standing before her, so tall that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He didn’t smile. She didn’t expect him to—not really, not this day.

‘Gabriella,’ he said, in a way that seemed to cherish every syllable.

And then he leaned down to kiss first one cheek and then the other. She breathed him in, taken by the way he smelled so familiar, and yet there was so much more besides—as if what she’d remembered had been but a shadow of his essence.

About the Author

TRISH MOREY is an Australian who’s also spent time living and working in New Zealand and England. Now she’s settled with her husband and four young daughters in a special part of South Australia, surrounded by orchards and bushland, and visited by the occasional koala and kangaroo. With a lifelong love of reading, she penned her first book at the age of eleven, after which life, career, and a growing family kept her busy until once again she could indulge her desire to create characters and stories—this time in romance. Having her work published is a dream come true. Visit Trish at her website: www.trishmorey.com

Recent titles by the same author:

FIANCÉE FOR ONE NIGHT

THE HEIR FROM NOWHERE

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Secrets of Castillo del Arco

Trish Morey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With grateful thanks to Ellen, Charlie and Claire for being my captive carpool brainstormers. Thank you so much for your interest and your input and energy, and most of all thank you for Venice. You guys rock!

And with thanks, as ever, to my fabulous Maytoners, for Coogee Beach and fish and chips, for making me laugh and cry and commiserate and celebrate, but with thanks, most of all, for once again making magic happen in the shape of words.

For it must be a kind of magic.

Thank you!

Trish

xxx

PROLOGUE

Paris

‘PROMISE ME something, Raoul. Grant a dying man one last wish.’

The old man’s voice was thready and thin, little more than a whistle on his breath and no contest for the battery of machines beeping their presence around the bed. Raoul leaned closer. ‘You mustn’t talk that way, Umberto.’ Raoul placed his hand over the old man’s, trying not to damage the papery skin or nudge the needle projecting from the back of his claw-like hand; trying to pretend it was nowhere near as bad as it was. ‘You are as strong as an ox,’ he lied, wishing it were true. ‘The doctor said—’

‘The doctor is a fool!’ the old man interjected, dissolving into a fit of coughing that left him wheezing in its wake. ‘I am not afraid of death. I know my time has come.’

Wiry fingers clumsily overturned those of his visitor’s, squeezing down as if to emphasise the urgency of his words, even though his once-legendary strength was gone, his fingers grown weak. ‘But I fear what might happen once I am gone. Which is why I summoned you. You must promise me now, Raoul, before it is too late …’

The old man sagged against the pillows, his eyes closed in an ashen, sunken face, his sudden outburst taking its toll. For the first time Raoul was struck with the realisation that there would be no coming back: this time his oldest friend, his mentor—and the closest thing to family he had known for more than a decade—was dying. He had to force himself to stay and not flee from the room and the heavy knot tightening in his gut.

‘You know I would do anything for you, Umberto,’ he uttered in a voice that felt like gravel in his throat. ‘You have my word. Ask, and it shall be.’

An eternity passed, an eternity filled with beeping machines that were the only sign Raoul had that his old friend had not already passed, until with a sigh his eyes fluttered open, watery and dim, his voice tinged with affection. ‘Look after Gabriella for me. When I die, she will be vulnerable. I will not rest unless she is safe.’

He touched his free hand to the old man’s shoulder to reassure him, his fingers encountering little more than bone. ‘Then rest easy, old friend. Nothing will happen to her. I would be honoured to act as her guardian.’

The old man surprised him, snorting a protest instead of uttering the thanks he’d half-anticipated. Raoul was halfway to celebrating this spark of life, a glimpse of the Umberto that once was, until the words his old friend had said in response registered in his mind—impossible words, words that made the blood roar in his ears, sending thoughts of celebration tumbling and smashing like debris caught up in the first destructive wave of a tsunami.

He stood, unable to sit while the roar of the wave churned through him, and turned away from the bed, raking a damp hand through his hair and tugging at his tie, looking ceiling-ward for the air-conditioning vents. God, but it was hot in here.

‘Raoul, did you hear me?’ The thread of Umberto’s frail words came on a thin wire that dug its way into him, slowing his retreat.

‘I heard you,’ he said—every last word—but that didn’t stop Umberto from repeating them now, driving that sharp wire deeper and deeper into his psyche where it twisted and grew poisoned barbs.

‘You must marry her, Raoul! Promise me you will marry Gabriella.’

Madness! He dragged in air tainted with the smell of impending death, disinfectant and the chemical sprays designed to disguise them all yet failing miserably, and threw his head back, hating what was happening—hating even more what he was hearing. Wasn’t it bad enough that his old friend was dying? It had to be some kind of madness, he decided, for his friend to propose such insanity. ‘You know that is not possible. Besides,’ he added, remembering the last time he’d seen the girl, ‘Even if I was crazy enough to marry again, surely Gabriella is too young?’

‘A woman now.’ Umberto blinked away tears, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘Twenty-four years of age.’

Raoul was shocked by the invisible slide of time; cursed the years he had lost in the mire of another age. Had it really been that long? Then again, maybe this made it better, easier. ‘Then surely she is old enough to choose her own husband?’

‘And if she chooses Consuelo Garbas?’

‘Manuel’s brother?’ Raoul lifted disbelieving hands to his temples, driving fingertips deep into the veins that pounded like drums. God, but could this nightmare get any worse?

The name Garbas was seared on his soul, the letters burned deep, so deep that his bones ached at its mention. It was a name he’d hoped he’d heard for the last time a long, bleak time ago.

Yet he should have known that ridding himself of this curse would never be that easy. The Garbas family was like a black hole, sucking life from the world around, devouring anyone and anything in its path. He turned back, moved closer to the bed, needing to know despite himself. ‘What does he want with Gabriella?’

‘He’s been sniffing around her like a hyena waiting for a carcass, waiting for her to turn twenty-five when she can claim her inheritance.’ The old man paused, catching his breath, although the rise and fall of the covers over his chest was barely discernible. ‘He knows I would never permit her to marry him. So now he waits for me to die before he makes his move.’

Raoul nodded. ‘Hyena’ was right. It was the way his kind operated: scavengers; scum, the lot of them. Only their massive wealth gave them entree into high society, lending them a veneer of respectability so brittle it was a wonder it didn’t shatter every time they drew breath. And now one of them was after Gabriella? ‘She doesn’t know?’

Umberto scoffed. ‘He would hardly tell her the truth. She knows only that his brother died in tragic circumstances. She thinks that gives them something in common.’ The old man sighed and gave a hint of a wistful smile as he shook his head. ‘I have tried to warn her but Gabriella sees only the good in everyone—even the likes of him. And all the time he plays her like a fish on a line, knowing he has the advantage of time. So, you see, I have no one to turn to but you. You must marry her, Raoul,’ he said, lifting his head shakily from the pillow in a supreme effort that saw the cords in his neck stand out tight, his watery eyes turn glassy in their intensity. ‘You must keep her safe. You must!’

He collapsed back into the pillows to catch his breath, the rapid beep of machines filling the void, while Raoul sat down by his side and bowed his head, his thoughts in turmoil, conflicted beyond measure.

Damned if he would let a Garbas worm his way into Umberto’s granddaughter’s fortune. Damned if he would ever let that happen after what he had suffered. But Raoul was the last person who could keep her safe.

Besides, did Umberto really think it would be such a simple matter to get a twenty four year old woman—any woman, for that matter—to agree to marry him? Why should she give him a second glance when he could give her nothing in return? She would be some kind of fool if she did.

He took his friend’s hand again, half-wondering, half-knowing that this would be the last time they met. ‘Umberto, old friend—my friend—I love you with my life, but this makes no sense. There must be a better way to keep Gabriella safe and I will find it. But I would be no kind of husband for your granddaughter.’

‘I’m not asking you to love her!’ he blustered from the bed, the machines beside him going into overdrive. ‘Just marry her. Keep her safe!’ The door burst open, a nurse rushing through, pushing the visitor aside as she checked her patient.

‘Visit’s over,’ she snapped out without looking over her shoulder. ‘You’re upsetting my patient.’

Raoul raised his face to the ceiling in supplication and frustration. When he looked back at the bed where the nurse fussed, checked and adjusted drips and machines, his old friend looked so forlorn and desperate and beyond tired, a shadow of a man who had once been great. It struck Raoul that his last moments, his last days, should not be wasted in worry such as this, even if it meant promising the impossible so that he might at least die in peace. Umberto deserved that at least.

‘I’ll marry her, old friend, if that is what you ask,’ he said, ignoring the warning scowl he earned in reward from the nurse, grinding the words out between his teeth as the wire in his gut pulled inexorably tighter and trying desperately not to think of the cost to them both. ‘I’ll marry her.’

CHAPTER ONE

Three weeks later

WINTER had come early, the late-September day dressed in drab colours as if the planet itself was mourning the death of her grandfather. But the inclement weather found only empathy with Gabriella D’Arenberg, the damp air and misty rain matching her mood as she stood beside her grandfather’s flower-strewn grave in the Cimetiere de Passy. Then the last of the mourners whispered condolences and pressed cold lips briefly to her cheeks before drifting away along the path.

She would leave shortly too, once Consuelo had returned from the call he had excused himself to take, and they would join everyone at the hotel where the caterers were no doubt already serving canapés and cognac. But for now Gabriella was happy to be left alone in quiet reflection in the cold, dank stillness of the graveyard. Here, under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, there was nothing to intrude, the sounds of the city barely penetrating the stone walls.

Until a dark shadow made her gasp and look around.

He appeared out of the fog, tall, broad and dark as night as he moved stealthily between the funeral sculptures, the winged angels and fat cherubs suspended ghost-like in the swirling mist as he passed. A shiver of recognition—or was it of relief?—washed through her and bizarrely, for the first time that day, she felt warm.

Raoul.

She had seen him at the service; it had been impossible to miss his dark presence in the back of the tiny crowded chapel. Her heart had lifted at the prospect of seeing him again after so many years, only to exit the chapel to a bubble of disappointment when she had found him nowhere amongst the mourners gathered outside.

Raoul, who with his intense black eyes and passionate mouth had been her every adolescent fantasy—dark fantasies she’d had no right to imagine. Wicked fantasies that brought a blush to her cheeks just thinking about them. And, when she’d got news that he’d married, she’d cried for two days solid. She’d cried for him a year later when she’d learned of his wife’s death. Thank God he had no idea about any of it or she could never face him now. Thank God she was over all that.

The crunch of boots on gravel grew louder, his long leather coat swirling about his legs, his hair pulled back into a ponytail that served to accentuate the strong lines and angles of his chiselled features. His eyes, if anything, were even more intense than she remembered under that dark slash of brow. Tortured, even. And something about that intensity frightened her a little, just as if his purposeful stride held a portent of danger, sending a tremor skittering down her spine.

The mist, she thought in explanation, as she continued to log his approach with her eyes. The cold, swirling air …

The air shifted and parted before him and then he was there, standing before her, a mountain of blackness in a mist-shrouded world, so tall that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him and his unflinching expression. He didn’t smile. She didn’t expect him to, not really, not this day.

But this was Raoul, an old family friend, so she dismissed her feelings of foreboding and danger and ventured a nervous smile of greeting, slipping her hands instinctively into his as easily as she had once done, relishing their instant warmth, thinking, you came. ‘Raoul, it’s so good to see you.’

For a moment he seemed to tense, and she wondered if she’d overstepped the mark by presuming familiarity. Then his hands squeezed hers and the tightness around his mouth relaxed just enough to give an answering smile that still spoke of sadness and loss. ‘Gabriella,’ he said in a way that seemed to cherish every syllable as he uttered it.

Then he leaned down to kiss first one cheek, and then the other, slow, lingering kisses. She shuddered under the brush of his lips against her flesh, his warm breath curling into hers and peeling back the years. She breathed him in, taken by the way he smelt so familiar, of clean skin and warm leather and the same woody notes of his signature scent that she recalled—yet there was so much more besides, as if what she’d remembered had been but a shadow of his essence.

‘I am so sorry for your loss.’ He drew back then, letting her hands drop, and she tried desperately not to be disappointed by his absence, shoving her hands in her coat pockets, not just to keep them warm but more to stop them reaching out for him. Those teenage fantasies might have been behind her, but Raoul was here now, real, broad and achingly close. Inside her pockets, her hands curled into fists.

‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ she managed a little shakily, surprised he could still affect her so deeply and so fundamentally, even after so many years. ‘Or you could have stayed at the house. Where are you staying? You should have let me know.’

He rattled off the name of a hotel that barely registered in the force of the impact of seeing him again. But then, she was hardly herself right now. Memories, especially memories of anything and anyone connected to her grandfather, seemed all too willing to bubble to the surface. Raoul had been close to her grandfather for longer than she had, their two families intertwined as long as she could remember, at least until the tragedy that had wiped out both sets of parents. ‘And of course,’ she said, acknowledging that truth, ‘It’s your loss too.’

‘Umberto was a good man,’ he said with a nod, his deep voice rich with emotion. ‘I will miss him more than I can say.’ Then he blinked and something skated across his eyes, something so sharp and painful she could almost feel its sting, so fleeting it was gone before she could make sense of it, even if he hadn’t turned his head to look down at the grave.

Remembering, she assumed, as she studied his profile and catalogued the changes time had wrought. He had always been on the outer edge of good-looking, his dark, strong features organised in a way that was compelling rather than handsome in any conventional sense, the shadows in his features hinting at unknown dangers and untold secrets.

How many nights had she lain awake imagining all those dangers, all those secrets, wishing she might one day know them all?

Age had lent him even more mystery. The angles of his jaw looked sharper. The secrets hinted at in the shadows seemed darker, his eyes more haunted. True, there were lines around his eyes, but he was simply more, she decided, more than he had been before. More edgy. More mysterious.

More Raoul.

And with a start she realised that, while she’d been lost in her musings, he had changed his focus and was now studying her.

Dark-as-midnight eyes scanned her face, a hint of a frown creasing his brow, and she wondered if something was wrong before he nodded, gave her another of those slight smiles and stepped away a little to look at her. ‘Whatever happened to the Gabriella I used to know? The skinny girl with plaits who always had her head in a book.’

She hid her embarrassment under a laugh, secretly hoping his comments meant that he approved of how she looked now, for it seemed important somehow that he did. She had long since come to terms with the knowledge that she’d never be classically beautiful—her eyes were too large and wide, and the chin that she’d hidden under a hand for much of her early teenage years was too pointy. But it was her face and over the years she’d learned to accept it, if it had taken finishing school to give her the skills to emphasise her eyes and learn to like how she looked. ‘She grew up, Raoul. That skinny girl was a long, long time ago.’

‘It was,’ he agreed, and then he paused, as if remembering another time, other bleak days filled with funerals … ‘How have you been?’

She shrugged. ‘Good. And sometimes not so good.’ She glanced at the open grave, felt the anguish of loss bite hard and bite deep. ‘But, even so, better now for seeing you.’ She paused, wondering how much she could say without revealing too much of herself, and then decided simply to be honest. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

‘And me.’ His dark eyes looked past her. ‘But you should not be alone now.’

‘Oh, I’m not. Not really. Consuelo—a friend—is here. He left … ‘ She looked around, pushing a loose tendril of hair from her face as she scanned the cemetery. ‘He left to take an urgent phone call.’ That seemed to be taking for ever. ‘Probably for one of his foundations, I expect. He heads a charity for children with cancer and leukaemia. He’s always on the phone chasing contributions.’

She was babbling, she knew, making excuses for him as she glanced at her watch before scanning the grounds again, wondering how he could let one of his donors keep him so long, today of all days. ‘We’re heading to the hotel shortly for the wake. Everyone’s already there.’

She looked back up at him, suddenly fearful that this man was about to step out of her life as quickly as he had stepped back into it, leaving her with no idea when she might ever see him again. The thought of going another ten-plus years was suddenly too awful to contemplate. ‘You will come, won’t you? I saw you in the chapel but you’d disappeared by the time I got outside, and I thought I’d missed you. There’s so much I want to talk to you about.’

He lifted a hand and pushed that wayward coil of her hair from her cheek with just the pads of his fingers, the lightest touch that sent a rush of heat pulsing through her. ‘Of course I will come. It will be my pleasure.’

Breath stalled in her lungs; his fingers lingered as he coiled the strands behind her ear, as he looked down at her with those dark, dark eyes …

‘Gabby!’

She blinked, registering her name, but registering even more that Raoul had still not removed his hand. His fingers curved around her neck, gently stroking her skin, warm and evocative, even as she angled her head towards Consuelo’s approach. The touch of an old friend, she told herself, reaching out to someone over a shared loss; it was nothing more than that. It would be rude, an over reaction, to brush his hand away.

‘Are you coming?’ Consuelo asked, still metres away and frowning as his eyes shifted from one to the other, taking in the tableau. ‘We’re going to be late.’

‘Gabriella was waiting for you, as it happens,’ Raoul said, and she looked up at him, surprised. For, even if he had correctly assumed this was Consuelo, that would hardly explain the note of barely contained animosity in his words.

Consuelo didn’t seem to notice. He seemed far more interested in staring at Raoul’s hand where it lingered at her throat, as if just the heat from his glare would make it disappear. For the first time she wondered if maybe it had been there too long. She put her hand to his and tugged it down, but wasn’t about to let him go completely, sandwiching it between her own instead. She noticed he made no move to withdraw from her completely.

‘Am I missing something?’ she asked, looking from one to the other, for the first time realising the similarities in the two men—and the differences. Both shared Spanish colouring, with dark eyes and hair, but that was where the similarities began and ended. Raoul was taller, broader, more imposing. He made Consuelo look almost small. ‘Do you two know each other?’

‘Consuelo and I are old friends,’ Raoul uttered slowly, in a measured tone that suggested they were anything but. ‘Aren’t we, Consuelo?’ The other man’s eyes skittered with something approximating fear before he turned to Gabriella, tugging on his tie.

‘Phillipa said the priest wanted to say a few words,’ he said, ignoring the other man as much as it was physically able. ‘He’s waiting for you to arrive to begin. Now.’

‘Phillipa called you?’ Was that the phone call that had kept him so long? That was odd. Her friend had never before called Consuelo; Gabriella wasn’t convinced Phillipa even liked him. Unless Phillipa had figured—correctly, as it turned out—that her phone would be off and that Consuelo, with his twenty-four-seven phone addiction, would be a better bet. She nodded. At least that made some kind of sense. ‘Then we should go. Raoul, can we offer you a lift?’

Consuelo stepped closer alongside her, tugging at her arm. ‘Look, the car’s waiting. We should get going.’

Raoul smiled. ‘Thank you for your kind offer, Gabriella, but I wish to have a few words with your grandfather before I make my own way.’ He lifted his hand, capturing one of hers as he raised it to his mouth, pressing his warm lips to her skin, his dark eyes glancing up at her as dark tendrils of his hair fell free from his ponytail to dance around the sharp angles and shadowed recesses of his face. ‘Until we meet again, Bella,’ he said, using his old pet name for her, an endearment she hadn’t heard in over a decade.

But he had remembered.

And then those same eyes turned to meet the other man’s and somehow turned ice-cold in the interim. ‘Garbas,’ he said with a nod, so simply that it took Gabriella only a second to realise he’d dismissed the other man out of hand. Consuelo felt it too, for he took her hand and tugged her away.

Raoul watched them disappear along the misty path, unable to suppress a growl when Garbas looped a proprietorial arm around Gabriella’s shoulders and pulled her in close.

For his benefit, he had no doubt. Umberto had been right about the hyena sniffing around, watching and waiting for his chance to strike—not that he would see a penny of Gabriella’s fortune if Raoul had anything to do with it. Not now the dogs were closing in.

It hadn’t taken much. He’d known there would be dirt and plenty of it if he just dug deep enough. Now he just had to sit back and wait. It wouldn’t be long and then Gabriella would be safe from his clutches.

Gabriella.

Bella.

Forgotten for years, lost under the weight of time, yet still the endearment had come to him automatically, as if all he had to do was see her before it tripped from his tongue. Yet she looked so different now from the last time they had met. When had twelve years ever passed so profitably? For him, it had been a period of loss, betrayal, death and ultimately of his own self-imposed exile. For her, it seemed those years had worked some kind of magic, transforming her from a gangly child into a very beautiful woman.

They might just as well have been living on different planets.

Huddled alongside the grave, her coat lashed tightly around her slim waist, her glossy chestnut hair coiled behind her head, she had been almost unrecognisable from the child he remembered, yet he should have seen it coming. Her mother had been beautiful after all, half-English-rose, half-Italian-royalty, her father the crème de la crème of French aristocracy. Her heart-shaped face somehow captured the best of all of them: her mother’s cat-like eyes and smooth-as-silk complexion, her father’s passionate mouth. Beautiful. Fragile.

Much too good for the likes of him.

What had Umberto been thinking? Dealing with the likes of Consuelo was one thing, but why would he want to saddle his own granddaughter with a broken creature like him? Why make him promise to marry her?

“You don’t have to love her!” Umberto had said.

Just as well. What would a woman like her want with his love, even if he were able to give it? And why would she waste hers on him? Why would a woman like her ever want to marry him?

And why should she have to? Consuelo would soon be history, untouchable, locked away where he could not reach her—and not even someone who saw the good in everyone would want to defend him when she discovered the truth. Raoul could just as simply deal with any other Consuelos if it came to that. He could weed out the hyenas and the jackals, the parasites who came to prey on a rich, beautiful woman.

He could take care of them all.

Except then he remembered the touch of her skin, the smooth column of her throat and the trip of her pulse under his fingertips. He remembered the press of her cheek against his palm, remembered that moment when she had looked up at him and he had imagined the impossible, had wanted the impossible. For the first time in a long time he had felt his body stirring with want.

And that knowledge shamed him.

He hadn’t meant his fingers to linger. He had wanted just to establish a contact between them, as if that might help eradicate the years that lay between them. But one touch had not been enough, and when a stray strand of hair had blown free from the knot behind her head he had been unable to resist tucking it away, using the excuse of Garbas coming upon them to leave it there.

It had been worth it just to see the look of unbridled hostility in his eyes. It had been worth even more because she had felt so damned good under his fingers.

He squeezed his eyes shut on a groan. What was he thinking? She was his oldest friend’s granddaughter! The last time he had seen her she had been twelve, and it didn’t matter how old she was now; she was still more than a decade younger than him. And he had been charged with taking care of her, not with taking advantage of her. He was supposed to keep her safe.

By mauling her at her grandfather’s grave?

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Umberto, but what were you thinking?’ he muttered, as he stood by the grave of his friend with just the tangle of his conflicted thoughts and the mist for company. ‘Why would you make me promise such a thing when no good can come of it?’

The soft, damp air swirled around him, whispering no answers, offering no solutions, and leaving him with just one truth. He had promised his dying friend it would be so.

So he would make it happen.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WHAT is he doing here?’ Consuelo demanded as he strode along the path like a man with the demons of hell after him. ‘Why did he have to come?’

Gabriella skipped a step to keep up with him. ‘Raoul is an old family friend. Of course he would be here.’

‘But the way he was touching you—like he owned you. Like he meant something to you. You let him touch you!’

‘We grew up together, Consuelo. Our two families were practically inseparable, at least until I was twelve years of age. The last time I saw him was at our parents’ funerals. Of course there is some feeling between us. He is like a brother to me.’

He looked across at her suddenly, his eyes wild and frantic, and she wondered what else must be troubling him for him to overreact in this way. ‘And that’s all he is to you?’

‘But of course,’ she said, wanting to soothe, but mostly because there was nothing else she could say, even if she might so foolishly have once dreamed of more.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tugged her close in to his body. She needed to be hugged but she wondered why this contact didn’t stir her blood or warm her as Raoul’s touch had done. Perhaps because she saw more of him, or because he was more familiar to her, more comfortable to be around. She shouldn’t encourage him—she knew he wanted more out of their relationship than she could commit to right now—but today she was glad to have someone to hold on to, even if his touch didn’t stir her like another’s …

She shuddered now with the memory of it, of how just the gentle touch of Raoul’s fingertips had set her blood fizzing. How was that possible—a man she hadn’t met other than in her dreams for so many years? Or had she just wished and hoped for it so much, she’d believed it had happened?

But then he’d always had that impact on her. He’d always seemed larger than life, and she’d always been drawn to his dark mystery. Why should it be any different now, simply because a dozen years had passed?

‘How do you know Raoul?’ she asked, curious as he hastened her towards the waiting car. ‘Is he one of the foundation’s benefactors?’

He laughed, a short, derisive laugh. ‘Him? No, he would not give to a charity such as ours, not even to save the lives of sick children.’

‘Why do you say that? Have you ever asked him?’

‘I do not bother with his sort. His kind have no heart.’

‘No, Consuelo,’ she protested, remembering back, thinking that Raoul had had the biggest heart of anyone she knew. Nothing had been too much trouble for him back then, nothing too much effort for his family and hers. And when the police had called that fateful evening with the shocking news it had been Raoul who had cradled her, letting her cry her eyes out, offering her the remnants of his own shattered heart. ‘That cannot be right.’

‘Then you do not know him very well, after all. Come,’ he said, opening her car door so she could precede him into the vehicle. ‘Forget Raoul; there are more important things to think about right now.’ He tapped the waiting driver on the shoulder to let him know they were ready. ‘Like arranging for your things to be moved from the house into my apartment. Given you’re on leave, it would be the perfect time.’

She blinked, momentarily stunned. Where had that come from? ‘What are you talking about?’

But he was engrossed in the traffic, scanning it, almost as if he was looking for someone. Raoul? Surely he was a long way behind. And then he turned back to her, smiling, and she wondered if she’d imagined his nervousness. ‘Come on, darling. Now that your grandfather’s gone, there’s no reason why we should live apart any longer.’

‘We haven’t talked about this.’

He took her hand in one of his, patted it with the other. ‘Come, Gabby, you know as well as I do that half the reason you haven’t moved in already is because your grandfather needed you. Now there is no reason for us to be apart. Now it is time you were looked after the way you should be. The way I want to look after you.’

She shook her head. ‘Consuelo …’

‘Of course, I can always move in with you, but I thought you might prefer a fresh start somewhere else, somewhere without the memories.’

‘I like where I live,’ she said, stiffening and wondering what she had said or done to make him think she was ready to move in with him. ‘And my grandfather is barely cold in his grave. I would actually prefer not to have to deal with this today.’

He sighed and lifted her hand to his lips, although his eyes lacked any warmth to go with it. ‘I’m sorry, Gabby. I’m rushing you. Of course we can talk later.’

Much later, she thought, clutching her coat at her neck and wondering what it was that was throwing Consuelo so off-kilter today; he was so very anxious as he resumed his busy scanning of the traffic.

They were almost at the hotel when Consuelo’s phone buzzed again. He pulled it from his pocket and held it to his ear, and Gabriella looked across, wondering if it was Phillipa again wanting to know how far away they were. But even as she watched the colour drained from Consuelo’s face.

‘Mierda!’ he said, before he snapped it off and shoved it away, tapping the driver on the shoulder. ‘Stop here. Let me out here.’

‘Consuelo, what’s wrong?’ she asked as the driver cut across two lanes of traffic, to the squeal of tyres and the blare of horns, to double park on the side of the road. ‘Who was that?’

But he was already climbing out. ‘A problem at the office. I have to go.’ And then he slammed the door and disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

The priest’s words were moving, the condolences she received from old friends and associates heartfelt, and Gabriella felt one kind of peace descend on her soul. Her grandfather had been much loved by all who had known him, had touched so many lives, and it was clear that it wasn’t just her who would be left with an Umberto-sized hole in her heart.

But now the wake was winding down and she felt suddenly deflated with it. She’d turned her phone on to silent, hoping that she might get some news from Consuelo, some kind of explanation, but there had been no messages explaining his sudden disappearance or when he might join her. She was beginning to think he wouldn’t make it at all.

And maybe she could have lived with that if Raoul had bothered to turn up like he’d promised. She’d hoped he’d soon follow them from the cemetery. From the very first minute she’d stepped into the hotel’s plush reception-room, she’d been anticipating his arrival, scanning the room for a hint of his broad, dark-clad shoulders or a glimpse of his blue-black hair. She longed for the dark solidity of his presence. She longed for the comfort she’d found in it at the cemetery, a comfort she yearned for now.

He’d promised he’d come. She ached with wanting him to come. So where was he?

Phillipa appeared at her side and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘How are you bearing up?’

‘Do men always let you down?’ she mused as she stared blankly into a cold cup of coffee in her hands that she battled to remember picking up. First Umberto, the grandfather who had taken her in as a grieving twelve-year-old and had been both mother and father to her, was gone. Then Consuelo, who couldn’t even stop thinking about his foundation for just one day, disappeared to who knew where and for how long? And now Raoul, who she’d lost before she’d even found again.

‘Hey, don’t worry,’ said Phillipa. ‘You know how he is,’ she continued, clearly only seeing one side to Gabriella’s concerns. Her friend squeezed her hand as she prised the neglected cup from her fingers. ‘The foundation is everything to him. He’s got caught up in something, that’s all. And, for the record, men don’t always let you down. Not all of them, at any rate.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, remembering Phillipa’s gorgeous husband. ‘I’m just feeling maudlin. You have a keeper of a man. He is a wonder to bring you all the way from London just for me and with such a young baby.’

She kissed Gabriella’s cheek. ‘Nothing is too much trouble for you, but you’re right; Damien is a keeper, but he will need rescuing from our baby soon. Will you be all right if I leave?’

‘I’ll be fine. You’ve been so wonderful today. Oh, and I meant to say before, thanks for calling while we were at the cemetery. I lost track of time completely out there.’

Her friend looked blank.

‘You phoned Consuelo,’ Gabriella prompted. ‘To tell him the priest was waiting for me to begin his talk.’

Phillipa frowned and shook her head. ‘I never called. I don’t even have his number.’ It was Gabriella’s turn to blink. Why had Consuelo made out that she had? Unless he’d been so desperate to get her away from Raoul that he’d resorted to lies to do it. What had happened between the two men that nobody was letting on about?

Phillipa put a hand on her elbow. ‘Gabriella, are you okay?’

Suddenly it was too hard to think. She put a hand on her brow. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got a rotten headache. I must have misunderstood.’ Her friend smiled and squeezed her arm.

‘Let me get you some painkillers and some water. It might take the edge off it.’

Gabriella sighed, letting herself sag, hidden for a moment behind a marble pillar, trying desperately to relax. Her head hurt. Her feet ached. And her heart felt like a giant void. If only she could take a pill for that. Today she’d said goodbye to her grandfather, the man who had taken on the role of both her parents and more when they had been ripped from her life. Such a good man. Such a brilliant man. Why did the world—why did she—have to live without him just yet?

She looked around the room, looking at the few remaining guests talking over their coffee and cognac, wondering if anyone would notice if she simply disappeared. But she was kidding herself. Of course she couldn’t just slip away. She would have to stay until the grim and bitter end.

Then the air in the room seemed to still and intensify until it shimmered with expectation. The hairs at the back of her neck stood up as she felt the scorching gaze of dark eyes drinking her in. Phillipa joined her, blinking as she held out a glass of sparkling water—not that she was looking at Gabriella. ‘Oh, wow, forget keeper husbands for a moment. Who on earth is that?’

Gabriella didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. She could feel his identity in her rapidly liquefying bones. She could feel it in her heated flesh and empty lungs.

He had come.

And then he was beside them, so broad, tall and dangerous-looking that his presence should darken the world, except that it only served to brighten hers.

‘Raoul Del Arco,’ he said, bowing to her friend. ‘At your service.’ Although it was the fingers pressed to the small of her back that had Gabriella’s full attention, the press of them against her flesh sending an electrical current surging along her spine, needles of sensation that radiated out to take anchor in the suddenly sensitive tissue of her breasts and dark places inside, deep down in her belly.

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ she said a little breathlessly when she’d managed to unglue her tongue from where it had been stuck to the roof of her mouth. And then, because she realised it sounded like it contained a note of desperation and even accusation, she forced herself to smile. ‘But thank you for coming now. And let me introduce Phillipa Edwards. We went to the same boarding school in England.’

Raoul nodded, taking her hand. ‘It is a pleasure.’

‘Raoul was like a big brother to me growing up,’ she continued. And my personal hero.

‘Umberto was a very important influence in my life and Gabriella has always been very special to me,’ he said as his arm moved upwards, his long-fingered hand cupping her shoulder, pulling her close against his heated body, a gesture that seemed a world away from brotherly, at least the heated way her body seemed to be interpreting it. ‘Unfortunately we lost touch for several years, so to meet again under such circumstances makes for a bittersweet reunion.’ He looked down at her, his dark eyes intense, mesmerising. ‘I see now I will have to ensure I do not allow such a lapse to occur again.’

Clearly she should have eaten, because she felt dizzy at his words, so light-headed that she could have fallen into his eyes right then and there if Phillipa had not excused herself, saying she needed to get back to her baby. Gabriella hugged her friend and then she was alone with Raoul.

He dropped his arm to face her; absurdly she missed his touch and the warm solidity of his body pressed against hers. Then he tilted his dark head and smiled in a way that transformed his features from darkly threatening to something warm and dangerous that could melt cement as easily as it could buckle her knees. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Bella. You said you wanted to talk and I felt that might prove easier after everyone had gone. I thought, I hoped, you might allow me to take you to dinner.’

Bella.

There was that name again.

‘I was just going to go home.’

‘Ah, but of course.’ He looked around the room, the remaining stragglers exchanging stories and talking over old times. ‘It has been a very long day for you. Then maybe I can take you home?’

‘No, not home,’ she decided suddenly. At home there would be no treasured grandfather waiting for her, ever again. Why had she ever thought ‘home’ would offer some kind of sanctuary?

Besides, with Raoul beside her she didn’t feel so enervated, so drained. Instead, it seemed like every nerve ending in her body was suddenly awake and acutely aware of the man before her.

And acutely aware of a sudden hunger. It felt like she hadn’t eaten for ever. ‘Thank you, Raoul. If the offer still stands, dinner would be lovely.’

He stayed by her side while the wake wound up, lending her his strength when mourners departed and succumbed to a final burst of tears as they kissed her goodbye, and then he took her to a tiny 1890’s bistro on the Left Bank that greeted them with the scent of roasted garlic and tomatoes, with its belle epoque decor, quaint etched-glass and globe lamps. It was not somewhere she’d been expecting to be taken and definitely somewhere she was sure Consuelo would not know existed. There were no billionaires here that she could see, no players, politicians or film stars. Simply ordinary people enjoying a night out.

Well, ordinary apart from Raoul. There was nothing ordinary about his broad shoulders and strong black hair that glowed blue in the subtle lighting. He shrank the tiny room with his sheer presence, blotting out the other diners until they might just as well have been cardboard cut-outs. It felt good to be able to sit opposite and have no reason not to look at him and drink in his strong features—those dark eyes with their depths only hinted at under that dark slash of brow; those sculpted cheekbones, strong blade of nose and those lips, their passionate lines as detailed as if chiselled by a sculptor’s hand.

It felt good to be here with him.

‘Twice today I have found you alone,’ he said after they had ordered their meals. ‘Could Garbas not stay until the end of the wake?’

She fiddled with the napkin in her lap. Consuelo hadn’t made it at all, not that Raoul needed to know that, not when he clearly harboured enough resentment towards the man already. And not when there had been no word and she still had no idea herself what was going on. ‘He was called away. Something important, I guess.’

‘More important than you?’

She flushed and waited while the waiter poured them both a glass of Beaujolais, ruby red in the light cast by the lamp in the centre of the table. Consuelo always had good reasons when he was delayed or had to suddenly change their plans—it happened so often that she was used to it. To let her down today of all days … But he would have good reason, she was sure.

Although, what reason would he have for assuming they would now move in together?

She picked up her glass on a sigh, admiring the colour of the wine. Maybe he’d just felt neglected, with her attention going firstly to her grandfather and then to Phillipa when she’d needed her recently. And maybe he hadn’t been uppermost in her thoughts these last few weeks and wanted to change that. But, still, when had going to a few parties and dinners together been a sign of imminent cohabitation?

Then she saw Raoul waiting for her and decided to worry about the missing Consuelo and his distorted perception of their relationship later. She gave an ironic smile. ‘Clearly much more important. Anyway, I didn’t come to dinner to talk about him.’

‘Touché.’ Across the table Raoul smiled and lifted his glass to hers in a toast. ‘To us, Gabriella. To old friends and new beginnings.’

His words stirred her soul deep. ‘To us,’ she said, taking a sip, feeling the sensual slide of fine wine down her throat. She watched him watching her over the rim of her glass, liking the way he watched her, wondering if he liked what he saw.

And she knew she was in danger of reading too much into this. She was feeling things and hearing things that couldn’t possibly be there or mean what she thought. And for all his talk of new beginnings and expressions of regret that it had been so long, he would most likely disappear from her life tonight and not even Umberto would be there to bring him back to her.

After all, this was Raoul, and her teenaged fantasies had been just that—fantasies. She put her glass down before the alcohol might convince her otherwise. ‘You visited Umberto the week before he died?’

Across the table Raoul stilled. ‘Umberto told you that?’

She shook her head and the lights in her hair danced under the lamps. She’d worn it up for the funeral, a severe knot at the back of her head, but time and the damp had worked tendrils loose, so now the ends softly framed her face. ‘No, his nurse. He died before—before I made it home from London. I was too late to see him.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, praying that his visit had done nothing to hasten his old friend’s death and prevent his granddaughter one last opportunity to see him.

‘I think he knew he was dying and he didn’t want me there.’ She looked at the ceiling and pressed her lips together in a thin white line. ‘He sent me away, you know.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Phillipa was almost due to give birth. Her husband was overseas and booked to get back—there should have been plenty of time—when a coup closed all the airports. He was stuck in a war zone and she was frantic with worry; little wonder the baby came early. And I didn’t want to leave Umberto, but he told me he was fine and that I must go to help my friend. He promised me he would be fine …’

He took her hand, squeezed it in his own. ‘He was looking out for you. He was trying to spare you.’

‘By denying me the opportunity to share his final days, his final moments?’ She hauled in a breath and shook her head. ‘Why don’t I feel blessed in that case? Instead, I feel cheated. I didn’t even get a proper chance to say goodbye.’

‘Bella,’ he said, his hand stroking her cheek, his thumb wiping the moisture welling from her eyes, ‘He didn’t want you to see him like that.’

‘But why wouldn’t he want to say goodbye to me?’

‘Because maybe he wanted you to remember him as he was before, strong and happy, not confined to a bed with a battery of machines beeping out his existence while you waited for them to fall silent one by one. He loved you too much to subject you to that.’

She sniffed and rested her cheek against his hand, staring blindly at the table as if considering his words. She looked lost, a little girl in a woman’s face, a little girl who had suffered too much already in her short life; a beautiful face that was no hardship to stare at, no hardship to caress. Even with leaking eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, even with that trembling bottom lip, she was indeed a beauty. Even without her fortune in waiting, she would be a catch.

What a waste.

For she deserved only the best. She deserved happiness and love and a good man who could give her both.

She deserved so much more than a man who would marry her simply to fulfil the terms of a promise.

And that wretched knot he seemed to endlessly carry with him grew in his gut, twisting, tangling and pulling tight. Why was he even considering going through with this? Garbas would be no threat now. Garbas could not hurt her. So he should just take her home, say goodnight and walk away. He should let her go. If he had any sense at all, he would just let her go. Umberto would never know.

Except he had promised.

And he would know.

Besides, perversely perhaps, a part of him was beginning to think it would not be such an impossible feat to get her to agree to marry him. Indeed, the longer he was with her, the more certain he was that he could achieve the unthinkable. She had worshipped him as a child. She certainly didn’t hate him now, not from the way she seemed to lean into his touch, not from the way he found her glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. And, whatever she’d heard of his past, it didn’t seem to make her wary of him in any way. Foolish, foolish woman.

‘So what did he say?’

He looked up to find her eyes on him, sad eyes wanting answers.

‘You talked to Umberto,’ she prompted. ‘What did he say?’

He hesitated, his hand dropping, his fingers toying with the stem of his wine glass, knowing what her reaction would be if he told her what Umberto really wanted from him.

‘Surely I’m entitled to know something of his last words? Can’t you tell me anything?’

‘Si.’ He nodded. ‘Of course you are entitled. Because mostly, Bella, he talked of you.’

‘Me.’ She blinked and swallowed and he followed the movement down the long, smooth column of her throat until it disappeared into her chest, a slow, sensual slide. He had to drag his eyes north again when she said, ‘What did he say about me?’

‘That he loved you,’ he said, embellishing the truth, because he knew she needed to hear it and because he knew it to be true. ‘More than anything or anyone in the world. He talked about how special you are and how much you mean to him. He talked about how afraid he was for you when he was gone, how he would miss seeing you married with children one day.’

She dragged in air and bit down on her plump bottom lip with her teeth in the way he remembered her always doing whenever she’d been upset years ago. He remembered her trying not to cry out loud at her parents’ funeral and biting down so hard on her lip those teeth had drawn blood, blood she’d later smeared on his white shirt when he’d hugged her and held her close. How her twelve-year-old’s tears had reduced him to tears too, even though he’d promised himself to be strong that day.

God, but she’d been through so much. He could well understand Umberto wanting to protect her and ensure nothing bad ever happened to her again. He wanted that too. And, the longer he was with her, the more he wanted it. But he still knew in his crusted heart that he was the last person who could make it so.

‘He told me that you see the good in everyone, that you do not judge, that you have a good heart.’

Across the table, she sniffed. ‘Thank you. It would have been nice to have heard these things first hand, but it is good to hear them at all, so thank you.’

‘Sometimes it is not possible to say these things face to face. Your grandfather was old-school. Did he ever tell you he loved you when he was alive?’

‘No, but I still knew.’

‘Yes, you knew. Some things, Bella—some things do not need to be said for us to know them to be true,’ he said, feeling only slightly guilty for the things he’d told her, the things he’d embellished and the things he’d omitted when he saw how happy she was to hear them.

And she smiled, tears once again welling in her eyes. ‘Thank you, Raoul,’ she said as she clasped his hand in hers, only letting go as their meals were served. ‘Thank you so much.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘WHAT will you do now?’ he asked while they ate. ‘Will you stay in Paris?’

She tilted her head as she toyed with a mushroom, contemplating his question and letting herself appreciate for the first time just how much she was enjoying tonight. She hadn’t expected to enjoy anything today, and there was still an Umberto-sized hole in her chest. But she felt, if not entirely happy, then almost good, she decided, although she was in no doubt that the company was a major factor in that. Just being with Raoul seemed to make her feel good, to feel warm.

‘I have my job at the American Library here in Paris. They’ve given me leave, as long as I need, although I think I really should get back to work. I’ve been off more than a month already.’

‘You don’t look like any librarian I’ve ever seen,’ he offered. ‘In fact, if librarians had looked like you when I was at school, I might have spent more time studying in the library.’

She smiled and tilted her head. ‘Why thank you, kind sir, but I think perhaps that is the wine talking.’

‘No,’ he countered. ‘That is definitely the man talking.’

She felt his words in the quake that rumbled its way down her spine and lodged deep in her belly; she had to suck in air to cool and mitigate its far-flung effects. ‘I’m the special-collections manager,’ she said, squeezing her legs together under the table to quell the buzzing between her thighs. ‘Maybe the library gods give us a bit more leeway in that department.’

And to her relief he laughed, a rich, deep sound that resonated through her bones. ‘Come to Venice with me.’

Her breath caught—or maybe it was her heart—and it was her turn to laugh, but this time nervously. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I have business in Venice. Come with me, Bella.’

She shook her head, once again blindsided by the events of the day. She was torn to think he was leaving already after such a short time, tempted to do something wildly un-Gabriella-like and take off with him. But she didn’t work that way. ‘I can’t just take off to Venice.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have my job.’

‘You’re on leave.’

‘But … But … ‘ She was thinking of all the reasons going to Venice with Raoul would be so wonderful: the chance to renew their acquaintance, the opportunity to feel his warming presence; logic momentarily deserted her.

‘What do you have to stay for? A change would do you good.’

When he put it like that, it had been a long time since she’d had any kind of holiday. Once she went back to work it would be months before she could ask for more time off, and the thought of going to Venice with Raoul … ‘No.’ She shook her head, much more emphatically this time, half to convince herself. ‘That’s silly. What were we talking about again?’

He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other. ‘So, think about it. No rush. Meanwhile, we were talking about you. Where did you go to school? I seem to remember Umberto mentioning boarding school once or twice when I visited him.’

She nodded, feeling warmed by the thought of Umberto talking to Raoul about his granddaughter and what she was doing—and Raoul actually remembering—while in the back of her mind she kept hearing his words, Come with me, Bella.

She took a sip of water, wondering if it was the wine making her feel reckless enough to want to say yes. Then she marshalled her scattered thoughts enough to answer his question properly.

‘From the day I was born, my mother had me booked into the same ladies college in the Cotswolds she’d attended as a girl. I’d always known I was going there and, while I didn’t want to leave Umberto, it felt good being there and nearer her parents, too, while they were alive. And I’d see Mum’s name on winners’ boards and amongst lists of past prefects and it made me feel good—walking those same corridors, sitting in those same classrooms that she had. Like I was closer to her, if that makes any sense.’

Suddenly she wasn’t sure what made sense and what didn’t. She gave a nervous laugh, tilted her head. ‘Did you actually mean it about coming to Venice?’ Immediately she dismissed it. ‘But, no, sorry, it’s a crazy idea. I’m probably not making any sense.’

‘You make perfect sense,’ he said, raising his glass to her. ‘And it’s not such a crazy idea.’

Oh, but it was. If she went to Venice she might get used to the warm, wonderful way he made her feel—as if she had one hundred per cent of his attention all the time, as if she were the only person, the only woman, in the world.

And that would be crazy.

‘Anyway,’ she pressed on, determined to get back to her story and not dwell on things that could not be, ‘That’s where I met Phillipa.’

‘Your friend I met today?’

She nodded, remembering the first day they’d met, the two girls who’d teamed up in desperation because they’d known nobody else in the entire school and yet had stayed friends ever since. ‘She was my very best friend from day one, even through the couple of years when her family shifted to New York. She came back to study librarianship at uni as well, and we ended up living together during terms. We’d each go our separate ways in the holidays, her to New York, me to Paris, or we’d take turns at visiting each other’s homes.’ She smiled. ‘Phillipa’s the most brilliant friend. Better than a sister—not that I’ve ever had one.’

She stopped, and looked at him, leaning back and smiling patiently at her. ‘Oh God, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?’

‘No, I could listen to you all night. I wish I had been there more for you, Bella.’ Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t have ended up so lost himself … ‘I should have done more.’

She shrugged. ‘Come on, Raoul, how could you? The last thing you needed was to be bothered with a girl barely in her teens. And I was fine. I actually liked boarding school. It was hard at first, but in a way it took my mind off things. Besides, what could you have done? You were busy with your own life.’

Busy? That was one way to put it. And, realistically, what could he have done? He’d spent the two years after his parents’ death either drunk or aiming for it, playing every casino he could find, throwing money at every game and every horse it was possible to lose on and finding himself a new family into the deal. A family that loved someone who could splash money around and not care, a family who had adopted him for one of their own, if only to suck him dry.

And then, emerging out of the bleakness of that time, he’d found Katia—or she had found him. Playboy of the year, bachelor of the year; he’d been awarded so many of those meaningless titles he couldn’t remember them all. But she had wanted him above all others and they had been so absorbed in their own special world that nothing else had mattered. Or so he had thought. Not until much later when the foundations of his world had once again been torn apart …

He shook his head, wondering at the insanity that had driven his actions then, knowing he should know better now. For it had to be a form of insanity to be contemplating what he was doing, to be undertaking what he was doing.

Even now he’d primed Gabriella perfectly; she was still thinking about Venice even though he’d said nothing to encourage her after that first exchange. Even now she was still thinking it through, working out the angles, making it possible in her own mind, making it her own decision.

Even now it could still happen—and he could get her to Venice and clear of Paris before the news of Consuelo’s inevitable arrest broke. For Consuelo would be arrested, nothing was surer.

But right now, looking into Gabriella’s eyes flickering brandy-gold in the lamplight, he wasn’t so sure of anything else. The way she looked at him …

She wasn’t the girl she had once been. She was a woman now, and his body was reacting the way a man’s body did to a woman he desired.

He shook his head, trying to dispel those images. ‘You were no doubt better off without me.’ As you would be now.

She reached over, took his hands in hers. ‘I’m sorry. How about we make a deal? How about we don’t think about the past? Maybe it’s time we let it go. You yourself toasted to a new beginning, so can’t we just leave it at that? Can we let the past go and start again?’

If only it were that easy!

His past was him. It was his past that had made him, shaped him and moulded him, even broken him along the way. It had made him who he was now.

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