Even as the protest sounded in his head he felt hard, cold rational thought pour down on it.
So how long do you want it to last? How long before it ends? Just how much more do you want of this—of her, of Fran? Another week? Two weeks? How long? How long to put your life on hold while you drive around the American West?
His eyes bored into the screen, willing the message to disappear. But it was still there. His real life was summoning him back. This hedonistic R&R, unscheduled, snatched out of his life, this instinctive, overriding diversion with this incredible woman who had blazed across his path was over.
Dimly, he realised that Fran was speaking, and he switched his attention to her. Her voice was hollow, her eyes filled with fearful emotion. For a second, just a split second, he thought it must be because he’d said out loud that their time was over.
But it was not that.
‘Nic...’ The strain was naked in her words. ‘Nic, my grandfather...he’s had a heart attack. They—they don’t think he’s going to pull through.’ Her voice wobbled at the end, choking.
Instantly, instinctively, he reached across the table to take her hand. She looked at him, her fingers clutching at his.
‘I have to go to England,’ she said. ‘My mother is there already, and my brother and sister. My father is on his way too. I—I have to be there.’
He nodded. The decision was made. The only decision to make. He beckoned to the server, wanting to pay and go.
In minutes they were back in the SUV, heading south.
‘We can make McCarran in Vegas in just over three hours, I think. Can you sort a plane ticket while we drive?’
Fran nodded numbly. It was unreal, surely, what was happening? Her grandfather, who had seemed to be as indestructible as the ancient ducal castle that was his principal seat, was dying. By the time she got there it might be too late.
Guilt smote her. She’d kept her distance from her family ever since breaking up with Cesare, not wanting to hear any more of her mother’s recriminations for doing so, burying herself in her work, devoting herself to her research.
Her guilt was exacerbated by realising that the last thing she wanted her mother to know was that she had taken off on a crazy road trip with a guy who worked in security at a hotel.
She felt emotion twist inside her. This adventure with Nic had been a mad, impetuous break out of time—away from all that she knew. It had been heady, and fantastic, and wonderful.
But it had nothing to do with her real life, did it? Neither the sober life she lived as a scientist in the halls of academe, nor the life she had been born to as Donna Francesca.
The life she was being summoned back to now, to what might be the deathbed of her grandfather, the
centre of her mother’s family, who even now might be passing his ducal coronet to his successor—her uncle—while his son-in-law—her father the Marchese—would be paying the respects due from one nobleman to another.
And she must be there too—she must. Whatever the friction with her mother, it counted for nothing at a time like this.
Blindly, she stared out of the tinted windows of the SUV at the wild, rugged landscape they were passing through. It had become so familiar in the past amazing, unforgettable days she had spent there, spent with the man who was now at the wheel, driving her to Las Vegas airport with all the speed the law allowed.
I don’t want to leave this—to lose this.
It was a cry that came from within, from a place she hadn’t known existed until that moment. But it was a cry she must silence.
And if not now, then when?
That was the knowledge that pressed upon her. Had her brother’s messages not summoned her away, what would it have gained her? Another few days with Nic? Maybe another week at most? How could it have lasted longer than that? Her other real life would have called her back. She had things to do. Papers to write. Another research post to find, maybe a move to another city—another country, even.
So maybe this sudden ending of her time with Nic was for the best. Wasn’t it? Yet something seemed to twist inside her, like a heavy stone turning over...
Nic was talking and she made herself listen. He was telling her not to worry about her suitcase, left at the Falcone Nevada, that he would ensure it reached her office.
She thanked him absently, her hands clenched in her lap. She urged the SUV onwards, towards the airport, anxiety filling her lest she arrive in London too late. But even as she urged it onward she knew that the last of her time with Nic was ticking away.
Their parting, when they arrived at McCarran, was swift. She was cutting it fine for the flight she’d booked, and there was no time for anything more than for her to take Nic’s hands as he helped her to the concourse at Departures and press them tightly.
‘Thank you!’
Her words were vehement, her kiss swift, pressing his mouth so fleetingly he had no time to do what he wanted, to yank her into his arms and crush her to him one last time.