For a second—an endless second that seemed to stretch like the distance of the deserted corridor—Nic went on holding the door open. Then, numbly, he released the button, pressed for the lobby again, felt the elevator start its plummeting descent with a lurch. Leaving his guts somewhere way above.
Gaining the lobby, he walked out of the hotel, out on to the pavement. He didn’t want to summon his car. Striding blindly, he headed towards Mayfair, his face still a steel mask. That same emotion still acid in his mouth.
* * *
Blindly, Fran reached the end of the corridor, pushed open the doors leading to the stairwell. She had to return to the party—a lifetime of training that told her one could not indulge one’s feelings at the expense of social demands impelled her. Yet emotions were tumbling through her, jarring and clashing. To see Nic again...to learn who he really was without warning, so abruptly...and he to learn her other identity, equally without warning—
Was it just shock? Mutual shock on both their parts?
But he’d seemed so angry to discover she was Donna Francesca.
I’m not angry that he’s really Nicolo Falcone! In fact—
She stopped, as she was climbing the stairs to the roof level. If Nic really was Nicolo Falcone then surely that was good, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it good that she was Donna Francesca as well as Doc Fran? Wasn’t it better that Nic was Nicolo Falcone? Not Nic Rossi working in Security in a hotel in Nevada?
Because if she were Donna Francesca, and he was Nicolo Falcone, then—
Her thoughts raced through her head as she painstakingly climbed upwards. Whatever the shock that had followed after that brunette had disclosed his real identify, nothing could take away from her that rush of emotion she’d felt, overpowering her when she had seen him.
Joy.
She felt it again—felt that surge of pleasure and delight at seeing him once more. Felt the rush that came with it, the lift of her spirits.
Telling herself that Nic was in the past, that her time with him was over, was totally useless. She felt emotion sweep within her yet again—and hit a wall.
She jerked to a halt, lungs tightening. That brunette...
Her insides hollowed. Nic—whether he was Nic Rossi or Nicolo Falcone didn’t matter—had moved on. That was why he was repudiating her, rejecting her.
Bleakness filled her. Slowly she resumed her heavy climb. That was the reason—the obvious, glaring reason—Nic would have nothing to do with her.
He had someone else, and whether she was Doc Fran or Donna Francesca made no difference at all to him.
It was the only explanation.
And it devastated her.
* * *
‘Vito!’ Eloise Viscari exclaimed, coming up to her husband. ‘Is it true? Did Nicolo Falcone really have the nerve to turn up here tonight?’
Instantly Fran tensed at the name. The rooftop party had finally ended, but she and Harry, together with Cesare and Carla, had been invited by Vito to join him and Eloise, who was heavily pregnant with their second child, and so hadn’t attended the garden launch, for an informal supper in their private suite at the hotel.
Fran would have preferred not to go, but social obligations could not be avoided, however much her personal preference would have been otherwise.
As she heard Vito answer his wife, Fran was aware of Cesare glancing at her. Since rejoining the roof party she’d been aware of his watchful eyes on her. He knew her well enough to know when she was upset, however much she strove to conceal it. She did not want him asking questions why.
Not when she scarcely knew the answer herself.
‘Yes, he came as Lorna Linhurst’s plus-one,’ Vito was confirming. His voice and mouth were tight.
‘Well, she’s either his latest squeeze in a long, long line of squeezes or she’s touting for work at Falcone,’ Eloise said caustically. ‘Whichever, she won’t get any more work from you, Vito!’
‘Falcone?’ Harry joined the conversation, strolling towards them from the buffet table where he’d been helping himself liberally. ‘Is that the guy built like a forward you introduced to us? Guy with the broken nose? Is he a rugby player?’ he asked casually.
‘No,’ Cesare corrected him. ‘He owns the Falcone chain of hotels.’
‘No way!’ Harry commented cheerfully, putting away the last of a large slice of quiche. ‘Looks a bit of a bruiser to me!’