But she wasn’t in the past any longer. Because of his own madness that night when she’d come to him, his madness and his weakness, she was in his present and in his future.
He said her name again. Without the honorific. The honorific he did not want her to have. Then took a breath, his hands still closed over her shoulders.
‘We can make this work. We can and we must.’ He said what had to be said, in spite of what she had indicated with everything she had done since she had discovered she was pregnant with his child: the decision she had made to keep it from him, making assumptions about him that were not hers to make.
And now she was indicating with every proviso she put to him how little she wanted what she was going to have to do. What they were both going to have to do.
‘I know it won’t be easy, or straightforward. But it must be done.’
She looked at him sadly. Something seemed to have gone out of her, and there was defeat in her eyes now. ‘Neither of us want this, do we?’
He didn’t answer, and he didn’t have to. She knew his answer. Knew it from his veiled eyes, from the sudden pressure of his hands over her shoulders. Those strong hands that had once caressed her body to ecstasy...
She tore her mind away. This was not the time or the place to think of that. She felt her heart start to hammer and stepped aside from him, making his hands fall away. She felt unsteady on her feet without them, but she ignored it.
‘I think you should go now, Nic,’ she said tiredly. ‘We both need time to...to come to terms with this.’
He did not move. ‘But you accept that we have no option but to marry?’
She heard that word again, floating in the gaping space between them—unreal, so unreal, impossible to contemplate, whatever he said.
But face it she must.
He saw her tense her jaw, swallow. ‘I—I suppose so.’
Defeat was still in her voice. It cut at him—just as it had when she had walked out of the elevator, as if turned to marble, after he had ordered her to leave him alone.
And now he was back at her side, and neither of them had a choice about it. Both had to accept what neither of them wanted to. Because there was nothing else to be done but accept it.
She ran a hand wearily over her forehead. ‘I don’t know what to think...what to do.’
‘For now, nothing. Rest. We’ll talk more this evening...make plans.’ His voice was brisk, businesslike.
Her expression changed. ‘Nic, not tonight. I can’t. I’m meeting Cesare and his wife for dinner. It’s all arranged.’
The blue eyes flashed. The word Cancel! hovered on Nic’s lips, but then his expression changed.
‘Then I’ll come too,’ he announced.
There was an edge in his voice. That damned Cesare could put up with his company. And it would declare to Il Conte—and the world—that he and Fran were a couple now. Whatever her aristocratic friends and relations thought about her marrying a jumped-up nouveau riche billionaire, bred in the backstreets of Rome.
Fran was staring at him, her thoughts jangled. Maybe Nic should come tonight—maybe they needed to behave like an engaged couple, if that was what they were, what they would have to be now. And who better to start with than Carla and Cesare? Her mouth twisted. After all, it had been Cesare who’d sent Nic here, so he must have wanted this outcome to his interference.
And is this what I want? Nic forcing himself to marry me? Me forcing myself to marry him? Is this really what I want?
She felt emotion churn within her with a sickening sensation. Felt herself steel herself in response. Maybe it didn’t matter what she felt about it—maybe Nic was right—maybe marrying each other was the only thing to be done...
‘So, what time do you want me to collect you tonight?’
She focussed her thoughts away from the enormity of even contemplating marrying the man in front of her—the man who had thrown her out of his bed, told her he wanted nothing more to do with her, and yet was now telling her they should marry.
‘Um...about eight, if that’s convenient? I’m meeting them at eight-thirty, and the traffic is always fiendish.’ A thought suddenly struck her. ‘Nic, it’s at the Viscari. Carla always patronises it. But surely you won’t want—?’
He gave a grim smile. ‘I’ll cope,’ he said tightly. He slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket, drew out a card. ‘This has my mobile number on it. Or my PA will put you through wherever I am.’
She took the card with nerveless fingers. ‘I’d better give you mine as well,’ she said.
We don’t even know each other’s phone numbers but we’re going to marry each other.