A commotion outside the house pulled Marietta from her thoughts. She paused with a tray of pastries in her hand and heard car doors slamming, then male voices speaking in rapid French. She thought she recognised Philippe’s voice, deep and firm, and then another, even deeper but louder—and agitated.
Marietta almost dropped the tray.
Nico’s voice.
Josephine had hurried outside and now Nico appeared in the doorway. And he looked—terrible. Bleary-eyed and unshaven, his hair and clothes rumpled. A hint of wildness in the blue eyes that instantly zeroed in on her. He reached her in three strides.
She put the tray down. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, hurriedly, because she could see that he wasn’t and it was scaring her.
He didn’t speak. He just tipped up her chin and examined the cut on her forehead, then lifted her arms, one by one, scrutinising the many nicks and scratches she’d sustained when the window had shattered over her. His mouth thinned.
‘Nico, I’m fine,’ she repeated, wanting to erase the awful bleakness from his face.
Still he didn’t speak and his silence unnerved her.
‘I’m afraid there’s been some damage at the house,’ she said. ‘Your study—’
‘I don’t give a damn about the study.’ Finally he spoke but his voice was harsh. Angry, even. ‘I’ve already seen the house. I thought—’ He broke off. ‘Mon Dieu, Marietta,’ he resumed after a moment. ‘I thought...’ He dragged his hand through his hair, stepped back, his expression shuttering. ‘Do you have any belongings to collect before we leave?’
‘Just my clothes,’ she said, referring to those she’d arrived in last night.
There’d been no time to grab anything else. When the men had found her in the study, Luc had scooped her off the floor while Philippe had grabbed her chair, and then they’d driven at once to the village. The clothes she wore now had been borrowed from Josephine who, minutes later, hovered as Nico bundled Marietta into the Jeep, followed by her chair and a bunch of supplies from Philippe for the house.
Marietta thanked the other woman—for everything—then sat in silence as Nico drove them back up the mountain.
* * *
Several hours later Nico’s gut still churned with a mix of emotions, some clear-cut—like relief and anger—others not so easy to distinguish.
It had taken him two hours to clear the debris from the pool and terrace, another two to get the study back into some semblance of order. The repairs he’d made to the house were only temporary; he’d need a glazier to install a new w
indow, some furnishings replaced and the flooring fixed, thanks to a fair amount of water damage.
The antique desk that had belonged to his wife had survived mostly unscathed, but in truth he had barely spared it a thought when he’d arrived at the house this morning and discovered the carnage. And—worse—Marietta gone. The violent punch of fear and panic had almost doubled him over. Until rational thought had resurfaced and he’d realised the only logical explanation was that she was in the village with the Bouchards.
He’d felt raw, volatile with emotion. So much so that he’d struggled for words when he’d first clapped eyes on her in the Bouchards’ kitchen. On the drive back to the house, when she’d asked him what had happened in Rome, he’d managed to clip out a brief, sanitised version of events, but then he had kept his jaw tightly locked, afraid of what would spill from his mouth if he opened it again.
Since then he’d largely avoided her, rejecting her offer to help with the clean-up and suggesting she pack her things in preparation for leaving tomorrow. The hurt in her eyes had cut him to the bone, but it was safer this way. If he got too close to her he’d drag her into his arms and never want to let her go. And that terrified him.
Now, showered, wearing jeans and a fresh shirt, he stood in the living room and studied Marietta’s painting of the old stone fortress. It was a stunning piece of work. Beautiful and evocative, he surmised. Not unlike the artist herself.
‘Nico?’
He stiffened... God help him. Even the sound of her voice challenged his resolve. Made him think twice about what he must do.
‘Nico, please...’
Her tone was plaintive and it tore at something inside him.
‘Talk to me.’
He turned, hands jammed into his jeans pockets. ‘What would you like me to say, Marietta?’
Long shafts of late-afternoon sunshine streamed in through the tall windows, gilding her olive skin, picking out the amber highlights in her mahogany hair. She’d changed out of the borrowed clothes into long black pants and a sleeveless white blouse and she looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful. She rolled closer and he clenched his jaw, fisted his hands to stop himself from reaching for her.
‘You could start by telling me why you’re angry.’
He shot her an incredulous look. Did she really have no idea what she’d put him through?