“No.” She shook her head in denial. “Sex isn’t enough. I told you that before we came home from London.”
“You also told me you didn’t expect love,” he reminded grimly.
“It doesn’t mean I don’t want it! No,” she said, holding him off with an upraised hand as he came around the desk. “You don’t get to kiss me into thinking we’re okay. I’m not okay, Sandro. My marriage was supposed to be better than my mother’s. Why do you want yours to be worse?”
“We are better, cara. You know that. We’re solid. Unshakeable.”
“No, we’re stationary. That’s what I’m realizing right now. Are you really going to stand there and tell me to be happy because you’re willing to love everyone around you except me?”
“Cara, you know I care about you very deeply.” Pressure was drawing a white line around his mouth. “Do I really need to make love to you in the garden to prove how much? Be sensible.”
“Don’t mock her for loving so freely,” she shot back, lips quivering and throat aching. “You told me you were coming back to this marriage wholeheartedly and you’re not. You lied to me.”
He flinched, head going back as if she’d slapped him.
Beyond the door, Lorenzo began to cry.
Octavia cast her husband one last baleful look and walked out the door. But it wasn’t enough. As she gathered Lorenzo close and his warm, tiny body failed to drag the pieces of her heart back together, she knew she couldn’t sit on the terrace and be the only person there whom Sandro would never love.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SANDRO STOOD ROOTED to the floor, eyes closed in a wince, trying to take back the past five minutes.
And go back to what? Pretending this was never going to happen?
It wasn’t supposed to! From his earliest forays into relationships, he’d known he didn’t want to fall in love. All his affairs had been lighthearted and his goal for marriage had been to find a compatible partner he could respect without putting his heart on the roller coaster his mother had endured.
Octavia had been perfect. She’d come from the right background, had an honestly earned fortune and a conciliatory nature that hadn’t provoked strong feelings in him.
Except in bed.
And then out of it.
Yes, he couldn’t deny that his feelings for her had been growing from those first weeks of his marriage. He’d tried to stay them, had left her in London and convinced himself he hadn’t missed her, but since Lorenzo’s birth he’d been unable to effectively keep himself from growing more and more attached.
The attraction was never supposed to have deepened like this. Why should it have when he’d chosen her for logical reasons and they really didn’t have that much in common? It was a one in a million shot that she would turn out to capture his interest so thoroughly.
But her quiet, thoughtful nature had revealed itself to also be vulnerable, then sassy. She was complex, far more intriguing than he’d first suspected. Smart and funny and loving. That was the part that had really gotten to him. She loved their son, loved his family—hell, she loved her friend from the hospital and her friend’s baby.
She loved him.
That was the problem with emotions. With a curse, he slapped his hand on his desk so his palm stung. Why couldn’t he control this? Why couldn’t she? This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were entering territory where real hurt could happen. Couldn’t she see that?
Of course she had. When she had walked out, her last look had pulled his flesh from his bones before throwing his skin away. He’d been right back in London, seeing whatever she had felt for him shredded to nothing.
They were already in the danger zone. Hell, if he had been serious about protecting her heart, he should have left her in London when she had asked. He shouldn’t have pressed and cajoled and seduced her into coming back here with him.
He shouldn’t have made her fall in love with him.
Which was what he’d done. Not consciously. He’d told himself he wanted her trust. Her body. Her affection and acceptance of him.
But it was her heart he’d been courting. He wanted her love, damn it!
Because he loved her so much it was unbearable to think of being the only one this deeply invested.
He clenched his fists, trying to contain the massive rush of feeling as he admitted what he’d been denying. Love, thick and hot as lava seared his arteries, wrenching his heart. Who wanted this much need and anguish and possessiveness welling inside them?
Who wanted the power to hurt another and feel as though you’d punched a hole in your own chest when you did? Who wanted to be driven to open a door and go in search of a woman before he even knew what he wanted to say?