The following evening Ciro sat in the back of his car as it inched its way down Fifth Avenue towards Central Park and his house. His heart was beating a little too fast and he had to modulate his breathing. It was at times like this that he felt most claustrophobic—when he cursed the kidnappers for doing what they had to him, so that no matter how strong he was mentally he still felt a residue of fear that clung to him like a toxic tentacle whenever he was in a small confined space.
He hated it that he couldn’t just ease his sense of claustrophobia by jumping out of the car to walk, because he’d spark a massive security alert.
The thought occurred to him that when Lara had been in the back of the car with him he hadn’t noticed the claustrophobia as much. He’d been too distracted by her. He scowled at that.
Since the revelations of yesterday, and Lara’s departure, he’d been existing in a kind of fog. He couldn’t recollect what he’d done today, exactly. The puppy had barked pitifully that morning and Ciro had let her out into the garden, where she’d sniffed around disconsolately in between directing accusatory looks his way.
For a man who was used to thinking clearly he was beyond irritated that he was still thinking of her.
Whether or not it was true that she hadn’t colluded with her uncle, she’d known about the kidnapping the day she’d come to him at the hospital. He would never forget the blasé way she’d dropped her bombshell that day. When he’d been lying there, beaten and battered. Because of her! She’d had her chance and she’d said nothing.
Last night had been the first night he’d spent alone in his bed in weeks. He’d had the nightmare again—except this time he hadn’t woken to the cooling touch of Lara’s hand or her tempting body. He’d woken sweating, tangled in the sheets, his voice hoarse from shouting. And this time the dream had been slightly different—it had been one moment, repeated over and over. The moment they’d ripped Lara out of his arms and opened the van door to dump her outside.
Her voice drifted into his head then: ‘Do you remember I asked you if you loved me?’ He did, actually. He shifted in his seat now, feeling uncomfortable. He did recall it, and he also recalled the feeling of panic that had gripped him.
Love.
He remembered thinking of his father and his slavish devotion to his unfaithful wife, how it had disgusted him. If that was love then, no, he didn’t feel that. But there had been something almost desperate on Lara’s face and so he’d made some platitude.
What about the terror you felt when she was taken from you by the kidnappers? In that moment you thought you loved her.
Ciro shifted uncomfortably again. He’d always put that surge of emotion down to the extreme circumstances.
His staff had informed him that her flight had left on time yesterday. She’d be back in the UK now. She could be anywhere. For the first time in two years he didn’t have tabs on her.
Before the car had even come to a standstill outside his house Ciro got out, not liking the panicky feeling in his gut. He went inside, dropping his things, and the puppy sped across the tiled floor towards him, yapping. It was quickly followed by the housekeeper, apologising profusely. Ciro picked Hero up and waved away the apology.
Feeling restless, he climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. He stood outside Lara’s door for a long moment, and then an image of his father came into his head and he scowled and pushed the door open.
It had been tidied, and the bed remade. It was as if she’d never been there. But he could still smell her scent in the air. Lemon and roses.
He put the puppy down on the bed, where she promptly curled up and went to sleep.
Ciro went to the dressing room and opened the doors, expecting to find it empty. But it was full of clothes. He frowned. Everything he’d bought her was there. As was her jewellery. Neatly lined up on velvet pouches under glass display cases.
He went and picked up the phone in the room and rang down to the housekeeper. ‘What did Lar—Mrs Sant’Angelo take with her when she left?’
He listened for a moment and then hung up, sitting down on the bed. She’d taken one suitcase. And he knew which one. The one she’d come with. The battered one.
The puppy crept towards him and got into his lap. Ciro stroked her absently. After a while he stood up, taking her with him. He left her with the housekeeper i
n the kitchen.
Still feeling restless, Ciro went into the reception room. It was filled with priceless paintings and objets d’art... Persian rugs. It could be a museum it was so still and stuffy.
When he’d bought this property he’d felt as if he’d reached a pinnacle. One of the many he’d set himself. Then, when he’d proposed to Lara, he’d imagined her here as his wife and hostess. Charming people with her natural warmth and compassion.
Giving you access to a higher level of society, reminded a voice.
A crystal decanter glinted at him from the drinks tray nearby. It seemed to mock him for thinking he’d had it all worked out. For believing that he’d had his fill of Lara. That he was done with her. For believing that all this excess around him actually meant anything.
The tightness in Ciro’s chest intensified, and with an inarticulate surge of rage he grabbed the decanter and threw it at the massive stone fireplace, where it smashed into a million pieces.
He heard footsteps running, and for some inexplicable reason he thought it might be—
But when he turned around it was just a shocked-looking staff member.
‘Is everything okay, Mr Sant’Angelo?’