'I'm sorry—'
'Don't be.' His voice was rough and loaded with self-recrimination. 'Hospitals are not nice places at the best of times and in these circumstances—' He broke off and pushed her gently towards the nearest chair.
She sank on to it gratefully and looked helplessly at Chiara. The girl lay still, oblivious to anything going on around her.
Rico gave a driven sigh and took the chair next to her. 'Our lives do not always turn out the way we expect, do they?' His gruff tone betrayed a depth of emotion that she'd given up ever hearing him express and the strain was etched in his own dark features as he lifted his sister's limp hand.
For a moment he was silent, as if rallying himself, and then he sucked in a breath and fastened his gaze on his sister's face. 'Stasia is here—' The control was back, the emotion gone, and for a moment she wondered whether she'd imagined it. More comfortable in his own language, he switched to Italian, talking swiftly and gently, all the time holding Chiara's hand as if hoping to transfer some of his vital strength to the injured girl.
Stasia sat in frozen stillness, the tears now blocked somewhere deep inside her, staring at the girl who had made no secret of hating her. It was almost impossible to believe that she was the same person.
In her unconscious state. Chiara had lost all her defiance.
Instead she looked like a very young, very vulnerable teenager and Stasia felt her resentment melt away.
Rico lifted his head and looked at her, the strain making his eyes seem even darker than usual. 'The doctors thought it might help if she were to hear your voice— if you could say something. Talk to her.'
Stasia looked at him helplessly. This was so hard. She wanted to help, but what on earth was she supposed to talk about? The past? Hardly—when almost all their conversations had been hostile. Certainly on Chiara's part. Almost since the day Stasia had married Rico, Chiara had treated her as the enemy.
Aware that Rico was watching her expectantly, Stasia leaned closer to the bed, feeling more self-conscious than she ever had in her life before. If she said the wrong thing now—
'Hi, Chiara—' She broke off and cleared her throat. 'It's Stasia.'
She paused for a moment, half-expecting Chiara to leap from her bed and slap her around the face.
But the girl didn't move. Didn't respond in any way.
Suddenly she wished Rico would go for a walk. Leave them alone. But there was no chance of that, of course. He thought she was a corrupting influence and there was no way he'd leave her alone with his much younger sister. 'What have you done to yourself? Why weren't you wearing a hat? Maybe some gorgeous boy was watching and you didn't want to hide your hair—'
She caught Rico's sharp frown but ignored him. If she was going to talk to Chiara then she was going to talk about things that might make sense to the girl. Something that reflected the person she was. It would have been typical of Chiara to ignore the hat if someone was watching.
Stasia hesitated for a moment and then gently touched Chiara's shoulder.
'Everyone's pretty worried about you. Your brother's even taken a day off work—that should tell you how bad it is. Can't remember him ever taking a day off before now, can you? So if you don't want the Crisanti Corporation to collapse then you'd better start thinking about waking up—' She continued to talk, keeping it lighthearted, chatting about everything and nothing until finally Rico stood up in a sudden movement, almost as if he couldn't stand it any longer.
'That's enough for now.' His voice was rough and he seemed almost unbearably tense as he raked long fingers through his hair. 'It's getting late. You need some rest.'
'I'd rather stay.' She didn't want to leave the injured girl's bedside if there was a chance her presence could make a difference.
'You look worn out.' The words were dragged from him, as if he was afraid she might misinterpret his concern as something sweeter.
But there was no chance of that. She knew exactly what he thought of her and knew that the fact that she was here was a measure of his love for his sister. Not an indication of any feeling for her. He had none. Or at least, nothing positive and she was miserably aware that nothing but desperation on his part would have induced him to make contact with someone he held in such contempt.
The knowledge choked her. 'It's been a stressful day.' Her voice was strangely flat and suddenly she realized that he was right. She was exhausted. She'd been painting non stop, throwing herself into her work, trying to forget—
'You haven't changed.' His voice was heavily accented and suddenly he sounded very, very Sicilian. 'You're still obsessed with your work. Do you realize you talked about virtually nothing else?'
Because there was nothing else in her life to talk about.
She managed an ironic smile, because that was undoubtedly what he would have expected from her. 'And this coming from you?' Her tone was dry but he didn't return the smile.
'And you still talk too much.'
Stasia' s own smile faded at that bittersweet reminder of their past. He'd always teased her about that. The fact that she chatted all the time. 'I thought you wanted me to talk.'
He paced to the end of the bed as if he needed to distance himself from something. 'I did. But it's enough for one night. Enough for both of you. Today has been difficult for all of us.' His eyes met hers, his dark gaze conveying just how difficult. 'I'll arrange for you to be taken home.'
Home?