Cai was staying in the hotel with Alexi and his entourage. I’d seen the two of them together earlier in the day at the track on the winners’ podium from my seat in the stand. That I hadn’t been able to get up the courage to approach them both afterwards, to congratulate Alexi on the team’s win and check on my son, had made me realise I had to get over the last of my feelings for Alexi and close for ever that deep well of sadness—and unrequited yearning—that still overwhelmed me every time I thought of him.
It wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t fair on our son. I’d been a coward once before and Cai had suffered. I wasn’t going to do that again.
So stop looking for him like a lovelorn little girl. You’re over him.
I forced my gaze back to Renzo and the fanciful spires of the Duomo di Milano, lit by the setting sun in the distance. And willed my fingers to relax their grip on the champagne flute as Renzo continued to flirt with me.
When Alexi finally showed I would be professional and impersonal. I would show him that I had survived, that I wasn’t enthralled by him any longer and that he hadn’t broken my heart. Because he really hadn’t. All he’d done was bruise it a little. My heart was strong, because it had had to be. But as Renzo and I began to chat about the latest Galanti X model—with Renzo gently probing for information I had no intention of giving him—I could still feel the pulse of sadness that had never really gone away since Remy’s death.
I took another gulp of champagne and dismissed it, as I had a million times before.
I was strong. I was a survivor. If Remy’s death hadn’t broken me, nothing ever could. Not even losing Alexi.
Alexi
As I entered the ballroom, I scanned the crowd, keeping a lid on my frustration as friends and acquaintances accosted me to offer their congratulations.
At last my gaze snagged on the open doors across the ballroom. And the longing that had been gripping my chest for weeks sunk deep into my abdomen, twisting my guts into tight knots of need... And fury.
The mother of my son, the woman who I had come here to get back, stood on the balcony with Camaro. A wispy dress of summer green hugged her slender curves, displaying her cleavage like an offering, her russet hair lit to gold by the sunset.
Abruptly cutting off the latest congratulations, I marched through the crowd, never taking my eyes off her.
How dared Camaro talk to her, flirt with her? What secrets was he trying to prise out of her? The crowd parted to let me pass, probably sensing my foul mood, but then I saw her smile at him and a knife lanced into my gut.
Were they sleeping together?
I gritted my teeth as I stepped onto the terrace. My fury was only fuelled by the pain knifing into my stomach.
What the hell had I been thinking? Why had I let her go?
Renzo saw me first, his brows launching up his forehead, but then he smiled—the sensual, assured smile of a man who was in control—and the last thread on my own control snapped.
The wispy curls of Belle’s up-do clung to her nape and my mouth dried to parchment, the urge to kiss her there, to make her sigh, sob and ache, and to drag her back into my arms—where she had always belonged—making my voice crack.
‘Belle, we have to talk.’
She swung round, startled, and the champagne in her glass splashed over her fingers. The intense desire to lick it off turned the mix of pain, fury and bone-deep regret in my gut to something much more volatile.
‘Alexi, is—is something wrong?’ she stammered, her gaze shadowed. For a moment I thought I saw hurt there. But I couldn’t be sure.
What was I doing here, behaving like a jealous lunatic?
What if I had been wrong about her needing me as much as I needed her? What if she didn’t care for me at all—any more than my mother had?
‘Yes, Alexi,’ Camaro said, the smile turning to a grin. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked, but I could see he knew exactly what the problem was, and he was deliberately making it worse.
Bastardo.
Another time, I would not have risen to the bait. But tonight my usual humour, my usual charm, my usual control, had deserted me.
He was standing too damn close to her.
I swore at him in Italian, gutter words I knew he would understand, because he came from the gutter, and that was where he belonged.
I grabbed the front of Camaro’s suit and yanked him towards me. Belle gasped.
‘Leave, now,’ I growled in Italian. ‘And never dare to touch her again.’