But it was wrong.
Wrong to be here, wrong to have come, wrong to have gone to her bed, to have made love to her until she was crying his name – Fiero – as if the very flames of hell were at her back and he the only possible way to douse them.
He was a married man.
His lips stretched into a grimace as he thought of that – of his wife, and how little was left of their marriage. They’d agreed to separate. They’d both signed the divorce papers, in fact. But his grandfather’s illness made it impossible, for now. To pain the older man in the twilight years of his life meant they must – on the surface – continue to appear as a ‘married couple’, despite the fact she’d moved out of the home they’d shared, despite the fact their marriage was colder than a long-dead fish.
He suppressed a groan of frustration. Which meant what, exactly? That this wasn’t wrong?
It was a fine line. He could make his peace with it, but what of his young lover, who’d so willingly given her body over to pleasure, who’d opened herself up to him so trustingly? If she were to discover that he had a wife back in Italy, albeit in name only?
And the press? If they were to discover this, and Gianfelice awoke to yet another scandal in the papers?
No. He couldn’t risk it.
His body screamed at him in regret, but Fiero knew what he must do. Pushing back the covers, he stood, taking the time to commit her appearance, at least, to memory, in the hope it would be sufficient comfort in the days to come – when he would no doubt kick himself for having done something so foolish and walked away from her without one last time, one last kiss, one last everything.
He gathered his clothes and dressed quietly in the small lounge room of her flat. He took in the details on autopilot – the neatness and order, the books categorised by author surname on the shelves across the room, the fresh cut flowers on the kitchen bench, a glass bowl overflowing with fresh, fragrant fruits, a colourful rug on the floor.
The décor was just like she had been, when she’d walked into the restaurant unable to secure a table and he’d offered for her to join him. Eclectic, beautiful, serene, bright, fascinating…
He stifled a groan and reached for the notepad and pen she kept on the kitchen bench. The first page had a few items neatly penned, a grocery list that made him smile when he read the contents: olive oil, bread, tea bags, vegemite. The last brought her Australian accent to mind and his gut kicked in a strange sensual response.
He flipped the page and hovered the pen over it for a moment, balancing his words mentally before committing them to paper.
I had a great night. You were perfect. He paused, knowing he needed to walk away, to force a clean break. It had been one night, there was nothing between them, no expectations, no promises. He’d been very careful there.
Nonetheless, he found himself adding: If you ever need anything… and placing his business card beside the note. It was simple and discreet – FIERO MONTEBELLO and his cell number. Nothing more, no mention of his job title or industry. Then again, the Montebello name really needed no introduction. They owned airlines, hotels, fashion chains, and pharmaceutical interests. The name was synonymous with being a titan of industry.
He left the card and then strode out of the apartment, pulling the door closed quietly behind himself, and mentally doing the same thing.
It had been one of the best nights of his life, but now it was morning, and he had to get back to his real life.
That didn’t include Elodie Gardiner.
1
IT HAD BEEN THREE years, almost to the day, but he could still see her perfectly in his mind, the mental snap-shot he’d taken of her before striding out of her flat in Earls Court embedded in his brain somehow, so nothing and no one seemed able to dislodge it.
But she wasn’t that woman anymore.
He stood rigid across the hospital room, his body completely still, his eyes taking in every detail of her appearance. Her face was badly bruised down one side, and blood was dry and clumped in the roots of her silky, dark hair. She wore a hospital gown. One arm was in a cast as was a leg, including an ankle. Her toenails were painted the palest pink, just like the night they’d slept together. Memories seared him, threatening to pull him out of the present, and he couldn’t let that happen.
“What is the prognosis?” He spoke with the command that came naturally to him, a command that wasn’t a by-product of his birth into one of the world’s wealthiest families, nor was it because he was responsible for one sixth of that company’s empire. No, his command was innate to him, a part of his character and soul, a marker of the Montebello arrogance that ran through each of their veins.
“Hard to say,” the nurse didn’t look up. “Her bones’ll mend, though she’ll be in a lot of pain for weeks, I’d say. She’ll likely need rehab to get back on her feet properly.”
He narrowed his eyes, acutely aware of the fact the nurse was carefully hedging, choosing her words with care. “But there’s something else - something you’re not saying?”
The nurse lifted her eyes to Fiero’s, her expression wary. “Who are you to Miss Gardiner?”
Nobody. The word rattled through him but he rejected it out of hand. They weren’t ‘nobody’ to one another. It had been three years but that night was alive in his mind, as though it had been only yesterday. Apparently, the reverse was true. Why else would she have asked for him to be called? Three years, and yet she’d been in an accident and his had been the name she’d given.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the last hour a blur. His meeting with the British Prime Minister, conveniently in Westminster, and then the call from the hospital.
It’s Ang from the Royal High and Free in Kensington. Elodie Gardiner’s been in an accident and she’s put you as her emergency contact.
The words had echoed through him, bringing to bear memories of a night he rarely let himself think about, of a woman who had been breathtakingly beautiful – all the more so for how forbidden she’d been to him.