Skye blinked, her expression clouding with doubts for the briefest of moments, and then she nodded. ‘I suppose I would,’ she murmured, not even questioning the familiarity when he reached down and laced his fingers through hers.
‘Let’s go, then.’
* * *
Perhaps it was her broken sleep the night before. The dreams that had tormented her, shaking her whenever she’d felt close to sleep. Perhaps it was the memories that those dreams had invoked, little shards of the past that had dug painfully into her sides all night, reminding her of what a fool she’d been.
Perhaps it was the way her heart had been tripping back into love in her sleep, against her wishes, reminding her of how she’d felt when first they’d met. Of the way he’d smiled and she’d answered. Of how simple it had all seemed, and of how right it had felt.
Whatever the reason, the second Skye laid eyes on Matteo the next morning she felt as if she’d been pounded by a sledge hammer. He was dressed in a navy-blue suit with a crisp white shirt open at the neck to reveal the thick column of his neck, the dark hairs curling at the base. She had to pause just inside the kitchen door—to brace herself physically before moving deeper into his atmosphere.
How absurd. There was no such thing as ‘his’ atmosphere. There was only air, and it belonged equally to both of them. Never mind that he changed the feeling of everything simply by being in it—simply by existing.
His eyes lifted to hers, roaming her face, seeing everything she wanted to keep hidden, just as he had that first night they’d met. No doubt he saw the bags under her eyes and the pallor of her skin.
Good.
Let him see how miserable she was!
Let him feel some of the blame for his hand in that. Except he wasn’t capable of such an emotion, was he? Since she’d returned to Venice, he’d been unremorseful and unapologetic.
‘I wasn’t sure what you are eating,’ he said conversationally, as though there was nothing awkward about being back in his home more than a month after she’d left, presuming she’d seen the last of him and it for ever. ‘I had Melania prepare an assortment of things.’ He nodded towards the platter in the centre of the table. Skye’s attention drifted to it and her stomach gave a little lurch of nausea.
‘Just coffee,’ she said, hoping she wasn’t about to experience her first bout of morning sickness and vomit all over the tiled floor. Then again, she might get his expensive designer shoes in the process, so there would be some consolation...
‘Are you able to drink coffee in your condition?’
Skye’s nod was terse. ‘A cup a day is fine,’ she said. ‘Far more risk if I don’t have it.’
‘To the baby?’ he enquired with interest.
‘To whomever denies me.’ The words were delivered without a hint of humour yet Matteo smiled, dipping his head forward so that she saw only the quickest flicker of amusement on his face before he stood and moved into the kitchen area.
She watched as he retrieved the pot, pouring a good measure into one of the mugs and carrying it over to her. His eyes held hers as he passed it forward but this time, when she tried to carefully manoeuvre her fingers so that she avoided any skin-to-skin contact, he made it impossible. He placed a hand over hers, curving her fingers around the edge of the coffee cup, his eyes locked to hers in a way that made breathing hurt.
‘How did you sleep?’ The question was asked with a raw intensity. She ignored it, refusing to buy into the cessation of hostilities.
She’d been manipulated by him once before—she was just going to have to work extra hard to avoid it happening again.
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘I wish I could say the same,’ he muttered.
‘Bad dreams?’ she responded archly.
‘Very, very good dreams,’ he corrected, the words silky, his implication clear. Still, he added, ‘Memories.’
‘Ah.’ She cleared her throat and took a step away, retrieving her hand still wrapped around the coffee cup, and telling herself that the warmth spreading through her body had to do with the lure of caffeine rather than anything more threatening to her equilibrium.
She lifted the mug upwards, breathing in its tantalising aroma, and fierce, beautiful memories slashed through her. How many coffees had they shared?
Though their marriage had been short, coffee had been a lifeblood of it, and they’d indulged their mutual obsession often. Side by side and, she had thought at the time, in complete harmony. Physically, emotionally and intellectually. How wrong she’d been.
The thoughts weren’t helpful. She pushed them aside angrily.
‘I have to go into the office today. Just for a few hours.’
Skye didn’t turn around. It was a heck of a lot easier to think when she wasn’t looking