To wipe away the grief that was saturating her slender frame.
Like he used to, as though it were his God-given right to hold her in his arms. They were tinder and flame—together the effect had always been extraordinary.
‘Don’t.’ Her eyes held a warning. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘Like what?’ He moved closer, just a few steps, and there was still a table between them. Her ring caught his eye and he reached for it without realising, fingering its weight in his hand, remembering the day he’d bought it. He’d deliberately chosen something enormous, thinking it would be exactly what she would want. The heiress of the Johnson fortune surely valued enormity and extravagance over all else?
Only it had never really suited her. Over the weeks of their short marriage, he’d begun to imagine what he should have chosen instead. Something slender with an understated elegance, made of rose-gold and inlaid diamonds. Perhaps onyx, to match her hair.
He swallowed past the thought. It was a distraction, a red herring. What he needed was to remember the hotel. To remember the reason he’d done all of this.
‘Don’t look at me like you’re actually sorry this is happening. Like you didn’t expect it.’ She tilted her chin. ‘Like this has anything to do with you and me.’
‘It is our marriage we’re discussing ending.’
‘Marriage!’ She spat the word and his gut rolled. It was as though a blade had been plunged through him. Her anger and disbelief filled the room. ‘This was never a marriage! It was a damned trick. A machination. Nothing more. You win, okay? You win! Take the hotel! I don’t want it. I don’t want anything that will ever remind me of you!’ Her voice was loud. He’d put bets on his receptionist Anastasia having heard every word but he didn’t care.
Skye’s pain was palpable and he longed to kiss her to wipe it away. It was the only way he could think of to remove the ache from her eyes; the tears that glistened on her lashes were tiny, moist recriminations that landed squarely in his chest.
‘How you must have loved the knowledge that you had such a sweet revenge over my father! How you’d done something he would have hated, something I would never have agreed to if I’d known about your feud. How you must have been laughing at me! Every night when you came home you found me so happy to see you, and all the while you were lining up the pieces, getting ready to finally swoop.’
A muscle jerked on the hard ridge of his jaw. ‘Yes, Skye. I’m only human. Do you want me to lie to you now? To tell you that our marriage had nothing to do with the fact your father was the biggest bastard on earth? That the fact I hated him with every fibre of my being didn’t have anything to do with why I married you?’
She held a hand up. Her fingers were shaking and her face was so pale that, momentarily, he felt a clutch of anxiety for her. She looked terrible; ill. Matteo was torn between anger at the situation and a strange concern for his wife.
Tears spilled out of her eyes now, rolling down her cheeks. She was so weary. All the planning and coping had taken its toll, and she was utterly exhausted. It showed in the tremble of her voice and the grey of her cheeks. ‘No. There’s nothing you can say that I want to hear. In fact, I can’t bear to be in the same room as you for a moment longer. Just sign the divorce papers. Please. Take the hotel and leave me alone.’ She bit down on her lip as she tried to keep her sobbing at bay.
It was everything he’d wanted. He’d come to accept that he would never get the hotel back—not once Skye had learned the truth. And here she was, offering it to him on a silver platter just to be rid of him.
Was that it? Was his pride wounded by her desperation to be free of their marriage? Was that why he wanted to rail against her insistence? To remind her of what they’d shared—physically—one last time?
His eyes dropped to the divorce papers and then lifted with a heavy grimness towards her face. ‘Fine. If that’s what you want.’
‘I never want to see you again.’
* * *
The heat of Venice slapped her in the face as soon as she stepped out of his office. It was early afternoon and the city was packed. Workers were jostling along the street, tourists were busy taking photographs and Skye was in the midst of them, surprise at what she’d just accomplished moving through her.
She took a step towards the crowds, her mind numb. What now?
Her breath was shallow.
Shock, she supposed, reaching for a pillar to support her. Stars flew in her eyes and heat spread through her body followed by weakness and an odd, soul-deep exhaustion.
It was over.
She was free.
Her hand pressed to her stomach and another wave of tiredness hit her. She didn’t want anything to do with Matteo, but she was going to raise their baby. Could she do it and never think of him?
She’d have to. Matteo was in her past and this baby was her future.
The baby was all that mattered.
She sucked in a breath, but it didn’t seem to reach her lungs.
‘Eh, you okay, miss?’