She broke eye contact with him. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I blurted that out,’ she said tightly.
She looked out of the car window suddenly. They’d reached Notting Hill Gate and were heading down Kensington Park Road.
‘Oh, I’m the next cross street after this one. On the left!’ she exclaimed. The car was already turning, guided by the satnav, and drawing up outside a handsome plaster-faced house, part of a well-kept terrace.
Salvatore glanced at it. No wonder the ex had been able to raise such a hefty mortgage—property in this part of town did not come cheap.
As if reading his thoughts, she threw a look at him. ‘Years of non-stop modelling, plus an inheritance,’ she said, and anger was audible in her voice again. ‘And the bastard’s gone off with half of it!’ She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I’ve got no call to dump any of my problems on you!’
Her voice changed and she undid her seat belt. The chauffeur was already opening her door for her.
She looked back at Salvatore as she started to get out. ‘Look, thank you for the lift. I’m sorry about dinner, whether tonight or any other time, but...well...’ Her voice trailed off and she just shook her head.
Did her eyes linger on him—was there regret in them if they did? But she was getting gracefully out of the car.
She glanced back in. ‘I’ll wish you goodnight,’ she said, and now he was sure he could hear regret.
Well, he felt it too. For himself. He raised a hand in farewell. Should he ask her name? Give her his card?
But she was already crossing the pavement, running lightly up the steps to the glossy black front door, fetching a key out of her handbag. Then she was inside.
She hadn’t looked back at him.
The chauffeur was back in the driver’s seat, and Salvatore told him to head to his hotel. He would be dining in his suite...alone.
Che peccato.
A pity.