What the hell had he been thinking that night? He’d been married. Regardless of how he dressed that up to himself, he had never intended to cheat on Alison, never intended to break their vows.
But he had.
Why?
What was it about Elodie that drove him to the point of insanity? What was it about her that made him want to put aside everything he thought and felt, everything he knew, and sink into her without conscious thought?
He stalked out of his study and down the corridor. What time was it? He flicked a glance at his wristwatch. Just after nine. He hadn’t seen her since they’d returned from the playground – they hadn’t spoken since the bench near thegelataria.
But he wanted to talk to her now, to finish their conversation – a conversation in which he knew he hadn’t come off at all well.
He knocked on her door; there was no answer. A grim line formed on his face. He pushed into his own room and onto the balcony, craning to see if she was on hers.
No.
Downstairs, it was silent. He strode through the house and onto the terrace, quite by coincidence, and heard her. The gentle splishing and splashing of the pool that signalled she was swimming.
His gut twisted. He moved towards the water on autopilot, crouching down at the edge, waiting for her to reach it. Only she didn’t break the surface when she did. She flicked effortlessly beneath the water, her body tumbling against the pool’s end, spinning her in the opposite direction. He walked along the edge of the pool, in time with her, so when she finally ran out of breath and pushed up to standing, sucking in air fast and loud, he was right there.
Perhaps she sensed his presence, because she turned to face him almost immediately, her eyes showing hurt before she could cover it, before she could force a mask of cool onto her features. His gut twisted. Desire shifted inside of him, but there was sympathy too – sympathy for the hurt she felt, and his certainty that she didn’t deserve this. A sense of helplessness expanded through him – an unfamiliar and unwelcome emotion. He couldn’t change how he felt, the anger and resentment at the choices she’d made, and without his forgiveness, she was destined to live in this state of hurt, of woundedness.
He ground his teeth together, crouching down so he was at her height.
“It’s a nice night for it.”
She shrugged her slender shoulders, water droplets running over her flawless skin, drawing the attention of his eyes for a moment.
“Yes.” Clipped. Curt. Cross.
He stood up so he could shuck his shirt and pants, stripping down to his briefs.
“What are you doing?” Alarm showed in her words.
“I told you, it’s a nice night for it.”
Consternation was visible on her features as he dove into the water, surfacing just a few feet away from her. She watched him warily, her expression mutinous, strength in the line of her features.
“I was just about to get out.” She darted her gaze towards the edge of the pool.
He ignored her. “You were right today.”
She looked back at him, uncertainty on her face.
“I did choose to keep my full name from you. I made a conscious decision not to tell you I was a Montebello.”
The sun had set, but the sky still showed a hint of the day’s glow, just a whisper of colour on the horizon, just enough to show the trace of anger on her features. She hadn’t switched the terrace lights on – in an attempt to elude him? He wouldn’t be surprised.
“Because you were lying to me. You were using me.”
“I knew we could only ever be a one-night thing,” he nodded slowly. “And I was careful not to promise you more, not to intimate therecouldbe more, because I knew that wasn’t possible.”
“I didn’t.” The words were hollow. “I don’t do one-night stands. I don’t do casual sex. I had no idea you were planning to make me…to make me feel like that…and then disappear into thin air.”
Her statement was ridiculously buoying. It shouldn’t have been, but the fact she didn’t engage in casual sex, that what they’d shared had been unique and special to her, couldn’t help but affect him. It was machismo and beneath him but that didn’t change the fact he was glad.
“It wasn’t enough not to ‘intimate’,” she whispered, accusation heavy in the syllables. “You should havetoldme.”
He felt the power of her words, the force of her rightness, but it wasn’t a completely fair observation. “I presumed you understood.”