‘Lovers?’ he suggested.
She cleared her throat, and nodded.
He leaned back on his elbow and considered her question, tossing an olive into his mouth and savouring the salty, vinegary morsel.
‘No,’ he said truthfully. Usually, he didn’t have the time to spare, as he went from place to place. And he realised how peaceful it was just to come here, take the moment, toplay.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the way her mouth lifted into a half-smile, as if his answer had pleased her, which made him feel...too damn good, he realised. But he chose to ignore the warning that echoed quietly in his mind, and instead, lay back against the cushion and peppered her with questions about her life.
Her favourite book,The Three Dahliasby Katy Watson. His,The Gone Away Worldby Nick Harkaway.
Her favourite play,Arcadiaby Tom Stoppard. His,Le Vent Des Peupliersby Gérald Sibleyras.
Her favourite flower, a cornflower. His, an iris. His mother had always worn them in her hair, he remembered with surprise.
Her favourite place,home.
The word catching in his mind even as he evaded answering the question himself. Home. He’d intentionally avoided having one. Certainly not because he couldn’t afford to, but because he’d not wanted something that could be taken away from him. And then he thought of how he’d feel when Erin was taken away from him...
And just like that reality hit hard, weighing him down like an anchor tied to his foot, dragging him beneath the surface of things that could drown him if he let them.
In the short time that they’d been in Florence and Livorno, Enzo’s lawyers had magicked the prenup and the documents had been waiting for Erin by the time she returned to her suite on the yacht.
She scanned through it vaguely, skipping over the legal jargon, ensuring that Enzo’s assets would be protected in full in case of divorce or annulment. If she was being honest with herself, she was wavering. Each little bit of time she spent with him, her determination and drive towards Charterhouse slowed and weakened.
She called the captain, who arrived at her suite in time to bear witness to her signature.
‘Congratulations, Ms Carter,’ the captain said, and Erin returned a smile that she didn’t feel. ‘Would you like me to make sure that Signor Rossetti gets this?’
‘Please,’ Erin replied, before retrieving her phone from her bag. She’d had it on silent all day.
Are you okay?
I’m getting worried.
Is it time to call Interpol?
She sent a message to Sam letting her know that she was okay, or rather that she was alive. Took a selfie as proof of life and hoped that her friend couldn’t read the confusion she read in her own eyes.
Enzo had wanted to take her for drinks that evening at a bar he knew not far from the Cannes marina and she was pleased that at least it wasn’t another party. That it would just be the two of them. The day hadn’t ended, and she found herself greedy for more of him. Just him. And just her. Before everything else got in the way.
The speed with which the yacht had covered the distance between where it had been moored just outside of Livorno and the marina in Cannes had been ferocious, and when Erin peered out through the porthole window of her suite barely three hours later she was surprised to find herself looking out at the French harbour shortly after dusk.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and paused. She probably shouldn’t have chosen to wear the outfit she’d bought in the boutique. Not because she didn’t look pretty, but because she wanted him to think that she did.
Because that had become important to her.
He knocked on her door and she went to answer it, heart thudding as he stood there in his dark linen suit with a dark shirt. Unknowingly they’d both dressed in the same midnight blue colour.
‘You look incredible,cara.’
‘Erin,’ she said, clearing the slight catch in her throat. ‘You can call me Erin,’ she clarified. She didn’t want to be Rin anymore. She didn’t want him to want Rin. She wanted him to wanther.
‘Erin,’ he said slowly as if trying it on for size. He nodded, and then grinned easily, offering her his arm.
She picked up her clutch and let him lead her from the suite, off the yacht, out of the marina where it was moored and onto the bustling streets of Cannes.
Wide-eyed, she took in the opulence and the architecture, similar but different to Italy. The switch from Italian to the more familiar French was strange as she now recognised snippets of passing conversations and street signs. Enzo seemed to know where they were going and she was content to be led.
