Flora terminated the call, took the biscuits out of the oven, told Susan the housekeeper she was going out, and closed the front door behind her as she set off towards the park.
She had been back in England for a whole month, having flown in on Vito’s jet before being installed in a penthouse suite at the Granchester Hotel, while a house was found for her. It was weird what money could buy. Apparently there were people whose job it was to find the ‘perfect’ property for wealthy people and rush through a quick sale, before said property was completely redecorated to exacting specifications.
Which was how Flora found herself living in Richmond—an area of London she’d always adored. There was a park with deer, independent shops and—most important of all, the local nurseries and schools were good and there was a definite sense of community. It would all be fine. She kept telling herself that. And sooner or later she would start believing it.
Vito had telephoned during her first days here and initially, Flora’s heart had leapt with a stupid hope she hadn’t quite managed to kill off. But the calls had been stilted, obviously motivated by a heavy sense of duty—and she had requested he didn’t do so again, unless it was urgent. He hadn’t asked her reasons and she was grateful for this one small mercy, not wanting to confess that she found it unbearably poignant to hear his richly accented voice and feel the subsequent regret and longing which washed over her. She’d wondered how she could possibly get over him, if she was constantly being reminded of him?
And somehow she didn’t seem able to maintain the distance she supposedly wanted. Why else had she sent him an unasked-for picture of her latest scan last week? Was she hoping for some sort of reaction when he discovered it was a little boy?
The scent of lilac in the park was rich and heavy in the warm May weather and Flora watched as a toddler stumbled in pursuit of a tiny white dog. Should she get a dog, once the baby was old enough? Would that make the house seem like more of a home? She was so engrossed in comparisons between Labradors and terriers, that at first she only vaguely registered someone was saying her name and it wasn’t until she listened properly, that she stopped dead in her tracks.
Because only one person said her name like that.
Her heart was pounding as she turned around and there he was. Dark, and tall and utterly delicious. Right there in Richmond Park, many miles from his Milanese home.
‘Hello, Flora.’
She blinked and, for a moment, all she could do was drink in the sight of all that glorious breathing flesh, before her thoughts started flagging up a warning.
What was he doing here? She swallowed. Had he moved on with a new woman and was doing the honourable thing of telling her about it before she found out from someone else?
‘Vito!’ she said, her voice sounding miraculously calm. ‘How on earth did you know where to find me?’
‘Your housekeeper told me.’
‘Is that why you insisted I hire one, so you’d have an in-house spy?’
‘I could have employed plenty of discreet trained bodyguards if I’d wanted to spy on you,’ he offered dryly. ‘A housekeeper is supposed to make life easier for you, that’s all.’
Why on earth were they talking about the housekeeper?
‘What are you doing here?’ she continued coolly—because cool made it sound like she was in control, even though inside she was anything but. ‘And why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’
Why indeed? Vito wondered, as he met her quizzical gaze. Had he been afraid she would make herself impossible to find if he gave her any warning? He wouldn’t blame her. His heart pounded, his mouth growing as dry as parchment because the sight of her was like a feast to his eyes. Her red-brown hair was piled on top of her head and she wore a dress as blue as the gentian flowers which grew in the Alps, and hinted at the curve of her belly beneath.
She hadn’t moved, standing there as confidently as a bouncer in a nightclub, her expression now slightly irritated. ‘Well?’
‘I got…’ He shrugged his shoulders with unaccustomed self-consciousness. ‘I got the scan photo you sent me.’
‘Oh, right.’ For the first time she looked a little flustered. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have—’
‘Yes,’ he interrupted urgently. ‘You should.’
‘Oh.’
She was still looking at him expectantly and he realised she wasn’t going to help him out. Or explain why she’d been living in England for the best part of a month without making a single request that he come and visit her.
Because hadn’t he hoped for that—even if deep down, he knew he didn’t deserve it? That she would crack first and tell him how much she missed him, and could he please come to her, as quickly as possible. And he would have instantly complied—relieved to be able to do so without the need for self-examination.
But Flora had not begged, or pleaded, or even made a careless request. She had cut him from her life with a ruthlessness which had taken him by surprise, until that photo of his unborn child had arrived last week and his heart had felt as if it were being ripped from his chest and he had asked himself if he was just going to sit back and let thishappen.
‘I have been a fool, Flora,’ he said.
‘Please don’t keep pausing and waiting for me to insert some suitable response, or question,’ she said tightly. ‘I’m not in the mood to play guessing games.’
Vito nearly smiled at her waspishness, because such a retort was so outside his experience of women that it whetted his appetite for her even more. But then he drew himself up short. Wasn’t he arrogantly making the supposition that all he had to do was utter a few cursory words of apology and everything would go back to what it had been like before?
He didn’t want it to go back to what it had been like before.
