Reminding herself that he was vulnerable, she had held tight to her anger and the seething sense of betrayal while taking in his reaction to being challenged. His mood shifting from initial shock and denial to indignation, to the inevitable tearful hurt.
She had stood by him throughout his trial and sentence, she’d been there when he got out, and he’d not only lied to her, he’d used her. Things were at the point where the only option was to call him out on his manipulative behaviour or physically remove herself from the scene before she said something that she would regret.
She had walked away knowing that a lot of what her father did was an act, but the fragility was real. If something she said, even a true something, pushed her father to another suicide attempt she would never be able to live with the guilt.
Was the promise she had extracted from her father worth anything? She wanted to believe that he would end his association with his shady friends.She could only hope.
Every night since she had signed away her immediate future she had barely slept and, when she did, she woke up in a cold sweat. That was bad enough, but the hot sweats when she woke aching, yelling Leo’s name, were infinitely worse. When even her father, not the most observant of men, asked her if she was ill, she knew that the sleepless nights were showing.
Or maybe it was living with the knowledge that she was still attracted to Leo, a man who now hated her enough to blackmail her. It was a terrible, wicked thing to do, and she wanted to hate him for it. And she did, but at the same time she kind of thought she deserved it; she had not set out to make him hate her, but she could see why he did. She had broken his heart.
Small wonder that she tried to focus on the basics and let the deeper meaning sort itself out. Basics being thinking about Tuscany, an exciting test of her skills, and she did love a challenge.
The challenge, she suspected, was not going to be culinary but emotional. It was one thing to empathise with Leo’s take on the situation; it was quite another to allow him to grind her down and make her doubt her own ability, which she suspected was his game plan.
Amy was sure that the next weeks would be much simpler to navigate if she could return that hate, but instead she was fatally attracted to him.
It was eleven-thirty when her doorbell finally rang. Her father had gone for coffee with an old friend who he had reconnected with, and his mood had been ebullient when they had parted. So she hadn’t needed to invent a reason for him not to be there.
Luckily, he had accepted the basic facts she had supplied—she’d accepted a short and well-paid contract, having been recommended by a former colleague. He hadn’t pressed for the details, and Amy had not filled him in.
She had wondered what his reaction would be if he knew that Leo would be her boss. Would he be furious and go into meltdown at the suggestion? Or—and actually this was the worse option—would he see an opportunity for her to pick up where they’d left off? The fact that Leo Romano was now mega-rich no doubt made him a lot more acceptable to George Sinclair.
Either way, she didn’t want to know.
A middle-aged man, suited and booted, stood there.
‘Miss Sinclair.’ His smile was polite and friendly. ‘I’m here to take you to the airport.’ He saw her looking past him. ‘Mr. Romano is already in Italy and he will meet us at the airport. These your bags?’
‘Yes—oh, no, I can manage.’
He ignored her and picked them up. ‘You travel light.’
The man carrying her bags walked ahead to a gleaming limo taking up several parking spaces.
Amy paused at the door being held open, butterflies rioting in her stomach.
What are you doing, Amy?
The driver spoke, and the sound jolted her, cutting through her paralysing apprehension.
She blinked, having no idea what he’d said, but she managed a half smile and nodded, taking a steadying breath before she slid inside the luxurious interior. The door was closed silently behind her, but to Amy it sounded like the clanging of a metal prison door.
She reminded herself that she wasn’t a prisoner, she was here of her own volition. She didn’t need an escape plan—six weeks, that was all. Six weeks was nothing.
To distract herself she began silent calculations of how many days, hours, minutes were involved in six weeks and barely noticed the route they took through London.
‘We are here.’
The information relayed through the intercom made her start. She focused on slowing her galloping heart rate while the driver parked up, and waited while he went around to open the passenger door.
‘When is the flight?’ she asked, pleased that she sounded calm and in control.
The driver looked at her oddly. ‘Take-off is in about ten minutes.’
Amy couldn’t understand how he appeared so calm. The last time she had flown, she had arrived three hours ahead of time and still nearly missed her flight. Then the penny dropped.
‘This is a private airport,’ she realised, taking in her surroundings.
