Her lips twitched in what he thought was an attempt at a smile.
“Who told you my father killed yours?” he asked before she could slip away again.
An almost silent sigh expelled through her nose. Her voice was so low he had to lean in to hear her. “My mother. Two days before she died.”
“If it’s true…” He could not believe it. Just couldn’t. His father had been many things, but never a liar; never to his children. “…then why try to destroy all of us? Why not just him?”
Her closed eyes moved as if she were trying to open them. “I promised.”
“Promised who? Your mother?”
“She said …” Her lips stopped moving, and her shoulders seemed to deflate.
“She said what?” he demanded to know.
But there was no more sound or movement.
Chapter Nine
Gabriella woke alone.Although all the drapes were closed, the light filtering through the room told her morning was close to being over.
After downing the glass of water on the bedside table and taking the two painkillers left with it, she tentatively got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. She was still wearing the clothes she’d gone out in. Fumbling with the knot holding her dress together at her neck, she carefully stripped and staggered into the shower. Now she knew where the saying about feeling like death warmed up came from.
It took what felt like forever to wash her hair and body. Her limbs could have been made of jelly.
Clean and dry, she brushed her teeth with all the vigour she could muster, which was minimal. She’d brushed her teeth with more finesse as a toddler, but at least she rid her mouth of that horrible taste.
The bedroom still empty after she’d managed to drag a hoodie and lounging trousers on, she dragged her sorry backside down the stairs in search of coffee.
There was no one in the kitchen, but the aroma of roasting lamb filled the air. It made her delicate stomach turn over.
She sensed movement behind her. Her stomach turned again, but in a different way to how it had reacted to the scent of food. Scattered memories danced at the edges of the fog that was her brain. Dancing. Laughing. Shots.Lotsof shots. Tommaso carrying her to the car.
Turning her head only confirmed what her body had already told her.
“Hi,” she whispered, not because it was all her throat could manage but because her banging head recoiled at the thought of noise above a hush.
Jaw clenched, he nodded his greeting. “You look awful.”
“I know.” Whereas Tommaso looked divine in old, faded jeans and a white t-shirt. She swallowed. “You’re angry with me.” She didn’t feel well enough to cope with an angry Tommaso.
His lips pulled in as if he were restraining himself from speaking.
“Is it because I got drunk? Did I make a fool of myself?”
“No more than anyone else.”
“We had a good time, didn’t we?”
Now his lips curved with cynicism. “We?”
Fearing her jelly legs were going to collapse beneath her, she leaned against the kitchen island. “Wasn’t that what last night was about? Stopping any rumours in their tracks and showing how besotted we are?”
But not besotted enough to kiss, she suddenly remembered. Her memories of the night might be scattergun, but of that she was certain. If Tommaso had kissed her, she would still be able to feel it.
“You performed your part well.”
She expelled a small breath of relief. But only a small breath. There was something in Tommaso’s expression that frightened her, though not on a physical level. His eyes weren’t so muchwild as cold, and they were searching her as if he were seeking to penetrate her thoughts.
