‘Amo quando mi fai amore,’ she murmured, hoping she’d said what she’d meant to say, correctly.
I love when you make love to me.
Eager for him to know that much at least.
But she wasn’t sure she had said it right, when his cheek tensed and the smile disappeared.
For a moment he looked so much like the surly teenager she remembered, hiding his pain behind a mask of indifference, she almost pulled her hand away. But the desire to reach him was a compulsion she couldn’t control either, even though she knew she should.
‘This is good,’ he said, but the change into English felt like another attempt to create distance. ‘It will make our honeymoon more enjoyable.’
He covered her hand and drew it away from his face, destroying the moment of intimacy. But his avoidance only made her more determined to ask the question which had been lodged in her brain for weeks—ever since he’d told her why he needed this marriage.
‘Why is owning this house so important to you, Dario?’
His gaze remained fixed on hers. But she could sense him calculating whether or not to give her an answer… It felt like a blow, to know he still didn’t trust her with even the most innocuous details of his past, when she had trusted him with some of the most personal details about hers earlier that day.
But she tried not to overreact. He hadn’t asked for those confidences, and while their wedding vows had felt oddly real while they had made love—the fierce euphoria reinforcing the elemental connection they shared—that was surely just an illusion caused by the intense endorphin rush of multi-orgasmic sex.
As she waited though, for him to brush away the question, the foolish hope for more turned her stomach to mush.
He flopped onto his back and flung an arm over his eyes. But just when she was sure he was going to shut her out again, he began to speak. The wry monotone was carefully devoid of emotion. But somehow, she sensed that the only way he could reveal even this much to her was by pretending it didn’t matter to him anymore.
‘I lived here as a boy, with my mother and sister. Mia was so young when my mother died, I’m not sure she remembers much of it… But I do.’ He lowered his arm, turned towards her and let out a huff of breath, which was supposed to sound amused, but all Tali could hear was the echo of despair. All she could see was the shadow of the intense emotions he was so desperate to hide in his eyes… ‘She was so full of life, but also so volatile, her emotions swinging from elation to desperation, often in a single day. But our life here was always colourful, never dull thanks to the parties she hosted every night because she hated to be alone. The villa was always full of people. And she loved us, very much.’
‘That sounds a bit chaotic for a child.’ And terrifying. Children might think they loved freedom, but they also needed structure to feel safe. She wondered how a boy—who now maintained such a rigid control over his emotions as an adult—had coped with so much insecurity.
He shrugged. ‘Yes, it was precarious at times, but it was also exhilarating.’
‘How so?’ she probed, touched by his willingness to share something too… But also desperately curious about the glimpse he was giving her of the boy Mia had described, before his father, and his accident, had sucked all the joy out of his personality.
‘There were no boundaries, no rules,’ he murmured, his features softening with memory. ‘She spent all the money he gave her after the divorce on luxury food, the best wines and champagnes, and party drugs. Of course, she frequently forgot to pay the staff—and the electricity bill. Mia and I often wore shoes which didn’t fit because practicalities bored her. But we dined on lobster and calamari fritti for breakfast and could stay up all night if we wished.’
‘Didn’t she ever take a night off?’ Tali asked, knowing most children would have struggled to survive such an upbringing.
Did he really remember his childhood with only fondness, when he had created such a rigid structure to his own life since?
He propped himself on an elbow, his gaze intense as it roamed over her face. ‘You do not approve?’
‘It’s just… It sounds a little scary and chaotic.’
He frowned. ‘It was, at times, but my life here made me self-sufficient, so I cannot regret it,’ he said, but the sadness that remained in his eyes told a different story. Of a boy who had been forced to fend for himself—and his sister—from a very young age. Who had never been nurtured, by either of his parents.
He huffed out a breath. ‘What was much harder was being forced to leave Capri, by my father. He closed the house up after my mother’s death and left it to rot. Then stuck Mia and me in boarding schools, where they did not want me to think for myself. My father expected obedience and loyalty, while he did nothing to earn it.’
‘You still hate him?’ she murmured, although she already knew the answer. It had made her sad for him as a little girl to witness his father’s lack of interest in him, or his recovery. She recalled the only time Westwick had come to visit his son, the angry words and harsh criticism she had overheard as she hid behind the wardrobe door still burned in her memory. It had made her more determined to become his friend even though he’d shouted at her after his father had left to leave him the hell alone, clearly holding back tears. But it made her even sadder now, to know his hatred of his father had stopped him from allowing that boy to heal the rest of the way.
‘I feel nothing for him,’ he said dismissively. ‘As you should feel nothing for yours. It is pointless to waste your love on people that will not love you back.’
‘I suppose,’ she said, aware of the warning note in his voice. But also knowing she didn’t agree with him.
She’d eventually had to admit her dad was a lost cause, to protect herself from being hurt any more. But how could love ever be wasted? That she had wanted to repair that relationship wasn’t a bad thing, and neither were her attempts to be Dario’s friend when he’d so desperately needed one. Even if she now knew she’d failed at that too, because he hadn’t even remembered her.
But she was still glad she’d tried.
James Westwick had been an inadequate parent at best, even worse in some ways than her own, because his children hadn’t had a mother the way she had… But she wondered if Dario’s mother, when she’d been alive, had really been that much better. Maybe she had loved her children in her own way, but it didn’t sound as if she had ever put their welfare first.
‘How did your mother die?’ she asked, recalling the flicker of pain which had crossed his face when he’d mentioned her death.
