Millionaire Tycoon's English Rose Page 12

  ‘I didn’t know where you were,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t know where I was.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said urgently. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t take it so much to heart,’ she told him, smiling faintly.

  ‘You’re shivering.’

  ‘I guess it’s getting cold. Shall we go?’

  He gave a groan.

  ‘I’m useless at this. I thought it would be simple but it isn’t. I keep wanting to tell you everything, then backing off in case I overdo it and annoy you.’

  For a moment Celia was silent, too shocked to speak. The words, He’s afraid, flashed through her brain.

  From the beginning she’d known him as a forceful, domineering man, easily annoyed with people who wouldn’t agree with him, including herself. But with her he’d suppressed his exasperation, always loving and tender, except in their quarrels. Even then she’d sensed him controlling himself, and it had had the perverse effect of increasing her anger because she’d felt she was being patronised. With a sighted woman he’d have felt free to let his anger explode. She’d always been certain of that.

  Now she wasn’t so sure.

  She’d thrown him out, but was that the only reason for his hesitation? Hadn’t it always been there, if she’d had the wit to sense it?

  He’s afraid, she thought again. And hard on the heels of that came the worst thought of all. Afraid of me.

  ‘Let’s try again,’ he said. ‘I’m holding out my arm close to you.’

  ‘If you were a gentleman you’d take my hand and tuck it into place,’ she said, in a voice that sounded strangely shaky.

  ‘Sure—if that’s all right with you.’

  She felt him fit her hand into the crook of his elbow, and waited for him to give it a small pat before withdrawing his own hand. But he didn’t, and a thousand thoughts clashed in her mind.

  Forceful? Domineering? Him?

  He’s on hot coals for fear of offending me. Is that what I’ve done to him?

  ‘Let’s get back,’ she said. ‘I’m very tired.’

  A moment ago she could have walked for ever. Suddenly she was nervous. A sense of failure was creeping over her. She wasn’t used to it and didn’t know how to cope.

  They walked home in silence.

  Sharing an apartment, which had seemed so simple, turned out to be a minefield. Before, they had lived together with the casual intimacy of lovers, free to walk in on each other half dressed, without thinking.

  Now he was a cross between an upper servant and a guide dog, with no privileges, only a duty to keep a respectful distance and obey his owner at all times. He had persuaded her on the solemn promise of respecting that duty.

  Francesco’s first inkling of just how tough this was going to be came on the second evening. Searching for his favourite pen, he recalled that it had been in his jacket pocket the night they had made love. He’d torn the jacket off, tossing it onto the floor. Now the pen was missing, so it had probably fallen onto the floor and might be there still.

  Thinking Celia was in the bathroom, he went into her room. But she was sitting on the bed, naked except for a tiny pair of pink satin briefs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said hastily, backing off. ‘I thought you were—I’ll go.’

  ‘Did you want something?’

  ‘I was looking for my—’ Maddeningly, he found that his mind was blank. ‘Never mind. Another time.’

  He got out fast, shocked by what was happening to him. He’d seen her wearing less before—many times—but always with her willing consent. Now he felt like a Peeping Tom, intruding on her vulnerability. Most stunning of all was the undignified thrill of seeing something that should have been off-limits. Illicit pleasure, forbidden enchantment. It was like watching What The Butler Saw, utterly disgraceful and unbearably exciting.

  He fled to his own room while he still had some self-control, and lay all night without sleeping.

  They found a kind of routine. Within the apartment she needed no help, because she knew where everything was. She would cook, and even clean the place, although she employed help for this. Not because she was blind, but because the success of her work left her little time to spare.

  Francesco insisted on looking after himself, including making his own bed, despite Celia’s mischievous insistence that she had never required this from Jacko.

  If she worked at her projects at home he would be free to leave her for a few hours, to put some time in at his own job. If she was working with Sandro he would deliver her to Sandro’s office and leave her in his care, collecting her at the end of the day.

  The parachute jump had caused a lot of interest, and Francesco waited for Celia to announce her own jump. He was well prepared, his self-control primed and ready for the worst. When the blow fell he would not protest. He would accept her decision, drive her to the airfield and muffle his terror.

  But days passed with no announcement, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief.

  Last thing at night they would take a walk together through the streets of Naples, while he described the sights to her. These were their happiest times. Sometimes they would stand by the water’s edge, listening to the cry of sea-gulls and the sounds coming from the boats, before walking back to the apartment.

  It wasn’t exciting, but it was comfortable. He could sense her relaxing with him, and knew that this was a new phase for them.

  One night she said, ‘Why do we always branch left here? Isn’t there a right branch that would get us home just as well? Or have I got that wrong?’

  ‘It would take longer,’ he prevaricated.

  ‘I don’t care. Let’s take the other way.’

  ‘I’ll bet you didn’t argue with Jacko like this.’

  ‘I wasn’t suspicious of Jacko.’

  ‘I’ll sit on your foot in a minute,’ he threatened.

  They laughed together, making their way slowly along the street until they came to the moment when his dark secret was revealed.

  ‘Who’s that calling us overhead?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s my brother, Ruggiero,’ Francesco said in a resigned voice. ‘He and Polly live in this block, and right now they’re leaning out, enjoying the sight of me being a good dog.’

  ‘But how do they know that’s what you’re doing?’

  ‘How long do you think it took to go around the family?’ he asked through gritted teeth. ‘No, don’t stop—let’s get on.’

  ‘We can’t go without talking to your relatives if they’ve seen us. It wouldn’t be polite.’

  From above them came riotous cries of, ‘Woof, woof!’

  ‘Take a running jump,’ Francesco called back. ‘Preferably out of that window.’

  ‘Celia, tell your hound to lead you in this direction,’ Ruggiero called down.

  ‘Well, go on,’ she told him. ‘Good doggie. Obey!’

  ‘I’ll get my own back,’ he vowed as they went up. But he was grinning.

  ‘You’ve been avoiding us,’ Ruggiero said when they were each settled with cake and a glass of white sparkling prosecco.

  ‘And you’ve been looking out for us,’ Francesco said. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t leaned out of the window every night, hoping for a good laugh at me.’

  ‘All right, I won’t say it,’ Ruggiero agreed.

  Newly married, they had just finished visiting the more far-flung family members. Justin and Evie had welcomed them in England; Luke and Minnie had given them a riotous party in Rome.

  ‘Mind you, most of the riot came from Minnie’s previous in-laws,’ Polly recalled. ‘Heavens, they know how to give a party! We were exhausted when we went on to Uncle Franco and Aunt Lisa the next day. Luckily they’re much more sedate, because I don’t think we had enough energy for another mad evening.’

  ‘How are they?’ Francesco asked.

  There was nothing in his voice to suggest that the subject particularly concerned him, and Celia wondered if she only imagined that the casual note w
as just a little contrived.

  ‘They seem fine,’ Ruggiero replied. ‘Of course, they’re getting old. Aunt Lisa has had bronchitis recently, but she’s over it now. And Uncle Franco—well, you know him.’

  ‘Not really,’ Francesco said quietly. ‘I’ve seen very little of him.’

  Now Celia was sure she heard something strange in his voice. It seemed a good moment to discover that she had a headache, and in a few minutes they were heading home.

  For a while she chatted casually, but at last it got through to her that he wasn’t responding.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s not like you to be so silent. Has something upset you.’

  ‘You’re not the only one with a headache,’ he said abruptly. ‘Let’s get home.’

  When the apartment door was locked behind them he bade her good-night as quickly as possible, and she did the same. It wasn’t what she wanted. Painful as it was, she had to accept that. She longed to reach out to him and take his troubles on herself—for that he was in some kind of trouble there could be no doubt.

  In the old days she would have enfolded him in her arms and her heart, giving him all her love. But now things had changed, and suddenly she knew she had to be cautious. Like him, she went to bed without delay.

  She fell asleep quickly, then awoke in the early hours, certain that some noise had disturbed her, but there was only silence. Sitting up in bed, she listened, and at last heard a muffled sound that seemed to come from next door. Slipping out of bed, she opened her door and went to stand outside Francesco’s room. Now she could clearly hear the desperate, gasping mutters from inside.

  Turning the handle quietly, she slipped inside and went to the bed. Sitting down on it, she discovered that Francesco was lying on his back, his eyes closed, muttering in his sleep. At first she couldn’t make out the words, but then she realised that he was saying the same thing, over and over.

  ‘Get out—get out—get out—’

  ‘Francesco—’ She shook him, but he didn’t wake. It was as though he was trapped inside his nightmare, with no escape.

  ‘Francesco!’

  She shook his shoulders again, but he only began to toss and turn. Moving her hands gently across his face, she discovered that his cheeks were wet, as though he was weeping in his sleep.

  She hesitated. They had set rules for sharing the apartment—rules that kept them firmly on different sides of a line. But this situation wasn’t covered by any rule that she acknowledged, and if it had been she would have broken it.

  She was about to lean down and kiss him when he let out a cry and shot up in bed, colliding with her so that she almost fell off, and had to hold on to him.

  ‘Francesco, what’s the matter? Are you awake?’

  ‘What? What? Who are you?’ He was shaking her.

  ‘Francesco—it’s me—Celia.’

  One of the hands holding her disappeared, and she heard the light being switched on. Dismayed, she wondered if his confusion was really so far gone that he had to see her to be sure.

  ‘For pity’s sake, what’s the matter?’ she begged.

  ‘Nothing, I—What are you doing in here?’

  ‘I heard you cry out in your sleep. Then you were muttering over and over to yourself—It sounded like Get out.’

  She heard his sharp intake of breath.

  ‘You imagined that,’ he said in a cold voice. ‘It could have been anything.’

  ‘No, it was definitely Get out but—’

  ‘You imagined that.’

  ‘All right. Maybe I did.’

  ‘Who knows what people say when they have a bad dream? Don’t you ever have them?’

  ‘No,’ she said simply. ‘But if I did I’d come to you and ask you to put your arms around me. Especially if it was bad enough to make me cry.’

  She put her hand up to touch his face, but felt him seize it, holding her away from him.

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not crying.’

  She knew better than to argue, but she was full of confusion. She’d never known him in this mood before.

  ‘Go back to bed,’ he said. The anger had gone from his voice, but instead there was a quiet implacability that was more daunting.

  ‘Good night,’ she said.

  If he’d softened for the briefest moment she would have kissed him. But all her senses told her that he was hard as iron, and she left the room.

  She lay awake for a long time, listening for any sound from his room, but there was nothing. Everything had changed, she realised. In their old quarrels it had always been him trying to reach out to her, while she withdrew from what she considered his interference. Now it was he shutting her out.

  She had not the slightest inkling why it had happened. But she was suddenly afraid.

  The following day Celia chose to stay at home, freeing Francesco to leave and concentrate on his factory.

  ‘But if you need me, just call and I’ll come home,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t be going out,’ she replied, as scrupulously polite as he.

  ‘I expect you have your day’s work all planned?’ he observed.

  ‘Actually, I thought I’d do some cooking.’

  She could tell he was surprised, but he said no more, only lay a hand on her shoulder and departed.

  Left alone, she didn’t immediately get out any ingredients, but pondered for a while, then called Hope.

  ‘I’m practising being a good housewife today,’ she told her cheerfully. ‘I know some of Francesco’s favourite dishes, but only the English ones. I thought you could advise me about the Italian ones.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ Hope said at once. ‘Shall I come over?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  Hope arrived an hour later to find the coffee already perking. She’d come prepared with home-made cream cakes, and they plunged into a delicious session without delay.

  ‘You don’t need Francesco today?’ Hope asked, looking around.

  ‘Not while I’m here. I know this place so well that he’s only in the way.’

  They laughed together.

  ‘Poor Francesco.’ Hope sighed. ‘He’s trying so hard to be useful to you.’

  ‘I wish…’ Celia paused. ‘I wish I knew what he was really like.’

  ‘You can’t tell from being with him?’

  ‘I know how he is with me, but—in a way, we fell in love too soon. We really knew how we felt the first evening. It took us a week to admit the truth, but it was there from the start. I sometimes wish it had taken longer, so that I could have become acquainted with the man he was before.’

  ‘Before love changed him?’ Hope said, understanding. ‘I’m not sure that I can be much help. I saw little of him for the past ten years.’

  ‘And you don’t know what his demons are?’

  ‘Ah, you’ve discovered those. Do they trouble him at night?’

  ‘Only recently. He has nightmares, and he won’t tell me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ Hope said sadly. ‘I know it’s happened since he returned, but as for before that—you probably know better than me.’

  ‘It never happened in England.’

  ‘He is a strange man,’ Hope mused. ‘Our family life has been full of upheaval. Justin, my eldest son, was the most affected. After him, I think it troubled Francesco most, but in a way I find hard to understand.’

  ‘I’ve heard Francesco mention Justin. You only found each other a few years ago, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, he was born when I was only fifteen, and stolen from me. Luke and Primo were part of my marriage, but Francesco—well.’

  ‘I’m not trying to pry,’ Celia said hurriedly. ‘It’s none of my business.’

  ‘But I think I would like to tell you. I’ve known you only a short while, yet I feel I can trust you—as I know Francesco trusts you.’

  ‘You can trust me,’ Celia assured her.

  ‘When I m
arried my first husband in England, years ago, he already had a son—Primo—by his first wife, Elsa. She’d been a Rinucci—Toni’s sister. She died, I married Primo’s father, and we adopted Luke. It wasn’t a happy marriage, and that was my fault. I married him for safety, but safety wasn’t enough. Then I met Franco Rinucci. He was Elsa’s and Toni’s brother, and he came from Italy to visit Primo. And so we met.’

  She paused, and a heavy silence filled the room.

  ‘And so we met…’ she repeated.

  Then there was another silence.

  ‘And it happened?’ Celia asked softly.

  Hope turned to her, smiling through her tears.

  ‘Yes, it happened. We knew in the first moment. We tried to fight it, for we were both married with children. He stayed with us for a week, and when he left I was pregnant. We knew we couldn’t be together. I would never have asked him to leave his wife and children, and he wouldn’t have done so. We had that one week—the most glorious of my life. But glory doesn’t last. It can’t. It shouldn’t. Nobody could live on that pinnacle for ever. I shall always have that week, and I shall always have the child who took his life from that lovely time.’

  ‘Francesco?’

  ‘Yes, Francesco. For a long time my husband thought the baby was his. He even made a favourite of him. But then he discovered the truth and threw us out. I got custody of Luke, but he kept Primo.

  ‘Soon after that my husband died, and Primo came to Italy to live with the Rinuccis. I came out here to see him, and that was how I met the rest of the family.’

  ‘Including Toni?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He was a fine young man in his thirties—very strong, but very gentle.’

  ‘Did you see Franco on that visit?’ Celia asked.

  ‘Briefly. His home was in Rome. He and his wife came down for a short while. I think we had five minutes alone. That was all either of us could have endured. The following day I told Toni that I would marry him.’

  ‘Does he know about you and Franco?’

  ‘I tried to tell him but he silenced me. He said that our lives would begin from that moment, and that nothing that happened before was any of his business.’

  ‘So he suspects but doesn’t want to know?’ Celia hazarded.

  ‘I think so. He has never asked questions. It’s almost deafening, the way he doesn’t ask anything.’