Reckless Nights in Rome

  Chapter Twenty Three

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  "I spoke to our boy. He's loving Lake Como and a little bird tells me you were doing the rumba in Rome."

  Rosie danced into the kitchen on Friday morning and stopped dead.

  Every surface shone like a mirror. The team had left it in pristine condition yesterday, but this morning stainless steel glittered and glass gleamed.

  "Can I take it you had a call from Lucy?" Bronte muttered rubbing the stainless steel gas hob too keenly focused on the job in hand to look at her friend. She needed to keep busy, to stop her mind reliving the roller-coaster of the last week.

  How could she climb so high and fall so far in such a short time?

  The journey home had been a living hell. He hadn't looked at her or spoken a single word.

  When she closed her eyes he was there. She hadn't slept a wink last night and she had so much to do. The whole thing was a nightmare.

  She put her back into it with a concentration and energy that made her friend narrow her eyes and purse her lips.

  Rosie watched with interest as Bronte scoured the hob as if she'd found the source of the Ebola virus.

  "Er, can I just say the kitchen was spotless when I left it last night."

  Frantic now, breath panting, Bronte polished the hob with a dry cloth.

  "I know it was."

  "Need a hug?"

  Rosie put her arms around her and Bronte placed her aching head on her shoulder.

  "I'm not crying."

  Rosie rubbed her back. "Did he hurt you?"

  With a sigh, Bronte slumped into a chair and pressed her fingers into burning eyes.

  "No, I hurt him."

  Rosie stared, wagged a finger.

  "Not possible. You don't have a nasty bone in your body."

  Which was a typical Rosie thing to say. She wasn't Miss Sweetness and Light all the time, Bronte knew herself too well. She had her temper just like the next person.

  "I hurt him by trying to help him."

  "That's all right then. Whatever you did, you did it with the best of intentions. He's a big boy. He'll get over it."

  "I don't think so."

  "Okay. What did you do?"

  For the first time in her life, Bronte knew she couldn't share a secret with her best friend. It wasn't her secret to share. She may have crossed one line, but she certainly wasn't going to cross another.

  She rubbed Rosie's hand.

  "He doesn't trust me with the truth."

  Rosie scanned her face with a small smile.

  "You care for him?"

  Bronte nodded then rested her brow on folded arms.

  "I more than care for him." She raised her head. "I'm in love with him."

  This, she realised, was the last thing she needed. He was furious with her, had cut her dead last night when they'd arrived home. It simply wasn't in her make-up to have intimacy with a man without a deep emotional connection.

  What on earth had made her believe she could do it?

  What the hell had she been thinking?

  She stood, paced with jerky steps to the window and back again.

  Rosie watched her with big eyes.

  "What am I going to do?" she demanded, eyes too bright.

  Her friend ran her tongue along the edge of her teeth.

  "What I'm about to say, I say with love. Have you told him about your mother's letter? Have you told him about your father, how you've found him? Have you told him about your own personal situation?" Rosie raised a brow. "By the surprised look on your face, I'll take that as a no."

  Stunned, Bronte stared at her friend.

  She'd been full of hurt, righteous indignation and she'd taken the high ground about Nico not opening his heart to her, to trust her. But she didn't walk the talk, did she? And she'd thought him judgemental?

  "I'm a hypocrite."

  Rosie made a face.

  "I wouldn't go that far." She got up, opened a cupboard and took out two mugs, keeping an eye on Bronte.

  "You have a lot to deal with at the moment." She poured coffee from a pot and handed the mug to her. "What was going to be a quick tumble in Rome has turned into something quite different. But you cannot expect him to trust you if you don't trust him."

  Bronte took her coffee to the French doors and stared unseeing into her garden. She leaned her throbbing head against the window with a feeling of d?j? vu.

  "It's too late for this. He told me he'll never marry or have children, but what if he changes his mind? The chances of me having a family are virtually zero. And if there's anyone who desperately needs family, it's Nico."

  Jonathan had rejected her and been quite happy to tell her why. Perhaps he'd realised that she'd never really loved him, that she'd held a part of herself back? The physical attraction, Bronte realised, had been tepid at best. In the beginning when she'd told him there would be no children, Jonathan said he understood, was supportive, then that had changed.

  What did that say about her ability to judge the character of another? In the two years she'd been with him Jonathan had never let her see his mercenary or philandering side.

  Nico she'd known for days. How could she possibly trust him?

  No, she couldn't do it.

  Rosie watched her closely.

  "I hope you're not comparing Nico to Jonathan? Because that's just insulting. How can you put every male in the same category?" Annoyance made her tone sharp and Bronte winced.

  "I have no idea how Nico feels about me." But she'd put good money on it that at the moment he wished he'd never laid eyes on her. And even if he did have feelings for her, it wouldn't be fair to dump her issues on top of his own.

  Rosie banged her brow on the table, twice, and raised her head.

  "He treats you like a queen. And if Lucy Bartholomew believes he is and I quote, smitten, that's good enough for me. What do want him to do, get down on one knee?"

  The blood drained from Bronte's face. Rosie swore in realization of what she'd just said.

  Bronte closed her eyes. No, she couldn't do it to him. She couldn't do it to herself if he rejected her.

  Nico deserved a future with a woman who could give him the family life he so desperately needed. He'd been so good with the little Italian boy in the cafe, she remembered with a pang.

  It had been great while it lasted.

  Eyes wide, Rosie took her hand.

  "Bronte, you know I didn't mean it like that."

  If there was one person on earth who was constant and never changed, it was Rosie.

  Bronte reassured her friend.

  "I know you're trying to help, but I can't do it. I need to deal with the future in my own way and in my own time."

  The Blackberry pinged.

  Nico scrolled down his messages, another email from Gabriel. For years he had managed to forget his father and half brother existed, but now first contact had been made. He still had uncertain feelings about it, but he'd finally accepted that a long overdue dialogue had begun.

  The anger he had embraced like a lover on the return journey, was not as bitter or intense this morning. Gabriel had made it clear that he'd approached Bronte and not given her any choice but to talk to him. When Nico felt able to speak to him, Gabriel would be available. But time was short, their father was fading fast.

  There were so many questions Nico wished he could have asked his mother. She'd told him his father was a good man, but flawed. His father already had a wife and child and his mother had been too young to resist the first flush of passion and affection shown her by a man. Never a robust woman, she had been plagued by ill health.

  His grandfather's accusations about his father, that he was a criminal connected to organised crime were, Gabriel had made clear, a lie. He might not be a saint, but their father was no crook. Nico wondered if anything his grandfather had said was true.

  Bronte's words buzzed around his mind like mosquitoes.

  She was right. Unsaid words bred anger, mistrust and pain
.

  Nico groaned into his hands. And he had treated her in an appalling fashion.

  He should have brought her home instead of indulging himself and showing her a good time. Bronte should never have become involved.

  He had laid the blame, even taken his anger out on her. That was a mistake. Meeting her had been a mistake. His life was simple and uncomplicated before she entered it.

  Nico dragged his hands through his hair and gave up.

  Who the hell was he kidding?

  He couldn't sleep if she wasn't in his bed. When he closed his eyes she was there. He could smell her, feel that smooth skin and hear those soft sighs as he loved her. The taste of her drove him wild.

  His heart thundered in his chest and he rubbed the spot with the flat of his hand. His stomach felt as if a hard fist had plunged into it. Perspiration beaded on his top lip.

  He loved her.

  A heady mix of panic, fury and delirious happiness surged through his system. He stood, paced to the door of his suite and back again. Oh God, he was in love with her. What was he going to do? How could this have happened? A man did not fall in love with a woman within days. Did he?

  He sank to the couch, stared at the wall.

  The things he'd said to her, how he didn't do commitment, marriage or children, brought a flush to his cheeks. He was a fool. Frustrated annoyance brought him to his feet to pace. How was he going to make her love him? But then, when had he ever failed to get what he wanted or needed? Words would be useless with Bronte he realised as he continued to pace.

  She'd never believe him, not after what Jonathan had done to her. He needed to show her he loved her rather than tell her. Actions spoke louder and meant more, much more. He'd find other premises for her business and would live with her at The Dower House.

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  Nico picked up the phone.

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