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‘I have nothing on my conscience.’
She knew from the sudden defensive flash in his eyes that he’d picked up her implication that his own conscience was the one that should be hurting. No one could accuse Cristiano Ferrara of being slow. His mind was as sharp as a blade.
Which made his refusal to apologise all the more hurtful.
He breathed deeply and she wondered whether this was the moment he’d finally admit his contribution to their break up. ‘We stood together in the little chapel that has been part of my family’s estate for generations, and I made you a promise. For better, for worse. In sickness and in health.’ His anger was no less dangerous for the fact that it was so ruthlessly contained. ‘You made the same promises. You were wearing a pretty white dress at the time—lace at the neck and my grandmother’s antique veil. Remember? Is this ringing any bells in that messed up head of yours?’
The memory felled her at the knees and was the only reason she didn’t slap him for his inability to see his own part in their break up. ‘You are accusing me of breaking promises? In sickness and in health, Cristiano.’ In that small intimate space they’d created, she threw his words back at him. ‘Nowhere in our marriage vows did it say, Just as long as neither interferes with your husband’s business deals.’
Furious with herself for opening up a wound she’d wanted to keep closed and even more furious with him for being so blind to his own shortcomings, Laurel thrust her glass into his hand, twisted free and virtually sprinted across the terrace towards the steps that led down to the private beach. She felt like Cinderella on the dot of midnight, except that she didn’t want the Prince to catch her.
She could lose both shoes for all she cared. That wouldn’t be enough to stop her running.
Santo stepped in front of her, his expression deceptively benign as he blocked her path. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Laurel ground her teeth, silently cursing everyone with the surname Ferrara. ‘Back to the villa. Not that it’s your business.’
‘You’re hurting my brother. That makes it my business.’
‘He’s big enough to look after himself.’ But that wouldn’t stop Santo and her insides twisted with envy because she knew he was just looking out for his brother.
The fact that no one looked out for her didn’t bother her.
She didn’t expect it or want it. Never had.
‘Having you here messes with his head. I just want to say one thing, Laurel—’ Three parts drunk, ten parts angry, Santo blocked the steps. ‘Hurt my brother again and I will crush you like a bug. Capisci?’
‘Non capisce niente,’ Laurel shot back, her Italian almost as fluent as his. ‘You understand nothing. Stay out of my business, Santo.’
Hurt my brother—
What about the way his brother had hurt her? Apparently that counted for nothing.
Distress breaking through the barriers she’d erected, she pushed past him, aware that by doing so she’d made herself the object of curious stares. Doubtless everyone wanted to know what Santo had been saying to his brother’s disobedient ex-wife to make her run.
She virtually flew down the steps that led down to the beach. At some point while she’d been suffering on the terrace, darkness had fallen and the solar-powered lights that illuminated the path down to the beach glowed like a million bright eyes watching her flee. Feeling her chest tighten ominously, she slowed her pace. The last thing she needed right now was an asthma attack. She was ruthless about maintaining her fitness levels but her downfall had always been stress and she’d been stressed from the moment the wheels of the plane had touched the tarmac.
As her feet sank into the soft sand the chatter behind her faded and the music became a distant hum. Here, the dominant sound was the lap of the sea on the shore and Laurel tugged off her shoes. The solitude was a soothing balm to her raw feelings, the silky sand triggering memories of happier times. But memories couldn’t change the present.
They were all furious with her. She was about as welcome as a deadly virus at a children’s party.
And she was furious with them for assuming that all the blame lay with her.
She was here because of Dani, but it was clear to her now that once her friend accepted that Laurel and Cristiano really were finished, their friendship would be over too.
Depressed by that thought, Laurel sank down onto the sand and wrapped her arms around her knees, her bag and her shoes abandoned by her side. The sea stretched ahead of her, the inky black broken by the occasional shimmer of light from a passing yacht.
She’d been stupid, she realised, to think that her friendship with Dani could endure, given what she’d done.
