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They led her over to a leather chair. Her hair was brushed and sprayed and set in huge rollers. The friendly chatter started up again, gentle jokes between them all, but this time it sounded false and tinny.
She asked for her phone.
There were no messages or calls.
She asked who had arrived at the house. Her mother was approaching by car. Her flight had landed some twenty minutes ago. But there was still no sign of Raffaele.
Her eyes crushed closed. What was she to say to everyone? The guests…? Her mother…?
Carefully, they began to apply her make-up. Her skin was unblemished—radiant, she was told. Never had they seen such a perfect bride. More beautiful than any film star, more natural than any model, she was going to melt the signor’s heart.
But still he did not come.
Maybe he had changed his mind. He had thought her selfish and greedy for wanting to claim her inheritance. Perhaps he had decided she was too foolhardy to be trusted as his wife.
Her mind ran wild with scenarios.
Or had he finally realised that marrying without love was wrong?
She asked for her phone again. Still no messages.
She sent the staff away and called him.
Straight to voicemail. That had never, ever happened before.
Since the moment he had appeared back in her life, the strong, silent mountain of his presence had been right there. She had battled against it but it had stayed there, strong and sure. The thought that she might not have it there any longer chilled her to the bone.
As if a sickness had come over her she stood up, felt her brow and looked around. She had to get away—escape from this panic, this grief, the hideous public catastrophe that lay ahead.
She stepped to the door.
And looked up into his face.
There he was.
‘Raffa!’ she cried. ‘Where have you been? What’s—?’
His face was grim and set in harsh, cold lines. His eyes were cloaked with pain.
He stepped inside and closed the door.
She stopped there, a foot away from him, held back by the chill that seeped out of him like the darkest, coldest, harshest frost.
‘We need to talk,’ he said.
And her heart sank through the floor.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HE COULDN’T REMEMBER when he had first learned how important it was to control fear. And how easy it was. All you had to do was recognise it and then calmly and methodically think through all the different worst-case scenarios. Then deal with them one by one. It worked every time.
It had to have started the day of the crash, when he had been waiting to be taken home from school for Christmas. He’d never felt such excitement, such longing to see his parents after the long, lonely weeks as a boarder. Then the police had come. He had known even before Matron had told him. He had seen the fear in her eyes.
He’d never forgotten that fear. Nothing could ever be that bad again.
He could never get rid of fear entirely, but he could stop his anxiety taking on a life of its own by working harder than anyone, by being indispensable—by marrying Coral.
No. The time had come to stop feeding his paranoia. To stop the disaster movie that ran in his head on a loop. Marriage wouldn’t keep any of them safe—it would just reassure him that he had covered more bases.
‘There won’t be a wedding, Coral,’ he said, quietly and calmly.
Colour drained from her face. Her hand flew to her belly and that gesture twisted the knife that was stuck in his heart even more deeply.
‘Wh—why? What’s happened?’
A white satin robe enveloped her beautiful body…a white scarf was wrapped around her hair. She looked more lovely than ever.
‘Did he tell you to do this? Salvatore? Is he behind this?’
‘What? No. Salvatore is… Salvatore is not my concern any more.’
‘Why are you doing this, Raffa? Why now, when everyone is downstairs waiting? When I am ready to step into my dress? What has happened to make you change your mind?’
Tears were forming in her eyes. She wiped them away and he watched as a trail of brown shadow was smeared on her cheekbone.
‘I can’t force something because it’s how I think it should be.’
‘Is it because I said I wanted my inheritance? Is that it? Surely you can see that I need to have an identity other than being someone’s wife or someone’s mother? I need to provide for the baby too.’
Her chin wobbled as she spoke. Her voice wavered.
He looked away. ‘Of course I do. I truly do. And I accept that. But it was wrong of me to think that we had to marry for us to parent our child. I know you’ll be a brilliant mother to him.’
‘So we won’t live together either?’
He walked around the room, picking up the bride-to-be artefacts. So much feminine clutter. The whole house was bedecked and throbbing with excitement. Very important people from all over the world were here to honour this extraordinary event. Everyone’s head had turned as he’d careered into the driveway and raced up the stairs.
