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“It’s complicated,” she added, surprised by her need to defend her mother even then.
“This is your ex-fiancé, right?”
“And their godson.”
“The guy who cheated on you? In your house? With his Personal Trainer?”
Portia smiled despite herself, at Dante’s incredulity, and his recollection of all the details.
“Yes, that ex-fiancé.”
“And you’re not going?” He said with mock disbelief.
“I know, right? What’s wrong with me?”
“Though if you wanted to go, I could take you,” Dante said, stepping back into Portia’s office. “I mean, as your fake boyfriend. That would get the message across, loud and clear.”
Portia’s heart skipped a beat as the whole idea exploded in her mind. “True, it would.”
Would Marco go with her?
And then what? He meets her parents, meets Jack, thenhedumps her and she’s alone,again,everyone feeling sorry for her and her inability to hold onto a guy? It was a narrative she hated—so reductive and misogynistic—but it was exactly how people perceived things.
“I think that would just complicate things further.”
“Okay. A work trip it is,” he said with a wink, no idea that Portia would indeed by fleeing the country, for real. “But if you change your mind, I’m here for you.”
She smiled at him, finished her coffee. “You’re a good friend, Dante. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” he responded in Italian, with a wave of his hand. “I know you’d do the same for me.”
“I would. Anything you need.”
He moved back to his own office. “Don’t give that bastard another moment’s thought, Portia. He’s not worth it.”
“I know that,” she muttered, reaching for the phone on her desk. And she really, really did.
Eight
“IT’S BEAUTIFUL,” SHE SAID on a sigh, as they stepped out of Marco’s rustic villa onto a paved terrace that overlooked rolling hills covered in rows of vines, dancing all the way to the sea. Despite the fact it was November, and the air in London had been chilly, it was warmer here, in the south of Italy, where the land was bathed by the Adriatic sea, even at this time of night, when the moonlight was covering the vista in a milky, silver light. “Magical, even.”
He made a noise that could have passed for agreement, latched his hands around Portia’s waist, pulled her to him, his lips nuzzling her shoulder, so her breath hitched in her throat. It was a perfect moment, magic, just as she’d said, but as he kissed her skin and goosebumps lifted all over her, she couldn’t help but wonder: how many times had he done this? How many women had he brought here? Was this just a standard move for him? And why should she care? If this was all about forgetting Jack, about relegating him to the very back of her mind, then surely nothing would do that so completely than by surrendering herself to Marco and his romantic home on this weekend of all weekends: Jack’s birthday.
“Hungry?”
She made a noise of agreement, though the butterflies that had taken over her tummy left little room for food.
“Good. Why don’t you go and get ready. I’ll pour us a drink.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Get ready?”
“To go out. I’ve made reservations.” He spun her in his arms. “Don’t be long.”
She wanted to demur. To tell him she would much, much rather stay in. But there was something exciting and romantic and seductive about the idea of going out with Marco, here in a small town in the south of Italy, away from the possibility of seeing anyone they knew.
Portia had packed in haste. After all, her acquiescence to this trip had all come about so quickly. By the time she’d phoned Marco to let him know, he’d told her a car would be collecting her from her home within the hour. She’d barely had time to finish her work, catch the tube back to her flat, shove a few things in a bag and get the heck out of there. From that moment on, it had been a whirlwind of luxury. From the black SUV with heavily tinted windows that had collected her to the sleek private jet he’d had waiting on the tarmac. All that had been missing was the red carpet, but when she’d joked as much to him, Marco had made some remark about next time—which had briefly soured Portia’s mood. She already felt that she was likely living on borrowed time. She’d felt that way earlier, but when Marco had made a comment about getting bored of women, she’d known that the last thing she should do was come to hope for more. More of this, more of him.
Marco would give what he wanted and then he’d end it. Just as they’d agreed.
