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“Men like him always have an over-sized sense of entitlement. I’ve known enough to recognize it. He views you as his. Probably has from when you were teenagers. He took you for granted, cheated on you because he thought it wouldn’t matter, and he just can’t quite believe that you’ve voted with your feet.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s Jack.”
“You would never have been happy together,” Marco said, his voice hoarse, as he lifted Portia’s face towards his. “I’m sorry he hurt you, but I truly believe it was for the best.”
Portia nodded without hesitation. “So do I.” And she did.
Twelve
“CRISTO.WHAT THE HELL happened to you?” Dante eyed Marco’s bruised face with surprise. “Seriously, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been in a fight?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
Dante studied him for several moments then opened the door wider. “Mum’s going to freak.”
Marco grinned then, which made the skin on his cheek tighten painfully but he ignored it. He was proud of himself for not hitting back, when God knew he’d wanted to. What an arrogant, entitled jerk Jack was.
“Where is everyone?”
Dante scrutinized Marco a moment longer. “On the terrace. Dad’s making pizza.”
They both looked at each other with horror then laughed. It shouldn’t have been possible to mess up pizza, but it was something Gianni Santoro had never mastered. The dough was either too sticky or too flat or too salty, the toppings chosen totally bizarre in Gianni’s efforts to ‘invent something new and exciting’.
“So what will we eat for dinner?” Marco replied with a shake of his head, as he made his way into the lounge, shoulder to shoulder with his older brother.
Back in London,Marco reached for Portia on autopilot before remembering she hadn’t stayed over. She’d whispered something about an early morning meeting and slipped out, and he’d gone back to sleep.
Dissatisfaction unfurled in his gut.
He was sick of her not being here. Sick of the necessity for their cloak and dagger routine.
But what was the alternative? To bring this out in the open? To what end?
Things between them were different to what he’d anticipated. He loved spending time with her, being with her, there was no sign of him growing bored as he usually did, and yet, Marco was under no illusions as to where this was going. He’d never had a long-term relationship, he knew he’d be rubbish at them, and Portia was the last person on earth he’d ever willingly hurt.
She’d gone through hell, and he was glad he could help her in some way, by being a part of her life, but soon they’d have to end this, and so why risk discovery for something temporary?
Why risk her professional credibility, that she cared about so greatly?
If that meant waking up in a cold, lonely bed a few mornings a week, so be it. But his mind turned quickly to a weekend in Italy—she’d declined his last invitation but he had hope she’d agree the next time, and the thought of having her back in his villa, completely his own to explore and enjoy, to show his life to and watch her reactions, made his body come alive with anticipation.
Perhaps she could use some annual leave, stay longer than a weekend? A week?
And then what? A voice pushed him, in the back of his mind. When would they end this?
Was there a risk Portia could be hurt when it did come to an end? Should he be pulling back even now, putting some distance between them?
He was making coffee when the door to his penthouse opened and he turned, grinning, sure it would be Portia, coming to him because she couldn’t resist.
So the disappointment at seeing his brother striding through the corridor and into the kitchen was immense.
“Does everyone have a bloody key to my place?” He muttered.
But the look in Dante’s eyes forestalled any further interrogation.
