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To his credit, Jack stood close and listened, nodding encouragingly, and Portia didn’t know how he was feeling because her own emotions were far too huge to allow any room for his.
“But he didn’t love me.” It was the first time she’d said the words aloud, or even to herself. It was a devastating admission.
“Portia, God, I’m so sorry. I could have sworn it was serious between the two of you.”
She dashed away her tears, made an effort to smile, and maybe there was something in the stoicism of her expression that broke Jack because he just pulled her into his arms in a huge hug, wishing he could remove any bit of pain from Portia’s life—that he, or anyone else, had ever caused her. “You deserve so much better.”
She shook her head against his chest. “That’s what he said.”
Dante Santoro steppedout of his car and strode towards the elevators but for some reason, a sudden shift in movement or just a random turn of his head, looked left at the exact moment Portia smiled and Jack hugged her. He stopped walking, long enough to ascertain that his eyes weren’t deceiving him, then strode back into the foyer of the Santoro building, frowning.
* * *
“It’s been a month.”
Marco glanced at his older brother, beer in hand. In the background, their father was singing old Italian songs as he played the piano, mostly hitting the right notes but every now and again letting a doozy out that they all winced at.
“Do you have a point?”
Dante reached for his own beer, took a drink. “How are you?”
Marco looked straight ahead. “Fine.”
“You haven’t been in London.”
“I know.”
“Because of Portia?”
Marco ground his teeth together. “Where are you going with this?”
“I saw something a couple of weeks ago.”
Marco briefly glanced at Dante, then looked away again.
“I wasn’t going to mention it, but I think you probably have a right to know.”
Marco was silent.
“I saw her with Jack.”
Marco stood up, his whole body jerking to action. “You’ve got to be kidding me?”
“It could have been innocent. But they were hugging. She looked…happy.”
Marco’s insides felt as if they’d been scooped out and hollowed. “Happy.” He repeated, pacing away from the table then returning to it. No, he wasn’t hollow, he was on fire. Burning to the point of incineration to think of Portia going back to thatbastardo.
He hadn’t given her up for that.
She was supposed to be…happy.
Which Dante said she seemed.
“How is she otherwise? In the office? Is she okay?”
Dante stared at him, really stared, then swore. “Marco, listen to me.” He stood, came close to his brother, put a hand on his shoulder. “Every now and again, I make a mistake.”
It was a poor attempt at humour that fell flat because they were both on tenterhooks.
