a picture of him and a new woman. She’d effectively cyber-stalked him, she suddenly remembered. She’d searched his name most days.
She remembered Finn reacting to her reaction to Tonino and the new woman by giving a huge kick. She must have seen that picture shortly before the accident because Finn had only really started kicking her belly with gusto a few weeks before it.
Orla thought hard, trying to remember who the new woman had been, but the memory refused to form. It would come in its own time. The memories refused to be forced, especially the significant ones.
Orla thought again about that woman later that evening while soaking in the bath. Tonino had announced that he was taking her out for dinner, leaving the duty nurse in charge of Finn. He’d refused to listen to a word of argument against it.
They’d dined on his rooftop veranda the night before, a relaxed meal under a starry sky with the waves of the Tyrrhenian Sea a distant roar.
But the relaxed vibe had been a lie. Orla had spent the evening with a kaleidoscope of large-winged butterflies dancing a storm in her belly. Every time their eyes had met she’d been certain he’d been remembering what had happened in the back of his car. She’d been on tenterhooks for him to allude to it or make a move on her, but when she’d announced at ten p.m. that she was tired and going to bed, he’d inclined his head, raised his glass and wished her a good night.
She’d walked away feeling the burn of his stare scorching her, then crawled into bed unsure whether she was relieved or frustrated.
She should not feel so damned excited at the thought of being alone with him. The dancing butterflies in her belly and the buzz of anticipation bouncing over her skin were traps.
She must remember that Tonino had an ulterior motive in taking her out for dinner just as he had an ulterior motive with everything he did. That ulterior motive was Finn. The incredible effort Tonino was making for her to feel at home and at ease, the beautiful bedroom he’d appointed for her with the triple-aspect windows and private bathroom Cleopatra would consider die-worthy, the walk-in wardrobe filled with brand-new clothing specially selected by a personal shopper under Tonino’s instructions especially for her…
She must not let her head be swayed by it all because she knew exactly what he was doing it for—he was making her see how great it would be to marry him. He was making her see all the things he could give her and all the perks she would receive by being his wife. He thought those things would impress her and turn her head. He didn’t know her head didn’t need turning. It had been turned four years ago and she’d never got over it.
Ultimately, it was Finn he wanted, not Orla. He was just using her as a means to have his son in his life permanently. She couldn’t blame him for it.
By the time she’d dressed in a scoop-neck silver dress that fell to her knees and had the requisite long sleeves, and a pair of black glittery heels, she stared at her reflection. She stared at the mirror for so long she half expected a voice to emerge from it.
What would the voice say? Would it laugh at her and say that it didn’t matter how she looked with clothes on because any sexual interest Tonino had for her would be extinguished like a candle if he saw her naked?
A part of her thought she should go knocking on his door, whip her dress up to expose the scars and brazenly say, ‘There you go. Still fancy me, do you?’
If she couldn’t bear to look at her scars herself, how could she ever trust Tonino enough to see them and not use them as a weapon against her?
THE NIGHT THAT unfolded was one of the best of Orla’s life. Tonino drove them in a tiny vintage car that must have been older than the pair of them combined to Palermo, where they dined in the tiniest restaurant she had ever set foot in, which held the grand total of eight tables. Despite its diminutive proportions, the restaurant had a zest to it that could have lifted the lowest of spirits. Loud but not overbearing music pulsed from walls adorned with clever and funny artwork. The food…
‘It’s just as well I’m not a fussy eater,’ she confided when the music dipped low enough for Tonino to hear. The restaurant did not provide a menu. It served three courses of whatever the chef had dreamt up that day, take it or leave it. Having eaten her first course, the most divinely cooked octopus served on a pea and mint broth, with the largest langoustine she’d ever seen accompanying it, she was firmly in the ‘take it’ camp.
‘That’s why I brought you here.’ He grinned, making her already noodly bones soften even more. Under the subtle lighting, his handsome features had become more defined. With his magnificent body snug in black chinos and a charcoal shirt open at the neck, it was all she could do not to salivate. The man was a walking stick of testosterone.
Tonino was glad he’d followed his instincts and brought Orla here rather than one of Palermo’s classier restaurants. This place was one of Sicily’s hidden gems, a restaurant that operated on a word-of-mouth basis. If the owner didn’t want you there, reserving a table was impossible. If the owner liked you, reserving a table with only hours’ notice was easy.
He’d guessed Orla would prefer the informality here but also relish the opportunity to dress up. Four years ago, when she’d been short of money, she’d made an effort with her appearance. Orla was a woman with an eye for fashion, her clothes back then cheap but stylish. She still had that eye but the quality had markedly increased to reflect her increased bank balance.
Time, he was learning, had changed Orla, yet dig beneath the surface and the fundamental essence of who she was remained the same.
Life had dealt her the severest of blows and she was still picking the pieces of it up. He needed to make her see that, together, the pieces could be mended far more effectively than if she remained alone. He needed to make himself indispensable to her and Finn.
While they ate their second course of spaghetti and clams, the music being piped through the restaurant was turned off and a violin quartet appeared. Instead of playing the classical music all the diners anticipated, they tapped their feet and drove straight into a rock classic.
Orla clapped her hands and grinned widely, clearly loving the twist.
‘You like?’ he murmured, thinking for the hundredth time that evening how beautiful she looked.
She nodded enthusiastically. ‘Very much.’
Picking up her fork, she twirled some spaghetti around it and popped it in her mouth, all the while her shoulders danced along to the rock beats.
Tonino found his attention caught with Orla rather than the entertainment. She held his attention like no one else. She always had.
She began nodding her head in time to the music along with her shoulders and absently tucked a lock of her dark hair behind a dainty ear.
He inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly.
He remembered her performing similar moves four years ago at a beachside reggae bar he’d taken her to one evening when he’d decided they needed a short break from his bedroom for food. As his cooking skills consisted entirely of opening packets, and as he hadn’t at that point been ready to confess his true identity and so couldn’t order a member of his household staff over to his apartment to whip up a four-course meal for them,
