what was on her mind. It didn’t take a genius to guess and he could have raised it but he wanted to see if she would do it without his prompting.
Aware that confidences were hardly likely to be forthcoming when things were so tense between them, he chose to steer the conversation onto neutral territory. ‘Where have you lived for the past two years?’ He watched, hiding his concern as she toyed with the fish on her plate, her usually healthy appetite clearly challenged by their problems.
Would she tell him what was worrying her?
‘I based myself in London.’
‘You didn’t touch a penny of your allowance in all the time we were apart.’
‘I wasn’t with you for the money, Cristiano.’
‘I would have supported you financially. I made that commitment when we married.’
He waited for her to make a pointed remark about the commitments he hadn’t made but she didn’t.
‘You’re surrounded by people who are only interested in you for what you can give them and you’re complaining because I didn’t want that?’
‘I wanted to provide for you.’ And the strength of that need shocked him because he’d always considered himself progressive for a Sicilian male.
‘Ah.’ Her eyes lifted to his. ‘The Provider.’
The past hung between them and he was acutely aware that although he’d provided for her materially he’d neglected her shamefully on the one occasion she’d reached out to him.
And suddenly he knew with absolute certainty that there was a reason why this was such a hot button for her. It wasn’t just that he, with his horrendously busy schedule and careless attitude had let her down shamefully, it was that he’d ripped open a wound that hadn’t completely healed.
He knew that her childhood had been difficult, but she’d given him few details and he hadn’t pressed. But suddenly he wanted to know who, or what, had caused the original wound.
The shrill tone of his phone disturbed the silence and Cristiano, pre-programmed to answer it promptly, automatically reached for it and then remembered his promise about priorities.
His hand froze in mid-air.
Swiftly recovering, hoping desperately that she hadn’t noticed the detour his hand had taken from the glass in front of him to his pocket, he returned his attention to the woman seated opposite him. The phone continued to ring and Laurel raised an eyebrow.
‘Are you going to answer that?’
‘No.’ It took a painful degree of willpower but somehow he managed not to reach into his pocket although his palms were sweating and his fingers were aching to just answer the damn thing.
It was a relief when it stopped ringing.
Observing his struggle, she put her fork down. ‘Next time just answer it. You know you want to.’
Part of him did want to, but he recognised that as a habitual response derived from years of putting work first.
She’d called him ‘the Provider’ and Cristiano acknowledged the accuracy of that description. He’d slipped into that role from the moment he’d taken the distressed call from his mother on the day his father had died suddenly.
He’d left the US immediately, flown home and taken charge. And he’d been in that role ever since, even though his younger brother had long since proved himself capable of playing his part.
What had started as necessity had become a way of life and he’d never even questioned it.
Until now.
Now, the opportunity to close another deal, to expand the business, to make more profit were all subordinate to his need to make his marriage work. For possibly the first time in his life, he didn’t care what the person on the phone wanted. He had no urge to check his voicemail. He didn’t care if his business was collapsing.
The phone started ringing again, the shrill insistent tone disturbing the tranquillity of the terrace and sending the tiny sparrows swooping for cover. And all the time Laurel was watching him, those beautiful green eyes guarded.
‘Answer it. Then you’ll be able to stop wondering who it was and how much money you just lost by not taking the call.’
‘That isn’t what I’m wondering.’ He was wondering how on earth he was going to compensate for what he’d done to her. How he was going to prove to her that he loved her.
What sort of provider had he been to Laurel? Financially, yes, he’d provided for her, but emotionally he’d left her to fend for herself and that knowledge scraped uncomfortably over his conscience.
‘Did you even tell anyone where you were going?’ She sounded exasperated. ‘They’re probably sending out a search party as we speak.’
‘It’s true that I haven’t told anyone.’
‘You’ve probably triggered a security alert.’
‘Very possibly.’ Remembering the startled faces of his security team, he breathed deeply, frustrated by the realities of his life. ‘Perhaps I ought to just—’
‘Yes. Do it!’ She reached for her glass. ‘I don’t expect you not to work, Cristiano. You’re missing the point. I have every intention of going through my own emails later. I respect your drive and ambition. I have plenty of it myself. That isn’t a problem. That wasn’t the problem.’ Her change of tense took them swiftly to the heart of the real problem and it wasn’t his phone, which had once again stopped ringing.
She sipped her water.
Sweat broke out on the back of his neck.
He was thinking, as she was, that he’d let her down when she’d needed him most. Images of her alone in that hospital bed kept flying into his head. ‘If it is any consolation, I feel like an utter bastard for what I did to you.’
‘You mean for what you didn’t do.’
‘That too.’
‘Good. You should feel bad.’ Slowly, she put her glass down on the table. ‘You were thoughtless and insensitive.’
He winced as he recognised himself in that description. ‘So you’re not going to say, Don’t worry about it?’
‘No. You should worry about it. It was shocking behaviour. If you weren’t worried I wouldn’t be sitting here now.’
Cristiano wondered whether it was him or whether Sicily was in the grip of a searing heatwave. His palms were sweating—even his brain felt hot. When his phone rang for a third time he hauled it out of his pocket deciding that one conversation now would save a myriad of interruptions for the next few weeks.
‘Five minutes,’ he vowed as he scanned the number. ‘It’s Santo. I’ll tell him he’s in charge. Then I’m switching it off.’
