later discovered. All of it.
She heard the rapid-fire Italian conversation without comprehending. Her eyes were fixed to the view of Venice, a city she’d once adored with all of herself. A city she’d thought she’d spend the rest of her days in. She hardened her heart to its charms now, ignoring the way the gondolas glided past, full of grace and pride; the way the water formed glistening little sunlit peaks and troughs as it was stirred by the activity. She ignored the way the ancient buildings huddled together, singing the secrets of their souls, the way the bridges seemed to emote wisdom and strength. She ignored the dazzling colour of the sky and the birds she could see but not hear—she didn’t need to hear them to remember the way they sounded. The flapping of their wings was the breath sound of Venice.
It was beautiful, but it was no longer for her. Skye spun round, glad to turn her back on the view, even when it meant she was staring at the disdainful receptionist once more. The woman stood—she was taller than Skye had been able to appreciate while seated—and made her way to stand directly in front of Skye.
‘Signor Vin Santo will see you now. Is there something you would like? Some water? A soda?’
Vodka, Skye thought with a wry smile. ‘Mineral water would be good. Thank you,’ she tacked on belatedly. She hadn’t meant to sound rude. Her whole mind was now focused on the job ahead. The most important performance of her life. Getting Matteo to sign the damned papers so she could finally move on—far, far away from him.
‘Certainly, madam. This way.’ The receptionist moved a little ahead of Skye, swishing her hips as she went, and Skye felt a momentary jab of envy for the other woman’s curves. Skye had always been slim, but she’d desperately wanted larger breasts and hips when she was younger and had spent much of her teenage years stuffing her bras with tissues.
‘Here we are,’ the receptionist smiled, noticeably warmer now she knew to whom she was speaking, and stepped aside. ‘He’s waiting for you.’
Why did that conjure a very strong image of a wolf?
Because Matteo was all predator. All strong, ruthless, heartless predator.
And she’d been his prey.
Well, that was no longer the case.
Skye squared her shoulders defiantly, mentally bracing herself and straightening her spine, sucking in a deep breath which she hoped would bring courage.
Still, nothing could have prepared her for that moment. The moment when the door swung open and Matteo stood just inside it.
Nothing.
The air ceased to exist; it was sucked out and she stood in a vacuum. A space devoid of oxygen, gravity, reason and sense. There was just her and Matteo, her husband. Her beautiful, hyper-masculine, ruggedly handsome, lying, cheating husband.
Her throat was dry, her nerves quivering.
Strength be damned.
She wanted to run at him. But to kiss him? Or claw his eyes out? Probably, she realised with a sinking heart, the former. She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and pull his head down, pull his mouth to hers, to greet him as though she still believed in love and happily ever after.
He looked good enough to eat. It was pure coincidence that he was wearing the suit she’d always loved—the navy-blue one that drew attention to his broad shoulders and dark tan. Her eyes lifted to his face: his square jawline with the stubble that was nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with his impatience with something as dull as shaving; higher, to his generous lips and patrician nose; to cheekbones that were firm and high, slashed into his face in a sign of his determination; and eyes that were so dark they were almost black but for the flecks of gold that glistened in their depths.
Eyes that were staring at her now, undertaking their own inspection, running down her body with the kind of passion and possession she had, once upon a time, found mesmerising and addictive. Eyes that missed nothing, that skated over her stiletto-clad feet, higher to her slim, bare legs and the floaty dress she wore that fell to just above her knees and covered her in a mysterious cloud of pale yellow fabric. Her arms were bare; he caught a glimpse of her wedding ring and grimaced.
Good.
Let him feel the awkwardness of this.
His eyes lifted higher to her face, roaming it freely...marking it for changes?
There were not many. In fact, Skye would have said she looked almost exactly as she had five weeks earlier when she’d left their house, their marriage, their life. All of her changes were internal, except for the heavy fringe she’d had cut a week or so earlier, having decided spontaneously that she needed a change. Some outward sign that she was no longer the same woman who’d been caught up in the Matteo Vin Santo Show.
She had grown up—a lot—in the short space of time. She barely recognised the woman she’d been. So naïve, stupid and so damned trusting!
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said, breaking the silence with a businesslike tone, pleased with how crisply she enunciated each syllable. ‘I won’t take up much of your time.’
Ah, how well she knew him! She saw the glint of sardonic mockery in his eyes and she resented him for that. His ability to make her feel foolish and immature even in this, the most adult of circumstances.
He said nothing, though, simply stepping deeper into the room, making room for her to enter his office. She did so with no degree of pleasure. She’d been in the room before, and her eyes fell to the table, taking in the very spot where she’d sat and started to sign the papers. The papers that had been the beginning of the end.
‘You don’t love me, do you?’ She stared at the documents and then her husband as all the pieces of information came together. ‘I asked my lawyer about this. He told me everything. You. My dad. The whole sordid history. This is why you married me!’
His surprise was obvious and it infuriated Skye.
‘You really didn’t think I’d find out? You didn’t think I’d ask about this?’ She waved the contract in the air. ‘It’s all been about this damned hotel, hasn’t it? A hotel my dad bought from your grandfather. A hotel you’ve been trying to buy back for fifteen years. My God! This is what our marriage is all about!’
Silence stretched between them. Silence that pulled, pulled and pulled at her nerve-ends until they snapped.
‘We should talk about this later,’ he said seriously. ‘Just sign the papers and we’ll go for dinner tonight.’
‘Don’t.’ She slammed her palm down on the table. ‘Don’t you dare infantilise me! I deserve to know the truth. I want to hear it from your own mouth. This hotel is why you came to London. Why you met me. Right?’
His eyes narrowed and for a moment she wondered if he would say something to make this better, to alleviate the pain that was cracking through her soul.
‘Yes.’
Skye’s heart shook in her chest. She gripped the chair-back for support. ‘And why you married me?’
