told no one; not even his mother or brothers or elderly grandfather had known the truth about his trip to America until the deed was over and he was safely on the other side. He hadn’t wanted his family to go through the agonising heartache of knowing they could lose him or, even worse, have him come back to them damaged beyond recognition. He had seen his father propped up in a semi-conscious state in the last weeks before he’d finally died from the injuries he had sustained in a head-on collision. That had decided it for him. He had wanted to spare his mother and brothers from witnessing anything as gut-wrenching as that.
Luca hated talking about that time, now that it was over. He liked to push it to the back of his mind, inside a locked compartment inside his brain. In the weeks and months afterwards he would creak it open almost daily, marvelling that he was still here, functioning and breathing and talking. Now he just wanted to forget it had ever happened. The shame of his body letting him down so cruelly was something he no longer wanted to mull over. Telling Bronte about it would only make it come back to haunt him. It was too personal and too private and there was no way he could risk anything being leaked to the press if she wanted to try her hand at a payback. It was better she didn’t know. He just wanted his life to begin again from now. He was ready to move on and he wanted to do so with a clean slate.
‘I am at a time of life when I am looking for more stability,’ he said. ‘What we had was good, Bronte. Some of the happiest times of my life were those I spent with you.’
Her slate-blue eyes were dark with suspicion. ‘Were those good times just with me, Luca? Or are you getting me mixed up with someone else?’
‘I never betrayed you, cara,’ he said. ‘There was only you during that time. No one else.’
Her eyes rolled upwards as she swung away from him, her arms doing that barricade thing across her slim body, warning him off, shutting him out. ‘You betrayed me by ending our relationship without a single explanation as to why,’ she said in an embittered tone.
Luca took a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before he slowly released it. ‘I never intended to hurt you the way I did, Bronte. I accept full responsibility for it. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I had no choice. It was not the time for us. We met too soon.’
She turned back to look at him, her expression so scathing it actually hurt him to maintain eye contact. ‘So, now you’ve sown all your wild oats, you want what, exactly?’ she asked. ‘You’re not proposing marriage, are you?’
Luca was not going to offer something that would be thrown back in his face, or at least not yet. There were other ways to bring about what he wanted. More subtle ways. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am not proposing anything long-term at this stage. I am here in your country and I would like to see if what we had before can be resurrected.’
Her lips pressed so tightly together they went white. After a tense moment she expelled her held breath on a whoosh. ‘You are unbelievable,’ she said. ‘You think you can just pick up where you left off, all things forgiven? What planet did you just drop down from? As if I would agree to being involved with you again. As if!’
It was the tone of her ‘As if’ that did it. Luca felt his temper snap to attention like an elastic band stretched to the limit. ‘You might not have any choice in the matter,’ he said.
Her eyes flared as his words hit home. ‘You wouldn’t dare…’ She almost breathed rather than said the words.
He pushed his jaw forward, his eyes locked on hers. ‘I want you back in my bed, Bronte. If you don’t agree then there is nothing more to be said between us. You will have one week to vacate the premises of your studio. If you don’t vacate in one week the rent will increase substantially.’
Her soft mouth fell open, her eyes still as wide as saucers. ‘You can’t mean that…’ she swallowed and then swallowed again, her voice coming out even scratchier ‘…y…you can’t possibly mean that…’
Luca came over to her and stood just within touching distance, his eyes pinning hers. ‘The decision is yours, Bronte,’ he said, running a hand down her upper arm from shoulder to elbow, each and every pore of her flesh rising in shivery goosebumps under his touch. ‘Which is it to be?’
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