day like today he just felt tired and jaded.
And now this.
This woman, who’d somehow found out where he lived and was lying in wait so she could carry on their earlier conversation. Frankly, he’d heard enough.
‘Signora Ponti, there is really nothing more to say,’ he began, groping for diplomacy, but it was wasted on her.
‘You don’t understand! You have to help me—please, listen to me! I need the money—’
‘Signora, everyone needs money, but you can’t just have it if it isn’t yours, and as Signore Renaldo pointed out, you’ve already stolen more than enough from him—’
‘It wasn’t like that! I had reasons—’
‘Everyone has reasons,’ he said tiredly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting someone and I’m already late.’
‘But I earned that money, I really need it,’ she sobbed, reaching for him with desperate hands. ‘Please, you have to listen!’
He stepped back out of reach, his patience exhausted. ‘No, I don’t. I’ve heard enough,’ he said flatly, and started to turn away, the bag of refuse still in his hand.
‘Nooooooo!’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her raise her arm, but it was too late to duck. His free arm was still coming up to shield his face when something large and heavy—her handbag?—crashed into his head and sent him reeling. He tripped over the edge of the kerb, twisting his ankle sharply, the pain sickening. It gave way under him, throwing him further off balance, and he felt himself falling.
He couldn’t save himself.
He dropped the refuse bag, heard the tinkling sound of broken glass just too late to roll to the side, and then a sharp, searing pain in his thigh took his breath away.
On autopilot, still waiting for another blow to fall, he rolled off the bag and glared at her, but she was so distraught that he’d never be able to reason with her. It was pointless trying.
For a long moment he lay there, shocked, his eyes locked with hers, but then he became aware of something hot and wet dripping off his fingers, and he stared blankly at his hand, and then his thigh, and he realised he was in trouble.
So did she, her face crumpling as she took in what had happened.
‘No! No—I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you! Please—oh, no…!’
And turning on her heel, she ran away, leaving him there alone in the dim light of the car park, the sound of her high heels rapping sharply on the stones fading as she fled.
Relief sapping the last of his strength, he slumped back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes for a moment.
Dio, he hurt.
He looked down at his foot, bent at a strange angle. No, not his foot, he realised with relief. The boot, twisted half off where he’d tripped. But his foot was inside it and the pain was just beginning to break through all the other insults, so his relief was short-lived. Maybe not so good after all.
And there was glass sticking out of his leg. He knew he probably shouldn’t pull it out, but his leg was bleeding and with the glass in there he couldn’t put pressure on it, so he pulled it out anyway.
Not a good move, apparently.
Wrapping his scarf roughly around his slashed hand, he closed his fingers tight over it and rammed his fist hard down on his thigh, then rummaged for his phone. He’d call Anita. There was no point in calling either of his brothers, they and their families were already at the ski chalet, as were his sisters and his parents, but Anita was expecting him. She had a meeting with a bride and he was supposed to be picking her up any time now.
She’d help him. She always helped him, she’d always known just what to do when he’d got himself in a mess. And she’d rescue him now. Relief coursing through him, his whole body shaking, his left hand struggling to cooperate, he speed-dialled her number.
It went straight to voicemail.
He listened to the message, heard the soft lilt of her voice and could have howled with frustration and despair.
‘Why is it,’ he said sarcastically when the cheery message finally ended, ‘that I’m tripping over you all the time, and yet the one time I really need you you’re not there?’
He cut off and watched the blood still slowly welling from his thigh for another few seconds before he did what he should have done in the first place. He called an ambulance.
And then he leant back against the wall behind him, and dialled her number again, and then again. He needed her, and he couldn’t get her, but it was somehow comforting just to listen to the sound of her voice…
Her phone was ringing.
She could feel it in her pocket, vibrating silently as she wound up her meeting. It rang again. And again.
Damn. It would be Gio, wondering where she was. He’d be foaming at the mouth if she didn’t go soon.
‘Right, I think I’ve got all I need for now,’ she told her client briskly. ‘I’ll go and put a few ideas together for you, and then we’ll get back together again when I’m back from my holiday.’
‘Oh—I was hoping we could do it all today…’
Anita’s smile faltered as the phone vibrated again.
‘I’m sorry, I’m already late. I’m supposed to be leaving for my holiday and I only fitted you in today because I was delayed, I should have gone yesterday. Don’t worry, please, there’ll be plenty of time to sort everything out. It’s seven months to the wedding.’
She shut her file and stood up, effectively ending the meeting, and held out her hand to the bride.
The girl smiled reluctantly and got up, taking her hand. ‘Sorry. I just want all the answers at once.’
‘Everybody does. It’s not possible, but it will happen. I’ll see you in two weeks when I’m back from my holiday. I’ll call you with a date.’
‘OK. And—thank you for fitting me in. I’m sorry to be a pain.’
‘You aren’t a pain. I’ll call you, I promise.’
And with one last brisk, professional smile she walked away, resisting the urge to pull her phone from her pocket before she’d left the café and was out of sight.
Six missed calls. Six?
And all from Gio. Damn. She really was late, and he’d be truly, no-holds-barred furious with her. He hated it when people were late.
Except he didn’t sound furious. He sounded…
She listened to her voicemail message in puzzlement, and tried to call him.
It went straight to voicemail,
