LAUREL SHIFTED WHERE she stood, trying to ease the ache in her feet. Stilettos were not for the faint of heart, and she’d worn them five days running. For the last week she and Cristiano had been touring his hotels across Europe—first Paris, then London, Milan and now Barcelona. He’d been checking on his managers, doing business, and she’d been enjoying seeing places in Europe she’d never thought she’d have the opportunity to see.
Ever since their surprisingly honest conversation after the charity gala, things had shifted between them. They weren’t in love, and Laurel knew better than to start painting rainbows in the sky or building fairy-tale castles. She didn’t even want to, because she knew dreaming of a happy ending with Cristiano was foolish to the extreme. But she’d started to relax and enjoy their time together, and he had as well.
They’d chatted, laughed, teased and talked. And made love. Sex was no longer a transaction, but a sharing, an expression...but of what? That was a question Laurel didn’t let herself ask, much less answer.
They might have made some much-needed strides in their love affair, but Cristiano was still a man who guarded his back and his heart. Trust didn’t come easily, and love didn’t come at all. But at least Laurel was going in with her eyes wide open; she had no intention of falling in love with Cristiano Ferrero. The trouble was, he was starting to make that rather difficult.
‘Just another few minutes,’ he murmured as he came to her side at the cocktail party they were attending—yet another social occasion that doubled as networking for Cristiano. ‘You look like your feet are killing you.’
‘They are,’ Laurel admitted. ‘I’m not used to wearing high heels this much. For work, it’s usually sensible lace-ups.’
‘I’ll give you a foot-rub later,’ Cristiano promised, and her stomach swirled with pleasure and pure, simple happiness. Yes, Cristiano was giving her far too many reasons to fall in love with him.
They made their farewells a few minutes later and stepped outside into a balmy Spanish night, the scent of orange blossom on the evening air.
A limo was waiting for them, as it always was, and Laurel slid into the sumptuous leather interior with a contented sigh. A week of this and she’d become accustomed to luxury.
Cristiano settled in next to her and reached for her leg, lifting her foot onto his lap. He slipped off her stiletto with a wince.
‘You could kill someone with one of these things.’
Laurel leaned her head back against the seat, revelling in the feel of his powerful thumbs rotating circles on the balls of her feet. ‘I practically did. I embedded one in Rico Bavasso’s palm.’
‘Did you?’ Cristiano let out an admiring laugh. ‘Served him right. No wonder he was rather put out, though.’
‘Do you think he’s really got the message?’ Laurel asked, even though the last thing she wanted to talk about was Rico Bavasso.
‘Undoubtedly. He’s attached himself to a French singer—some wannabe pop star.’
‘He has? That was quick.’ She frowned. ‘Although I don’t particularly like the thought of him inflicting himself on some other woman. Do you think...is he really dangerous?’
‘He attacked you, didn’t he?’ Cristiano’s thumbs paused on the balls of her feet. ‘But I might have exaggerated his need for revenge.’
She nearly jerked her foot out of his grasp. ‘What?’
‘I had some real concern, but...’ Cristiano’s smile was unrepentant. ‘I wanted to keep you to myself for a little longer, and Bavasso provided a convenient excuse.’
She laughed, relaxing against the seat. A few days ago she would have been outraged by his confession. Now, in the security of their relationship—and, yes, she used that word with care—she only felt amused. ‘I’m glad to know that now.’ Cristiano continued his massage and Laurel let out a groan of pleasure.
‘I will never wear heels like these again, ever.’
‘What about the event in Madrid tomorrow?’
‘There’s another event?’ She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice. The last week had been a lovely whirlwind, but she was tired.
Cristiano looked surprised. ‘Are you telling me you don’t like parties?’
‘I’m getting weary of them,’ Laurel admitted. ‘Tiring of being “on” all the time, getting dressed up, and the hair and make-up and the posing...’ She sighed. ‘I just want a return to some kind of normality. To be able to relax and be myself.’ With you. Admitting that might be a step too far.
Cristiano slid his hand from her foot to her calf, trailing his fingers along her skin meaningfully. ‘I can think of a way to relax.’
‘I’m sure you can.’ Laurel’s breath hitched as he smoothed his hand from her knee to her hip. Over a week and she still hadn’t tired of his touch, not remotely. A single fingertip trailed along her skin and, yes, she still melted. Just like butter.
‘Perhaps we could go somewhere quieter,’ Cristiano said, his hand sliding up and down her leg. ‘Somewhere...relaxing.’
‘You know,’ Laurel murmured, watching his hand move up and down, ‘you can make anything sound like an innuendo.’
‘It’s a gift.’
‘It must be.’
The limo pulled up in front of their hotel and Cristiano helped her out. Laurel’s body tingled with anticipation. Every night this week they’d left a party and gone to Cristiano’s private suite. Every night he’d taken her in his arms, taken her to bed, and she still felt the fizz of excitement, the sizzle of desire.
They rode the lift in silence, and then when the doors opened Cristiano turned to her, as he always did. His teeth gleamed in the darkness.
‘Come here,’ he whispered, and Laurel came willingly. Eagerly.
* * *
She woke up the next morning tangled in navy satin sheets, sunlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sleepy smile on her face. Cristiano was gone, but he usually rose early to work on his laptop, then woke her up by bringing her coffee and croissants. More than once they’d made love amongst the crumbs.
Now he appeared in the doorway, freshly showered and shaven, wearing a pair of charcoal trousers and an open-necked button-down shirt in deep blue. As always, he possessed the power to steal her breath.
‘Good morning.’ He handed her a steaming mug of coffee which Laurel accepted gratefully. ‘I thought we’d do something different today.’
‘Oh?’ She took a sip, her eyebrows raised in expectation.
Cristiano braced one shoulder against the doorframe. ‘You said you were tired of the social whirl, and I think we could both use a break.’ He paused, his gaze resting thoughtfully on her. ‘So I thought we could go to Capri.’
‘Capri?’
‘Yes, the island in the Bay of Naples—do you know it?’
‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there.’
‘It’s a lovely place. We can take a short flight to Naples and then a ferry to the island.’ He paused, and Laurel tensed, for she could tell there was something more he was going to say. Something important. ‘It’s where my father lives.’
Her eyes widened as realisation shot through her. ‘Your father...? You mean we’re going to—to visit him?’ She could hardly believe it. Cristiano rarely talked about his father, and when he did it was with reluctance, and perhaps even disdain. Their relationship hadn’t been close ten years ago, and it didn’t appear to be any closer now.
And yet...
‘Yes, I thought you might like to see him.’ Cristiano took a sip of coffee, his gaze on the windows and the view of the city stretched out before them. ‘Since you seemed close to him all those years ago.’
‘I was.’ She swallowed, nerves fluttering in her middle. ‘But I don’t actually know if he’d like to see me.’ Lorenzo had sent her and Elizabeth away without so much as a backward glance. Even now, the memory had the power to sting and wound.
‘I’ve already called him,’ Cristiano answered, moving his gaze back to her. ‘And he does.’
* * *
Cristiano watched as Laurel’s lips parted and tears filled her eyes. ‘Oh...he does?’ She sniffed. ‘That’s... Well, that’s wonderful. Thank you, Cristiano.’
He nodded, not trusting himself to say more. He still wasn’t comfortable with this kind of emotion, but he was trying to get used to it. For the last week he’d been living in a limbo of deep enjoyment and relentless discomfort, pain and pleasure mixed. Because being intimate with someone—physically, emotionally—was a whole new realm of experience, and one he wasn’t entirely sure about. The vulnerability, the intensity, the risk. And yet the more time he spent with Laurel, the more he wanted to.
He also wanted to make amends as best as he could. More and more over the last week he’d realised what a disservice he’d done Laurel when he’d told his father about her mother’s bank account. Yes, Elizabeth was a gold-digging schemer and a thief, but that hadn’t been Laurel’s fault, and she’d suffered as a result. If he’d handled the situation differently, if he hadn’t been determined to paint the grimmest picture to his father, maybe things would have worked out differently. At least perhaps Lorenzo would have stayed in touch with his stepdaughter.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Laurel said as she hugged her knees, her golden-brown curls tumbling about her shoulders. ‘To see him again... Are you sure he wants to see me?’ She glanced at him, eyes full of apprehension as she nibbled her lower lip.
Guilt pierced Cristiano with poison-tipped arrows. He hadn’t told Laurel the extent of his involvement in their parents’ divorce. At first it hadn’t seemed relevant and now he knew it would hurt her and, more alarmingly, jeopardise their fledgling relationship. Because he was already thinking about ways to keep her around after the two weeks were up...assuming she wasn’t pregnant. Sometimes he found himself half-hoping she was.
‘I’m sure,’ he said firmly. ‘He was thrilled to hear we’d been in contact.’
Laurel raised her eyebrows. ‘Does he...does he know how much contact we’ve been in?’
Cristiano smiled. ‘I didn’t give him details, but I think he guesses.’ He paused. ‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘No. I just...’ She hunched her shoulders, her gaze sliding away. ‘We’ve less than a week left,’ she said quietly, and Cristiano felt as if the breath had been punched from his lungs.
‘What does that matter?’ he asked when he trusted himself to speak normally. To sound unconcerned.
‘I don’t want your father to get his hopes up,’ Laurel explained. ‘To think something more might be going on.’ She gave him a direct look, her chin slightly lifted, showing courage and determination and a hint of vulnerability.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, wondering how he was meant to reassure her. Should he tell her his father wouldn’t get his hopes up, or that perhaps he should? When, if ever, should he tell her he wanted more from this relationship than another week?
The question, of course, was how much more. Cristiano had tried to envision different scenarios in his head, and most of them involved Laurel being his permanent, full-time mistress. He wasn’t ready to countenance anything more, yet he knew instinctively she’d resist such a role. So he waited, saying nothing, hoping things would be clarified for both of them in time.
‘We should get going,’ he said as he turned from the room. ‘Our plane leaves in a few hours.’
A short while later they were leaving the suite for the airport. Laurel was dressed in a cheerful polka-dot sundress—after she’d thrown all the clothes Cristiano had given her onto the floor, he’d offered to buy her new ones. She’d happily gone out to far more modest shops and picked up a couple of casual outfits. She’d insisted on paying for them herself, but Cristiano had insisted more, and eventually she’d acquiesced.
As the limo took them to the airport she gazed at him speculatively. ‘When was the last time you saw your father?’
Cristiano shrugged. ‘A year or so.’
‘You don’t see him very often.’
Another shrug; her perception still possessed the power to rub him raw. ‘I’m very busy.’
‘But you’re not close,’ Laurel persisted quietly, and Cristiano sighed.
‘No,’ he agreed, ‘I suppose we aren’t.’
‘Why not?’
Cristiano gazed out at the blur of buildings streaming by. ‘Because I don’t respect him,’ he said at last. ‘And it’s difficult to have a relationship, at least a positive one, when there is no respect involved.’
Laurel considered this for a moment. ‘Does he respect you?’
‘I have no idea, and I really don’t much care.’
‘Why don’t you respect him?’ She was like a dog with a bone, worrying away at it, getting to the bloody marrow.
‘Do we really have to talk about this?’
‘We’re about to go visit him, so yes, I think we do. Why don’t you, Cristiano?’ She asked the question softly, her voice filled with compassion. She was ready to understand him, and it made him answer reluctantly.
‘Because he’s thrown his life away on love.’
‘Ah.’ She nodded thoughtfully, not looking as disappointed in his answer as he’d expected, and perversely wanted her to be. ‘So you’re angry at him for wasting his life.’
When she put it like that... ‘I’m not angry,’ he said tersely. ‘Not exactly.’ Except, he realised as he said it, it wasn’t true. He was angry, but it seemed childish somehow. An emotion he wanted to rise above.
‘It must not have been easy,’ Laurel said quietly, ‘to lose your mother the way you did. And then to see your father fall in love with women who weren’t in love with him.’
‘Do you count your mother in that number?’ Cristiano asked more sharply than he intended but, damn it, he felt so raw.
‘No,’ Laurel said softly. ‘I don’t. But I understand why you would.’ She reached for his hand and Cristiano threaded his fingers through hers, taking a deep breath to compose himself. These honest, emotional conversations still felt new and difficult. Painful. But he was trying, because he knew Laurel wanted more from him, and amazingly, alarmingly, he wanted it too. He was tired of the superficial, sex-only arrangements he’d had before.
And yet that question niggled at his mind—how much more do you want?
The rest of the journey to Capri passed pleasantly enough; Laurel stood at the railing of the ferry and gazed out at the blue-green sea, jewel-bright under the afternoon sun.
‘It’s so lovely,’ she murmured. ‘I’d forgotten how lovely it was in Italy.’ She tilted her face to the sun, her whole body seeming to drink in the light. If Cristiano could have painted her like that, he would have. She was the essence of happiness, of joy and freedom, a faint smile curving her lovely mouth, her hair blowing in the wind.
They walked from the ferry landing to the funicular, the cable railway that went to the town centre. From the piazzetta they walked to Lorenzo’s villa, which was on the outskirts of the town. Laurel gazed round at the white villas with their brightly painted shutters and pots of trailing bougainvillea, delighting in everything.
And then they were there, standing in front of the steep, winding steps that led to his father’s villa, a tall, white building near Capri’s old town, its terracotta roof tiles blazing under the late-afternoon sun.
Laurel paused, nervousness flitting across her features as she gazed up at the steps, and then shot Cristiano an anxious look.
‘Do you really think...?’
‘I know,’ Cristiano said, and took her hand. They climbed the steps together, then stepped into the airy, sunlit foyer. A housekeeper bustled in with a cheery stream of Italian...and then there he was, Cristiano’s father, standing in the doorway, looking older and frailer in the year since he’d last seen him, but also far happier, his face wreathed in smiles as he held his arms out to Laurel.
‘Cara,’ he said in a voice full of welcome and warmth, and with a little stifled cry Laurel ran into his arms.