A Scandal in the Headlines(44)

Elena had been telling herself that for months, and here she was anyway, not carrying his child and as absurdly upset about it as if they’d been trying to get pregnant instead of simply unpardonably reckless.

She was in love with him, God help her. She was in love with him.

It rang in her, long and low and deep. And it wasn’t new. It had been there from that very first glance. It had happened that fast, that irrevocably, and she simply hadn’t wanted to accept that it could be true. But it was.

And now she simply had to figure out how to survive the end of her time with him, the end of these months that had changed her life forever, without giving him that last, worst weapon to use against her.

“Yes,” she agreed, aware he was watching her with those clever eyes of his and she knew he saw too much, the way he always did. “Very lucky.”





CHAPTER EIGHT



THE FORTIETH DAY dawned with no less than three emails from his assistant detailing the precise time the helicopter would arrive to transport him back to Sicily, and Alessandro still wasn’t ready.

He’d run out of excuses. He had to return home or risk damaging Corretti Media in a way he might not be able to fix, and despite his attempts to cut off the part of him that cared about that, he knew he couldn’t let it happen. He was the CEO, and he was needed. And he had to deal with his family before they all imploded, something his mother’s daily, increasingly hysterical voice-mail messages suggested was imminent.

He had to go back to his life. His attempt to leave it behind had only ever been a temporary measure, a reaction to that cursed wedding. It wasn’t him. Duty, responsibility—they beat in him still, and grew louder by the day.

But he couldn’t leave Elena. Not now that he’d discovered she was the woman he’d believed she was from the start. Not now that everything had changed.

He didn’t know what she wanted, however, and the uncertainty was like a fist in his gut. It had been hard enough to convince her to remain on the island once she’d discovered she wasn’t pregnant.

“There’s no reason to stay here any longer.” She’d attempted that calm, cool smile he hated and he’d taken pleasure in the fact she couldn’t quite pull it off, sitting there so primly in the sitting area of his bedchamber, dressed only in one of his shirts and all of the smooth, bare flesh of her legs on display. “Our arrangement was based entirely around waiting to find out—”

“That arrangement was based on the premise that you were still engaged to Niccolo Falco,” he’d said, cutting her off. “Working for him, in fact. A spy.” He’d smiled. “You are none of those things, cara.”

“Most importantly, I’m not pregnant,” she’d argued, with a stubborn tilt to her chin. “What you thought about me until yesterday is irrelevant, really.”

“Do you think he’s still searching for you?” he’d asked calmly when he’d wanted nothing more than to put his mouth on her—to remind her how they were anything but irrelevant. And despite that black punch of murderous rage that slammed into him at the thought of Niccolo.

“I know he is,” she’d said with a shrug. “He sends me an email every week or so, to make sure I never forget it.” She’d smiled then, but it was far too bitter. “It was a good thing I stopped waitressing and took the yacht job. He was in Cefalù only a few days behind me.”

He’d had to force his violent fury down, shove it under wraps, before he’d been able to say another word—and even then, the dark pulse of his temper was in every clipped syllable.

“Do you really believe I will simply let you go like this?” he’d asked. “Wash my hands of you and go about my business while that bastard runs you into the ground? What makes you think that’s a possibility?”

Something he hadn’t been able to identify chased over her face then, but had echoed in him all the same.

“It’s not your decision,” she’d said after a moment. “It’s mine.”

They’d stared at each other for a long while.

“You must know I can keep you here,” he’d said quietly. “No one comes or goes from this place without my permission.”

“You won’t do something like that,” she’d replied with conviction, her eyes meeting his. Holding. “You’re better than that.”

And, damn her, he’d wanted to be.