The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding (Italian Billionaires #1)(41)

“In other words, Jonathan can remain as long as he serves a useful purpose. Then he will have to go.” She went so quickly from wanting to stroke him to a strong need to hit him that she felt physically ill.

“You twist my words into something I didn’t intend. My English is not always—”

“Your English is perfect. I am quite clear on what you meant to say. You will decide later whether my brother is suitable, in spite of the baby and regardless of how he or your sister feels about it. Yes, or how much he gets hurt.”

“It may be Carita who will be hurt more than she can bear. Yes, or Carisa, if you and your brother are here long enough for her to become attached to either of you. She doesn’t get over these affections easily. When you go away, she will grieve for you.”

She saw his point, really she did, but was in no mood to be reasonable. “In that case, I don’t know why you brought me here. And I certainly don’t see why you would suggest my brother and I should stay.”

“Nor do I,” he said while the darkness of his eyes turned opaque, concealing every thought and emotion. “Nor do I.”

He didn’t want her at the villa, not really, was sorry he had introduced her to his family. The pain of it was a hard lump that closed off her throat, making it hard to breathe. She abandoned her towel in his hands as she climbed to her feet. Whirling from him, she lifted her sarong from the lounge where she had left it and headed for the villa.

“Amanda! Wait!”

She heard but didn’t answer. Without breaking stride, she swirled the sarong around her and fastened it with swift, hard jerks. She almost ran up the steps of the terrace, plunged into the dim coolness of the villa. She did not stop until she was back in her room with the door closed behind her.

In the en suite bathroom, she stripped off the bikini and stepped into the shower. Holding her face up to the rain-like flood of water, she let it sluice over her, allowing recognition of the mistakes she’d made wash over her as well.

She had known better than to stay at the villa, should never have drifted into agreeing. All the rest of it, the fake engagement, the close contact with Nico that had made her so dependent on him, learning the drugging sweetness of his kiss, would never have happened if she had followed her first instinct.

None of it would have happened…

No, and nothing good would come of prolonging the experience. The longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave. The last thing she wanted was to become so needy that she clung until told to go.

The sooner she was well away, the better off she’d be. Facing the truth of that made her throat ache. Her eyes burned as if they had salt water in them, but she refused to cry.

Leaving the shower, she struggled into her lightweight traveling robe while still damp, belting it loosely around her. In her sudden urge to get away, she didn’t bother to comb out her wet hair but pushed it back from her face. Taking her carryon bag from the closet, she flung it on the bed and began to throw her underclothing and few cosmetics into it with quick, jerky movements.

She would speak to Aunt Filomena to see if it was possible for the chauffeur to drive her to a hotel without asking Nico’s permission. If it was not, she would call a taxi or arrange a rental car. If all else failed, she’d walk to the road and hitchhike.

Yes, it was better that she go before she got too involved, before she fell headlong into an impossible relationship, before Jonathan was allowed to hope too much, before she hurt Carisa instead of helping her.

She only hoped it wasn’t too late already.





9


Nico heard the scream when he was on his fifty-seventh lap in the pool. It was faint, muffled by distance that he thought it might have been a bird cry. His breathing was so labored from the fury of his exertions that he held it as he paused to listen, treading water.

It came again.

Carisa.

He lunged to the pool’s edge, vaulted out and sprinted for the house. He left wet tracks on the terrace, the tiles of the great hall and on the marble staircase. His grandmother stood in the doorway of her bedroom, her eyes wide with alarm. His aunt was on the landing at the head of the stairs.

“Where?” he demanded. He was painfully aware of their pale faces but had no time to reassure them, couldn’t be certain it was possible. Carisa’s shrill distress had a wild edge as it echoed through the villa, ringing against the high ceilings.

Aunt Filomena pointed down the hall. “The American’s room, I think.”

Nico’s heart battered against his ribs as he pounded in that direction. A thousand images of blood and injury flashed through his brain, half of Carisa, half of Amanda, none bearable. He crashed his fist against the bedroom door that was half open, so it slammed against the wall.

Carisa stood rigid in the center of the room, her arms held stiff at her sides and her fists clenched. Her small mouth was a round circle of woe as she screamed long and loud then drew breath to scream again. Amanda was holding her in a close hug as she spoke in soothing tones.

He noticed with some treacherous part of his mind that she wore only a thin robe that clung damply to every luscious curve of her body. Slowing his advance, he approached his sister with as much calm as he could manage while his body pulsed with adrenaline.

“What is this, Carisa, cara mia? What has happened? Are you hurt?”

“Nothing happened,” Amanda answered for his sister as she gave another piercing cry. “She saw I was packing to leave. It seemed to set her off.”