Reckless Nights in Rome (24 page)

Which was a
typical Rosie thing to say. She wasn’t Miss Sweetness and Light all
the time, Bronte knew herself too well. She had her temper just
like the next person.

“I hurt him by
trying to help him.”

“That’s all
right then. Whatever you did, you did it with the best of
intentions. He’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.”

“I don’t think
so.”

“Okay. What did
you do?”

For the first
time in her life, Bronte knew she couldn’t share a secret with her
best friend. It wasn’t her secret to share. She may have crossed
one line, but she certainly wasn’t going to cross another.

She rubbed
Rosie’s hand.

“He doesn’t
trust me with the truth.”

Rosie scanned
her face with a small smile.

“You care for
him?”

Bronte nodded
then rested her brow on folded arms.

“I more than
care for him.” She raised her head. “I’m in love with him.”

This, she
realised, was the last thing she needed. He was furious with her,
had cut her dead last night when they’d arrived home. It simply
wasn’t in her make-up to have intimacy with a man without a deep
emotional connection.

What on earth
had made her believe she could do it?

What the hell
had she been thinking?

She stood,
paced with jerky steps to the window and back again.

Rosie watched
her with big eyes.

“What am I
going to do?” she demanded, eyes too bright.

Her friend ran
her tongue along the edge of her teeth.

“What I’m about
to say, I say with love. Have you told him about your mother’s
letter? Have you told him about your father, how you’ve found him?
Have you told him about your own personal situation?” Rosie raised
a brow. “By the surprised look on your face, I’ll take that as a
no.”

Stunned, Bronte
stared at her friend.

She’d been full
of hurt, righteous indignation and she’d taken the high ground
about Nico not opening his heart to her, to trust her. But she
didn’t walk the talk, did she? And she’d thought him
judgemental?

“I’m a
hypocrite.”

Rosie made a
face.

“I wouldn’t go
that far.” She got up, opened a cupboard and took out two mugs,
keeping an eye on Bronte.

“You have a lot
to deal with at the moment.” She poured coffee from a pot and
handed the mug to her. “What was going to be a quick tumble in Rome
has turned into something quite different. But you cannot expect
him to trust you if you don’t trust him.”

Bronte took her
coffee to the French doors and stared unseeing into her garden. She
leaned her throbbing head against the window with a feeling of déjà
vu.

“It’s too late
for this. He told me he’ll never marry or have children, but what
if he changes his mind? The chances of me having a family are
virtually zero. And if there’s anyone who desperately needs family,
it’s Nico.”

Jonathan had
rejected her and been quite happy to tell her why. Perhaps he’d
realised that she’d never really loved him, that she’d held a part
of herself back? The physical attraction, Bronte realised, had been
tepid at best. In the beginning when she’d told him there would be
no children, Jonathan said he understood, was supportive, then that
had changed.

What did that
say about her ability to judge the character of another? In the two
years she’d been with him Jonathan had never let her see his
mercenary or philandering side.

Nico she’d
known for days. How could she possibly trust him?

No, she
couldn’t do it.

Rosie watched
her closely.

“I hope you’re
not comparing Nico to Jonathan? Because that’s just insulting. How
can you put every male in the same category?” Annoyance made her
tone sharp and Bronte winced.

“I have no idea
how Nico feels about me.” But she’d put good money on it that at
the moment he wished he’d never laid eyes on her. And even if he
did have feelings for her, it wouldn’t be fair to dump her issues
on top of his own.

Rosie banged
her brow on the table, twice, and raised her head.

“He treats you
like a queen. And if Lucy Bartholomew believes he is and I quote,
smitten, that’s good enough for me. What do want him to do, get
down on one knee?”

The blood
drained from Bronte’s face. Rosie swore in realization of what
she’d just said.

Bronte closed
her eyes. No, she couldn’t do it to him. She couldn’t do it to
herself if he rejected her.

Nico deserved a
future with a woman who could give him the family life he so
desperately needed. He’d been so good with the little Italian boy
in the cafe, she remembered with a pang.

It had been
great while it lasted.

Eyes wide,
Rosie took her hand.

“Bronte, you
know I didn’t mean it like that.”

If there was
one person on earth who was constant and never changed, it was
Rosie.

Bronte
reassured her friend.

“I know you’re
trying to help, but I can’t do it. I need to deal with the future
in my own way and in my own time.”

The Blackberry
pinged.

Nico scrolled
down his messages, another email from Gabriel. For years he had
managed to forget his father and half brother existed, but now
first contact had been made. He still had uncertain feelings about
it, but he’d finally accepted that a long overdue dialogue had
begun.

The anger he
had embraced like a lover on the return journey, was not as bitter
or intense this morning. Gabriel had made it clear that he’d
approached Bronte and not given her any choice but to talk to him.
When Nico felt able to speak to him, Gabriel would be available.
But time was short, their father was fading fast.

There were so
many questions Nico wished he could have asked his mother. She’d
told him his father was a good man, but flawed. His father already
had a wife and child and his mother had been too young to resist
the first flush of passion and affection shown her by a man. Never
a robust woman, she had been plagued by ill health.

His
grandfather’s accusations about his father, that he was a criminal
connected to organised crime were, Gabriel had made clear, a lie.
He might not be a saint, but their father was no crook. Nico
wondered if anything his grandfather had said was true.

Bronte’s words
buzzed around his mind like mosquitoes.

She was right.
Unsaid words bred anger, mistrust and pain.

Nico groaned
into his hands. And he had treated her in an appalling fashion.

He should have
brought her home instead of indulging himself and showing her a
good time. Bronte should never have become involved.

He had laid the
blame, even taken his anger out on her. That was a mistake. Meeting
her had been a mistake. His life was simple and uncomplicated
before she entered it.

Nico dragged
his hands through his hair and gave up.

Who the hell
was he kidding?

He couldn’t
sleep if she wasn’t in his bed. When he closed his eyes she was
there. He could smell her, feel that smooth skin and hear those
soft sighs as he loved her. The taste of her drove him wild.

His heart
thundered in his chest and he rubbed the spot with the flat of his
hand. His stomach felt as if a hard fist had plunged into it.
Perspiration beaded on his top lip.

He loved
her.

A heady mix of
panic, fury and delirious happiness surged through his system. He
stood, paced to the door of his suite and back again. Oh God, he
was in love with her. What was he going to do? How could this have
happened? A man did not fall in love with a woman within days. Did
he?

He sank to the
couch, stared at the wall.

The things he’d
said to her, how he didn’t do commitment, marriage or children,
brought a flush to his cheeks. He was a fool. Frustrated annoyance
brought him to his feet to pace. How was he going to make her love
him? But then, when had he ever failed to get what he wanted or
needed? Words would be useless with Bronte he realised as he
continued to pace.

She’d never
believe him, not after what Jonathan had done to her. He needed to
show her he loved her rather than tell her. Actions spoke louder
and meant more, much more. He’d find other premises for her
business and would live with her at The Dower House.

Nico picked up
the phone.

The tangle of nerves in
Bronte’s stomach tied themselves into a tight knot as the car Nico
had sent for her joined the queue to drop her off at the entrance
to Ludlow Hall.

She told
herself it wasn’t disappointment but relief she was feeling that he
hadn’t come in person to take her to the Ball.

There was
plenty to be thankful for in her life. The dinner in London last
night with her father had been wonderful. Of course, she could have
done without the gossip columns this morning speculating on why
Carl Terlezki was wining and dining a woman young enough to be his
daughter. If they only knew. Her father's phone call this morning
made her feel better. The truth would come out in due course, but
not until Alexander had returned, met Carl and they came up with a
plan on how to handle it.

Then she saw Nico
waiting for her at the entrance to Ludlow Hall.

He looked
fabulous in black Armani.

Her mouth dried
with nerves and Bronte ordered herself to remain calm.

Nico opened the
car door and took her hand. His eyes, grey and intense, studied her
features as if he hadn’t seen her in a year rather than almost two
days.

“Thank you for
coming. You look spectacular this evening.”

His deep voice
brought her out in goose bumps.

He brought her
fingers to his lips and she felt the little hum in her system.

If the look in
his eyes was anything to go by the Elie Saab gown was a hit. Shame
she could care less.

Well, at least
he was being polite and for that she was grateful.

He certainly
looked dark and dangerous in his tuxedo.

The key to
getting through the evening, she’d decided, was to play it cool.
Keep the mood light and show him there were no hard feelings and
agree to draw a line under the whole thing. His hand on the small
of her back pulsed heat through her veins.

They walked
into the ballroom and Nico kept his fingers on her elbow.

He snagged a
couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed her
one.

“Thank you.”
She kept her voice steady and the tone friendly, desperately
telling herself she could do this.

Her eyes
scanned the room.

The usual
suspects, as she thought of them, were all here and dressed up like
peacocks.

Among them were
the great and the good of the county, heads of business, the local
MP and his wife.

Rosie whirled
past with a beaming young man. She winked at Bronte and sent a cool
look to Nico who cleared his throat at her side.

He took her
glass, placed it on a table with his and turned to her.

In a smooth
move as the tune changed Nico slid Bronte into his arms, swaying in
time to the music.

He studied her
face.

His hand
pressed on her lower back but she resisted his attempt to pull her
close.

“We need to
talk about what happened in Rome.”

Her eyes
flicked to his before she concentrated on his chin.

“There’s
nothing to talk about. You were correct. Your life has nothing to
do with me.”

The cool tone
with the polite delivery told him he was not forgiven.

She held
herself stiff in his arms.

“I want you in
my life.” The words were said before he realised it and this time
she met his gaze. Her green eyes remained steady on his.

Nico thought he
read regret and something else he couldn’t quite define.

“You can’t have
everything you want.”

“
Si,
I
know this, but I am trying to apologise.” It was a unique feeling
and not altogether pleasant. Neither was the feeling of
desperation. Couldn’t she see he was serious? Confused and wrong
footed, he tried again. “I am sorry,
cara mia
, for my
behaviour.”

Bronte blinked
twice and gave a little shrug of her slim shoulders.

“Apology
accepted. But as you said, it isn’t any of my business.”

He trailed a
finger down her neck.

She didn’t
shiver or tremble this time, he noticed with a small frown.

Her vivid green
eyes were difficult to read tonight and although she smiled, it
appeared remote.

“I see you’ve
hit the headlines.” Her little jerk in his arms had him look at her
carefully.

“He’s an old
family friend,” she told him as heat flared in her cheeks.

She held
herself too stiff in his arms now.

Strain darkened
those fabulous eyes.

“I know,” he
said, trying to work out what the hell was wrong with her.
“Alexander told me.”

She appeared to
be riveted by his tie.

Anxiety warred
with fear, a rare emotion for him. Together, they marched up his
spine. They needed to clear the air, he told himself. What he
wanted, needed, to do was to kiss her senseless, but instinct
warned him that it was neither the time nor the place.

The music
finished and Bronte tugged her hand, but he held it firm.

“Oh God, look
who’s here.” He caught Rosie’s mutter to Bronte.

He turned as a
tall fair haired man approached with his arm around a pregnant
blonde.

The atmosphere
around them hummed with latent hostility and Bronte’s nervous
strain. Her grip on his hand tightened convulsively and he looked
at her.

Her face was
deathly pale now, but it was her eyes that ripped his heart in two.
They were filled with despair, pain and longing. She blinked and
the look had gone, but her grip almost stopped the circulation to
his fingers.