She knew she should encourage him to talk, the way he had encouraged her. She also knew getting past the hellhound that guarded his innermost thoughts would be a Herculean task. But it was the least a friend could do. The least a lover would do.
And that was the dilemma that she was going to have to face. What was she to him? What was he to her? And even if she worked that out, what future was there for two people who lived thousands of miles apart? He might say he wanted her to stay on, but even if she stayed a few extra days—assuming she could negotiate that with her boss—what was going to happen at the end? How horrible if he suddenly tired of her and she felt she’d overstayed her welcome, like the last guest at a party.
Distance was be the one thing that would give her clarity. Of course she wanted to stay on—he was addictive, this life was heavenly—but it was all part of the ten-year fuse that had been lit when they’d first met. And she didn’t want to be blown to pieces once it finally exploded. She’d have to have this conversation with him. And before too much longer.
Her phone vibrated in her hand. Another message from Mark … another photograph. This time there was no mistake. Bride and groom. She dragged on the photo to enlarge it. The girl was beautiful, but with Danny that was nothing new. Whoever she was, and whatever she had, she’d hooked him. Danny looked … awestruck.
Wow. She had to show this to Rocco. Had to share her news.
She swung her legs out of bed, reached for a shirt and set off to find him along the cool, tiled hallway. At the far end she could see the eerie green glow from the courtyard pool. On the other side, the TV room was lit up, the flickering glare of the television screen sending lights and shadows dancing.
She took the long way—through the house rather than across the little bridge. The glass walls reflected light and made it hard to see anything.
But what she did see wounded her more than any torn lip.
He was sitting on a low couch, facing the screen. The light licked at the naked muscled planes of his body. One arm rested on the armrest of the couch, a whiskey tumbler full of liquor caught in his hand, and the other held something small, square—it had to be the photograph. He was staring at it, unsmiling, as a sitcom she recognised played out on the screen.
Parallel to the room, across the courtyard, separated from him by the illuminated water, the bridge and all that glass, she watched him. He didn’t move. Not a single muscle flickered with life. He sat as if cast in marble.
Finally he lifted the glass to his lips and sank a gulp of whiskey.
She didn’t need any close-up to see that he was upset. Her heart ached for him.
Through the glass rooms she went until she came alongside the doorway. She stood still.
‘Rocco,’ she said softly.
He knew she was there. She felt his sigh seep out into the room. He blinked and dipped his head in acknowledgement, then finally lifted his arm in a gesture she knew was an invitation to join him.
She moved, needing no further encouragement, and slid onto the couch, under his arm. He closed it round her and she laid her head on his chest.
His body was warm. He was always warm. She rubbed her face against him, absorbing him, scenting the faint odour of his soap and his sweat. The powerful fumes from the whiskey.
He lifted the tumbler to his lips and drank. Less than earlier, but still enough for her to hear the harsh gulp in his throat as he swallowed. He put the glass down on the edge of the armrest and sat back, continued to hold her in the silence of the night.
‘I woke up. My phone’s been going off.’
He took another silent sip.
She spoke into his chest. ‘Looks as though Danny got married. In Dubai. Mark sent some pictures that are in the news over there. He says no one had any idea. Mum’s in a state.’
‘He’s a big boy,’ said Rocco.
What could she say to that? He was right. There was no way anyone would have hoodwinked Danny. He was far too smart.
‘I know, but I kind of wish he’d told us.’
‘What difference would it have made? Would you have gone?’
She shrugged her shoulders, incarcerated under his arm.
‘I might.’
The silence bled again. He took another sip.
‘Are you planning on sharing that whiskey?’
‘You want to drink to the happy couple?’
It wasn’t a snarl, but it wasn’t an invitation to celebrate, either. She pushed up from him but he didn’t look at her. His face, trained now on the television screen, was harsh, blank.
She reached out her fingers, gingerly threaded them through his fringe, softly swept it back from his brow.
‘I want you to be happy, Rocco.’
It was barely audible, but it was honest. Shockingly honest. And when he turned his hurt-hazed eyes to hers she began to realise how much she meant it.
‘Come on. Come back to bed,’ she said—as much a plea as an order.
She stood, reached for the tumbler, tried to take it out of his hand. And then her eyes fell on the leather-framed photo that he held in his other hand. He turned it then. Turned it round so that the plump-cheeked infant was staring up at him. He looked at it and his bleak, wintry gaze almost felled her. Then he turned it face down, lifted the glass and tipped his head back to drain the dregs.
‘Come on, Rocco. Please.’
He held his eyes closed as he breathed in, soul deep, then opened them and stared blankly at the screen.
Frankie turned to see the characters’ slapstick antics. They were trying to move a couch up a flight of narrow stairs—a scene she’d seen countless times before and one that always made her laugh. But not this time. Not in the face of all this unnamed pain.
She turned back to see the coal-black eyes trained back on the photograph.
‘If you want to talk or tell me anything …? God, Rocco, I hate to see you like this.’
‘Go back to bed, then.’
She swallowed that. It was hard. It would be hard hearing it from anyone. But from a man of his strength, his intensity, his power—a man who meant as much to her as he did …
‘Not unless you come with me.’
He lifted the empty glass to his lips, sucked air and the few droplets of whiskey that were left. Like a nonchalant cowboy before he went back on the range.
‘As much as you tempt me, I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,’ he said, glancing at the bottle on the bar to one side of the huge television.
She stood right in front of him, deliberately blocking his view of the silently flickering screen and the half bottle of whiskey that was just out of reach.
‘Why not, Rocco? Why not talk or make love or even just hold each other?’
He shook his head slightly, made a face. It was as if all his effort was trained into just … being.
‘Right now I don’t trust myself. I don’t want to hurt you again.’
‘What do you mean, again? You didn’t mean to hurt me—you got carried away. We both got carried away. You’ve got something carving you up. Rocco. Let me …’
‘Just give me space, Frankie.’
She