Six years earlier
‘CAN YOU SEE IT, Matteo?’
The newspapers loved to say that Matteo Vin Santo didn’t have a heart, but they were wrong.
Observing his grandfather lying weak and pale against the ordinary hospital bed-sheets was making that very organ clutch and grip painfully. The certainty that the man had only hours left to live was ripping it apart completely.
‘See what, Nonno?’
‘Nonno?’ Alfonso Vin Santo smiled, but his lips were chapped and the pain turned the instinctive gesture into a wince. ‘You haven’t called me that in a long time.’
Matteo didn’t respond. His eyes fell to his grandfather’s hands. Hands that had shaped a corporate empire; hands that had been at the helm during its demise. He looked away, focusing on the uninspiring view of the outskirts of Florence.
‘See the water? You always loved the way the sun bounced off it, no?’
Matteo’s eyes swept shut. Though they were in a linoleum-floored hospital room, he pictured exactly what his grandfather was seeing. The view from the terrace of Il Grande Fortuna, the hotel they’d once owned in Rome, overlooking the Tiber in one direction and the Vatican in the other.
Anger—a familiar response when he thought of the hotel—churned his gut. It was fierce in that moment, so fierce it almost took his breath away.
‘Yes. It’s beautiful.’
‘It is more than beautiful. It is perfect.’ Alfonso sighed and then a ghost flickered across his face. A moment of clarity that brought with it pain. ‘It was my fault.’
‘No, Nonno.’ Matteo didn’t mention that bastard Johnson’s name. There was no need to hurt his grandfather further at the end of his life. But he was the man who was to blame. He was the cause of Alfonso’s sadness now—him and his stubborn refusal to sell the hotel back. A refusal he’d taken with him to the grave.
But Matteo could fix it.
He would fix it.
‘I will get it back for you,’ he said, and the words were spoken with such soft determination that it wasn’t clear if Alfonso had even heard. It didn’t matter, though.
The promise was one Matteo made to himself as much as the old man.
No matter what, no matter how, he would return the hotel to his family.
At any cost.
‘DO YOU HAVE an appointment?’
An appointment? With her own husband? Skye clutched her handbag tighter, thinking of the divorce papers contained within the soft kid-leather. A hint of perspiration ran between her breasts and she shifted uncomfortably. Though the luxurious foyer was well air-conditioned, Skye had been sweltering since touching down at Marco Polo airport earlier that day. Travel weariness, and the exhaustion that had dogged her since walking out on her marriage to Matteo, combined to give her a sense of overwhelming desperation at the task ahead.
‘Signor Vin Santo has a full afternoon. I’m sorry,’ the receptionist murmured, her expression offering no corresponding apology. If anything, it was all manicured smugness.
Skye’s voice was soft when she spoke, weakened by the difficulty of what lay ahead. Divorce was essential—and it had to be now. She’d go to almost any lengths to get Matteo to agree easily. She needed his signature on these papers so she could get the hell out of Italy. Before he discovered the truth. ‘If you tell Matteo I’m here, I’m sure he’ll cancel whatever he has on.’
The receptionist’s disdain was barely concealed. ‘Signorina...?’
Skye’s own smile reflected the other woman’s emotion. It was a common mistake. Skye was only twenty-two and she was often told she looked younger still. The make-up she’d applied painstakingly that morning had sweated off throughout the day, and she stood in the impossibly glamorous offices feeling as out of place as she had been in their marriage. Nonetheless, she had a right to be there. A reason. She tilted her chin, staring down at the receptionist as though this weren’t the culmination of all her nightmares.
‘Signora,’ Skye corrected emphatically. ‘Signora Skye Vin Santo.’
Skye had the satisfaction of seeing the other woman’s mouth form a perfect red ‘o’ of surprise, but she recovered swiftly, reaching for the telephone and lifting it to her ear. Her eyes dropped to Skye’s finger and Skye was glad she’d slipped the ten-carat solitaire back into place for the day. ‘Mi dispiace! I’m so sorry, Mrs Vin Santo,’ the receptionist said, pressing a button and waiting for the phone to connect. ‘I had no idea Signor Vin Santo was married.’
Skye’s nod was dismissive, but the words cut deeply. Why should this woman have known of her boss’s marital status? It wasn’t as though they’d been married long. Skye had walked out on him after just over a month. A month too long.
How had she been so fooled by him even for that period of time? Hell, why had she even married him? That was easy. Out of nowhere, an unwelcome image of Matteo flooded her mind’s eye, reminding her of how he’d been the evening they’d met. In a cocktail suit, so handsome and charming, so intent on seducing her. She’d been so easy to seduce and he’d been so persistent. Fate, she’d told herself at the time. Lies, she’d later discovered. All of it.
She heard the rapid-fire Italian conversation without comprehending. Her eyes were fixed to the view of Venice, a city she’d once adored with all of herself. A city she’d thought she’d spend the rest of her days in. She hardened her heart to its charms now, ignoring the way the gondolas glided past, full of grace and pride; the way the water formed glistening little sunlit peaks and troughs as it was stirred by the activity. She ignored the way the ancient buildings huddled together, singing the secrets of their souls, the way the bridges seemed to emote wisdom and strength. She ignored the dazzling colour of the sky and the birds she could see but not hear—she didn’t need to hear them to remember the way they sounded. The flapping of their wings was the breath sound of Venice.
It was beautiful, but it was no longer for her. Skye spun round, glad to turn her back on the view, even when it meant she was staring at the disdainful receptionist once more. The woman stood—she was taller than Skye had been able to appreciate while seated—and made her way to stand directly in front of Skye.
‘Signor Vin Santo will see you now. Is there something you would like? Some water? A soda?’
Vodka, Skye thought with a wry smile. ‘Mineral water would be good. Thank you,’ she tacked on belatedly. She hadn’t meant to sound rude. Her whole mind was now focused on the job ahead. The most important performance of her life. Getting Matteo to sign the damned papers so she could finally move on—far, far away from him.
‘Certainly, madam. This way.’ The receptionist moved a little ahead of Skye, swishing her hips as she went, and Skye felt a momentary jab of envy for the other woman’s curves. Skye had always been slim,