Women like Bella were not made for marriage. They were made to be admired and desired. Made to be bedded, not wedded. As for children...clearly Bella had never felt the urge to reproduce. Yet she could have, if she’d wanted to. A lot of celebrity women had babies outside marriage. No, clearly Bella wasn’t interested in that kind of commitment. Sergio wasn’t surprised, given she’d been raised by a woman whose ambition for her daughter to become rich and famous had been nothing short of obsessive. Sergio believed Dolores had only married his father so that he could pay for her daughter’s tuition in singing and dancing. She’d seduced the Italian widower when he had been lonely and vulnerable, then trapped him into marriage with a supposed pregnancy that had miraculously disappeared as soon as the ring had been on her finger. Sergio could not prove that she’d never been pregnant at all, but he’d always suspected. When she’d asked for a divorce as soon as Bella’s career had taken off, his suspicions had been confirmed. Not that he’d said as much to his father. The poor man had been shattered, having truly loved Dolores. And Bella as well.
Sergio didn’t blame Bella entirely for what she’d become. Stage mothers were notorious for producing damaged children. And Bella was definitely damaged. Why else would she become involved with a succession of men whose reputations preceded them and who would never make her happy? It galled Sergio that Bella lived her life like one long reality show, played out in front of the media, allowing herself to be paraded in front of the paparazzi by men who were more interested in her as a trophy than a person.
And who are you to judge, Sergio? his conscience reminded him quite savagely. She’s no longer a person to you either. She hasn’t been, not since the night of her sixteenth birthday party. That was the night she became your object of desire, a desire so strong that nothing, not time or distance, or having another woman in your bed, can totally obliterate it. You think you care about her? That’s a laugh.
His phone ringing at that precise moment sent his heart leaping into his mouth. Snatching it out of his pocket, Sergio didn’t even bother to look at the caller ID.
‘Yes?’ he said somewhat brusquely.
‘Alex here, mate. Sorry, but we’re stuck in traffic. Going to be a bit late.’
‘Damn it all, Alex,’ Sergio snapped, frustrated that it wasn’t Bella calling him back. ‘The reason I bought a place at Canary Wharf was because it was supposedly close to everything.’ And also because the tower that housed his luxury apartment had a heated pool, a fantastic gym and a top-class restaurant.
‘Yeah, well, Thursday night, you know. And Jeremy was pathetically slow getting dressed. Look, we shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. Go sit at the table and have a drink till we get there. You sound like you need one.’
Sergio sighed. ‘You could be right.’
‘Anything wrong?’
‘Not really. Just a bit tired.’ He might have told them about Bella’s call if he’d known what it was about. But he didn’t, damn it all. Maybe he’d never know. Maybe she’d never ring back. Hell, he wasn’t sure if he could stand that.
‘Well, it’s been a big day,’ Alex said. ‘But a great one. You are one incredible negotiator, buddy. Now go relax with a whisky, and we’ll be there soon.’
BELLA DIDN’T STOP shaking for a good five minutes after she’d hung up. Even then her heart was still racing, her mouth dry, her head whirling. Never in her life had she ever had a full-blown panic attack. But she knew all about them, a colleague of hers suffering from severe panic attacks before opening nights. Bella knew all the symptoms. She’d just never experienced them personally.
Admittedly, she’d been a bit nervous before ringing Sergio, but that was only natural. She still felt guilty over the way her mother had treated his father. If she was strictly honest with herself, she didn’t feel she had the right to ask Sergio for help. Not after what her mother had done. If anyone was to blame for that panic attack, it was her mother!
Bella hadn’t found out till the middle of last year just how badly her mother had treated Sergio’s father, Dolores admitting one night whilst supposedly giving her daughter advice about men and marriage that she herself had used a pretend pregnancy to trap her Italian boss into marrying her; that she’d never really loved the man; that she’d been willing to do anything to secure the financial support she’d needed to make her daughter into a star. Her earlier claim that she’d asked for a divorce because her husband no longer loved her had been a lie.
Bella had been so appalled by her mother’s cold-blooded confessions that she’d felt compelled to seek out the man whom she’d once affectionately called Papa and apologise. Tracking him down had proved difficult—there was no mention of him on the internet—but she’d finally managed with the help of a private investigator, only to discover Alberto was close to death in a Milan hospital. Guilt had seen her dropping everything and flying over to Milan, determined to tell him in person that she always remembered him with great fondness and that she really appreciated all he’d done for her.
By the time she’d arrived at the hospital, however, he’d already died. So she’d gone to his funeral instead. In disguise, of course. She hadn’t wanted to cause the family—especially Sergio—any embarrassment, knowing that if the paparazzi recognised her, then the service could turn into a three-ring circus.
It had been one of the most difficult days of her life, sitting all by herself in that huge cold cathedral, silently witnessing Sergio’s palpable grief and wondering if her mother was indirectly guilty of his father’s death. It was often said that stress could cause cancer. And clearly, Dolores had given Alberto Morelli loads of stress and unhappiness during the eight years their marriage had lasted.
Yet he’d never shown that unhappiness around her. He’d been very good to her, sweet and kind, as had Sergio, who’d been a wonderful big brother, always willing to listen to her sing, or watch her dance. Looking back, she realised he’d been amazingly patient with her, not a virtue one often associated with teenage boys. Sergio had only been fifteen when her mother had married his father, she a rather silly and very precocious ten-year-old. He’d been a quiet boy, rather reserved in personality but awfully clever. And surprisingly good at sport. They’d often played basketball together in the backyard when he’d wanted a break from his studies.
She’d missed him terribly when he’d been sent away to a university in Rome, his father not wanting him to forget his Italian roots. She’d been thirteen at the time, a very skinny thirteen, the only girl in her class not to have hit puberty. She’d only seen Sergio three times a year after that, at Easter and Christmas when he’d flown back to Sydney for a few days, then for the two weeks during July when the family had holidayed at the family villa on Lake Como.
Oh, how she’d loved those holidays! What fun the two of them had had together, swimming and boating and just generally larking around.
Not the last time, though, she recalled, Sergio spending most of his time in his room, studying for his final exams. By the following year, their parents had already separated, Sergio had gone to Oxford for further studies and she’d been on her way to Broadway, and stardom. Their relationship—which she’d imagined had been close—had suddenly no longer existed. She’d missed her big brother at first but soon she’d been consumed by her career and the attention that went with it. Out of sight had eventually been out of mind.
They’d