He shook his head, wondering at the insanity that had driven his actions then, knowing he should know better now. For it had to be a form of insanity to be contemplating what he was doing, to be undertaking what he was doing.
Even now he’d primed Gabriella perfectly; she was still thinking about Venice even though he’d said nothing to encourage her after that first exchange. Even now she was still thinking it through, working out the angles, making it possible in her own mind, making it her own decision.
Even now it could still happen—and he could get her to Venice and clear of Paris before the news of Consuelo’s inevitable arrest broke. For Consuelo would be arrested, nothing was surer.
But right now, looking into Gabriella’s eyes flickering brandy-gold in the lamplight, he wasn’t so sure of anything else. The way she looked at him …
She wasn’t the girl she had once been. She was a woman now, and his body was reacting the way a man’s body did to a woman he desired.
He shook his head, trying to dispel those images. ‘You were no doubt better off without me.’ As you would be now.
She reached over, took his hands in hers. ‘I’m sorry. How about we make a deal? How about we don’t think about the past? Maybe it’s time we let it go. You yourself toasted to a new beginning, so can’t we just leave it at that? Can we let the past go and start again?’
If only it were that easy!
His past was him. It was his past that had made him, shaped him and moulded him, even broken him along the way. It had made him who he was now.
How could he let that go without losing himself, without losing who he was now?
He didn’t know how.
He wouldn’t know where to begin.
And, promise or no promise, suddenly he couldn’t do this—not to himself and definitely not to her. It was suddenly too hot, the air like poison as the walls of the bistro closed in on him. He knew he had to get outside into the fresh air, into a world where he could disappear and be alone and where she would be safe from him.
‘Are you finished?’ he asked, already standing, his voice like gravel as he threw some notes onto the table.
She blinked up at him in surprise, grabbing her coat as he moved like a dark cloud past her out of the restaurant and into the night.
It was raining, the lamps along the Seine throwing jagged zigzags of colour sliding along the wet pavement and across the dark water. ‘Raoul,’ she said, as she skipped to keep up with his long stride. ‘What’s wrong? What did I say?’
‘It is nothing you have said, nothing you have done.’
‘Then, what?’
‘It is me, Gabriella.’ It stung like a slap to her face that he had dropped the use of Bella, dropped the endearment. ‘You are better off without me.’
‘No, Raoul, how can you say that?’
‘Because I know! You were right to decide not to come with me.’
He hailed a taxi and bundled her and she thought he would follow until he rattled off her address and made to close the door. She threw out her hand against the door to stop him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Sending you home. Good bye, Gabriella.’
She shoved open the door and stood up to him, face to face, the door—and a world, it seemed—between them. ‘No. Not until I know when I will see you again.’
‘You do not want to see me again.’
‘Don’t tell me what I want!’ There was a spark in her eyes he hadn’t seen before, a hint of rebellion about that sharp chin he hadn’t seen since she was a child. Not that it would do her any good.
The driver uttered a few impatient words and she turned and let go with a torrent of French of her own before she turned back. ‘I don’t want to wait another twelve years to see you again, and I damn well won’t.’
‘Who can say how long it will be?’
‘So, what time do you leave? We could still meet for lunch if it’s late enough.’
‘No.’
‘Then maybe breakfast at your hotel?’
‘That is not possible. I leave mid-morning.’
‘Can’t you change it?’
‘I told you, I have business to attend to.’
‘And it cannot wait?’
‘No.’
Infuriating! He was like a mountain made out of a single piece of solid granite, She could pound her fists against his chest except she knew he would not feel a thing. ‘Then maybe I was too hasty before. Maybe I could come with you after all, even just for a day or two. Like you say, the library will not expect me back immediately.’
‘I’m sorry, Gabriella, but I was too hasty with my invitation. I should have realised it would not work.’
‘But you asked me. Why would you do that? Why would you ask and then change your mind?’
‘Because it is pointless! Because I cannot do this—please do not try to make me.’
‘For God’s sake, Raoul, you blast into my life after a twelve-year absence and then you disappear before we’ve had a chance to get to know each other again. Can’t you at least offer me something?
‘But I am, Bella—I am offering you your freedom. Treasure it.’
And he turned and strode off into the wet, dark Paris night.
She watched him go, wishing she could run after him, knowing it would be a mistake. But what had he meant about offering her her freedom? Why should she treasure it?
Why couldn’t he at least have explained what he meant?
He dreamed of Katia that night, Katia emerging from the mist with all her grace and long, lithe limbs, her dancer’s eyes and beckoning smile. He dreamed of parties floating on a champagne cloud; he dreamed of laughter, dancing and sex that went long into the night and the following day, and then doing it all again the next. Until the mist turned dark and putrid and a mocking smile became a call for help, became a scream, and he tried to make his feet move, tried to run …
He woke to a pounding heart, covered in sweat and tangled in sheets. It took seconds to realise the pounding was coming from the door and not only from his chest. Thank God! He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, snatching up his watch and throwing it back when he saw the time and realised it had taken him so long to get to sleep last night that he’d slept later than he’d intended. It was room service, no doubt, with his breakfast order, although why they had to make such a God-awful noise …
He called out that he was coming and lashed a towel around his hips, pulling open the door in the same movement. But it was Gabriella who fell into his arms, tear-streaked and brandishing a newspaper in one hand, and it took him a moment to remember, to work out how she’d found him. ‘Raoul, I’m sorry,’ she sobbed, clinging to him. ‘I’m so sorry. I know you’ll be angry with me, but I didn’t know who else to turn to.’
He put a tentative hand to her head, trying not to think too much about the push of her breasts again his chest or the fact his early-morning body had reversed its decision to relax. Hating himself that it had. ‘What is it, Gabriella?’ he asked gruffly, shifting slightly and still feeling a building sizzle of satisfaction in his veins, already half-knowing