Because to Giancarlo she was a commodity. She was his mistress and he paid the bills. He brought her to Paris and in return she provided sex on tap. It was temporary and it meant nothing. Nothing.
He had spoken of reputation, but he had missed the point somewhere along the way. Because with one stroke he had managed to both save and ruin her reputation. Yes, he had ensured she didn’t have to return to Cornwall after being sacked for suspected theft—but he had persuaded her to enter into a liaison which made a mockery of all the things she believed in. Her idealistic dreams of love and fidelity had been smashed.
She had learnt that if a woman provided good sex to a rich man she was rewarded with clothes costing tens of thousands of pounds. That had been the price she’d been paid for the loss of her innocence—and maybe the cost was too high. An adventure in London had become nothing but a sordid affair—and the sooner she left it all behind, the better.
But afterwards she half wished that she had just gone ahead and let him buy her the coat because it ruined the rest of the trip—and, in a way, it ruined their goodbye.
Countless times she had played out in her head what he might say. What she might say to him when the moment of departure came. Prior to the ugly scene in the Parisian shop, she had allowed herself to pretend that he might just tip her chin and look deep into her eyes and ask her if she would consider staying until spring…
But none of that happened. The train journey back from France was mainly silent and this time they drank no champagne. Cassie felt flat and empty as his car drove them back from the station and Giancarlo disappeared to his office the moment they arrived home.
Home.
Had she taken complete leave of her senses? This felt nothing like home. It was just a tall, city mansion inhabited by a man who saw what he wanted and ruthlessly went out and took it. Maybe it was because the woman he had loved had dumped him for his twin brother but—whatever the reason—he would never change. Why should he?
She booked her ticket back to Cornwall without telling him and when he arrived back from work she told him that she was catching the train first thing in the morning.
‘That soon?’
Cassie hesitated. ‘Well, yes. I…think it’s best, don’t you?’
He studied her face and, eventually, nodded. ‘Maybe it is. But you don’t have to travel by train, bella—my driver will take you.’
‘It’s very kind of you,’ she said stiffly, ‘but I’d prefer the train.’
‘Why?’
Was he entirely lacking in comprehension? Couldn’t he see it from her point of view? Of course he couldn’t. Giancarlo had been hurt and betrayed once in his life and, since that day, he had been building higher and higher barriers around his heart. He didn’t let anyone inside them—and maybe they’d grown so high that he couldn’t see the outside world with any degree of clarity.
‘It’s a small village,’ she explained awkwardly. ‘And people will gossip if I turn up in a big, chauffeur-driven limousine.’
With a stab of guilt, Giancarlo registered the whiteness of her face and the blue shadowing the delicate skin beneath her eyes. And in that moment he recognised that something had changed. He found himself regretting the bitter words they had spoken in Paris—but perhaps they had been inevitable. The smooth, sophisticated farewell he had wanted had been nothing but wishful thinking—because he had suspected for days now that she was reading more into the affair than he had ever intended.
But he would give her a night to remember. So that one day she would be able to look back and remember how good it had been. She would appreciate all that he had taught her—and her future husband would benefit from him having made her an exemplary lover.
‘Okay, it is agreed—you will go by train. And now stop frowning, mia bella, and come upstairs with me. I want to make love to you—and I want it very badly.’
‘But it’s only seven.’
‘I know it is.’
‘And Gina will be preparing dinner.’
‘I have given Gina the evening off.’
‘Oh? And why would that be?’
‘Because I want you on my own,’ he growled.
Cassie felt pride warring with desire and desire won hands down. Sliding her arms around his neck, she lifted her face to be kissed and silently forgave him. He hadn’t broken any promises. Maybe she should commend him for that. He’d never filled her heart with false hopes—and if that heart was feeling wounded it was her fault for not having heeded his words. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ she whispered.
The night which followed was bittersweet—the sex sublime—but Cassie found the hours between dawn and daybreak unbearably poignant as Giancarlo slept by her side and she stared wide-eyed at the moon-dappled ceiling. This is the last time I will lie here listening to his breathing, she thought, gently touching her fingertips to the rhythmical rise and fall of his powerful chest. Never again will I waken to the soft seduction of his kiss or to feel his limbs entwined with mine. Some day I may sleep with another man and make love with another man—but it won’t be Giancarlo.
Next morning, she picked at a breakfast she didn’t want and Giancarlo walked her to the door, kissing her one last time before putting her into the car with her single suitcase. She had told him to take all the clothes he’d bought her to the charity shop—and his face had darkened as he had demanded to know why. Falteringly she’d told him that there would be nowhere to wear them back in Trevone—and how on earth could she explain to her mother that she happened to have acquired a whole heap of designer clothes on a shop assistant’s salary?
But just before he closed the car door, Giancarlo leaned inside and placed a turquoise box tied with a white ribbon into her hand. Cassie stared down at it.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a present.’ His lips curved in gentle mockery. ‘Don’t you know that this is the time of year for giving?’
‘But I haven’t got anything for you.’
For a moment he hesitated as a mixture of guilt and desire heated his blood, thinking that she had given him the greatest gift a woman could give a man—her purity and her innocence. ‘You’ve been the best present a man could ever want, cara,’ he said softly. ‘Just don’t open yours until Christmas morning.’
The car pulled away from the kerb and automatically Cassie found her fingers closing tightly around the box—as if wanting to treasure it as the last thing he had touched. And it was only when they were safely away from the elegant crescent and the possibility of being seen that she allowed the tears to fall.
CASSIE couldn’t wait until Christmas morning to open Giancarlo’s present. The turquoise box burned a hole in her pocket all during the long train journey back to Cornwall—when the carriage was all noisy with revellers going home for the holidays.
Was it her imagination or did everyone seem happy and smiling and filled with hope and expectation? Was it only her who felt as if someone had squeezed her heart very tightly and left it all bruised and hurt?
She felt a fraud as she greeted her mother with a big hug—as if she’d changed beyond all recognition while she’d been away. And that the person who laughed and admired their ancient little silver Christmas tree was an imposter; the real Cassie far away in the remembered bliss of a cynic’s embrace.
She tried her best to get