No, it couldn’t have been love. Infatuation. Lust. When the truth came out he’d had no difficulty walking away from her.
So why did she cross his mind in the dead of night? Why did he catch himself comparing every woman he met with her?
His chest heaved as the answer skirted his mind—an answer that he always ignored, just as he always ignored that old gnawing sense of emptiness when it threatened to yawn away in his soul. Or the skitter that streaked up his spine.
Like now.
“Bella is my responsibility,” he said. “I care for her.”
“That’s cold.”
“That’s reality. Bella resents me.”
She blinked, her clear eyes fixed on his as if she could read his soul. “Why?”
He shifted on the seat, uncomfortable delving into this. Yet what was the use in holding his silence? She would find out soon enough from someone in the village or at the villa. He might as well be the first to break the news.
“Bella thought she was Antonio Cabriotini’s only bastard,” he said simply.
“Antonio Cabriotini?” she parroted.
“Our biological father,” he said, glancing her way to gauge her reaction.
She shook her head and frowned. “I thought your parents were married.”
Such naiveté. “The man who raised me, who gave me his name, was married to my mother but I wasn’t his son. When he found out, he withdrew the closeness I’d always had with him.”
For a moment Delanie couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t wrap her brain around what he was telling her. And then finally she got it with a breathless wham to her midsection.
She finally understood the reason behind those broad tense shoulders attempting a careless shrug, the motion as abrupt as a salute. His illegitimacy was the reason for the pain she caught lurking behind those dark fathomless eyes, pain at having the father he’d loved ripped from him. That was the change in him she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“How long have you known this?” she asked.
“Eight years.”
The words were shot out without feeling, his gaze boring into hers now. Hard. Cold. Defiant.
But she heard the underlying pain in his voice as well. Caught the tiny tick of hurt that snapped like a sail along his taut bronzed cheek.
Her heart gave an odd thud and her hand shifted, a blink away from reaching out to him. She caught herself with a trembling clasp of her own hands.
How wrongly would he take it if she offered compassion? Considering their past, she doubted he would take it well. Yet hadn’t they moved beyond the past pain? Weren’t they old enough and wise enough to understand nothing untoward was meant by it? Now wasn’t the time to dissect it to find out.
“I see,” she said, nerves stretched so tight they hummed.
“Do you?” he asked. “Because I don’t understand how my mama who claimed to have loved my papa could be unfaithful to him. I do not understand why nobody saw fit to tell me the truth until after my parents’ deaths.”
Hearing the anger in his voice, that telling drawl when he told her this, made her insides cramp in an oh-too-familiar pang of understanding. No wonder he had no faith in love. He would never open himself to an emotion he believed caused only pain. And wasn’t she just as guilty of holding back from him? He was right. That was in the past. There was nothing she could say when Marco had never believed her anyway.
“You would likely be surprised by how many families hold dark secrets,” she said, cheeks burning and stomach knotting at the troubled memories of her own childhood.
He snorted. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”
How sad that he had become more jaded. But then, so had she. Wasn’t she afraid to trust? To surrender her heart and soul?
She shifted on the chair while her mind shoved away from that train of thought. “I gather your sister knew of her paternity before you did.”
“By a month or so.” He drove his fingers through his hair, sending the thick waves in disarray.
She caught a breath as an old memory ribboned through her of doing the same to his wealth of dark hair. Of holding him close to her on a sun-kissed beach, laughing with him, kissing him in a slow, deep burn until the world blurred to only them.
Ten years ago she’d been a hopeless dreamer, desperately wanting a hero. Her innocence had convinced her that when she looked deeply into his warm brown eyes she believed her world was complete with him in it.
She shook off those idyllic yesterdays like a cool rain on chilled skin and chanced a glance at him, hoping he wasn’t looking at her in some sort of horror. But he stared off, brow furrowed, clearly troubled by something else.
“Did you know her?” she asked, grasping the thread of their conversation by its tail.
“No. We were strangers coming from vastly different backgrounds which complicated matters more. Since the start Bella has resented that I was named her guardian until she reached twenty-five,” he said, clearly not of the same mind.
Delanie felt a commiserating pang with his sister, knowing how badly she’d ached to break free of her domineering father, hating that she’d waited and waited for her own dawn of independence. “How old is she now?”
“Twenty,” he said, sliding her a knowing look.
The same age she had been when she’d met Marco. Willful. Emotional. And tangled in a wretched triangle with her parents, dreaming of freedom yet unwilling to put her frail mother at risk to grab what she wanted.
“Tell me more about Bella,” she blurted out.
He shrugged, this time the movement less tense. “As I said she’s young. Spoilt. Resentful.”
“Of you?” Delanie guessed.
He laughed, but she caught the pained treble, the hint of worry that had her wanting to leave her seat and go to him. Hug him, comfort him. Sanity prevailed and she didn’t, but it wasn’t easy knowing his elite world wasn’t perfect. And hadn’t she hoped that would be the case? She was suddenly glad for the subdued light on board that hid the heat scorching her cheeks.
“Bella resents me, resents the world,” he said, dark eyes on her again. “She needs a strong hand.”
Of course he would think that! But hearing him admit he was controlling his sister proved her fears long ago were right. Or did they? Was she still using that as an excuse to hold back from giving her all again? From trusting?
She stared at the floor, admitting she’d lost herself in his arms that first time. Basking in the afterglow of love was new. Terrifying.
Still she’d loved Marco. She’d hoped that she was simply mistaken. But the second time they made love was more consuming, more earthshattering to her heart. Her soul.
My dear, I love your father, and he loves me in his own way, her mother had told her as she recuperated from a volatile night spent suffering her father’s anger.
Delanie never forgot that night. Never forgot that love could hurt. That love could strip a woman of her independence. Perhaps even her sanity.
No love was worth that, Delanie had decided.
That realization had kept her from committing fully to Marco again. And wasn’t she right in thinking that in time he would have slipped further into the role of dominator, perhaps even going to the depths her father had