Dani Collins - Modern Romance March 2019 5-8

Her big blue eyes lifted to his. It was all there for him to see: the pain, the grief, the aching sense of loss. He didn’t want to see it but he couldn’t stop looking and listening to her beautifully accented, hushed voice.

‘Only I didn’t know that at the time or I would have...’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Cherished it?’

Her eyes flew wide in acknowledgement.

‘It seems to me you did.’ He could have had moments to cherish but... Jaw clenched, he pushed away the thought, unwilling to allow himself the indulgence of self-pity.

He couldn’t change history; he couldn’t have that day with his brother; he couldn’t be part, even for a short time, of the small family that had been so cruelly ripped apart, but he could be there for Bruno’s son.

What do you know about families? sneered the voice in his head.

He turned a deaf ear to the voice and focused on the memory of that almost visceral rush of protectiveness he had felt when he’d seen the baby. Nothing else really mattered.

‘I miss her and Jamie is missing her, too. I know he is.’ Her glance swivelled to the sleeping baby, perceptibly softening as she did so. ‘He’s her son, not mine.’ Her glance lifted from the baby to briefly touch his lean dark face.

He’s a stranger—why are you telling him this?

Because he is a stranger.

‘Hers and Bruno’s.’ Still looking in the direction of the cot, she didn’t see his reaction to her mention of her brother-in-law’s name, the flicker of pain that crossed his handsome face. ‘I’m trying, but I don’t really think I’m cut out for this. Any of it.’ She had dodged the truth for so long that to say it out loud, to acknowledge it, was a massive relief. ‘I make a terrible mother.’

The confession should, under the circumstances, have been music to his ears. Instead as Ivo looked into those tear-filled, tragic, beautiful eyes he was conscious of a totally alien and dangerous instinct to offer comfort.

He didn’t like the feeling; the effort of combatting it made the muscles round his strong jaw quiver.

Flora’s chest felt tight as she struggled to hold in the sob she could feel building inside her.

She was winning the battle when he touched her face. The shock of the contact melted through her, each subsequent ripple of sensation making her insides dissolve warmly. She wanted to look away but his thumb was lodged in the angle of her jaw, framing her face, his finger on her cheek.

‘It must be tough...alone...’ He silenced the sudden stab of guilt with the reminder that everything he had seen told him that his decision to take Bruno back to Italy was the right one. This woman was drowning under the weight of responsibility, and she’d thank him in the long run. Not that he wanted her thanks, he just wanted Bruno’s son back where he belonged.

‘You are alone...?’

Flora nodded, touched despite herself by his understanding. She had actually never felt more alone in her life.

She blinked. His chest was just there, warm and hard and solid. In her head she saw herself laying her face against his skin, feeling his arms wrap around her, resting just for a moment.

She turned her cheek into his big hand. It was a good fit; his fingers were cool against her skin. It felt like a dream and any moment now she’d wake up.

Did she want to?

Had he stepped in closer? Had she? Flora realised she had no idea but she was breathing hard and feeling light-headed as she stared up into his eyes, the swell of feeling to let go inside her surging upwards... She stepped forward, this time consciously.

The floorboard beneath her feet creaked and she froze, the sound breaking her free of the sexual thrall that had held her a willing victim...and that was the shame of it: she’d been willing. So needy she would have accepted comfort from a total stranger.

Burning with shame, she turned, and with a mumbled, ‘Sorry,’ dashed for the door, picking up a throw from the chair as she went.

After a moment Ivo followed her, closed the door behind him and watched as she wrapped the blanket and her dignity around herself like a protective shield.

‘I have to tell you that I don’t normally—’ She stopped and thought.

I don’t have to tell because he almost certainly doesn’t want to know, and, let’s face it, the man could probably fill a book with things he really doesn’t want to know about you at this point, Flora.

‘Sleep deprivation. Long day. Teething...’

Could you sound more certifiably insane if you tried, Flora? she asked herself in despair.

The last word drew his attention to her teeth, the neat white upper set, which were at that moment gouging a groove in the soft-flesh plumpness of her lower lip.

‘Sexual frustration...?’ It was with something of a relief that Ivo diagnosed his own aberrant behaviour.

She reacted to the slow sibilant suggestion by jerking to attention. ‘Pardon?’ He either didn’t hear the ice in her tone, or didn’t care.

‘Well, it’s got to be tough living all the way out here? Men are pretty scarce, I am assuming? Not what you’re used to. You must miss your old life, the buzz of living in a city, friends, galleries, theatre and...’

She pulled herself up to her full height of five three and glared huffily across at him, too consumed by the battle with her own embarrassment to notice the colour scoring the angle of his high cheekbones. ‘Are you suggesting I was...was... hitting on you? And how do you know I lived in the city?’

One sable brow lifted as he looked into her cobalt-blue eyes. Nothing in his face suggested he was anything other than mildly amused by what had happened.

‘My mistake,’ he drawled.

She screwed up her eyes and glared. ‘I’d have to be a lot more desperate than I am to—’ She stopped, a look of dismay that in other circumstances Ivo might have found amusing spreading across her face. ‘Not that I am desperate, that is...’ She saw his lips twitch and thought, He’s laughing at me.

And you’re surprised?

She opened her mouth and closed it again, remembering the advice her mother had been giving her since she was a little girl with a red-headed temper.

Flora, when you’re in a hole that’s over your head, stop digging!

It was a lesson she still hadn’t learnt.

‘We are not exactly a cultural desert here, you know, and...goodnight, Mr Rocco.’

‘Goodnight, Ms Henderson.’ The heavy, hot desire pooled in his groin suggested this would not be a good night for him.

IVO HAD EVENTUALLY fallen asleep at about four a.m., and when he woke it took him a few moments to realise what was different and then it came to him—it was the absence of noise.

It was totally silent.

The light shining through the edges of the closed blackout blind revealed a room he hadn’t been in any mood to appreciate last night. The colour scheme was pale and soothing, shades of white and grey with splashes of colour in the art on the walls, which looked to be original. Besides the very comfortable and adequate-sized oak platform bed, the furniture was an eclectic mix of old and new. The exposed oak boards looked original and were softened by hand-woven rugs. A massive hand-thrown pot set on a slate washstand was filled with artistically arranged driftwood.

It was all a million miles away from the sleek modernity and uniformity of the professionally staged luxury hotel rooms he usually used as he travelled the world.

But unlike last night, this morning he was able to see the appeal. It was not hard to see why this place was popular, an opinion based not just on the ambience but the financial accounts his grandfather had acquired . It had a lot going for it, but Bruno had made the classic mistake of overextending himself. He’d left very little wriggle room, which meant the moment the unexpected had happened there had been a domino effect.