Clare Connelly - Bound By The Billionaire's Vows

It was everything he’d wanted. He’d come to accept that he would never get the hotel back—not once Skye had learned the truth. And here she was, offering it to him on a silver platter just to be rid of him.

Was that it? Was his pride wounded by her desperation to be free of their marriage? Was that why he wanted to rail against her insistence? To remind her of what they’d shared—physically—one last time?

His eyes dropped to the divorce papers and then lifted with a heavy grimness towards her face. ‘Fine. If that’s what you want.’

‘I never want to see you again.’

* * *

The heat of Venice slapped her in the face as soon as she stepped out of his office. It was early afternoon and the city was packed. Workers were jostling along the street, tourists were busy taking photographs and Skye was in the midst of them, surprise at what she’d just accomplished moving through her.

She took a step towards the crowds, her mind numb. What now?

Her breath was shallow.

Shock, she supposed, reaching for a pillar to support her. Stars flew in her eyes and heat spread through her body followed by weakness and an odd, soul-deep exhaustion.

It was over.

She was free.

Her hand pressed to her stomach and another wave of tiredness hit her. She didn’t want anything to do with Matteo, but she was going to raise their baby. Could she do it and never think of him?

She’d have to. Matteo was in her past and this baby was her future.

The baby was all that mattered.

She sucked in a breath, but it didn’t seem to reach her lungs.

‘Eh, you okay, miss?’

A kindly gondola operator lifted his brows, waiting for an answer, so she nodded, even though she wasn’t sure she was. ‘Just hot,’ she said, fanning her face.

But the simple, tiny exertion of moving her hand up and down was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Darkness enveloped her.

CHAPTER TWO

MATTEO WASN’T LOOKING out of the window in the hope of seeing her. He’d simply been standing and staring in that direction ever since she’d left. Really, he was barely aware of the flow of traffic in and out along the busy tourist strip.

He saw Skye.

The anguish on her features.

The pain of her heart that she wore so visibly.

He’d used her, and that hadn’t bothered him. Causing pain to her had been something he’d been more than willing to gamble. It was her own father’s fault—if Skye was hurt, it was because of Carey Johnson’s intractable bull-headedness.

But he hadn’t banked on witnessing her pain. He hadn’t enjoyed that. He was a driven businessman, not an out-and-out bastard. Witnessing the tears gliding down her soft, pale cheeks, the accusation in her eyes...he hadn’t been prepared for how that would gut him. How it would make him feel unpleasantly remorseful, even when he knew he would make all the same decisions over again, given the chance.

He lifted his fingers to his chin, rubbing the stubble there, before a commotion dragged his attention down to ground level.

It was the pastel yellow of her dress that caught his eye first. The way it seemed to crumple as she fell, her body, slender and unmistakable, toppling backwards. She fell as she did everything—with grace.

It was the work of a moment. Skye was collapsing, then she was dropping over the edge of the railing into the murky, germ-infested waters of Venice. Had he stayed still a little longer, he would have seen the moment her head cracked against the side of a gondola.

But he didn’t.

Adrenalin galvanised him.

Matteo ran from his office faster than he’d known was possible, tearing through the foyer and bursting onto the footpath just as a gondola operator in his distinctive black-and-white-striped shirt dived into the water. The dress made her easy to spot. Though Matteo could see the boatswain had wrapped an arm around her waist, he couldn’t stand idly by. Instincts alone drove his actions. A gentle ribbon of blood swirled through the water; he dove through it.

‘Is she breathing?’ Matteo pulled Skye to him, holding her as he swam to the edge of the canal. A crowd had formed and someone held their hands down, urging Matteo to lift her out. He passed her body up, then climbed out himself.

She was so peaceful. As though she were asleep.

More blood.

It seeped onto the pavement beneath her head and he gently fingered her scalp, a grim line on his mouth. ‘Call a water ambulance,’ he demanded, used to being obeyed and not doubting for one second that someone would do as he’d commanded.

‘One is on its way,’ someone replied.

Thank God. He crouched down beside her, running a hand over her face. ‘You’re okay, cara. You’re going to be fine.’

He had the vague impression of the gondola operator being helped out of the water, but his entire focus was on Skye. He spoke to her softly in his own language, urging her to wake up, not to worry, to trust him, knowing that if she’d been awake she’d have thrown that invitation back in his face.

It was only minutes before the scream of a water ambulance heralded its arrival, but it felt like a lot longer as Matteo stared down at her ashen face and wondered just what the hell had happened to make her fall into the filthy waters of Venice. The water ambulance pulled to a hasty stop beside them and two men began to call orders to the crowd. They climbed up nearby steps and ran to Skye, lifting her onto a flimsy backboard.

‘You’re with her?’ one of them asked Matteo.

He nodded. ‘I’m her...husband.’

‘You can come, then.’

He could have laughed at the medic’s apparent belief that he had any say in Matteo Vin Santo’s actions. Matteo paused for the briefest moment, just long enough to toss a thick pile of soggy bank notes at the gondola operator with a quick word of thanks, and then he followed behind.

The speedboat, bright yellow and sleek, accommodated Skye on a bed, and he watched her as the boat made its way speedily through Venice.

Only twice during the trip did her eyes open, and both times she looked at him with a mixture of confusion and non-comprehension.

The boat pulled up at the ospedale dock and there was a medical team waiting.

It all happened so quickly. She was admitted after a cursory examination, and there was enough concern on the nurse’s face to make Matteo wonder if she was gravely ill.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, once she was ensconced in her own room.

No one answered. They were all busy working, checking her vital signs, rolling her onto her side and inspecting her head, checking for the damage that was causing the bleeding. A nurse drew several vials of blood and raced them from the room.

And then he was waiting, standing beside her bed, wondering what had happened, wondering if she’d be okay.

After an interminable time, a woman in a white coat entered the room and moved towards Matteo, her smile reassuring. ‘She is your wife?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’ The word was hardened by years of being in command. Of calling the shots and asking the questions. ‘How is she?’

‘She’s had a bump to the head, but it doesn’t look too serious. Unfortunately, the tests we’d usually run to be sure are obviously impossible at the moment. She may be a little groggy when she wakes, possibly for a day or so. I don’t anticipate any other complications, though.’

None of her words eased Matteo’s concern. ‘What happened to her?’

‘My guess would be that she passed out. It’s not unusual, in her condition. The heat of the day wouldn’t have helped—’

‘Wait a moment,’ he said, lifting a hand to stop her. ‘What condition?’

The doctor pulled a face. ‘You don’t know?’