Modern Romance August 2019 Books 5-8. Trish Morey
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settlement I will make you a very rich woman.’
Lara was incredulous. ‘You’re serious.’
‘Deadly.’
He looked at his watch then, as nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just made such a preposterous suggestion. ‘My driver will take you back to your apartment, where you will pack up your things, and then you will return here to me. We leave for Rome this evening.’
Lara’s head was spinning. Too much had happened in such a short space of time. Her husband dying. Ciro reappearing in her life. His crazy proposal, which made a mockery of his first proposal. The prospect of having to learn how to survive on her own. And now the opportunity for something else entirely.
Something ridiculous. Gargantuan. Impossible.
And yet all she could think of to say was, ‘Why did you pretend to be a driver?’
Ciro’s jaw clenched. ‘Because it amused me to see you in action among your peers. Behaving true to your nature. The nature you hid from me when we first met.’
Her chest ached. The woman she’d been when she’d met Ciro—that had been her. Infinitely naive and innocent. But she’d learnt many harsh lessons since then, and she had to protect herself around this man or he would annihilate her.
She said, with as much coolness as she could muster, ‘This conversation is over, Ciro. You’ve played your little stunt but I’m not interested.’
He merely lifted a brow. ‘We’ll see.’ He extended his hand towards the door. ‘My driver is ready to take you to the apartment, where he will wait for you outside.’
Without a word Lara turned and walked out. The woman who had shown her into the room was waiting with her things. Lara murmured a distracted thank you and went to the front door, where Ciro’s car and driver were indeed waiting. Along with the security men.
Another shiver went down her spine as she recalled that awful moment when Ciro had gathered her in his arms to kiss her on that quiet Florentine side street and all hell had broken loose as they’d been ripped apart and then bundled into the back of a van...
She was tempted to ignore the car and walk around the corner to her apartment, but the driver was waiting with the door open and Lara’s innate sense of politeness and a wish to not cause conflict made her get into the back of the vehicle. Also, although she was probably being paranoid, she could imagine Ciro standing at a window, silently commanding her to do as he’d bade.
The journey was short and she got out again only a couple of minutes later. She noticed that Ciro’s security detail hadn’t followed her to her apartment. And why would they? she scolded herself. She was nothing to Ciro except someone he wanted to toy with for his own amusement.
And revenge, whispered a voice.
She hurried inside, needing the time alone. To her relief the apartment was empty of staff. Her few meagre belongings were packed into two suitcases, which were standing neatly in the entrance hall. A reminder to leave as quickly and quietly as possible. But Lara needed time to process everything that had just happened.
She wandered around the apartment that had been like a prison to her in the past two years. She still couldn’t quite believe the sequence of events that had led her to this place: marriage to an odious man old enough to be her father.
Of course she hadn’t wanted to marry him. When her uncle had suggested it she’d laughed. But then he’d revealed to her that he’d been behind the kidnapping and that he would do worse to Ciro unless she married Henry Winterborne.
Lara sat down blindly on the end of the bed for a moment, overcome with the weight of the past.
Her uncle had been in debt to the tune of millions. His entire fortune gambled away. When she’d told him defiantly she didn’t need him, that she had her trust fund, which was due to come to her on her twenty-fifth birthday, he’d told her that that was gone too. He’d had access to it, in order to manage it on her behalf, and he’d gambled it away.
Even then—after his threats and after he’d revealed how far he was willing to go to stop her from marrying Ciro—Lara had still hoped that perhaps if she told Ciro he would be able to protect them. So she’d gone to the hospital where he’d been recuperating and she’d asked him if he loved her—because she’d known that if he loved her then she was willing to do anything to defy her uncle. She’d believed that once Ciro knew about the threat surely he’d be powerful enough to protect himself—and her?
But Ciro had looked at her for a long moment and hesitated. And in that moment she’d known she’d been ridiculously naive.
He must have seen her expression, because he’d said quickly, ‘Love? Cara, I never promised you love. But I am prepared to commit to you for ever, and I respect you... Isn’t that enough? It’s a realistic foundation for a life together.’
He hadn’t loved her. And so she’d followed the dictates of her uncle in order to protect a man she loved who didn’t love her.
Lara had come back to London where she’d been introduced to Henry Winterborne and the marriage had been arranged. Her uncle had made a deal. Henry would bail him out of his debts, restore his reputation, in return for marriage to Lara. A medieval and Machiavellian arrangement.
Lara had been in a fog for days. Lost. Alone. And all the time she was being reminded by her uncle that if she didn’t comply he would hurt Ciro.
It had been on their wedding night that Lara had returned to this apartment with her new and very drunk husband and reality had finally broken through the numbing shell in which she’d encased herself.
To this day she had no real memory of the wedding, or saying her vows. It was all a blur. But on that night she’d heard her husband thrashing about the apartment, shouting at the staff to get him drinks. She’d hidden in the bedroom, telling herself that she would leave, escape...send a warning to Ciro somehow... Anything had to be better than this.
And then Henry had come into her room. Crashed through the door.
Lara had tried to get away, but he’d caught her and tried to rip her nightdress. He’d shoved her down on the bed and instinctively Lara had lifted her legs to kick him off. His bulk and his inebriated state had made him fall backwards, and he’d hit his head on the side of a dresser.
The fall and his general bad health had resulted in him being put into a wheelchair. The shock of the accident, and Lara’s uncle’s persistent reminders of his threats, had stopped her initial thoughts of trying to escape.
That was when she’d started to see pictures of Ciro, out and about, getting on with his life. The beautiful women on his arm didn’t seem to be put off by the livid scar. It only enhanced his charismatic appeal. And seeing Ciro like that... It had broken something inside Lara. Broken any will to try and escape her situation. Any sense of optimism that perhaps she’d been wrong about him not loving her dissipated.
All hope had gone.
With the threat of physical violence from her husband negated, Lara had sunk into a routine of sorts. Days had passed into weeks, and then months, and before she’d known it a year had gone by. Henry Winterborne had got rid of his staff by then, had begun using Lara as an unpaid housekeeper and carer.
When her uncle had died, three months ago, Lara’s will to leave her husband had been revived. The threat hanging over Ciro was finally gone. But without any funds of her own she’d been in no position to take legal action.
Before she’d had a chance to assess her options Henry Winterborne had had a stroke, and he’d spent the last two months of his life in hospital. For the first time in two years Lara had had a sense of autonomy again. Albeit within her gilded prison.
She caught sight of her reflection in a mirror on the wall opposite her. She took in her pale and wan features. Why on earth would a man as vital as Ciro Sant’Angelo still be remotely interested in marrying her?
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