Modern Romance August 2019 Books 5-8. Trish Morey
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bedroom and checked the time, realising that Ciro would have gone to the office already.
After showering and dressing she went downstairs to find Dominique in the kitchen. The woman turned around and smiled widely, and it was only at that moment that Lara had a mortifying flashback and saw her shirt and bra neatly folded on a chair near the door.
She grabbed them, her face burning, gabbling an apology, but the older woman put up a hand.
‘Don’t apologise. It’s your home. I might have been married for twenty years, but I do remember what that first heady year was like.’
Lara smiled weakly, welcoming the change in subject when Dominique said, ‘The lasagne—did you cook it? It smells delicious. I’ve put it in the fridge but I can freeze it if you like.’
Lara had been taught a comprehensive and very effective lesson last night in not expecting to see Ciro sitting down to a home-cooked meal any time soon, so she said, ‘Actually, do you want to take it home with you this evening for you and your family? I thought we’d have a chance to eat it but we won’t.’
Dominique reached for something and handed a folded card to Lara. ‘That reminds me—Ciro left this for you. And, yes, I’d love to take the lasagne home if you’re sure that’s all right? It’ll save me cooking!’
Lara smiled and retreated from the kitchen. ‘Of course. I hope you enjoy it.’
She looked at the card once she was out of sight. The handwriting was strong and slashing.
Be ready to leave for a function at five this evening. Dress for black tie.
No, she could be under no illusions now as to where her role lay.
On her back and at Ciro’s side as his trophy wife.
* * *
Ciro’s driver came for Lara at five. She checked her appearance in the mirror of the hall one last time. The long sleeveless black dress had a lace bodice and a high collar. She’d pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail and kept jewellery and make-up to a minimum.
The car made its way through the London traffic to one of the city’s most iconic museums. She saw Ciro before he saw her in the car. He was standing by the kerb, where cars were disgorging people in glittering finery.
For a moment Lara just drank him in, in his classic tuxedo. He must have changed at the office. He was utterly mesmerising. She could see other women doing double-takes.
Then he saw the car and she saw tension come into his form. She felt a pang. They might combust in bed, but he still resented her presence out of it. Even if he did need her.
The car drew to a stop and Lara gathered herself as Ciro opened the door and helped her out. Even her hand in his was enough to cause a seismic reaction in her body. But she felt shy after what had happened last night.
Ciro said, ‘You look beautiful.’
She glanced at him, embarrassed. ‘Thank you. You look very smart.’
A small smile tipped up his mouth. ‘Smart? I don’t think I’ve been called that before.’
Lara felt hot. No... Ciro’s lovers would have twined themselves around him and whispered into his ear that he was magnificent. Gorgeous. Sexy.
She felt gauche, but he was taking her elbow in his hand and leading her towards the throng of people entering the huge museum near Kensington Gardens, one of London’s most exclusive addresses.
It was only when they were seated that Lara realised it was a banquet dinner to honour three charities. One of which had Ciro Sant’Angelo’s name on it.
She read the blurb on the brochure.
The Face Forward Charity. Founded by Ciro Sant’Angelo after a kidnapping ordeal left him facially disfigured.
There was an interview with Ciro in which he explained that after his injury he’d realised that any physical disfigurement, not just facial, was something that affected millions of people. And that a lot of disfigurement came about due to birth defects, injuries of some kind—whether through accident, war or gangs—or domestic violence.
His mission statement was that no one should ever be made to feel ‘less’ because of their disfigurement. His charity offered a wide range of treatments, ranging from plastic surgery to rehabilitation and counselling, to help people afflicted. To help them move on with their lives.
Lara looked at Ciro. She was seated on his right-hand side and his scar seemed to stand out even more this evening. A statement.
He glanced at her and arched a brow. She felt hurt that he hadn’t mentioned this before. ‘I didn’t know you’d set up a charity.’
He shrugged minutely. ‘I didn’t think it relevant to tell you.’
Something deeper than hurt bloomed inside Lara then. Something she couldn’t even really articulate.
She stood up abruptly, just as they were serving the starters, and almost knocked over the waiter behind her. Apologising, she fled from the room, upset and embarrassed.
Once outside, in the now empty foyer, she stopped. She cursed herself for bolting like that. The last thing Ciro would want was for people’s attention to be drawn to them.
She heard heavy footsteps behind her. Ciro caught her arm, swinging her around. ‘What the hell, Lara?’
She pulled free, her anger and hurt surging again at the irritated look on his face. ‘I know you don’t like me very much, Ciro, but we’re married now. The least you could have done is tell me what this evening is about. You’re the one concerned with appearances. How do you think it would look if someone struck up a conversation with me about your charity which I know nothing about?’
Ciro felt a constriction in his chest. Lara was right. But he hadn’t neglected to tell her about it in a conscious effort not to include her. He hadn’t told her because he didn’t find it easy to mention the kidnapping. Even now. Even here, where he was in public and talking about something that had arisen out of that experience.
Lara looked...hurt. And then she said, ‘I was there too, you know. I didn’t experience what you experienced, and I’m so sorry that you went through what you did. But they took me too, Ciro. So I do have some idea of what you went through, even if it’s only very superficial. I might not have any physical scars to prove I had that experience, but I had it.’
She turned and went to walk back into the room, but Ciro caught her arm again. For the first time, he felt the balance of power between them shift slightly.
She looked at him, her full mouth set in a line. Her jaw tight.
‘You’re right,’ he said, and the words came easier than he might have expected. ‘I should have told you—and, yes, you were there too.’
‘Thank you.’
Ciro realised in that moment that she had all the regal bearing and grace of royalty, and something inside him was inexplicably humbled. She’d been right to call him out on this. And he wasn’t used to being in the wrong. It was not a sensation he’d expected to feel in the presence of Lara.
Lara felt shaky after confronting Ciro, but his apology defused her anger. She realised now that she’d been hurt because she’d felt left out, which was ridiculous when Ciro had set up the charity well before they’d met again.
After the meal people got up to give speeches, and Lara was a little stunned when Ciro was introduced and he got up to go to the podium. He was a commanding presence. The crowd seemed far more hushed when he spoke. And how could she blame them? He stood out.
His scar also stood out, in a white ridged line down the right side of his face. Most people probably wouldn’t even notice his missing finger, too transfixed by that scar.
He spoke passionately about the psychological effects of being