Nothing Lasts Forever (The Montebellos Book 4) Page 9

  Three words that spoke right to her soul because of how true they were.

  “My parents loved us,” he said, as though the words were dragged from him. “But they weren’t capable of parenting.”

  Lauren understood that. “Love and parenting are different skillsets.”

  “You’re the first person who’s ever said that to me.”

  “But it’s true; of course it is. Love is an instinct I think everyone feels. Knowing how to love someone – that’s a verb. It requires you to do and say what that person needs, in order to demonstrate that you love them. With children, my understanding is that there are only a few things that matter. Security, safety, presence, and patience. Obviously being fed and kept somewhere warm and dry – but I’ve looked after children from all different walks of life in the last few years. Some with lots of money and toys and everything they could ever want, and others with a tiny bedroom in an equally cramped flat, and none of that really mattered. The things that lit up their eyes and made everything seem okay again was when their mum and dad came in their room and wrapped them up in a bear hug, or picked up their favourite story book and read a chapter.” She reached over and ran her fingers through his hair absentmindedly. “I’m sorry if you didn’t have that.”

  He caught her fingers, brushing them over his lips before dropping her hand to his side.

  “Did you?”

  She felt a brush of wariness. That was moving closer to the sort of conversation that spelled a hidden danger, and yet she ignored that spidery sense of premonition; they had boundaries, this was fine. “My parents were – are – great. Yes, I had that.”

  “You’re close to them now?”

  She nodded.

  “What do they do?”

  “My dad’s a teacher – English literature. Mum’s a florist.”

  He lifted his brows, surprise evident.

  “Not what you expected?”

  “Honestly, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I suppose I would have guessed something medical. Something…no-nonsense.”

  “Because of how I am?”

  His brow furrowed. “Si.”

  She wasn’t offended; on the contrary, his description was somehow flattering, as though he saw her in that same category.

  “No. Mum and dad look at me as a sort of alien sometimes, I’m sure. My emotional reserve is a trait they’ll never understand.”

  “But you haven’t always been this way?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I presume losing your husband contributed to your ability to keep people at bay?”

  “Not all people,” she responded in a teasing tone even though something in her chest was beginning to ache. She tapped the tip of his nose to underscore a casual disclosure.

  “What about your patients?”

  Her smile slipped. “What about them?”

  “You don’t get close to them?”

  For a second the pain was blinding, every goodbye etched into the fibre of her heart like acid burn. “No, never.” The sky beckoned – anything to ease the connection between them. She chased the shapes with her eyes, looking for meaning that didn’t appear.

  “That must take effort.”

  She didn’t reply. It wasn’t a topic she wished to speak about.

  “I like Yaya,” she said instead. “She’s spirited. Feisty.”

  His laugh was a deep rumble. “Excellent ways to describe her. Yes, she’s both.”

  “Was she strict, when you were growing up?”

  “In some ways. Gianfelice liked the house a certain way and she obliged, but they both doted on us, really.” His voice was hypnotic. She closed her eyes so she could hear him better, the dusky words settling deeper inside Lauren, with all her sight closed off. “Grandma has lived with some…regrets…for a long time. I think she saw us coming to live with her as a second chance.”

  With her eyes shut, Lauren reached for him, trailing her fingers over his arm slowly, lightly. Despite that, she could almost feel the hum of his blood, the beating of his heart conveyed in that small bodily act. “Regrets over Camilla?”

  As she’d felt his pulse’s movement, she felt his muscles stiffen, the surprise at her question evident in his response. “How do you –,”

  “She spoke of her often when I first arrived.” Lauren sighed. “The medications she was taking in the immediate aftermath of the stroke made her quite talkative. I listened, without judgement. That’s my job.” She opened her eyes – they were heavy, the world over-bright – and turned to face Raf. “Her heart seems broken by it all.”

  “Yes.” He turned to face her, a complex web of emotions reflected in the depths of his eyes. “I don’t think she would have chosen to cut my aunt from her life. Camilla was only sixteen years old when she got married. I know Yaya missed her, a lot.”

  “So why didn’t she relent? Surely Camilla would have made peace with her?”

  “My grandfather was as stubborn as they come. He took it as a personal rejection that Camilla married – and married a King of a foreign country, at her age – when he’d expressly forbidden it. I think he believed she’d change her mind when she realised he was serious, but Gianfelice was resolute.”

  “So he really did exile her?”

  He lifted a brow. “That might be a little dramatic.”

  Heat flushed her cheeks. “Oh?”

  “Or perhaps not.” He grimaced. “I think she was caught between a rock and a hard place, in some ways. Her husband was equally proud. It’s my belief that when he saw how hurt Camilla was by Gianfelice’s behaviour, he encouraged her to cut Yaya and Gianfelice from her life in return.”

  Lauren was quiet for several beats, then she sighed. “If I’ve learned one thing over the years it’s that life’s too short for that kind of falling out.”

  Something light brushed her nose. She dabbed it with a finger before realising it was Raf, running a pale blue flower across her flesh. A light touch, like the breeze.

  “Gianfelice was stubborn to the end. In some ways, his decision ruined Yaya’s life.”

  “She’s strong-willed. She didn’t fight him about this?”

  “She never fought him. Her spirit has grown exponentially since he passed. She was always deferential to Gianfelice. He had a magnetism and power that was…dominant. He couldn’t be in a room without wanting to control all its occupants.”

  “He sounds like someone who might have been hard to get along with at times.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “She had a son?”

  “Yaya?”

  Lauren smiled at that. “I’m aware she has two sons. I meant Camilla.”

  “Ah. Yes. Our cousin.”

  The words were troubled. She sensed it was a subject he wasn’t comfortable speaking about.

  “You don’t know him?”

  “I met him once. He came to Gianfelice’s funeral.”

  “That must have been strange.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he like?”

  Raf searched for a word, pushing up onto his elbow so his body loomed over Lauren’s. “Stern.”

  She made a small laughing sound. “Stern?”

  “He’s a Sheikh, and I suppose to him we’re the family that broke his mother’s heart. I’m not sure why he came – it was probably more than Gianfelice deserved – but at the same time, it was decent.”

  “You haven’t stayed in touch?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He frowned. “What for?”

  “It’s just so sad.” She laced her fingers through his, lifting his hand to her lips and kissing them, grateful for this moment in time, a slice out of her normal way of living, an opportunity to feel a closeness to another human knowing that nothing about what they shared could threaten her resolve to love Thom as much in death as she had in life.

  “Yes and no. Without losing Camilla, Yaya might not have been so determined to grab hold of
us. We lost Camilla and Samir from our lives but gained each other – I have three cousins I grew up with like brothers.”

  Lauren pushed up onto her elbows, just a little higher, so that their faces were only an inch apart. There were a thousand questions locked within her but here, like this, with the sun streaming down and the light rustling of the breeze, with Raf poised above her, words wouldn’t form. Instead, she lifted up and kissed him: a slow kiss, a movement of exploration and curiosity, her mouth trailing over his, her hand lifting to cup his cheek, her fingers gliding higher into his hair, before she pushed up, her body pressed to him so she could roll him onto his back and he let her, falling to the ground with a rumbly laugh before claiming her lips more passionately, with more fervour, his possession burning her through to her core.

  She moved her hips in a silent invitation and he responded, his fingers digging into her waist, understanding her question, answering it wordlessly. She moaned into his mouth, and more questions formed – why after years of abstinence – easy abstinence – did she feel as though she couldn’t breathe unless they were touching? It was a physical infatuation, nothing more, and she knew it would burn itself out, but in that moment, she couldn’t help but doubt that. The flames were all around them and Lauren wasn’t sure there was an escape – nor that she wanted to find one.

  Chapter Eight

  HAD GRIEF NOT LEFT an indelible mark on Lauren, she might have put aside her book and gone out into the garden to see what was happening. From where she sat in the makeshift office she’d established, a flurry of activity had drawn her attention. The housekeeper Vittoria, several gardeners and one of the nurses – Gabi – were standing on the edge of the pool area, where pavers gave way to grass and then, eventually, the edge of the mountain. It sloped away steeply – she’d noticed that one on of her first days at the Villa, because Yaya had talked non-stop about the children and Lauren had mentally catalogued the dangers that might befall little ones. It was an inbuilt trait now to be on the alert, forever watchful for what might go wrong.

  Her father had started a book club a year or so before Thom had died. It was just the three of them then, and in deference to Thom’s habits those first few books had been the science fiction and fantasy tomes he’d adored – Lord of the Rings and a heap of Isaac Asimov novels – but afterwards, her dad had started to select non-fiction. Memoirs principally, a heavy-handed attempt to show Lauren that life was filled with downs, ups, and sideways turns, but that it was important to keep moving regardless, and over time the selections had favoured his fascinations of the time. She was able to date her father’s hobbies by the books he’d chosen. This was a large investigation into the use of private data and the internet that Lauren found terrifying to contemplate in such detail. Important, certainly, but spine-chilling.

  Perhaps if the book had been more engaging, or less frightening, she might have lost herself to the pages more completely, but on that warm morning, with the bright blue sky beyond, and now the obvious activity taking place across the terrace, she found even her usual instincts to keep to herself dissipating. Curiosity was winning.

  She pressed a finger to her page, consulting the number at the bottom, then closed the cover, standing quickly as though she might change her mind unless she acted in haste.

  Was there an animal down the hill? Or was it something else?

  As she moved through the house, a part of her was on the lookout in a way she always seemed to be these days. Looking, listening, for a sign of Raf. They hadn’t discussed the fact that their situation would remain secret, and yet it had. They’d both taken measures to ensure there was no chance of anyone within the house learning that they were sleeping together. It meant desire was always building within Lauren – she ached for him, and lay in her bed at night wondering if it would break their unspoken rules to go to his room and stay there?

  Surely that was still private and secret?

  The waiting, the yearning, was almost impossible to live with, but at the same time, Lauren was glad for it. There was pain in yearning, and discipline too, and both reminded her of what they were doing, and of why this was just a strange aberration from her real life.

  The day was warm as she emerged onto the courtyard. A burst of geranium grabbed her attention, as it often did, bright reds and beside it vibrant pinks. She knew that if she brushed close the iron-like fragrance would permeate her clothes. Voices reached her ears as she neared, fast-spoken Italian. She came towards them but at the last moment veered to the right, so she could stand a little apart and avoid conversation. Looking over the ravine, it took her a moment to see what was happening. And then, her heart skidded. And stopped. Then pounded so hard into her ribs she felt as though it might break free.

  Adrenalin flooded her body. She began to shake and without meaning to give anything away – she wasn’t capable of such rational thought – her fingers lifted to her lips and clamped against them.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Halfway down the ravine and ascending with purposeful strength was Raf. Her eyes clung to his figure – small at this distance, like an animation against the rocky mountainside – and try as she might she couldn’t see any lines tethering his body to the earth. She stared at him, half-terrified, half-filled with jaw-dropping awe. He wore only a pair of shorts. His tanned, muscular back and long legs stood out against the pale rocks. He moved with apparent ease, lifting one arm to a bulbous piece of the mountain before a leg followed, and again. Every now and again he’d pause, and she could make out his dark head turning, and despite the fact she had no experience with the sport of rock-climbing she understood what he was doing – looking for the next best place to catch his grip, or place his foot.

  “He’s crazy, no?” The nurse, Gabi, moved to Lauren’s side.

  Lauren’s gaze slid sideways. She nodded once, a dull throb of her head echoed in her body language, and then turned back, unwilling to wrest her attention away, as though her eyes could somehow provide the tether he’d chosen to disregard. With her watchfulness, she could keep him safe. Couldn’t she?

  Her heart continued to rattle against her ribs and a fine bead of perspiration had broken out between the valley of her breasts. He was nowhere near the top. The sun was high overhead, the day hot, even for Lauren standing where she was, in the dappled shade of the terrace. But for Raf, his body pitted against the inhospitable terrain, it must have been unbearable.

  As she watched, people began to move away. The housekeeper first, then the gardeners and finally Gabi, so it was only Lauren who stood sentinel, guarding his ascent, her moods ranging from disbelief to fear to a blinding burst of anger. She found it hard to decode the final emotion but that didn’t matter. It ravaged her body and as the minutes groaned into an hour she felt reassured by its presence.

  She held her breath as he neared the top. The mountain seemed to lurch forward, meaning that to successfully reach the flat grassed surface that spoke of safety he first needed to angle his body backwards, almost lying flat, to climb out of the rocky outcrop. Her lungs burned. At the very top, his fingers curved over the grass and then he dangled off the edge. She gasped, her stomach tightening into a god-awful ache. There was beauty in his body’s war with nature, in the battle of human strength against the adversity of this rugged land, but Lauren wasn’t inclined to admire that. Anger pummelled her.

  He hung there for what felt like minutes, his body swaying and anger morphed into fear, her throat becoming thick with the salty taste of tears. He swung, and she knew that if he lost his grip he would fall and he would die. It was unbearable. She made a groaning noise and then he swung harder, forming a bigger arch, lifting one leg up onto the top of the ravine, using it to propel himself upwards and the other followed behind. He assumed a crawling position, then lay on his back and she stared at him for a long time, waiting to see him move, for one final reassurance. Eventually, he did, standing with his hands on his hips, looking every inch the virile, powerful athlete. He was to
o far away to see clearly, yet she recognised his smile, his even, white teeth visible even at this distance. Anger was back, dwarfed – only faintly – by relief.

  She spun away quickly, her heart beating double-time as she stalked into the house. Grabbing her book from her office, she took the stairs two at a time, moving into her office and clicking the door shut before finally relaxing, leaning against it with her eyes shut – then, all she could see was his body hanging from the edge of the mountain top. He was strong and virile and yet compared to the height of the cliff he was nothing – flesh and blood and so easily disposed of.

  Another noise – a groan – and she paced deeper into her room, collapsing onto her back in the middle of the bed, doing everything she could not to think of Raf – and what could have, so easily, happened to him. And how much that would have hurt her.

  She was back to ignoring him.

  In the week since he’d come to stay at Villa Fortune they’d worked out an easy rhythm. They spoke to one another with polite civility if anyone else was around. When they were alone, they were relaxed – friendly, even. But it was when they left the Villa that Lauren became her true self – the reserve dropped away and he caught a glimpse of the woman she might have been had she not lost her husband.

  But now? They were alone in the kitchen and she was pretending fascination with the assembly of what looked to be a sandwich. He pulled a face without meaning to. He’d never understood the British predilection for something as, frankly, boring as a sandwich for lunch. Give him a long table groaning under the weight of pasta, bread, salad, wine, fruit, cheese, and he was at his happiest.

  He laughed without meaning to. God, he was a product of Yaya’s upbringing.

  Her gaze skittered to his face, but then moved past him, no hint of recognition crossing her features. She returned her attention to the kitchen bench.

  Curiosity sparked in his chest, and a sense of displeasure too. This was too reminiscent of how she’d been in the early days. Before. Before she’d opened up to him and told him about her husband. Before he’d opened up to her in a way that was different and new.