“I’d recover. Or start again. I did it once. And even if I couldn’t, it’s not your problem.”
That’s where she was wrong. He may not have known how to be the husband Claire needed, but he sure as hell knew about responsibility and obligation. Which was why he wouldn’t let this go. “What if it’s not the business? What if you remarry, have children? A dog? What if someone you loved needed more than your independence could provide? This isn’t about you and me. It’s about being practical. Doing the smart thing.”
She’d winced at his mention of their past together. But hadn’t even blinked when he’d referred to some threat to a future family. As if the point hadn’t even registered. Damn, if he could read her.
“Fine, what if you don’t remarry and something happens to you? Do you want to be calling me from some hospital bed asking for help?” He knew the answer was no. Just as Claire knew that no matter the number of years that passed, if she ever needed anything, all she would have to do was ask and he’d be there. The only problem was, Claire would never ask. So he needed her to take the money now.
Turning her back to him, she reached for her bag, pulling one strap over her shoulder as she efficiently dug out a few euros and then left them tucked under the small white espresso cup. What, did she plan on walking away without a word? To hell with that.
“The money is yours too, Claire, and you’re going to take it. Because if you don’t, you can forget about any plans you have of moving on without me. My lawyer’s going to keep this tied up in court forever.” Damn it, he was going to burn for this one. But, in for a penny, in for a pound. He’d failed her once, but he wouldn’t fail her with this. No matter how belligerent she wanted to be, she was taking that money. “And he’ll drag your gallery in there too.”
Her body went rigid and then slowly she turned to face him. “You’re a bastard.”
“Yeah, I am,” he agreed with weary resignation. “But I’m a bastard with your best interests at heart. Come on, Claire, don’t fight me on this.”
She blew out a long breath and smoothed the lines of her dress. “It’s not like I have much choice, do I.”
“No.” But then neither did he. Not after all he’d done. But deep down, he knew, no matter how vast the fortune, it still wouldn’t be enough to make it up to her. Nothing would be.
A couple at the far side of the café stood from their table, their conversation an animated, joyful exchange conducted in lively Italian that continued as they strolled off hand in hand across the square. They were married. He’d noted the rings—a habit he couldn’t quite break—and the ease of their company. And he’d tasted that lingering bitterness that occasionally still took him by surprise.
Following their retreat, he let out a heavy breath. “I don’t want to fight with you, Claire. That’s not how it was with us. Not even at the end.”
When Claire didn’t reply, he turned back to find her watching him, her expression thoughtful. How long had it been since she’d actually looked at him? Even before she’d left, she’d stopped seeing him, her eyes so often drifting to some spot behind him or to the floor. Having her focus now … it was unnerving.
And ultimately unimportant to the task at hand.
Rolling a shoulder bunched with rapidly accumulating tension, he cocked his jaw to the side. He wanted this done. And done fast. He wasn’t about to waste the ground gained by the gallery bluff. “The timing really couldn’t be better. You’ve got a week free that happens to coincide with a lag in my schedule. We can have a settlement knocked out before next Friday. Who knows, if we really knuckle down maybe you’ll have enough time to get back here for a day couple days before you go back to the office.”
“This is my first vacation in three and a half years. I’m here with Sally. The timing couldn’t be worse.”
“You’re the one who filed. I know you want this behind us. To move on. The timing will never be convenient. It’ll never be fun. But right now, it’s workable. So what do you say?”
He reached for her arm, but she skirted his touch. Busying herself with her bag again, though it was clear there wasn’t anything she needed. When she looked up, it was with businesslike reserve in the cool pools of her eyes. “I’d like to keep the divorce as quiet as the marriage has been.”
“Of course.” He’d worked hard to keep her out of the news. It had been dumb luck their relationship escaped notice at the beginning, but as the years went on he’d gone out of his way to protect her privacy. He wouldn’t jeopardize it now.
“Which generally means openly referring to me as your wife is a no-no.”
Right, that. He scanned the piazza in the direction Paulo-Pietro had strolled off in. “I didn’t like that guy.”
The corner of her mouth twitched, threatening what might have been the beginnings of a smile. “No, really?”
Really. He hadn’t liked him—intensely and immediately—and even Ryan didn’t want to examine too closely exactly why. He’d had enough surprises in the last day—no need to go searching for more. “You brushed the guy off and he ignored it.”
“I could have taken care of it, though.” There was no accusation in her words. Merely assurance. “I was about to. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Is that what he’d been doing? Before he’d arrived, the answer would have been yes. Definitely. Only, at first glance, it became clear Claire wasn’t a woman who couldn’t stand up for herself.
So if his actions weren’t protective, that left possessive.
And that was just nuts.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he nodded toward the street where his car waited. “Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER THREE
CLAIRE pulled her key from the lock and swung open the door to her room. Upon arrival the night before, she’d thought it quaint. A cozy retreat after a long day exploring the streets of Rome. But with Ryan’s arm braced against the frame above her head, his big body only inches away, ready to follow her into the space … she saw it for what it was. Cramped. A claustrophobic shoe box jammed with a double bed, small dresser, nightstand and single chair in the corner.
“You don’t have to wait for me to pack,” she said with a cautious glance over her shoulder.
Ryan nodded into the room, hanging back until she’d cleared the far side of the bed before walking to the window. “I don’t mind. I’ll carry your bags down.”
Wonderful. “Suit yourself.”
Her cheeks flushed at her snarky tone, but the truth was, she resented the hell out of Ryan’s railroading tactics—even if he did have her best interests at heart. They were the reason she hadn’t wanted to get within shouting distance of him. Hadn’t wanted to give him the opportunity to employ that subtle brand of strong-armed coercion that made him the wild success he was.
She hadn’t wanted to be talked into a decision that wasn’t her own, but in less than ten minutes he’d done it. And typical of his unique ability, he’d left her wondering how she hadn’t seen his perspective from the start. It was infuriating.
When she’d begun pursuing the divorce, her goal was simply to sever ties. They’d both established lives of their own and, from her stance, there was no sense in demanding some portion of the assets she hadn’t needed prior to the divorce after it. Then Ryan came back, batting aside her proposal with words like unacceptable, misguided, and ridiculous, and her response to that had been … emotional. She wouldn’t discuss the possibility of an alternate settlement because she had a point to make.
She didn’t need him. Didn’t need anything from him. No more sacrifices, obligations or debts