and keep it together, she told herself in desperation.
God, she didn’t know anything about publicity.
She knew Francesca thought she was doing the right thing, inviting her to this meeting of siblings—and the Pellegrinis considered their cousin Matteo to be a sibling—and that Francesca assumed she would want to be involved.
Any decent, loving widow would want to be involved in building a memorial to their beloved husband.
And she did want to be involved. For all his terrible failings as a husband, Pieta had been a true, dedicated humanitarian. He’d formed his own foundation a decade ago to build in areas hit by natural disasters; schools, homes, hospitals, whatever was needed. The Caribbean island of Caballeros had been hit by the worst hurricane on record the week before he’d died, wrecking the majority of the island’s medical facilities. Pieta had immediately known he would build a hospital there but before his own plans for it had fully formed his own tragedy had struck and he’d been killed in a helicopter crash.
He deserved to have this memorial. The suffering people of Caballeros deserved to benefit from the hospital Francesca would steamroller into building for them.
So Natasha had striven to pay attention, not wanting to let down the loving Pellegrini siblings who’d been a part of her life for as long as she could remember, since her father and Fabio had been old school friends. She’d never had siblings of her own and as soon as it had been announced she’d be marrying into the family the closeness had grown, even during the six long years of their engagement.
If only Matteo weren’t there she’d have been better able to concentrate.
There had not been one occasion in his presence in the past seven years where she hadn’t felt the weight of his animosity. Polite and amiable enough that no one could see the depths of his loathing, whenever their eyes met it was akin to being stared at by Lucifer, her soul scorched by the burn of the hatred firing from green eyes that had once looked at her with only tenderness.
She could feel it now, digging into her skin like needles.
How could Francesca and Daniele not feel it too? How did it not infuse the whole atmosphere?
A part of her understood why he despised her as he did and, God knew, she’d tried to apologise for it, but it had been seven years. So much had changed in that time. She’d changed. He’d changed too, turning his back on the reconstructive surgery he’d worked so hard to specialise in and instead going the vanity surgery route. With his twenty-eight clinics worldwide and the patent on a skincare range he’d personally developed that actually worked in reducing scars and the signs of aging, he’d gone from being a dedicated professional surgeon to an entrepreneur who fitted surgery in when he had the time. Matteo had amassed a fortune that rivalled the entire Pellegrini estate and Pieta’s personally accrued wealth put together.
He’d even changed his surname.
He’d become famous with it. Tall with dark good looks, olive skin, strong jaw and black curly hair that he’d recently had cropped short, it had been inevitable. ‘Dr Dishy’ the tabloids called him. It seemed she could barely pass a newsagent or log on to the internet without seeing his seductive face blazing out at her, normally with some identikit lingerie model or other draped on his arm.
Today his usual arrogance had deserted him. Even with the laser burn of his loathing infecting her, she could feel his anguish.
Pieta had been more than a cousin and surrogate sibling. He’d been Matteo’s closest friend.
Her heart wanted to weep for him.
Her heart wanted to weep for all of them.
* * *
Matteo pulled his car up by the kerb and turned off the engine. The grand town house he’d parked opposite from stood in darkness.
Slumping forward over the wheel, he closed his eyes.
What was he even doing here?
He should be in his hotel room, drinking the minibar dry. He’d made that arrangement assuming Natasha would be staying in the castello with the rest of the family. He hadn’t slept under the same roof as her since she’d accepted Pieta’s proposal.
But she hadn’t stayed. A couple of hours after their meeting to discuss the memorial for Pieta she had made the rounds to embrace everyone goodbye. Everyone except him. By unspoken agreement—unspoken because he hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words with her in seven years—he’d kept a great enough physical distance between them that no one would notice they failed to say goodbye to each other.
He put his head back and breathed deeply, willing his heart to stop this irregular rhythm.
What the hell was wrong with him? Why was it today of all days that he couldn’t shake her from his mind? Why today, when he was mourning his best friend and cousin, had the old memories returned to haunt him?
He could see it so vividly, leaving his room in the castello to head outside to join the rest of his family in the marquee for his aunt and uncle’s thirtieth wedding anniversary party. Natasha had left the room she’d been sharing with Francesca just a short way up the corridor from his at the same time. His heart had skipped to see her and he’d been ecstatic to see the necklace he’d sent for her eighteenth birthday there around her slender neck. He’d been disappointed not to make it to England for her party but he’d been a resident doctor at a hospital in Florida close to where he’d been to medical school. An emergency had cropped up at the end of his shift, a major car crash with multiple casualties that had resulted in all hands on deck. By the time they’d patched up the last casualty he’d missed his flight.
He’d been taking things slowly with her, waiting for her to turn eighteen before making a physical move. And then, in that cold castello corridor, Natasha in an electric-blue dress, the epitome of a chic, elegant woman, he’d realised he didn’t have to back off any more.
All the letters and late-night calls they’d been exchanging for months, the dreams and hopes for the future they’d shared, had all been leading to this, this moment, this time. It was time for their future to begin right then and he’d fingered that necklace before taking her face in his hands and kissing her for the very first time.
It had been the sweetest, headiest kiss he’d ever experienced in his then twenty-eight years, interrupted only by Francesca steamrolling from her room and clattering up the corridor to join them. If she’d been three seconds earlier she would have found them together.
Three seconds.
What would she have done, he wondered, if she had caught them in that clinch?
Because only two hours later Pieta had got to his feet and, in front of the three hundred guests, had asked Natasha to marry him. And she’d said yes.
Matteo rubbed his eyes as if the motion could rub the memories away.
He shouldn’t be thinking of all this now.
Why had he even come here, to the house she had shared with Pieta?
A light came on upstairs.
Had she just woken? Or had she been in the darkness all this time?
And was Francesca right to be worried about her?
Francesca had cornered him as he’d been making his own escape from the wake and asked him to keep an eye on Natasha while she, Francesca, was in Caballeros. She was worried about her, said she’d become a lost, mute ghost.
Although Natasha and Pieta had only been married for a year, they’d been together for seven years. She might be a gold-digging, heartless bitch but surely in that time she must have developed some feelings for him.
He’d wanted her feelings for Pieta to be genuine, for his cousin’s sake. But how could they have been when she’d been seeing them both behind each other’s backs?
Other than the few social family occasions he’d been unable to get out of, he’d