Modern Romance August 2019 Books 5-8. Trish Morey

in his seat now, feeling uncomfortable. He did recall it, and he also recalled the feeling of panic that had gripped him.

       Love.

      He remembered thinking of his father and his slavish devotion to his unfaithful wife, how it had disgusted him. If that was love then, no, he didn’t feel that. But there had been something almost desperate on Lara’s face and so he’d made some platitude.

       What about the terror you felt when she was taken from you by the kidnappers? In that moment you thought you loved her.

      Ciro shifted uncomfortably again. He’d always put that surge of emotion down to the extreme circumstances.

      His staff had informed him that her flight had left on time yesterday. She’d be back in the UK now. She could be anywhere. For the first time in two years he didn’t have tabs on her.

      Before the car had even come to a standstill outside his house Ciro got out, not liking the panicky feeling in his gut. He went inside, dropping his things, and the puppy sped across the tiled floor towards him, yapping. It was quickly followed by the housekeeper, apologising profusely. Ciro picked Hero up and waved away the apology.

      Feeling restless, he climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. He stood outside Lara’s door for a long moment, and then an image of his father came into his head and he scowled and pushed the door open.

      It had been tidied, and the bed remade. It was as if she’d never been there. But he could still smell her scent in the air. Lemon and roses.

      He put the puppy down on the bed, where she promptly curled up and went to sleep.

      Ciro went to the dressing room and opened the doors, expecting to find it empty. But it was full of clothes. He frowned. Everything he’d bought her was there. As was her jewellery. Neatly lined up on velvet pouches under glass display cases.

      He went and picked up the phone in the room and rang down to the housekeeper. ‘What did Lar—Mrs Sant’Angelo take with her when she left?’

      He listened for a moment and then hung up, sitting down on the bed. She’d taken one suitcase. And he knew which one. The one she’d come with. The battered one.

      The puppy crept towards him and got into his lap. Ciro stroked her absently. After a while he stood up, taking her with him. He left her with the housekeeper in the kitchen.

      Still feeling restless, Ciro went into the reception room. It was filled with priceless paintings and objets d’art... Persian rugs. It could be a museum it was so still and stuffy.

      When he’d bought this property he’d felt as if he’d reached a pinnacle. One of the many he’d set himself. Then, when he’d proposed to Lara, he’d imagined her here as his wife and hostess. Charming people with her natural warmth and compassion.

      Giving you access to a higher level of society, reminded a voice.

      A crystal decanter glinted at him from the drinks tray nearby. It seemed to mock him for thinking he’d had it all worked out. For believing that he’d had his fill of Lara. That he was done with her. For believing that all this excess around him actually meant anything.

      The tightness in Ciro’s chest intensified, and with an inarticulate surge of rage he grabbed the decanter and threw it at the massive stone fireplace, where it smashed into a million pieces.

      He heard footsteps running, and for some inexplicable reason he thought it might be—

      But when he turned around it was just a shocked-looking staff member.

      ‘Is everything okay, Mr Sant’Angelo?’

      He felt ragged. Undone. Empty.

      ‘Everything is fine.’

      But he knew it wasn’t.

      * * *

      ‘Two pints of bitter, love!’

      Lara forced a smile. ‘Coming up.’

      After-work drinks on a warm Indian summer evening in London meant packed pubs with people spilling out onto the pavements. Laughing, joking. Delighted that the end of the week had come and they had two days off stretching ahead.

      Lara didn’t have two days off. At weekends she worked in a small Italian restaurant, near where she was living at a hostel in Kentish Town. But she refused to feel sorry for herself as she went outside with the two pints and collected money and dirty glasses.

      A man leaned towards her. ‘You’re far too pretty to be working here, love. Let me take you out of this cesspit and we’ll run away.’

      His friends guffawed loudly, but ridiculously Lara couldn’t even force a fake laugh. She felt tears sting her eyes. Which was pathetic. She was lucky to have found two jobs. She was earning her own money for the first time in her life. She was finally free... If only that freedom didn’t feel so heavy.

      She never thought about...him. She couldn’t. Not if she wanted to keep it together.

      ‘Hey, gorgeous! A pint and a white wine, please!’

      Lara looked up at the flushed face of a city boy and forced herself to smile. ‘Coming up.’