CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
They had only just got into his car when he reached for her, his mouth seeking hers, tasting her, as if he had been waiting for this moment his whole life. And she responded in kind, her body seeming to take on a life of its own as she climbed onto his lap, straddling him and kissing him until she could hardly breathe. His hands pushed through her hair, pulling it from the braid, and despite the jeans they both wore, his arousal pressed hard to her sex, making her moan as she rolled her hips with eager, desperate hunger for him.
He swore and she felt it in her soul, the same desperate, aching desire that was strangling her.
Three years. Had it really been so long? Kissing him now, it all felt so normal, so natural, as if they did this every night. Then again, he probably did. It wasn’t like he was tucking a toddler into bed and reading them stories.
She had not a single doubt that she had done the right thing for her daughter by concealing her from Luca. Until she’d met Luca, she’d seen the world through rose-tinted glasses. At one point in time, the idea of keeping a father from his own child would have been anathema to her. But then she’d met Luca and she’d come face to face with a heart of darkness; she knew it had no place in Aurora’s life.
She didn’t want to think about that now. She couldn’t help but feel conflicted even when she knew she’d done the best thing for everybody.
Fortunately, Luca made it very, very hard to think about anything, as his hand pushed at her singlet and found the lace of her bra, his thumb brushing over the fabric, teasing her nipple so she arched her back with a cry.
He made a guttural noise of agreement, and seconds later his head was under her singlet, his mouth on her breast, his tongue rolling her nipple through the bra so she was whimpering with a kind of euphoria that was all the more intense for how long it had been since she’d known anything like this.
Heaven help me , she thought, as he moved to the other breast and jerked his hips to drive his arousal harder against her sex. She dug down into the seat, needing to feel him, needing to be with him.
‘How long until we’re there?’ she groaned, glancing at the window, not recognising where they were.
‘Too long,’ he snapped back, the words imbued with as much desperation as she felt. Then he swore, pulled his head out of her shirt and sought her mouth once more, kissing her like his survival hung in the balance, kissing her hard and hungrily—angrily too. It was an anger she totally understood.
She was furious with herself for doing this, for wanting him. Furious with herself for being weak.
This man was lava, or quicksand. Dangerous. Bad for her. She knew that, and she knew she should avoid him like the plague, and yet it had taken Luca a mere three minutes to convince her to go home with him. Where was her sanity? Where was her self-preservation?
But this wouldn’t be like last time. She was stronger now. She understood better.
Her childish idealism had been trampled, replaced with a lens of gritty reality. At least when it came to Luca Romano.
After what felt like an eternity, the car turned into the alleyway behind his mansion and the garage gate drew up. The driver manoeuvred the SUV in and cut the engine.
Luca moved quickly, easing Imogen off his lap as he opened the door and stepped out, his arousal obvious courtesy of the fit of his suit. The lights were fluorescent—a metaphorical bucket of water—but such a thing had no power to lessen her need for him.
Imogen half stepped out of the car and he half lifted her, throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her from the garage in the most expedient way possible.
‘I can walk, you know,’ she said gruffly, but his hand had curved around her bottom and her whole body was trembling with need, so she wasn’t even sure if her statement was accurate.
‘Do you want to?’
She hated him. She hated him for knowing her weakness, for knowing the depth of her need; she hated him so much and for so many reasons.
The house was instantly familiar, bringing back a thousand different memories, memories she wished to avoid.
But it also brought with it realisations. Time had elapsed. She’d grown older and a hell of a lot wiser. She’d never been here in the daylight. Not for longer than it took her to evacuate in the mornings. He’d never offered for her to stay when he was leaving for work, and he left early. In the evenings, they’d spend the night in some kind of wonderful thrall and then it would be over again.
How had she missed the fact it had just been sex for him?
She’d been so na?ve.
They were just inside the lounge room when he eased her to the floor and started kissing her again. This time his powerful, strong hands stripped her clothes as he went, one by one, removing her shawl, her singlet, her bra. While she kicked out of her boots, he unfastened her jeans and pushed them down, his hands brushing her bare thighs as she stepped out of the fabric. Her hands pushed at his jacket as he removed her underwear, and then he was drawing a condom from his wallet as he unfastened his belt and trousers, then slid them down just enough to sheath himself. He lifted her with a deep, rough groan, the kind of sound she could never emulate because it was so masculine and so uniquely Luca . He thrust into her as he held her around his waist, the groan exploding into the room as he filled her more completely than he ever had before.
Or perhaps it was just his absence that had made her feel that way. Maybe it had always been like this, but she’d been in such a fog of fantasy land, thinking it would last for ever, that she hadn’t completely appreciated how mind-blowing it was to be with him.
He stepped forward so her back was against a wall, and with each thrust she felt her sanity spiralling, her need growing, her passion exploding, so when she came it was like all the molecules in the universe were being rearranged, rebuilt, overbright and overlarge.
‘Luca.’ She cried his name, just as he’d said she would, and she didn’t stop there. She called it over and over again, as he drove into her until her eyes were filled with a firestorm of lights and her whole body was singing. She dropped her head onto his shoulder in a sign of total and utter surrender, her body wrapped around his like a vine. Sweat sheened her body, and his. She was no longer conscious of where he began and she ended.
Heat licked the soles of her feet.
He began to move, carrying her deeper into the house, to his room, where he placed her on the bed.
Ghosts lingered here.
Ghosts of the kind of pleasure that was impossible to define. And the kind of pain that could almost kill a person. She ignored the latter. She didn’t want to think of that now. Not when he was moving inside of her again, his powerful, strong body over hers. She realised, belatedly, that he was still dressed, and her hands moved impatiently to shove his shirt off his body, but the buttons were hard and her fingers hardly co-operated.
But somehow it felt important to be naked with him, a levelling experience of intimacy, a need to see that he had surrendered as much as she had. She grunted as she pushed at his shirt, breaking several buttons from the stitching, earning a gruff sound of amusement.
‘I would have helped, if you’d asked.’
‘I don’t feel like asking,’ she responded, shoving at his pants next. But this time, he helped, pulling away from her just long enough to push his own clothes off before returning to her.
‘What do you feel like?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
‘Tell me what you want.’ His commanding tone sent shivers down her spine, shivers of need and desire.
‘This.’
‘No. Be specific.’
Heat flushed her cheeks. He was taunting her. He knew she was shy. He knew she was innocent and inexperienced.
‘You are not a twenty-two-year-old virgin any more. You’ve been with other men, learned things. So? What do you like? What’s changed?’
She was suddenly completely still.
She hadn’t been with other men, as a point of fact. She’d been a little busy growing their baby then caring for her, but his easy supposition that her life had been a whirlwind string of affairs highlighted what his own had been like.
‘I could replace you in a heartbeat.’
How many women had been in this bed since her?
Ice flooded her veins and she was momentarily stiff, cold, aching all over, just like she had back then.
‘Imogen.’ Only, his voice was a warm caress, bringing her back to the moment, to pleasure and passion. She closed her eyes, refusing to think about the past, his other women, about anything but this. Because she knew one thing for damned sure: when the morning came and dawn light broke, she would walk away from him, and this time it would be for good. Her small slice of payback. Childish, perhaps, but important to Imogen.
‘I want this. One night of meaningless, amazing sex, and then I want to forget you even exist, you bastard.’
His smile almost looked to be one of relief. ‘Excellent. That I can do.’
* * *
He was glad the next morning when he woke to find her gone. Glad that there was no need for a conversation about the past, for a conversation of any sort. He was glad that she hadn’t stayed, even when his body still yearned for her, and he knew he would have liked one more chance to be with her before she’d left.
Had she left in the early hours of the morning, or once he’d fallen asleep? He had no recollection beyond their multiple comings together. He remembered making love to her until her voice was hoarse and her body spent. He remembered kissing her all over, pinning her arms above her head, delighting in the way his body could so easily master hers, even when the flipside was an uneasy dominance she held over him too. How one simple touch from her could drive him wild. He remembered her taking his length in her mouth as though she’d been fantasising about it for years, her eyes lifting to his as she took him deep, his hands curving around her head, touching her without driving her motions, needing some air of control though because his body was being shredded by what she could do to him.
It had been a perfect, sublime night. An excellent birthday present to himself, on his thirty-third birthday. And this from a man who never celebrated the passage of time. For each year he grew older was another year further from when his family had been alive. Each year he lived was a marked reminder that they had not. And that he had been to blame.
His fingers ran over his scarred side distractedly, the marks he bore a welcome, constant reminder of how he’d failed his mother, father and little sister, Angelica.
There was a new mark above his hip bone. A purple bruise. A hickey, he realised, recalling Imogen’s lips pressed there, while her hands worked the rest of his body, his arousal, until he was calling her name, reaching for her hips, positioning her on his length and taking her from underneath, staring up at her breasts as she rolled her hips and tormented him with the perfection of her tightness.
He swore loudly into the bathroom, his gaze meeting its reflection in the mirror, as he acknowledged to himself, and only for a moment, what a liar he was.
He was not glad she was gone.
He would have endured any number of conversations if it meant he could screw her one last time.
‘I want to have meaningless, amazing sex, and then I want to forget you even exist.’
He closed his eyes.
‘You bastard.’
Fair enough. He was better to take her approach to this, and let sleeping dogs lie. He knew what would happen if he saw her again.
They’d fall back into bed together.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But to what end?
Imogen hated him now, but she’d loved him once and he couldn’t risk that she might do so again. He didn’t want anything like that kind of complication. He shuddered at the thought. Imogen Grant was now firmly, well and truly, a part of his past life, and that was that.
* * *
At least, it should have been, but evidently, this was not the case. Not even three nights after his birthday, he found himself at the same bar, listening to Imogen once more, his whole body on fire with a need for her he couldn’t ignore, even when he knew he really should.
She wore a long floaty dress and a heap of bangles that jangled prettily as she strummed the guitar. She sang as though the words had been dug from her soul, the ballad not one he knew but one he found instantly catchy. The crowd was mesmerised; such was her appeal. When she stood up to walk off stage, he left his place at the bar and strode towards her. She stepped down, not seeing him, walking towards another man instead.
He stopped walking, his gut twisting at the sight of her natural, full smile, at the way she pulled her hair over one shoulder before wrapping her arms around the man’s waist and laughing at something he said. She punched his shoulder playfully—flirtingly—and Luca’s body turned to stone.
The man leaned closer, whispered something. She looked up at him, nodded. He put a hand in the small of her back, guided her away, towards a table. Unlike the other night, there was no group of friends waiting for her. This was more intimate. A date.
His body went from ice-cold to red-hot.
So, what did he expect?
Obviously, she’d been with other guys since him. Obviously, she had no reason to not be seeing someone tonight. Never mind that it had only been a few nights since they’d slept together. What did that matter?
She was a free agent, and the sex had been meaningless. Right?
He stalked back to the bar, threw down some notes, grabbed his jacket and left, determined not to think of her again.
* * *
‘It’s not a recording contract or anything,’ Imogen said with a shake of her head, trying to contain Gen’s excitement. ‘It’s just an invitation to send a demo.’
‘From the head of a label,’ Gen exclaimed. ‘Hel- lo . That’s amazing. Why are you downplaying this?’
Because Imogen had learned not to count her chickens before they hatched. Because she’d learned to keep both feet firmly planted in reality, to not trust how things appeared. ‘Until there’s a signed contract, I’m just seeing this for what it is—an opportunity.’
‘Come on, Immi. After that song, everyone wants a piece of you.’
‘That’s so not true. I’ve had some songwriting offers, but you know that’s not my dream.’
‘Right. This is your dream. And you’re there, baby. They want you.’
Imogen rolled her eyes.
‘Higher. More high!’
She turned back to Aurora who was on a swing, buckled in place, and had been enjoying the sensation of jettisoning through the air until her mummy and aunt had become so locked in conversation they’d stopped swinging her altogether.
Imogen gave the back of the swing a push, smiling as Aurora’s chubby legs, encased in hot pink leggings, swung wildly through the air.
‘They want me to submit a demo. Along with, probably, hundreds of other aspiring singers.’
‘No one is as talented as you.’
‘I’m not saying I’m not happy,’ she conceded after a beat. ‘I’m just being pragmatic. There’s a heap of things that need to line up before I get a recording contract. This is just one step in a very long path.’
‘But it is a step,’ Gen said, batting her lashes with the kind of optimism Imogen had once had in spades.
‘Yeah,’ she conceded after a beat. ‘It’s a step.’
‘Right.’ Gen nodded approvingly. ‘I have to love and leave you beautiful people. I’ve got a date.’
Imogen wrinkled her nose. ‘Who is it today? Da Vinci or van Gogh?’
‘Both, if there’s time. You know I don’t play favourites.’
Imogen hugged her sister, watching as she walked away from the playground and towards the tube, which would take her to the National Gallery. Where Imogen was fluent in all forms of music and had been for almost as long as she could walk, Genevieve adored art and spent every spare moment she had studying paints and portraits. It didn’t matter how many times she looked at the same pieces, she swore that they conveyed different things to her each time. Her obsession would have been hard to understand were it not for the fact Imogen was someone who read scores as if they were novels.
‘See you tonight. I’ll make butter chicken.’
‘Baba chimiken!’ Aurora repeated, clapping her little hands together and tilting her head back. ‘Buh-bye, Gen-Gen!’
Genevieve blew several kisses, waved and continued to walk away.
Despite the approach of winter, the day was clear and, in the sun, warm enough to enjoy, so they stayed at the park longer than Imogen had intended. After a while, though, Aurora began to flag. Imogen scooped her up and placed her in the stroller, walking towards a nearby café to grab a fortifying coffee for the tube ride home.
While there were several playgrounds closer to their home, this particular place had become a favourite. Not only was it huge, it was also fenced, close to Gen’s work, and more often than not, there were several other children playing there, meaning Aurora could busy herself making toddler talk with them. Besides, they quite enjoyed the tube trip there and back—Aurora loved to ride the ‘fast trainies.’
Stifling a yawn, Imogen pushed into a busy café, stroking the soft brown hair on Aurora’s head as she joined the queue to order her coffee. She was about five people deep and while she waited, she thought about the songs she’d play at the bar next time, the students she was teaching piano, the pieces she was working on. She thought about anything, in fact, besides Luca.
His touch had been a betrayal of everything she’d sworn to herself. She was furious with herself, not least of all because it truly had exposed her to weakness.
She’d been doing fine . She’d been over him . She barely thought of him any more, except when Aurora pulled a certain face or looked at her with those intelligent brown eyes and she’d see right through their daughter to the soul of her father. But other than that, Luca had been out of her life and mind. And now he wasn’t. Now he was the last thing she thought of at night and the first thing she thought of in the morning. Now he was back to being a source of torment and torture and she was so damned mad at herself. How could she have been so stupid as to think she could sleep with him and walk away, as though he meant nothing to her? No matter how much she wished that were true, it would never be the case. She might hate him, but she simply couldn’t forget him—it was a curse she had to live with.
At the front of the line, she ordered her drink, then moved to the side to wait for it. Aurora was babbling, a sign that she was close to sleep. Imogen crouched down and spoke to her instead. She used Aurora’s nap time—in the middle of the day—to work, and if Aurora fell asleep now, she wouldn’t nap later. So, Imogen engaged the toddler with little sing-songs and nursery rhymes until the coffee was ready and her name was called.
* * *
‘Imogen? Double shot oat cap with vanilla syrup for Imogen?’
It wasn’t an uncommon name. There were undoubtedly many women who shared it. But for some reason, Luca glanced up when he heard the call, his own double shot espresso sitting on the edge of his papers.
And then, he saw her.
Unmistakably Imogen, but as he’d never seen her before. This was Daytime Imogen, not dressed to perform, but casually, comfortably, in leggings, an oversized T-shirt and a puffer jacket that did nothing to hide her fragile beauty. He couldn’t stop staring. She reached for her coffee on the edge of the bar, her face lighting up as she smiled at the barista then turned her attention lower.
To something.
A pram.
A stroller.
And someone.
His gut twisted; he stood without realising it.
Was she babysitting? Or was she a mother now?
He hadn’t expected that, but why not? What did he really know about her life, then or now? Hadn’t he gone out of his way not to know about her?
He watched as she pushed out of the café, coffee in hand, talking to the occupant of the stroller the whole way, and he followed behind, as if drawn by some invisible thread. She turned in the direction of the tube station, then she was almost level with his own car, double parked on the sidewalk while he took a quick meeting.
But Imogen was not as fast as Luca. He walked quickly and, when he was at her back, said her name. Softly, but that didn’t matter. She turned around, the guilt in her face impossible to miss.
‘You!’ she cried accusingly, her face pale. ‘What the hell are you doing here? Are you following me?’
It was a ridiculous assertion. ‘Like I have nothing better to do with my time,’ he responded gruffly. ‘I just finished a meeting around the corner, grabbed a coffee, and then I saw you.’
‘Oh, right.’ She pressed a hand to her forehead, drawing in a quick breath. ‘Of course.’
But there was a stroller in front of her with a little high-pitched voice emerging from it endlessly.
‘Anyway, I have to get going.’
‘Where to?’
‘Um, that’s none of your business.’
Her usual bravado was gone, though—robbed by the surprise of seeing him, he suspected.
‘Imogen, what’s going on?’
‘Nothing, I’m just— I have to go.’ She turned away from him, began to walk again, faster now. Something was shifting inside of him. He should have just let her go—Imogen’s life was her business, and not his, but there was the strangest sense inside of him, an instinct he had always trusted, that there was more going on than he realised.
‘Mummy, dog! Dog! Stop, dog!’ the occupant of the stroller called as a woman walked past with a little West Highland terrier.
Luca’s footing faltered. He stopped walking, his lungs burning as he drew in a breath. He was very, very rarely surprised, but that made twice in his life Imogen had managed to pull the rug out from under him. Once, when she’d claimed to love him. And now, discovering she’d had a child. With whom? And when? And why did it matter? She was just some woman he’d slept with a million years ago. She was nothing to him. Niente.
‘Imogen, stop.’
‘Why?’ She kept walking. In fact, she sped up, so she was almost running. He increased his own pace, then caught her arm.
‘Is it some great secret?’ he demanded. ‘You don’t want me to meet your child?’
She stared at him with such wide eyes and such fear that his instincts kicked into overdrive again. There was something going on here. Something he had to understand.
With a last glance at her pinched, pale face, he moved around the stroller so he could see the child for himself.
He almost passed out. Sitting there, beaming out at the world, with dark, dark eyes and soft brown ringlets, was a toddler who was the spitting image of his little baby sister, Angelica, a child he hadn’t seen in twenty-one long years.
And he knew.
He knew in that way one simply knows the incontrovertible facts of life that the little girl sitting in the stroller smiling up at him was his daughter.
He had a child.
He was a father.
And he wished, with all his heart and every fibre of his soul, that it was not the case.