Chapter Nine #2
Oh, he’d known she was good, but seeing it in action, it was a rush.
Firing his blood stream. Ignoring it, he signalled for the cheque, and led her out of the impressive London Shard, which reached into the night sky above them as their car drew up to the pavement to pick them up.
His hand hovered at the base of her spine as he guided her into the back of the car, his palm tingling.
He flexed it open and closed before he slipped in beside her.
As the car wound its way through dark London streets he wondered whether they maintained their silence because of the driver, or because it was easier that way. They really only seemed to encounter difficulties when they spoke to each other.
There hadn’t been a huge amount of speaking in Paris though. The swift lightning strike of arousal forked down into a simmering sea and he turned to look out of the window and away from her.
It didn’t take long for the car to reach the apartment he kept in Notting Hill.
While he’d been in Paris, it had made sense, especially with the amount of business that Gallo Group had with British clients.
He hadn’t been here for nearly eight months.
The last time had been…the last time he’d seen Gio, he realised with a thud of his heart.
His feelings about the old man had always been complex.
But above all, Gio had taught Micha nearly everything he knew.
And Gio had appreciated what he hadn’t taught him; what had been pure instinct for Micha.
You’re like me, you know? And I like that.
But it hadn’t been enough to make him worthy of the man’s granddaughter.
As the car drew to a stop, Micha exited and held the door open for Maria, his hand waiting for hers. After a moment where he thought she might refuse, she accepted it and let him lead her up to the slick black-painted door, where he entered the pin on the keypad and ushered her over the threshold.
Maria blinked in the harsh lighting as they took the red-carpeted stairs all the way up to the third floor.
A part of him wanted to see her expression as she took in his apartment.
Of all of the places he’d lived, this was his.
Not Gio’s, not the Gallos’. He hadn’t even tried to make his home in Italy—a place that had always marginalised him for his mixed European heritage.
But here, in London, the melting pot of cultures and nationalities, he’d made it his home. At extreme expense of course.
It was an ‘upside down’ apartment, in that the door opened onto a hallway where a set of stairs would take you to the sitting room and open-plan kitchen on the floor above, while straight ahead the door was open onto a large bedroom suite and off to the left was a bathroom.
Without waiting for him, she took the stairs and came to a stop, forcing him to pause behind her where he could see the open-plan living area that had stunned her. He knew the feeling. It was precisely why he’d fallen in love with the building.
Glass fronted three whole sides of the room, London lit up against the night sky surrounding them almost entirely. A large U-shaped sofa faced, not the room, but the view beyond, making one feel as if they were at the very tip of the skyline looking out across the city in all its splendour.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asked.
‘Herbal tea if you have it,’ she said, unable to tear her gaze away from the sight. Two sides of the view had strips of decking, where there were large green plants in giant tubs, and chairs, and a table where he often liked to have his morning coffee, no matter the weather.
She went to the window, with her arms wrapped around herself as he made a cup of chamomile and himself a decaf espresso.
‘You shouldn’t have done that, you know.’
Her words carried easily across the room. It was a reprimand, but it had no sting to it. No heat.
‘It was reckless to call Daniel out like that. His ego is as precious to him as his billions. It could have backfired terribly.’
‘But it didn’t. You saw to that,’ he said, picking up their drinks and moving to the large sofa that was perhaps his most favourite possession oddly.
He placed the hot drinks down on the coffee table and sat.
She looked tired, he realised, and wondered how much she was hiding from him, whether the pregnancy was hitting her harder than she was letting on.
‘My mother,’ he started, swallowing his natural inclination not to talk, not to open himself up and be vulnerable with Maria, because of how much it had cost him when she’d cut him from her life before. ‘She had terribly swollen ankles with me. And awful morning sickness.’
Maria heard the lifeline he was extending to her. She felt the hesitancy in him, but appreciated his effort. It wasn’t as if either of them found it easy. Not after the decades of hurt and resentment that piled in between them.
‘I’m actually not feeling too bad,’ she offered him, turning back to the room and leaving the nightscape of London behind her. ‘Tired, yes, but okay.’
She sat on one corner of the U-shaped sofa, absently rubbing her hand over the warm smooth leather beneath her palm. She didn’t know why she found it soothing, but she’d been doing it ever since she found out she was pregnant.
‘Do you have any appointments lined up? Scans or such?’
‘They’re scheduled for when I’m back.’
‘Could I…?’ He stopped, cleared his throat.
Instead of rushing him or filling in for him, she waited, remembering this from years ago.
Remembering how much he hated people doing that for him.
And remembering how Gio was the only one who let him take his time apart from her.
Did he miss him? Did Micha miss Gio the way that she missed Gio?
Messily? With difficulty? Because he’d been a hard man to love, but also almost impossible not to.
‘Could I come with you?’
‘Yes. I would like that,’ she said, hating that he’d had to ask, knowing how much that would have cost him. That that was how bad things were between them. They were married. They were going to be parents, for heaven’s sake. They had to do better than this.
‘If there’s anything you need, Maria, just ask. Please.’
‘I…’
‘Yes?’
‘I would like us to have a honeymoon.’
‘We are—’
‘Not one that involves work.’
He raised an eyebrow at her, accusingly.
Yes, she found it just as ironic as he did that she was the one requesting that they take time off work.
But maybe just maybe, away from everything they could find some equilibrium.
She swept a hand unconsciously over her abdomen, the strange firmness there new and unusual, but full of just so much that she was almost terrified of messing things up. And she really didn’t want that.
‘Okay, a honeymoon,’ he agreed, nodding.
‘And… I want us to find a new home.’
This time his brows shot up into his hair line.
‘Really?’
‘Obviously I’m not expecting you to pay for it—’
‘I can pay for it Maria,’ he growled, interrupting her. ‘What’s wrong with my villa?’
‘It’s yours. Not ours. I feel like…’ She’d felt like a fool, the night of her wedding. But she couldn’t admit that to him. A silly bride, having expected more than a bed in a spare room. She swallowed. ‘I feel like a guest.’
He frowned. ‘I didn’t mean for that.’
‘I know,’ she replied honestly. ‘But… I think we need a fresh start. A new beginning. As equals as much as partners, and as confidants as much as—’ She’d been about to say lovers.
But they weren’t lovers. He couldn’t even bring himself to touch her.
And she hated that she knew that. Tiny little tremors fissured out from the cracks in her heart.
He hadn’t touched her since the priest had them kiss to secure their vows. And that had been as cold as a fish.
‘I will get my assistant to start looking once you give him a list of your requirements.’
‘Our.’
He blinked at her.
‘Our requirements. And I don’t want your assistant to do it, I want to do it together.’
He bit his lip and nodded. ‘Va bene. Is there anything else?’
There was, but she was not at all sure either of them was ready for her request. Yet, if she didn’t speak now, when would she? Would she become like her mother, sitting in silence waiting for her husband to suddenly start caring about her?
‘You agreed that I wouldn’t have a marriage like my parents.’
His eyes narrowed. He seemed almost preternaturally still.
‘Yet that is what you gave me the night of our wedding,’ she said, her insides trembling, worried about what she was asking for.
Because that night was something she had absolutely no intention of repeating.
Removing the gown herself, in an empty bedroom, all by herself, had been…
devastating. She’d scrubbed at the tears that she’d kept silent, and burrowed into the bed beneath the duvet, red eyed and hollow hearted, all the way to dawn.
Micha might have demanded that they work together, but he had remained utterly removed from her in every other way.
But she couldn’t live like this. Couldn’t bear to.
She’d grown up in the shadow of her mother’s silence, and her father’s absence.
It was the one thing, the one thing, she’d never wanted for herself.
Oh, theirs wouldn’t be a normal marriage.
How could it be? But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have companionship, or… or… Her heart stumbled over itself.
‘I… I don’t know what you mean, what you’re asking me for,’ he said, slowly as if just as fearful of where this would go.
‘I want more. More than just a marriage that looks good on the outside.’
‘More,’ he repeated dully.
Oh, for god’s sake, she internally cried. Why are you making me say it?
‘You want to share a bed?’ he asked, his voice gravel and sending invisible shivers across her skin, which was nonsense, because she was pretty sure that he’d not lay a single finger on her in that way ever again.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’