Chapter 8
He concluded his business in three days and decided to leave immediately instead of spending the week.
He spent the nights tossing and turning on the very comfortable and firm hotel bed, unable to fall asleep.
And when he did manage to close his eyes, dreams chased him.
Dreams of the woman he was married to, dreams of her lying in his bed, naked and draped around him.
It was foolhardy to stay away when he was pining for home.
The once familiar sights of Naples and Venice that had heretofore appealed to him brought him no joy.
So, he concluded his business with the Italians and landed a significant contract with the successful dealership of some of the most luxurious vehicles in the world, including Lamborghini, Maserati, Fiat, and Alfa Romeo, among others.
The contract was a multi-million-dollar one and would serve to cement his place as CEO of the company.
His father had previously been in dialogue with the company before his death, but negotiations had stalled due to his untimely demise.
He had a binding contract in hand that he was taking home with him. Declining the invitation to celebrate at a party at one of the associates' homes, he decided it was time to return.
He had not fully decided what he was going to do yet. He had some half-formed plan inside his head as to how to approach the matter.
He had married her out of a sense of duty or pity for her situation. He had told her it would be mutually beneficial, and that had not been a lie. But now, things were different.
He had left with the intention of trying to get clarity and to put some distance between them so he could forget her. That had not happened, he thought wryly as he packed haphazardly. What his leaving had done was to highlight how much he missed her.
He was contemplating taking their arrangement to another level, a more intimate one, and that would complicate things.
He saw no reason for them to be living like strangers, when they could be lovers.
By all indications, she was attracted to him as well.
Another important aspect was that they actually liked each other.
He loved having a conversation with her.
She made him laugh, and she was quite witty.
If the marriage did not work out… his thoughts ceased abruptly at that. If it did not work out? He sat on the edge of the bed in sudden confusion. What the hell was he thinking? That they should give it a chance?
Rising, he started to pace the length of the room as he wondered what this would mean.
They would be married for real, which would include starting a family at some point.
He hardly knew her. He knew her well enough.
She was warm, giving, and lovely. She wasn't his type.
What the hell was his type, and what did that have to do with anything?
He had been with dozens of women, not hundreds as the gossip rags had reported.
And none of them had ever made him feel so alive.
Certainly, none of them had made him want to have an actual conversation or to sit on a stool in the kitchen watching her make him breakfast. Before he met her, he had never been a part of that domestic scene.
He cared for her. She wasn't from his social circle. So bloody what? Most of the women he knew and had been involved with cared more about what he could do for them and how being with him could advance their careers. Indigo was the exact opposite.
Turning back to the bed, he resumed his packing and tried to figure out a way to convince her that the best course for them was to consummate the union.
He had left abruptly after a shocking display of childish anger and compounded the problem by leaving a note, a very terse one. On top of that, he hadn't called her.
He would try and salvage the situation by bringing her a gift from the exclusive and highly expensive hotel gift shop. Then he would go from there. But it was time to put all this uncertainty and sexual frustration behind him by making love to her. With that in mind, he finished packing.
He arrived home at a little past the hour of ten, weary and frustrated.
Nothing had gone according to plan. The pilot had to change his flight plan because of a sudden storm that had developed, making it impossible to fly the direct route.
He had taken a circuitous route that delayed his arrival by three hours.
When he finally landed, his driver had not been at the hangar and had to be summoned. Now he was travel-weary and more than a little grouchy. He did not want to approach her with this attitude.
And the house was dark and silent. Letting himself in, he shrugged out of his jacket and took off his snow-covered shoes. The only lights were the ones from the stove. The Christmas decorations had been removed, leaving the house looking a little dismal.
He knew she was home because he had seen her vehicle among the others in the garage. Making his way up the stairs, he started to turn toward his suite when he hesitated and strode toward hers.
Her doors were open. Stepping into her sitting room, he made his way into the bedroom, and it was then he heard the sound: a moan, a distinctly agonized one that left him rooted in the middle of the floor.
The fire was dying in the hearth, which did not offer much light. And she had not turned on a lamp. A pale half-moon allowed him to notice her lying on the bed, curled up into a ball and rocking. A cry escaped her and had him bolting toward her.
"Indigo. What's wrong?"
Her eyes popped wide open, and he saw the sheen of tears. Her lashes were wet and so were her cheeks. She was in serious pain.
"Brant," she breathed.
"I'm here. What's wrong?"
"I-nothing." She bit her lip to stop the sound from escaping but did not quite manage it.
"Indigo-"
"Please excuse me." She shoved him away and raced toward the bathroom. He sprang up from the bed and stood there listening in horror to her awful retching. He was about to go after her when he noticed to his horror that the sheets were soaked with blood. Only one thing came to his petrified mind.
The excruciating pain, the blood, her vomiting: she was obviously dying.
Belatedly realizing that he was still standing there while she was puking her stomach out, he rushed into the bathroom.
She was on the floor, her hands wrapped around her stomach and keening.
Dropping to his knees, he got behind her and held her from behind.
Immediately, she gripped his arms, her fingers digging into his skin, making him wince at the pain she was causing him.
"Baby, what's wrong?" he asked her gently, rocking her back and forth. She was soaked through with sweat, the black sweater clinging to her skin.
"My periods," she whispered hoarsely. "I've had a hormonal imbalance since I was a child and have irregular periods. I haven't had one in a year now and never thought about it. I felt the heaviness in my abdomen while at the store but thought nothing of it until I came home and the pain started."
He brushed the coils of hair from her forehead and pressed a kiss to her temple. "How long ago?"
"Two hours."
He felt the guilty lurch of his heart at the idea that she was here alone and in pain. He was about to suggest he help her back to bed when she cried out, her fingers clinging to him.
"Oh, Christ!" His face went white and his body stiffened. "I'm calling the doctor."
"No. I need to take a shower. Please help me up."
He did so slowly and saw to his horror that the floor where she had been was soaked with more blood. Surely it had to be something dire. "I'll assist you in the shower-"
"No!" She shook her head. "I can manage." She closed her eyes briefly. "Just get me something to wear. Black leggings in the second drawer of the dresser and a sweater."
Before he could insist on taking her into the shower, she made her way slowly and stood waiting for him to leave, which he did with great reluctance.
Striding to the bed, he stood there staring at the spread of blood.
Then firming his lips, he yanked the sheets off and was about to go and look for another set when he decided that she would be better off in his bed.
Moving toward the dresser, he took out the clothing she had asked for and went back to the bathroom.
"All right if I come in?" he asked, knocking on the door.
"I'm getting out now. Stay there, I'll come and get them."
He waited by the door until she opened it an inch and reached for her clothing. "What else can I do?"
"I need a cup of hot tea."
"Before I do that, I want to make sure you come out. I'll wait here."
She nodded and closed the door. Five minutes later, she walked out fully dressed. He reached for her hand when she started to make her way toward the bed.
"No. We're going to my rooms."
She started to shake her head, but he simply led her out of the room. He had to stop several times as the pain doubled her over. When they finally reached his bedroom, he carefully led her up the steps and pulled the sheets aside for her to get beneath them.
"A warm washcloth," she said between her teeth as the wave of pain came again. "And some painkillers."
"Of course." He rushed to do her bidding, coming back with the piping hot cloth and placing it across her tummy before handing her some Tylenol and a glass of water.
Taking the glass from her, he waited a beat before leaving to go and make the tea.
His hands were shaking so much he could hardly turn the knob on the stove. Selecting a box of mint medley, he put one in a cup and stood there with his fists clenched. So much for his plan, he thought bitterly.
Jerking his head at the shrill whistle of the kettle, he stirred himself and turned off the knob. Pouring water over the pouch, he added a spoon of honey and placed the cup of tea on a small tray.
She was propped up on the pillows, her head tilted back.