Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire (13 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

H
E
COULDN
'
T
HAVE
been more surprised when his secretary told him who was waiting to see him in the outer office. Cursing softly beneath his breath, he wondered what the hell Cassandra thought she was doing. What was so urgent she couldn't have spoken to him at home?

He stood as she entered the room.

Marco looked so menacing, framed against the window with the light behind him.

She refused to be intimidated, though his svelte, blonde secretary had made a point of reminding him that he had another appointment in ten minutes. Was that the usual drill for females who turned up unexpectedly, or was she getting special treatment for being pregnant?

‘Cassandra.'

‘Marco.'

‘Why are you here?'

‘May I sit down?'

‘Of course.'

Immediately, he was thrown, she noticed, but his good manners came into play. She could only pray they would last.

They didn't.

‘What do you want?' he asked sharply, all the veneer of the gracious Italian lover gone now he was over the shock of seeing her there.

‘It's important that I speak to you, Marco.'

‘You had to come to the office to speak to me?' he demanded with no warmth in his voice at all. ‘We live in the same apartment,' he pointed out in the same cold tone.

‘Where you avoid speaking to me every chance you get.'

‘I spend more time with you than anyone else.'

Yes. In bed.
Her cheeks flamed red as Marco's impassive stare levelled on her face.

‘True. But we still haven't talked about the future.'

‘That again?'

‘Yes, Marco. That again.' She stood to confront him.

This wasn't the young girl he had first met in Tuscany but a lioness defending her cub, he reflected as Cassandra folded slender hands across her stomach. She was so different from any woman he'd ever known that he was thrown for a moment, and when his secretary knocked discreetly on the door to remind him about his ‘fictional' next appointment, he was quite curt with her. ‘No more interruptions, please. Hold all calls until further notice.'

‘Yes, sir.'

His secretary closed the door behind her with exaggerated care—in response to the tension in the room, he guessed.

‘Well?' he prompted, fixing his gaze on Cassandra.

‘It's time I went home.'

He turned to look out of the window, knowing that if any other woman had said that to him he would be feeling relieved round about now. He felt anything but relieved.

‘Why?' he demanded softly.

‘Your attitude towards the future tells me that I must plan for the long term,' Cassandra insisted, trying for calm and ending up impassioned—those pregnancy hormones raging again, he suspected. ‘And while you seem to think that my living at your apartment as a guest is fine, I want to have a proper home to bring my baby back to—and that means going back to England. This isn't an impulsive decision, or something you can put down to my hormones racing.' He said nothing. ‘It's the sensible thing to do. I have to go soon, or I won't be allowed to fly—plus I need to get things ready for the baby while I can still get around.'

‘You seem to have it all worked out.' He felt stung, insulted, discarded, superfluous to requirements. He was the one who made decisions. Other people carried them out. Not the other way around.

‘I can't just mark time here until the birth,' she insisted, ‘or face a blank, uncertain future. I have to get organised.'

He placed a call. ‘Signorina Rich is ready to leave, Paolo. Front entrance? Yes. Thank you.'

Replacing the phone in its holder, he met Cassandra's shocked gaze. ‘I have only ever wanted what's right for you, Cassandra.'

* * *

Cold, unfeeling bastard. She was right to leave. And the sooner the better!

She was in a state of shock as she followed Marco's ice-cool secretary to the bank of elevators. More so when the woman remained at her side until Cass stepped in and the doors slid to. Was she checking that she'd gone? Was she going to report back to her stone-hearted master that the mission had been accomplished, and another woman who hadn't taken the hint soon enough had finally departed?

She was overreacting, Cass accepted as she pressed her back against the cold steel wall. This was what she had wanted. It was what she'd come here to tell him—that she was going home and he couldn't stop her. Stop her? Marco had practically kicked her out!

She was overreacting again, Cass told herself firmly. It was those pregnancy hormones at work again. That was why she was biting back tears. She had expected more of him—she had expected some real emotion, when she should have remembered that Marco di Fivizzano could feel none. She was beginning to wonder if it would be better to cut all ties. Marco was such a frightening contradiction, and she couldn't be certain that he would ever be anything else. He was so tender and loving one moment and so completely detached and unfeeling the next.

The drive back to the penthouse was swift. The traffic was unusually light. She was feeling better, more composed and ready for the next stage in her life, unaware that a second shock was waiting for her. The first thing she noticed when she walked through the door was her battered old suitcase standing in the hallway. Waves of ice lapped over her as she walked up to it and tested the weight. Someone had packed it for her. The maid, she supposed. Marco must have rung from the office. He had wanted her gone before he returned home.

For some reason, her gaze flashed to the hall table, where once he'd left her a cheque. Her heart gripped tight when she saw the message waiting for her. It wasn't in Marco's hand. He must have dictated it to the maid. It was certainly brief and to the point:

‘Call me at the office when you're ready to leave. My jet's fuelled up ready to take you home. Marco.'

She leaned back against the wall and slowly slid to the floor. She should have known how easily Marco could detach himself. It was too late to think about all the things she had wanted to say to him—there wouldn't be a chance for that now.

Why had she wasted the opportunity at his office to tell him that she would never shut him out, and that when the baby was born he could visit them at any time? She glanced at the suitcase, knowing that she would still call him when the birth was imminent, and even before that, to reassure him that she had enough money saved to support both herself and her baby until she could get a job. She had wanted to tell him about the wonderful crèche and primary school in her village. More than anything, she had wanted to tell Marco that she loved him. Regardless of what he thought of her, or what he was capable of feeling for her, she had wanted to tell him that.

Resting her face on her knees, she folded her arms over her head, as if that could shut out the world. Deep down, she knew it was too late. Marco had released his cold, empty side, and there would be no going back for him. She should have known that for a man who had achieved so much in life, Marco was hardly likely to allow any situation to stagnate, and that once he understood that she wanted more than he could give her, he had moved remorselessly forward, leaving her behind in his turbulent wake. That didn't stop her loving him, or recollecting every single time he'd been warm, or funny, or sexy, or tender towards her. Love really did have no boundaries, she reflected as she clambered awkwardly to her feet.

She had a shower and found some clean clothes in the case. She called his office, but the same icy secretary took her call and assured her that she would pass a message on.

Cutting the call, she told herself that her leaving was the right decision for both of them. Marco belonged in Rome and she couldn't stay with him, like a brood mare waiting to foal.

But if this were the right decision, why did she feel so empty?

Because there were no certainties in life, and because Marco had consistently refused to discuss the future. Of course she felt empty. She had no idea if she would ever see him again, but she was starting over and that was a good thing. The past had taken a bite out of them both, making it impossible to have a future going forward together. When their baby was born they would come to an agreement, but where their personal relationship was concerned...

There was no personal relationship, except in her head. She had been trying to get Marco to commit to a future he wanted no part of. It wasn't like her to admit defeat, but this time she might have to. She doubted Marco would want any sort of life with her away from the privacy of his penthouse. He was probably glad she was going home. He could get on with his life now. She would call the head of the gardening team she had so much enjoyed being part of at the embassy in Rome on her way to the airport, and she would write to Maria and Giuseppe.

She froze as the front door swung open, but, as she should have known, it wasn't Marco but his driver, Paolo.

‘Are you ready?' Paolo asked with his usual warmth as he reached for her case.

‘Yes. Thank you.' She took one last look around the echoing penthouse and wondered if she had ever felt so empty in her life, though Marco had done everything she'd asked for. He'd set her free so she could cut all ties with him for good.

* * *

He stood and watched the jet take off. He watched it until it had disappeared behind a cloud. He never stood watching people fly away. He had neither the time for it nor the inclination. But flying home was the right thing for Cassandra to do. It was right for both of them.

So why did it feel so wrong?

It was a swipe against his male pride? No woman had ever left him before, but Cassandra had made it quite clear that she wasn't happy living with him in Rome.

Cassandra was different. She was pregnant, maybe with his child. That thought haunted him as he cut a path through the bustling terminal building. She would need consistent health care leading up to the birth, he reasoned, and she was right about getting on with her plans for the future.

Plans from which he was excluded.

Plans that he wanted no part of—not until he was sure. In the meantime, his people would watch her.

Was a second-hand report good enough for him?

It would have to be.

‘No comment!' he snarled as the clustering paparazzi hounded him to the door.

Anticipating the fuss he'd create, Paolo had the car waiting for him with the engine running. He jumped in and they roared away. He glanced at the sky in the direction Cassandra's jet had taken. He had never felt so conflicted. When she gave birth a simple DNA test would tell him everything he needed to know. No one, not even Cassandra, could bounce him into making a commitment, and even a positive DNA test didn't point to a future where he committed his emotions to Cass and the baby. Financially, yes. She would have every support. But emotionally...

He wouldn't have long to wait for the answer, and he would be fully occupied in the meantime with his work. His people would inform him if a problem occurred. This was the end of his personal involvement with Cassandra Rich.

He tossed this reasoning back and forth, trying to convince himself that he believed it, until he walked into an empty apartment, and for the first time in his life he experienced loneliness. The penthouse was too big for him. It was empty and impersonal. Why hadn't he noticed this before? He found himself wandering from room to room, searching for something of Cassandra's to hold, to keep...and, yes, to cherish. He should have remembered how meticulous she was. For a healthy, vigorous and very physical woman, she had the organised mind of a scholar. But she was quirky too, he remembered, slanting a smile as he walked to the window to stare up at the sky, and there were moments when she could be adorably messy. Basically, she was down-to-earth and natural. She was also unpredictable, cheeky and confrontational. She was a strong woman. She had wanted to go, and she had left him. She was Cassandra.

He turned full circle slowly in the hope of spotting something she'd left. Had he found a scarf that she'd worn wrapped around her neck, he would have brought it to his face and inhaled deeply in the hope of catching a hint of her scent...

But there was nothing, and he finally gave up. The penthouse unsettled him. It was far too quiet. He turned on his music. He loved music, and this particular piece of low-key jazz usually soothed him, but today it irritated him, because it reminded him of the dance he'd enjoyed with Cassandra. Switching it off, he flopped down on the sofa and reached for that day's untouched newspaper. Leafing through the pages, he barely glanced at them, and was about to toss it aside when he saw a picture that stopped him. A chain of popular low-cost fashion stores had copied the dress Cassandra had worn for the charity event. Just to rub salt in the wound, it appeared under the heading ‘Cheap and Cheerful', next to a shot of Cassandra entering the building looking absolutely stunning. The heading over Cassandra's picture read: ‘The Billion-Dollar Babe Version'. There was a snarky piece beneath about the heights that could be achieved by an ambitious woman, who, if she had only known it, could have looked just as good in the chain-store version of the dress without compromising her principles.

Tossing the paper aside, he closed his eyes, and for the first time he was glad that Cassandra had left Rome, so she could escape the vitriol that went with being with him.

He could still remember the shock he'd felt when he had first seen her in that dress. Her transformation had been complete—from no-nonsense girl into a unique and very beautiful woman. From there it had been inevitable that he would remember the sex—the furious sex—the sex she had enjoyed as much as he had. He'd never known anything like it, and doubted she had. It was quite possible that a child had been conceived that night. They had certainly given it their best shot. He had never been so reckless...