Her Last Night of Innocence (4 page)

‘So, what do you think? Do you like it?’

Handing him a glass of champagne, Suki came to stand beside Cristiano at the gallery rail. Above the frantic swell of electric violins he could hear the note of triumph in her voice as she looked down on the scene below.

Like it?

A pulse beat in Cristiano’s temple, out of time with the music. He felt sweat break out on his forehead.

The party was well underway, and the ornate and imposing salon was filling up with guests—some of whom Cristiano knew well from the racing circuit, and others whose faces he knew only from glossy magazines. At the foot of the wide staircase that swept down from the gallery a raised platform had been erected, on which four ravishing beauties with Perspex electric violins prowled and writhed around two cars.

The Campano car that the team would be running during the forthcoming Grand Prix was being unveiled to the public for the first time tonight. A study of design and engineering perfection, its paintwork glittered in the light of the chandeliers like polished emeralds, and its sleek lines were reminiscent of some crouching, predatory beast.

But it was the other one that people had gathered to look at. The obscene lump of distorted metal that had once been a car and had nearly been his coffin.

‘Whether
I
like it is irrelevant,’ Cristiano said tonelessly, dragging his gaze away from it. ‘Everyone else seems to be fascinated.’

With a hiss of scarlet satin Suki turned, looking at him from under lashes that were too thick and black to be real. ‘They’re glad that you’re back, that’s all,’ she said throatily, reaching up to straighten his collar unnecessarily. ‘You’re a hero. Everyone remembers the accident, but seeing the car like that will bring it home to people how amazing you are to have come back from it.’

Her musky perfume caught in the back of his throat, combining with the despair that lodged there, choking him. Everyone remembered the accident
except him
. And if Dr Fournier was right that might mean that, no matter how strong he was, it would never come back.

He knocked back a slug of champagne. It had cost Silvio a fortune, but to him it tasted like battery acid.

‘I’m not back yet.’

‘But you will be,’ Suki purred, trailing a scarlet-tipped finger down the silk lapel of his dinner jacket. ‘You were three times World Champion. You just need to get a couple of races—a couple of wins—under your belt. I know it must be hard—’

With a muted sound of disgust Cristiano broke away from her, thrusting both hands through his hair. Apart from Francine Fournier, Suki was the only person who knew about his memory loss, but even she had no idea about the flashbacks and the panic attacks and the palpitations that plagued him when he was driving.

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he said bitterly.

Below them Silvio was moving swiftly from group to group, beaming as he shook hands with the men and kissed the women, most of whom towered above him in high heels. In a moment he would make a speech, and then after that the guests would disperse into the adjoining salons and take their places at the gaming tables to play poker and roulette. Suki’s theme for the evening had been decided apparently without irony, and the guests were looking forward to celebrating Cristiano’s return by gambling with Campano money.

For him, the stakes were much higher.

‘I’m here for you—you know that,’ Suki said in a low voice. ‘If there’s anything—’

‘The twenty-four hours before the crash,’ he interrupted through tightly gritted teeth. ‘Tell me again. What happened?’

She stiffened slightly, and suddenly her perfectly made-up face was as hard and expressionless as a Venetian mask. ‘I’ve told you,’ she said carefully. ‘There’s nothing more.’

Cristiano’s gaze was inexorably pulled back to the shredded metal and blackened paintwork of the ruined car.

‘Again,’ he said with lethal softness.

He heard her give the merest hint of an impatient sigh. ‘You qualified in pole position. Some girl had come over from Clearspring Water to interview you and I took her to the press suite to wait for you while you went back to have a shower
and rest.’ Her tone was nonchalant, almost as if the events of that lost evening were completely inconsequential. ‘One of Silvio’s friends was having a party on a yacht, so most of us had left the Campano building by six. I’m guessing that you must have finished your interview with the Clearspring girl by seven and gone home soon afterwards.’

‘What about the next morning?’

Suki picked an imaginary bit of lint from the front of her very tight red satin dress. ‘Normal race day routine. You arrived at the track—’

‘According to the newspapers I missed the drivers’ parade.’

‘Maybe you were a bit late.’ Suki shrugged. ‘Four years is a long time. I can’t remember exactly what happened that day—none of it seemed to matter compared to what came afterwards.’

The throbbing in his head intensified. The music was building to a crescendo, the violinists thrusting their hips and their bows more and more feverishly as the guests kept coming. Cristiano’s gaze flickered restlessly over all of them, as if he was looking for someone in particular.

‘Was I alone?’

‘When you arrived?’ she said casually. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t you have been?’

He gave an icy smile. ‘Because the night before a race I usually wasn’t.’

It seemed like another lifetime. When he had driven fast and won races and seduced women all with the same effortless arrogance.

‘Like I said, I was at the party. I didn’t see you leave.’

‘This girl from Clearspring…’

His voice trailed off and his hand tightened on the railing as his restless gaze snagged on something below. Someone. He snapped it back, raking his eyes over the crowd again, trying to locate whatever it was that had caused that sensation like a flashbulb going off inside his head.

Suki gave a dismissive laugh. ‘Oh, please. She wasn’t
your type
at all
,’ she said with an edge of scorn. ‘She turned up wearing some kind of librarian-style grey suit—can you imagine? At Monaco? In May? I’m talking seriously plain and boring—the kind of girl who thinks the best fun you can have in bed is
reading a book
…’

Cristiano had stopped listening.

He was watching the girl in a dress of clinging blue satin who had just walked through the door and was drifting, like the rest of the guests, towards the stage. The thing was, he wasn’t sure
why
he was watching her.

Another flashbulb exploded inside his head.

In a roomful of some of the most beautiful women in the world she should have been invisible, but suddenly it was impossible to look at anyone else. She was slight, slender, though the cut of the dress accentuated breasts that looked surprisingly full and lush, and her dark blonde hair was loose and unadorned, curling up slightly at the ends where it skimmed her bare shoulders. There was something very separate about the upright way she held herself, as if she were battling the temptation to turn and run. Her eyes were downcast, her face pale and completely expressionless.

‘Who’s that?’

His voice sounded as if he’d swallowed a razorblade. Suki glanced at him in surprise, following his gaze. ‘I take it you don’t mean the woman in the red Dolce & Gabbana? Because if you don’t know who
she
is then—’

‘Blue dress.’

‘Oh.’ Suki made the single syllable bristle with disdain. ‘I have no idea—which means she’s probably nobody. The girlfriend of one of the minor mechanics or geeky technicians. She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t think where I’ve seen her before.’

Cristiano didn’t answer. The girl was directly below them now, so that he could see the satin sheen of her bare back and the raised bumps of her spine.

This time his head felt as if it had been split in two by forked lightning. It was as if the violinists were dragging their
bows backwards and forwards over his taut nerves as their music swooped and screamed towards its pulsing climax. He was distantly aware of pain shooting up the tendons in his forearms, and realised he was gripping the railing so hard that his fingers were numb, as if he was trying to stop himself vaulting over it to get to the girl in the blue dress.

She had come to a standstill a little distance away from the platform where the violinists still tossed their hair and swayed between the two cars. Her back was towards him and Cristiano felt his body tightening, hardening, as his eyes travelled down its bare length. Her skin was the colour of old ivory.

And then suddenly she turned, ducking her head and slipping through the crowd that had gathered behind her. Everyone was too preoccupied with watching the violinists and looking at the wrecked car to take any notice of her as she passed.

Except him.

Her hair fell forward over her face, but just as she passed beneath the gallery where he stood she pushed it back, and he saw that the expression on her face was one of naked anguish.

He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. Thrusting the barely touched glass of champagne back at Suki, he was moving towards the staircase before she could open her mouth.

‘Cristiano!’ Her voice was high with surprise and indignation. ‘Cristiano—where are—?’

But he had already gone.

T
HE
car was like some kind of gruesome exhibit from her darkest nightmare. Coming across it like that—incongruously displayed in the opulence of the Casino’s grand salon like some kind of obscene trophy—made Kate feel faint with horror.

She had to get away. People were pressing around her, trying to get closer to look at the lump of twisted metal, their avid faces blurring into one as Kate struggled to push past. The music was loud enough to make the hot air pulse, and the room seemed to tilt and spin so that she couldn’t remember which door she’d come through.

Looking around wildly, she stifled a whimper of panic. Whichever way she turned she seemed to be hemmed in by people—swigging champagne, tossing manes of glossy hair, throwing back their heads and laughing—until she felt as if she was in some grotesque circus. Then miraculously, ahead of her, she saw the tall double doors that led to the lobby. Ducking her head, she gathered up the slippery fall of her skirt and broke into a half-run.

The lobby was empty now, and the cool air from outside fanned across her burning cheeks. The heels of her torturous shoes rang on the marble floor as she headed for the exit, hoping that Lisa or Ian hadn’t seen her and might follow and try to persuade her to come back again.

‘Wait.’

The word was low and fierce. Oh, God, she was even hearing
voices now. Echoes from the past. Just as she did so often in her dreams. Any moment now she’d wake up and find herself staring at the ceiling of her cramped bedroom back in Hartley Bridge. Please God—please let her wake up before the part where she had to watch the car he was driving hit the barrier. Turn over. Burst into flames…

‘Wait!’

In dreams things happen in slow motion, and that was how it was then. Strong fingers closed around her wrist and she was being pulled back, a powerful wave of shock jolting through her body and her making her head whip round.

Her breath stopped.

He was inches away from her, his face darker, harder, leaner and even more terrifyingly perfect than she remembered. But it was his eyes that made her poor battered heart turn over as they burned into hers with laser-like intensity.

Her lips parted to speak but no sound came out.

And then…

And then his mouth was on hers, his fingers biting into her shoulders as he gripped her, and kissed her, and she kissed him back with all the pain and loneliness and desperate longing of the last four years. Showers of incredulous joy burst inside her head and spread through her whole body. She felt weak with relief, with joy, as their mouths devoured each other, brutal and ruthless, their tongues probing and fighting, their teeth clashing.

Distantly she was aware of the music coming to a thundering climax, and the eruption of applause—which suddenly got louder as the door behind them opened.

‘Cristiano?’

The voice was sharp and impatient, and Cristiano was lifting his head, pulling away from her, and the real world was rushing back in, in a blur of bright light and noise. He let go of her shoulders abruptly.

Kate staggered backwards, her hands flying to her mouth, which pulsed and throbbed, covering the incredulous smile that she couldn’t suppress. A beautiful and exotic-looking
girl she remembered from Monaco as Cristiano’s PA, and whom she had seen coming and going from the hospital, was standing in the doorway. Her slanting, cat-like eyes flickered over Kate before going back to Cristiano.

‘Silvio is about to make his speech.’

‘Va bene,’
he said tersely. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

The girl stared at him for a second, as if she wanted to say more, but then she turned and disappeared with a disdainful flick of her black shiny hair. The noise from the crowded room was shut off suddenly as the door closed behind her.

Kate was trembling violently with shock in the aftermath of that kiss, and with a sort of wild, excited anticipation, unable to take in the fact that the moment she’d waited for all these years was finally here.

He
was here.

Her gaze travelled wonderingly over him, as if trying to make her dazzled mind believe what she was seeing. She had only ever seen him in racing overalls or jeans and a T-shirt before, but the black, perfectly tailored dinner jacket added a whole new dimension of sexiness to his racing driver’s physique, making his shoulders look wider and stronger, his hips narrower. Or maybe they were narrower, she thought with a wrench of desire and compassion. He had lost weight since the accident. The realisation made her want to wrap her arms around him and…

Slowly he turned back to face her. There was a curious stillness about him. In the golden light of the chandeliers his face looked unusually pale.

‘
Mi dispiace
. I shouldn’t have done that.’

His voice was toneless. Kate felt a pinprick of icy fear at the base of her spine. She shook her head, twisting her hands together to stop herself from reaching out to him.

‘It’s OK.’

He smiled—a chilling echo of the lazy, sexy, delicious smile she remembered so well.

‘Not really. I’m afraid I mistook you for someone else. I apologise…’

The fear blossomed and spread through her, as if it was being injected into her veins. She felt her own smile freeze on her face—a rictus grin of horror. Her whole body suddenly seemed to be made of stone, and it was all she could do to turn her face away so he wouldn’t see the desolation and utter humiliation there.

‘Kate. It’s Kate.’

Her voice was a cracked whisper. She had to leave. Now. Before everything she had ever imagined in her worst-case scenario paled into insignificance.

He nodded curtly, taking a step backwards in the direction of the doors, giving her the benefit of his heartbreaking, ironic half-smile. ‘Kate. Forgive me for my…impulsiveness. It was a pleasure to meet you.’

It felt as if she’d been punched hard in the stomach. She wanted to double up and gasp for air. It had been a mistake. She’d thought he’d recognised her. Remembered her. But it had been…a
mistake
.

He turned, his shoulders very rigid as he walked away. In a second he would open the door and go back into the crowded room and she would be alone. The moment would have passed.

‘We—we’ve…met before, actually. I’m from Clearspring Water. I interviewed you…once.’

Oh, God. She sounded desperate. Unbalanced. Like some disturbed, obsessed fan. She wouldn’t blame him if he alerted Security now. So to save herself the humiliation of being escorted off the premises, she gathered up her skirt and backed off a couple of steps.

He stopped.

For a moment he was absolutely still, as if turned to stone. Kate had to remind herself to keep breathing. Slowly, stiffly, he turned back to face her.

‘Kate Edwards.’ His voice was soft, his tone completely neutral, but his face looked as if it had been carved from ice. ‘You interviewed me the night before the Monaco Grand Prix four years ago.’

‘Yes.’

So he knew. He knew who she was and yet he stood there, looking at her across the cavernous space with eyes that glittered with some emotion she couldn’t read, but which certainly wasn’t love. Or happiness, or excitement, or relief—or any of the other things
she
had felt when she saw him again. Her heart was beating very hard, very fast, shaking her whole body and pounding in her head as she began to back towards the door.

‘I’m glad you’re well again. I’m glad you’re back—i-if that’s what you want…’ Her skirt twisted around her legs, slowing her down. She managed a smile, though it felt as if her face might crack. ‘It was nice to see you again.’

She was almost at the door. She could feel the cold night air at her back, and she turned round and covered the remaining few feet as quickly as she could in her agonising high heels. She didn’t slow down until she had reached the door of the Hotel de Paris opposite.

It was only then that she remembered the letter in her evening bag.

Silvio’s speech was mercifully short. As the crowd clapped and cheered, Cristiano made his way round the back of the platform to where Suki stood.

‘I slept with her, didn’t I?’

‘Who?’

Suki looked up at him with deliberately blank eyes. Cristiano had to grit his teeth, steadying himself against the feeling of panic that was closing in on him. The whole evening had taken on a kind of nightmarish quality, so that he wasn’t sure what was real any more.

‘Kate Edwards,’ he rasped. ‘From Clearspring Water. I slept with her the night before the crash. Why didn’t you tell me?’

Suki’s blank gaze slid away again and she shrugged. ‘What does it matter? You slept with everyone.’

Cristiano jerked backwards, raising his hand so that for
a moment Suki thought he was going to hit her. He thrust it into his hair and swore, and then swung round and began to push his way through the crowd.

Except me
, she wanted to scream after him, watching his massive shoulders as he walked away, and the way people moved aside to let him through.
Everyone except me
.

Adrenaline burned through Cristiano’s veins as he ran down the Casino steps. The cool air, with its whisper of pine and the sea, felt good—tasted better than the champagne he’d been avoiding all evening—and out in the street-lit darkness the pounding inside his head was less intense. He knew that Silvio would be looking for him now, wanting him to stand in front of the two cars on the platform while the flashbulbs of hundreds of press photographers exploded all around, but he didn’t care.

He didn’t care about anything except finding Kate Edwards.

She had gone into the Hotel a Paris when she’d run out of here. Standing in the middle of the marble floor, still reeling from the realisation of who she was, he had watched her crossing the square, dodging in front of a car in her haste to get away.

He nodded curtly at the doorman, who leapt forward to open the door for him as Suki’s words came back to him.
She wasn’t your type at all…seriously plain and boring…

She was right about the first bit at least—Kate Edwards
was
different entirely from the women he usually bedded, and yet there was something about her that tugged like a fish hook in his brain and left him in no doubt that he’d slept with her that night.

And that the experience had been worth remembering.

Worth repeating—especially if it helped him to remember.

The receptionist glanced up from her computer screen as he approached the desk and, seeing who he was, started visibly.

‘Can you tell me which room Kate Edwards is in?’

Her pink-painted mouth had fallen open, and she was looking at him in undisguised awe, so it was a second before she answered. ‘
Pardon
, Signor Maresca…b-but really I shouldn’t…’

‘I hope Miss Edwards would disagree with that.’ He dropped his voice and, looking her straight in the eye, smiled. ‘Please?’

Colour flooded into her cheeks as she tapped the keyboard, and Cristiano felt a grim moment of satisfaction. It had been a long time since he’d actively flirted with anyone, but that at least was something he could still do. He just hoped that Kate Edwards would fall for it as easily.

Because she was his best hope of recovering those lost hours. He’d slept with her then—would sleeping with her again bring them back?

So that was it.

After four years of waiting, hoping, dreaming and wishing, it was finally over.

With a shaking hand Kate swept up all the brand-new expensive cosmetics so carefully picked out by Lizzie and shoved them back into her make-up bag. Most of them hadn’t even been opened. What a waste of money, she thought, stifling a sob.

But what was money compared to four years of her life?

She pulled her cheap suitcase down from the rack by the door and threw it onto the bed. She didn’t intend to waste a second longer on a man who couldn’t even remember sleeping with her. A shallow, cold-hearted playboy, with eyes like black ice and a heart of stone.

Straightening up for a moment, she clenched her fists and took in a deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes and her throat burned with the tears that she couldn’t shed yet. Not while humiliation and fury and bitterness were still so raw.

And the desire.

Her stomach still fluttered with it, and her legs felt weak
and shaky. Passing the long mirror on her way to the wardrobe, she caught sight of her reflection and saw that her eyes were huge and dark-centred, her make-up smudged, her lips red and swollen.

She stopped, one trembling hand flying to her mouth, her rapid heartbeat seeming to echo in the muffled silence of the opulent room as her mind replayed the kiss.

How could she have been so
stupid
?

Not just tonight, she thought bitterly, kissing him like that, but for the last four miserable years. All those nights of waiting, looking out into the darkness and wishing for him. The loneliness of antenatal appointments, when all the other expectant mothers had had their husbands with them and she’d been alone. Visiting times in hospital, when she’d watched proud fathers take their newborns in big, awkward hands and gaze down at them adoringly—all those times when she’d silently wished for Cristiano, silently held onto her memory of his kiss, his touch, the way he’d looked into her eyes that night and the sound of his voice in her head.

This isn’t over…Last night was just the beginning. Wait for me.

Well, she
had
waited. And she’d hoped and believed that it was the accident that had kept him away. That somehow he’d been trying to reach her, thinking of her the way that she’d been thinking of him, but that something or someone had stopped him making contact.

How unutterably, embarrassingly stupid that seemed now. She had spent four years pining for a man who didn’t exist.

Well, at least tonight hadn’t been a
complete
waste of time and expensive make-up. At least she had finally learned that Cristiano Maresca was not the kind of man she wanted as a father for her son. She picked up her velvet evening bag from where she had thrown it on the bed and shoved it into the bottom of her open suitcase, suppressing a shiver of relief that she hadn’t handed over the letter. Alexander was better off without him in his life, and Cristiano…