A Sicilian Husband - Kate Walker [34]
‘And don’t come back!’ Terrie flung at his retreating back.
‘You need have no worries on that score,’ he tossed right back. ‘I’d sooner put my head into the jaws of a hungry lion than ever come up against you again. What is it you say? Good riddance…?’
‘To bad rubbish,’ Terrie completed for him. ‘And believe me, the feeling is totally mutual!’
They were the last words she could manage. The last thing she was capable of saying before weakness totally overwhelmed her and the tears finally started to flow. But she had just enough time. The retort seemed to bounce off the strong, upright line of his back just as he yanked open the door. And he was already out in the corridor by the time that her misery overwhelmed her and she sank down onto the bed.
The sound of the door slamming to behind him was like a sound of release. A signal that at last she was alone. Alone and free to express the volatile combination of anger, betrayal and pain that had been threatening to blow her apart for some time now. Ever since that hateful, that appalling ‘and my wife’.
Throwing herself down onto the bed, she pummelled the pillows hard, pounding them in a fury of distress, wishing all the time that they were Giovanni Cardella’s hard, lean ribcage. The bones that protected his hard, mean heart.
‘I hate you!’ she muttered. ‘Hate, hate, hate you!’
Out in the corridor, Gio didn’t even wait for the door to close behind him before he set off at an angry march, heading for the lift. There was just enough room in his buzzing, whirling brain to note, and send up a brief thank-you for, the fact that at this hour of the morning the long, characterless stretches of carpets between the door-lined walls were totally empty. He would have a hard time explaining just what he was doing in such a dishevelled state and reeking of brandy.
Just what was he doing?
The question hit home as he punched the call button for the lift, stabbing at it with repressed fury.
How had he managed to make such a complete mess of things?
If he had told Terrie that Lucia was dead, that although he had once been married he was now, in the eyes of society, the church, anyone, a totally free man, then she would not have felt so hurt, so betrayed—so bitterly furious with him.
And she had had every right to feel that way, he admitted to himself as the lift lurched to a halt in front of him and the heavy metal doors slid open. She was completely justified in feeling that hurt, the betrayal, while she thought that he was still married and had simply been playing around, having—what was it the English said? A bit on the side.
But he had wanted her to believe that. Preferred her to think that he was an unfaithful husband. That he had deceived both his wife and Teresa, rather than have her know the truth.
And the truth was what?
The question was emphasised, underlined in his mind, by the lift doors banging shut again, making him realise that he had been standing still, staring into empty space for who knew how long. Hastily he jabbed one long finger on the call button again, hurrying inside the lift and selecting the penthouse floor before subsiding back into thought once more.
The truth was that none of his calculated plans, the coolly thought-up timetable for how things were to go, had actually worked when it had come down to it.
Last night was supposed to have been quick, easy—and above all simple. It was supposed to have been just the swift and temporary sensual indulgence of a one-night stand, no emotions, no commitment involved on either side.
‘Madre de Dio!’
Gio raked both hands through the darkness of his hair, noting with a grim touch of amusement that his action did nothing to approve his appearance in the mirror-lined walls of the lift compartment. Instead, he remained as dishevelled-looking as ever, the ruffled hair only adding to the effect of the crumpled, brandy-stained clothes.
He smelled like a drunk, too, he thought, wrinkling his nose in fastidious distaste.