Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

G EORGIA HAD BOOKED A ROOM at the hostel on Edgeware Road, but Dante had insisted on taking her to a place in Mayfair instead. He'd been to her room at the start of all this to collect her luggage and he hated the thought of her going back there.

She'd allowed him to reserve her a penthouse suite merely to avoid an argument, though he could tell it was the last thing she'd wanted, which had left Dante with a sense of frustration.

And it had grown.

Day after day after day, back in his home, alone, he felt irritated and annoyed. His inability to make things work with Georgia, to make her happy while holding his love for Bianca in his heart, had stranded him in his strange no-man's land.

He missed Bianca every day. He missed Livvie every day. And now, he missed damned Georgia like a hole in the very middle of his being.

And he hated it .

He was miserable.

He was angry.

He was frustrated.

Worst of all, he was treating everyone in his life, including Portia, with the same degree of irritable impatience.

Portia was the first one to call him on it, two weeks after Georgia had moved out.

"For goodness sake, Dante, I swear to God, I love you, but if you speak to me like that again, I will walk out of this office and not come back."

He snapped his head around, tempted to tell her, ‘good', because Portia was far too perceptive and he didn't want anything about him to be perceived right now. Only even in his current state, he was aware of the reality of his situation, and he knew that without Portia, his job would become almost untenable. She was too useful, too integral to what he did. Whenever she took time off, he found it almost impossible not to bombard her with questions.

He glared at her instead, said nothing, and turned back to his screen.

"What the hell is going on with you?" She demanded, stalking across the room, standing in front of him with her arms crossed.

"Nothing."

"Bullshit. Tell me why you've been acting like a bear with a sore head for the last few weeks."

"Two weeks," he corrected, then grimaced, because he knew it was too close to an admission. It showed he knew that she was right, and that he understood why.

"It's Georgia, isn't it?"

He ground his teeth .

"What's happened?" Portia's sucked in a sharp breath. "Is the baby okay?"

His eyes flew to Portia's, even the suggestion that anything might have happened to their son turning his blood to ice. "Yes." So far as he knew. He dismissed the thought. Georgia had left him, and she'd been right to leave him, but she also loved him, and she knew him. She knew his most essential fear, the only thing that weakened him was a fear of loss, and she'd made a point of messaging him every few days with an update on her health. Always keeping it contained to the baby, she would tell him if she felt a kick or how her symptoms were progressing, because she understood how important that was to him. He would write back, without fail, and ask how she was, meaning beyond the pregnancy, but she didn't ever reply.

Frustration gnawed at his gut.

"So? What's going on?"

"Why do you think anything's going on?"

Portia just stared at him, her features bearing a mask of skepticism. "Because I know you."

Dante sat in belligerent silence.

"Listen," she moved then, coming to sit on the edge of the desk. "When Jack cheated on me, you made me talk to you. You got me to open up, and it helped. When things were bad with Marco, you were there for me. Even if you did also kind of screw it up," she added wryly. "You helped fix it. You helped him understand what was going on. Why don't you just talk to me? Maybe it's my turn to help you?"

"You do help me."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't mean professionally. You're clearly miserable?—,"

"I am no more miserable than I have been since they died." His eyes dropped guiltily to the picture on his desk. It was a lie. This was so much worse.

"I don't believe you."

Smart.

"How is Georgia?" Portia asked. "We were meant to have lunch on Friday, but she cancelled. She said she wasn't feeling well."

Dante stood up, restless. "Did she?"

"She didn't mention it?"

He closed eyes, well aware of the subtlety to Portia's prying—but it was still prying.

"Has something happened with the two of you?"

"There is no ‘two of us'—we're not a couple. We never were."

Portia nodded, but her eyes showed pity. "Oh, Dante." She sighed. "You're such an idiot sometimes."

"Thank you very much." The words dripped with angry sarcasm.

"You seriously don't know why you're miserable?"

"Leave it."

"You're allowed to love someone else, you know. It doesn't invalidate what you felt for her."

"Leave it," he said, more seriously. "It's none of your business."

"Yeah, well, I beg to differ." She stalked across the room, jabbing a finger at his chest. "I like Georgia. I like her a lot. And I love you, even when you're being a total doofus. You think I'm going to sit back and let you ruin both of your lives? Seriously? Well, guess again."

"Believe me, Portia, my life was ruined long before I met you. There is nothing you can say or do to change that."

We'll see, she thought to herself, as she strode from the office and reached for his phone.

Ensconced in his Manhattan penthouse, Rocco Santoro picked up his phone on the third ring. He might have ignored it—the blonde in his bedroom was very, very tempting—but Portia's face was on the screen and she was one of the few people he could never ignore. His cousin's Marco's wife, his cousin Dante's much needed PA, and an all-round excellent human being, Rocco had his own reasons for thinking the world of Portia. She'd done him a solid once, and he'd never forgotten it. Even more reason to be grateful: she'd never mentioned it.

"Hey."

"Rocco, you got a minute?"

"For you, of course. What is it?"

He stared out at the glistening city as she spoke, his lips drawing down as he nodded to no one in particular. She didn't need to speak her request: he knew what she wanted him to do, and there wasn't a single moment of hesitation in Rocco's mind.

The blonde was forgotten.

"Rocco. What are you doing here?" Dante glared at his cousin with the same angry impatience he'd been feeling since Georgia left.

"We need to talk."

Dante flinched at the unconscious echoing of Georgia's words.

"Is it about the Hamptons deal?"

Rocco's brow furrowed. "No. That's under control, more or less."

"Good." They'd been negotiating to buy seven houses for about three years, all in a row, with the goal of knocking them down and making a luxury strip of shops and restaurants with apartments above. They were in the final stages, but one resident was refusing to budge: an ornery old man who was declining to sell, no matter the price offered.

Everyone had their price though, and Dante had full confidence in Rocco finding it. He was a skilled, if somewhat ruthless, negotiator.

"Are you going to ask me in?"

Dante shrugged. "Do I need to?" He stepped back, gesturing inside. "Since when have you needed an invite?"

It was a beautifully sunny day though, and Rocco squinted. "Actually, let's go to the pub. I feel like a beer."

Dante closed his eyes, nodding. "That's mutual."

Around the corner and down the street was a quaint little place with a few tables set up outside. They chose one on the edge, beside a huge plant pot overflowing with geraniums. "Portia called me."

Dante swore under his breath.

"She is seriously starting to annoy me."

"I know you don't mean that."

Dante glared at Rocco. "Actually, I do."

"She's looking out for you."

"Do I seem like someone who needs to be looked out for?"

"Yes."

Dante's brows shot up.

"You've spent long enough sabotaging your life. We're all sick of it, frankly. It's time for an intervention."

"What the actual hell?"

"Listen to me." Rocco's voice took on an edge Dante had rarely heard. "Do you think you were the only one who loved her? Bianca was my best friend. Before you even knew her name, I loved her. I loved her when I was five and when I was ten and every year after that. You think you're the only one who misses her? Who wishes they could see her again? She is in here," Rocco pressed his fingers into his chest. "Do you have any goddamned idea how furious she would be with you right now?"

Dante clenched his jaw.

"You're using her as an excuse—you're blaming her—for the misery you've let your life become. How dare you do that to her? How fucking dare you?"

Dante's eyes widened and then shut.

"Bianca was a wonderful woman and she loved you with all her goddamned heart. All she ever wanted, from the moment she met you, was for you to be happy. How dare you screw up your life in some messed up homage to her. She'd hate it. She'd hate it. And she'd hate the way you're acting now."

"How am I acting?"

"Come on, Dante. I met Georgia. I saw the two of you together. Not only does she clearly adore you, I think it's mutual. You guys move like you're a ballet. You zip, she zaps. You're so great together. It doesn't mean you don't love Bianca. Or that you don't miss her. It just means you're living your life."

"Without Bianca in it," he said softly. "And might I point out, Bianca doesn't have that chance. How can I live my life when she lost hers?"

"So you're just going to shut down any avenue that might lead to happiness because Bianca died?"

"Stop getting in my head," Dante snapped. "I'll do whatever the hell I want."

"Okay. Let's try this another way. Georgia is a very beautiful young woman. True?"

Dante scowled.

"I don't just mean beautiful, I mean, like, punch you in the gut stunning."

Anger flared inside Dante and, unmistakably, jealousy.

"How long do you think she'll be single for?" Rocco pushed. "You think she'll sit around waiting for you to wake up and smell the roses? Of course she won't. She's going to be a single mum, and sooner or later, some guy's going to fall head over heels in love with her and offer her a place in his heart, and she's going to run into his open arms because he'll offer her a family, and love, and all the things you're holding out on her. Can you blame her?"

He compressed his lips. "I want nothing but Georgia's happiness."

"Bullshit. If you wanted her to be happy, you'd be married to her by now."

"That's not happening."

"So you're fine with her dating some other guy?"

Dante opened his mouth to confirm it, then shut it again. "I'm not saying I wouldn't be jealous. We were sleeping together. I'm attracted to her."

"Right. So that's all she is to you? Sex?"

Dante's gut twisted. He downed his beer, stood up. "I don't have to listen to this."

"You think? You need to hear it, Dante. You're being a bastard and not only are you ruining your life, you're ruining hers too. Fine. You want to be that guy? Fine. But don't do it in Bianca's name. You and I know how furious she would be with you right now. We know that. We know what she'd say because we knew her better than she knew herself." Rocco's face had the appearance of calm but his obsidian eyes were filled with anger. "If you're going to destroy your chances of happiness, and Georgia's, then be honest with yourself, and the world: you're doing it for yourself, not Bee." Rocco stood, his own beer barely touched. "I'll let you know when the contracts are signed. See you in a couple of weeks."

He strode off, confident he'd said his piece. Whether or not it would achieve anything, only time would tell.

Georgia had prevaricated about sending the message for several hours but in the end, she knew she had to do it. This wasn't about her, it was about their son. Dante deserved to know.

Hi. Just FYI, I have a scan this afternoon. It's routine. I'll let you know how it goes afterwards.

Dante's text came through almost immediately.

Where?

Georgia ignored the question. The last thing she wanted was for Dante to show up. She started typing words to that effect, then stopped, sighed. She just wouldn't reply. He didn't need to know. And she didn't need him. At least, that was what she told herself.

Tears flooded her eyes as she stared at the image on screen of their dear little boy floating about inside of her. Love stretched and swelled her heart. She smiled at the screen, every cell in her body bursting with pleasure. What a joy it was to see their baby, to know that he was growing well, and doing everything babies were supposed to do.

The appointment was straightforward enough. She took the print outs of the screen, slid them into her handbag, and left the clinic with a lightness in her step that didn't last long.

Waiting on the footpath out the front of the building, staring straight ahead, was Dante.

It was such a surprise, she half thought she might have conjured him up out of nowhere. But then he looked at her and Georgia's insides squeezed and tightened in a way that was now utterly familiar, so she stopped walking and gasped.

"What are you doing here?"

His throat shifted as he swallowed. He wore dark sunglasses, so she couldn't tell where he was looking, but her skin lifted in goosebumps and she just knew his eyes were raking over her, like they used to, as if by looking he could feel, as if he needed to feel with every fibre of his being.

"Dante, how did you know where I'd be?"

His expression didn't shift. "Closest medical facility to your accommodation. I played a hunch."

That made sense, but she couldn't help but feel irritated by how easily he navigated this sort of thing. She glanced away, not speaking, happiness evaporating.

"How was it?"

She toyed with the strap of her handbag. "Fine. Everything's fine." She opened it and removed a picture. "Here." But to give the picture to Dante, one of them had to move, to step closer to the other, and they were both reluctant, so it took a few moments for Georgia's legs to mobilise. She handed over the photograph, careful not to allow her fingers to touch his. "He's right on track. Measuring where he should be. Organs developing well. All good news."

"Yes." Dante glanced at the picture, then back up at Georgia. Finally, he removed his glasses and Georgia thought she might almost pass out from the sense of relief she felt in seeing him. It had been too long.

Or maybe not long enough? It still wasn't possible to look at him without feeling a rush of things she wished she didn't. Self-preservation made her take a sharp step backwards.

"Anyway," she shrugged. "Everything's fine. So…yeah. I'll see you later, I guess."

She turned and walked away, head held high, back straight, hoping he wouldn't tell, from the rear view, that tears had begun to fall from her eyes, and were streaming down her cheeks. As she approached the intersection, she surreptitiously lifted one hand and dashed at her eyes, willing herself to stop crying.

"Georgia." His voice was soft. And close.

He hadn't been watching from a distance, but rather, from right behind her. He'd followed her.

"Wait." As if to underscore his words, his hand reached for hers, their fingers lacing together in a way that was different and strange as he turned her around. It was such an ordinary gesture, but it seemed to instantly connect his heart to hers. His features tightened at the sight of her tear-marked cheeks.

"I can't," she said, voice breaking. "Please…I really can't."

He stared at her. "Let me drive you home."

She shook her head, her heart stuttering. "No."

"It's just a ride. What else are you going to do?"

Georgia sucked in a soft breath. "Do you love me, Dante?"

His throat shifted.

"Do you want to be with me? Because of me, not the baby?"

He said nothing. She pulled her hand free. "I'm not trying to cut you out of our baby stuff. I'm trying to involve you, but I also need to look after myself." She looked away quickly, then back at him. "Please don't do this again. Don't surprise me. I can't bear it. If I'm going to see you, I need time to prepare for that. I need time." She dashed away more tears. "I'm sorry I can't be more…okay with everything."

"Don't." His voice was thick. "Please don't apologise. This is my fault."

"No," she said on a sob. "It's no one's fault. It's just a shitty thing that happened. To you, to me, to Bianca and Livvie. Let's not make it worse though. That's all. I need to not see you for a while." She tried to smile. "I'll message you anything about him, when I need to." She bit down on her lip. "See you later."

He was in agony. Her words kept running through his mind, as he walked back to his car, as he slid in behind the wheel, and as he drove off. He'd done this. He'd damn well done this. She was right. She was right, in every way.

He was the one who'd shown up uninvited. Who'd surprised her. Who'd all but steamrollered his way into her life against her wishes.

She didn't just want him when it suited him, or when it pertained to their son. She wanted him always and she wanted all of him.

Only he wasn't available. He'd never be available.

He drove home with the feeling that a weight of cement had been dropped on his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He just wanted to shut himself down for a while, he just wanted to get away.

Como called to him.

Just like it had called to him after the accident.

He sought it out, perhaps. He needed it, just as he had then. But Como was a happy place now, the sun shining, the weather warm, and all Dante wanted was misery. Winter. Depths of darkness and despair to reflect the mood that had settled around him.

He stayed at Como though, because it wasn't London, and because here, he could start to get back to normal. Slowly. Slowly. Little by little. Surely it would happen, sometime? If he could recover from losing Bianca and Livvie, he could recover from this. Couldn't he?

A month after seeing Dante, Georgia went for lunch with Portia. She had cancelled the last couple of times because it had been too hard to imagine spending time with someone so close to Dante.

They met at a restaurant in SoHo that served an eclectic mix of Middle Eastern food. "I've always loved it here," Portia explained. "The food's amazing."

"How are you?" Georgia asked, a little embarrassed by how selfish she'd been. Portia had gone out of her way to befriend Georgia, and Georgia had given very little back.

"Good. But I wanted to see you?—,"

"I don't want to talk about Dante," she blurted, surprised to discover it was true. "I'm sorry. He's just…in my head, all the time. I need a break. Please. Tell me about you and Marco. The family. Your work. Anything."

Portia's brow furrowed. "You haven't heard from him?"

Georgia's throat shifted. "We text a couple of times a week, about the baby." She pressed a hand to her very round stomach. At almost thirty weeks, she was uncomfortable almost all the time now.

"Bloody hell. Men." Portia raised her brows, and leaned forward. "Are you feeling well?"

Georgia shook her head. "I'm fine. But what about you? What's news?"

Portia smiled. "I do have news, in fact."

Georgia leaned forward, the first genuine smile she'd felt in weeks touching her lips. "Portia, is it what I think it is? What I hope?"

"Yes. We're pregnant." Portia's face beamed. "I'm twelve weeks. I think—I hope—I mean, everything looks good. I think this time might actually happen, Georgia. Can you believe it?" Portia's eyes filled with tears. "I can't. I pinch myself every morning. I've been so nervous. So bloody nervous!"

"Of course you have been. Oh, Portia. I'm thrilled for you both. Our kids are going to be so close!" She said, without thinking, because in the back of her mind, she'd started wondering about moving back to Australia, to where she was familiar. But how could she leave now? The idea of raising her baby with a cousin nearby…

"I know! That's what I thought too! Listen," Portia stood up and came around to sit beside Georgia. "I really would like us to be friends. I never had a sister. Or a brother. And I like you. I think you're great. I'm sorry Dante is being such an ass; I really am."

"It's not his fault."

"He should know better. People who have lost should know what a gift it is to have a second chance. He should be reaching out for you with both hands, not bloody pushing you away."

"He doesn't love me," Georgia said, simply, and she was proud of herself for being able to dredge a smile, or something that resembled one. "If he did, we wouldn't be having this conversation. If he loved me, he would never have been able to let me go and just…get on with his life."

"That's the thing," Portia said, softly. "He hasn't gotten on with his life. Nobody's seen him in weeks. Or heard from him. That's never happened before. Not even then. Georgia, I'm worried about him. We all are. Do you know…do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

Georgia expelled a soft breath. "Yes." She knew, because he'd told her. Undoubtedly he'd felt that with the baby, and her later stage of pregnancy, she deserved to know.

"Would you help me bring him home? I'm worried."

Georgia shook her head. She wanted to tell Portia to go herself. She wanted to tell her she was absolutely done. But it would have been a lie.

She loved Dante. She always would. And that meant moving heaven and earth to help him, when he needed it—like now.

It was the flash of red that caught his eye first. Not a scarf, but a shirt, bright and bold. He noticed it, and a moment later, who wore it, and his pulse went haywire as his heart began to pump far too fast.

Georgia.

Her name whispered through his body like a chant, an incantation, over and over again, so he wondered if somehow he'd brought her to being from the strength of his thoughts alone.

She walked fast for someone with a basketball in her belly. God, she looked good. Pregnant, round with his baby. Ancient, primal machismo drove him. He strode to the door, wrenching it inwards.

The way he felt to see her again couldn't be put into words. Every single part of him throbbed and ached. His body tightened, his heart soared, but he stood his ground, face implacable, refusing to give into the delirium of this.

"What are you doing here?"

Her face was pale, her skin drawn.

"I was sent, don't worry. It wasn't my idea."

He gripped the door, surprised by the way his stomach looped and dropped.

"Portia," she explained unnecessarily, moving past him in the lightest wave of vanilla and honey. His gut rolled with need. He hadn't forgotten how good she always smelt—he thought of her every time he passed a field of flowers—but it still knocked him sideways. "She asked me if I knew where you were. I thought you might not want anyone to know."

He closed his eyes. "I appreciate that. You could have just called."

Her eyes showed hurt; he wanted to take the words back. "I was sent to make sure you were okay and you look fine to me. So maybe stop being a jackass and give your family a call. They love you and they're worried about you. They don't deserve to be put through the wringer because you're being a big fat crybaby."

He almost laughed at the unexpected assault. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. I don't care what's going on in your private life, your family deserves better than this. Call your mother." She hesitated, staring at him for a beat, then began to walk again. This time, away from him.

His hand snaked out, caught her wrist. She jerked to a stop. Not because of the force of his touch, but because of the surprise of it.

"Don't." She glared at him. "Don't touch me."

He hated that they were like this. He hated it. He wanted not only to touch her, but to feel her. To feel every piece of her. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. He wanted to mold her body to his and press her to a wall, and pleasure her until she was incandescent.

"Georgia—,"

She shook her head. "Nothing's changed," she reminded him. "I'm only here for Portia."

His whole world fell away. Georgia had loved him. Maybe she still did. Maybe she didn't. He shouldn't care. But the thought of losing her love, of losing her, made his whole body sting. All over.

Losing someone you loved to death was awful and almost impossible to recover from. But there was also no choice in it, which made it inevitable to, in some part at least, recover. He'd lost Bianca and Livvie and grief chewed through him, but day by day, step by step, he'd kept going with his life.

Georgia was here. So close he could smell her and touch her. She was here, flesh and blood, alive, and she'd loved him, once upon a time.

Why hadn't he seen how precious that was?

Or had he, and just known that unless he could give himself to her fully, he had to let her go?

"Will you stay?" He said, the words graveled. "Just for a while?"

Her eyes widened in shock and her lips parted. Beautiful, kissable lips. "No," she said, but softly, almost under her breath. Almost as if she was willing herself to believe the word. She turned away from him then. "I have to go home."

His heart tightened. "Stay," he said again, hating himself for pushing her, for asking this of her when he didn't deserve it.

She pulled her hand free. "You have to let me go," she murmured. "You don't want me, and I don't want this."

He stared at her. Stared at her face, her eyes, her lips, stared at her as she turned and left. Stared at her as she slipped into her rental car, started the engine, and drove away. Stared at the space she'd occupied long after she'd gone, a sinking feeling overriding everything else in his gut.

And he swore then, into the brilliant sunshine of the day, he cursed and he wished that he'd never met Georgia. She was the beginning of his end. She was his everything, and he hated her for it.

Even when he didn't hate her at all.