CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Three months later...

D ANTE LOOKED DOWN at the rings on his fingers. He’d kept hers on, not for sentimental reasons, but as a reminder of how close he’d come to losing control. Letting his hunger for his wife become an obsession.

Determination straightened his spine.

He was indifferent to her now. But it was maddening how much of an effect her departure had had. How much he had allowed her to influence his life to begin with.

For three months, he hadn’t accepted any jobs that would take him away from English waters. He hadn’t been back to London either, but he’d remained close. Japan wasn’t happy. Some of their most exclusive clients were demanding they have access to his personal expertise, wouldn’t take no for an answer. People came to him, to his company, to provide them with the type of experiences they couldn’t get anywhere else.

The Cappetta Travel Empire was built on his father’s thrill-seeking adventures. His father had revolutionised a small airline company into a recognisable brand. And Dante had inherited it all.

Being stuck on British soil was unwelcome. But he couldn’t leave, especially not now as he recalled the doctor’s words over the phone.

Mr Cappetta, your wife has fallen. Bumped her head. She’s confused. She doesn’t remember a lot of things.

His mother had claimed she’d fallen too. That was how she’d found out she was pregnant. A lie. She’d known all along, but the lie allowed her to manipulate his father. Manipulate his desire for an heir, an heir he wanted little to do with raising but wanted nonetheless. And his mother had got what she wanted too: the means to live her life as she pleased, with the money she got in exchange for her son.

Emma couldn’t barter his flesh and blood. Dante had made sure there would never be children in his future.

You never thought you’d have a wife either.

After tonight, he wouldn’t.

But the depth of Emma’s deception was unexpected. And he hated he hadn’t seen it coming. Over the last three months, he’d talked himself in circles. Doubt had riddled him.

She’d left everything behind, including a small fortune in jewels. On the surface, it looked as though she no longer wanted her things. No longer wanted... him.

But he understood the truth.

His wife wanted something, because there was no fathomable reason for her to leave, unless this was a play for power. For more.

And it was. He was sure of that.

Anyone’s palms could be greased with the right lubrication.

‘Sir,’ the driver said. ‘We’re here.’

So they were. The drab inner-city hospital in Birmingham was so far away from the life he’d gifted to her. And the knowledge that she’d chosen to come back here speared him in the gut.

Emma’s accent was rich. There had been no doubt of her origin when they’d met. But this city was nothing like the capital they’d lived in together. It was closer. The atmosphere was too intimate. The people were too much. Their melodic and soft accents somehow penetrated deeper.

Just like her? Is that why you haven’t filed for divorce?

No, that was because Emma had plunged a knife into his solar plexus, and he knew the only way to drive out the blade was to see her again. To confirm that his sweet little wife was just like his mother, who had traded her unborn child for a fat cheque and a private island. Seeing Emma would confirm that she had been manipulating him all along.

He stepped out of the car, and night lights burned in a shimmering rainbow all around him. He looked over the nondescript concrete building with red letters lit up by a white background.

Accident and Emergency.

He moved towards it.

The electronic door slid open.

He eyed the A&E department. Stale and metallic, the air reeked. And it was... cloying . The reality of it. Humans littered the chairs and the floors. Zombified, they stared at a string of red letters floating across a screen, announcing an estimated wait time of six hours.

This would not have been the venue he would have expected for an attempt to woo him.

He felt a sense of powerlessness here. Hopelessness. That whatever happened in these walls was out of his control.

Did Emma understand that? Was that why she’d chosen this scenario? To toy with him? To make him feel powerless?

The two double doors to Dante’s left opened, and two paramedics exited.

He moved through them, confident he’d find Emma somewhere in this rabbit warren.

The doctor who’d called had said an ambulance had brought Emma in and she was now waiting for the doctor to examine her, but A&E was busy. As her next of kin, he needed to arrive promptly as she was showing signs of distress. Confusion . She needed support.

He was sure the doctor’s words had been calculated to trigger certain emotions in him. And delivered by a professional, they were all the more believable. Made it easier to alarm him, imagine how vulnerable she was. Alone .

He wasn’t alarmed, but here he was.

The doors closed behind him.

Drawn curtains equalled full beds, didn’t they? He’d never been in a hospital like this, but Dante understood. He’d read the papers. It was easy to see why Emma’s doctor had been so easily persuaded to take part in her little ruse.

What if she isn’t lying? She’s never lied to you before. Never gone to these kinds of lengths to get your attention.

She had to be lying. He couldn’t allow for any other scenario. He would call her out on her lies, she would sign the divorce papers and they’d be done once and for all.

His ears pricked as the low hum of conversations behind each makeshift cubicle peaked.

He moved. Listening.

‘Thank you, Doctor.’

His neck snapped to the left as a white, cheap curtain was dragged back on a metal rail. A harried man with a tight smile nodded and withdrew from the cubicle.

And there she was.

Her blond fringe had grown and fell over her eyebrows. Thick silky strands framed her face, teasing at her high cheekbones before falling in a wave over her shoulders.

Oh, how he’d liked to play with her hair. Wrap it around his fist and draw her into his chest as her back pressed into him.

No, he wouldn’t go there. He would not indulge in what had always been between them.

He focused himself and let his gaze travel down. Her legs lay flat on top of sterile white starched sheets as she sat up against an almost nonexistent pillow. A white blouse covered her pert breasts and a black pencil skirt hugged her hips and thighs.

The same little outfit she’d worn the night they’d met.

As he brought his gaze back up her body to her face, their gazes caught.

Wide, bright blue eyes met his. And he noted the widening of her pupils.

‘Doctor,’ she acknowledged.

Was this her attempt at strengthening the ruse?

Slowly, he pulled the curtain back into place. ‘No,’ he said, dismissing the idea of playing that game. ‘I’m no doctor.’

‘Then who are you?’ Her pink lips parted, and his mouth slickened. Unbidden. ‘A nurse?’ she pressed. ‘A porter?’

‘You really don’t know who I am, Emma?’ he asked, and ignored the pressure building in his sternum. He knew she was faking, and yet... The conviction in her voice was impressive.

‘Should I?’ She shrugged. ‘The doctor said lots of things were going to happen. Someone would be with me shortly to take me to a ward. And then something about a psychiatrist and an MRI. Or some abbreviation of letters. But honestly, I feel fine.’

He moved closer and stood at the end of the bed. ‘Of course you do.’

‘I do,’ she confirmed. ‘I’ve already wasted so many resources. I don’t need to be in this bed taking it from someone who needs it.’

‘You don’t need it, Emma?’ he asked, moving around the bed in purposeful strides. ‘The bed? You don’t require my assistance?’ he baited. Watched . But she didn’t flinch. Not a flicker of anything.

‘I’m clumsy,’ she said. ‘It’s untreatable, I’m afraid.’

‘If you are untreatable,’ he said, catching the lie as it was spoken, ‘why come to a hospital for treatment?’

‘The paramedic insisted.’

‘Or you insisted?’ he countered.

‘ He said he was following protocol.’

‘And as the protocol would bring you here,’ he said, watching her reaction, waiting for the penny to drop that he understood what she was doing, ‘you thought you’d use it to your advantage?’

‘My advantage?’ she laughed. ‘No one wants to be in a hospital on purpose.’

‘Not even if it would bring me to you?’ he asked.

‘What kind of question is that?’ she asked. ‘I don’t know who you are.’

‘I don’t want to play games, Emma.’

‘Games?’ she repeated.

‘Yes. And this is not one you will win.’

‘Everyone likes to win, don’t they?’

‘Some more than most,’ he agreed. ‘Some stack the deck in their favour. Hide an ace up their sleeve. They underestimate their opponent, and ultimately lose.’

‘What are you talking about?’ She blew out an exasperated breath and swept the hair out of her face.

He felt the pressure build in his chest until he was vibrating with it. Something feral. Primal .

She blinked up at him. ‘Did you just growl at me?’

He moved closer to her, raised his fingers to her forehead.

‘May I?’

‘What are you doing?’

He stalled. ‘I need to see.’

Eyes wide, she asked, ‘See what?’

His fingers, feather-light, lifted her fringe.

‘Emmy...’ he exhaled and dropped his hands to his side.

‘ Emmy? ’ Her fringe fell, once again hiding the long graze on her left cheek and the ugly bruise on her forehead. ‘Why would you call me that?’

‘You are hurt.’

‘I’m in a hospital—of course I am,’ she snipped. ‘But I’ll heal. In time. Without medical intervention.’

‘You said you fell?’ He had to discern the lies from the truth.

‘Yes. I fell. How many times do I need to repeat myself?’

‘This will be the last time,’ he promised. ‘Tell me. What happened?’ he asked, because he wanted to hear it. The detail. The rehearsed script written just for him.

Because there it was again, the doubt that coursed through his veins in sluggish waves.

Yes, she was hurt, he conceded. But she was using it to get to him, taking advantage of the situation she had found herself in, he rationalised to soothe himself. But it did not soothe him. He was conflicted. And that was surely the point, exactly her intention: to confuse him enough that she could influence the outcome of their reunion.

‘I’ve already explained what happened to the triage nurse, the doctor, the registrar...’ She scowled. ‘I suppose one more time can’t hurt,’ she said, and raised her knees.

His eyes followed the movement. And this time he really looked at the state his wife was in. Her tights were ripped, split like ladders on her knees. The rungs spread wider as her legs rose to her chest. And there was blood.

His heart thumped harder in his chest. He’d never seen her injured. Not even as much as a paper cut. And yet her knees were scraped raw. Her face... Her head...

‘ I was carrying too much.’ She looked at the phone in her hand. ‘I went to try and check the time on this.’ She threw it on the bed. ‘I lost my footing and went down with potatoes.’

‘You went down like a sack of potatoes,’ he corrected.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘ With them. The taxi driver wouldn’t help me carry the shopping up the stairs. I didn’t want to leave the bags for an opportunist thief. I’m on the second floor of a maisonette so it takes time to get up the stairs. And now that’s a week’s worth of shopping ruined.’ She grimaced. ‘Such a waste. And it’s horrible waking up to an empty fridge, which I shall be now.’ She picked up the phone from her side and held it out to him. ‘In fact, maybe you would be able to call my mum?’

‘Your mum ?’ Shock pumped through him.

She looked at him quizzically. ‘She doesn’t work far from here. Just outside the city centre. She cleans for an agency.’

He hadn’t known that. Emma had never told him anything about her life before they met. No details at least.

‘She did?’ he asked.

‘Does.’ Her frown deepened. ‘Tonight’s the library. After she’s finished cleaning, she reads. Romance. She has the entire library to herself. She forgets herself. Loses herself in the stories, loses hours. But...’

Emma inhaled deeply, and he watched her chest rise in amazement. He’d truly believed that she’d planned this all out to convince him she was helpless, that she needed him because there was no one else.

But would she really use her mother’s death?

What if she is helpless?

The doubts were more insistent now.

‘But what?’ he pushed.

‘The nurse said she couldn’t reach her...she’d call my next of kin on the list. But there is no one else. Just me and Mum.’ She looked up at the ceiling. Squinting. She returned her gaze to his. ‘If you could try to call her...’ She swallowed, and he watched her throat tighten as if invisible fingers had applied pressure to the delicate tendons and were squeezing. ‘Please.’

And he felt it. The crack in his chest.

She really didn’t remember her mum’s death.

She was telling the truth.

He couldn’t let himself consider exactly what that meant right now or why the pressure in his chest kept building.

And so he would tell the truth too.

‘I can’t call her.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s gone, Emma.’

‘Gone where?’

‘To...’ Dante struggled for a word that was not too direct, but not too soft. ‘Heaven,’ he said, although he believed in no such thing. There was one life. One chance to live it. The end was the end.

Emma’s mother was dead . Emma was all alone.

‘What do you mean?’ Her face contorted.

‘She died over three months ago,’ he told her, stating the facts as they were. ‘A heart attack.’

‘That is a cruel lie,’ she choked out. ‘I saw her this morning.’ Her face twisted in confusion. ‘Why would you say that? Lie like that?’

‘It is the truth.’

‘It is a lie,’ she accused.

‘It is not.’

‘It has to be...’ Her face blanched. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘My name,’ he announced, ‘is Dante Cappetta.’

Frowning, she asked, ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’

‘It should,’ he said, and watched.

‘Why?’ Confusion spread across her tightly drawn cheeks. ‘Who are you to me?’

‘I’m your next of kin.’

Her blue eyes narrowed. ‘What?’

‘Your husband,’ he clarified. And he loathed the raw edge to each word.

‘My what?’

She stared at him open-mouthed, and he stared right back. Waited for the magic man behind the curtain to appear. But no one was there. She needed him, didn’t she? No lies. No pretence...

‘I’m your husband, Emma.’

‘What kind of prank is this?’ Anger churned in Emma’s gut. ‘You walk in here, tell me my mother is gone and proclaim yourself as—’

‘Your husband,’ he interjected smoothly.

‘Is this how you get your kicks?’ she spat. ‘Do you roam around hospitals looking for vulnerable women? Do you convince them their only family is dead and prey on their tears?’

‘You are not crying.’

Adrenaline burst inside her.

‘And you’re not my husband,’ she continued, and choked on the absurdity of each syllable. ‘You are nothing to me,’ she finished, because it was the truth, the only truth she’d accept.

‘I am your husband,’ he said again.

She froze, not breathing, not moving. But her skin prickled. Her mind buzzed.

Her eyes travelled over the crisp, dark suit moulded to his body. A very defined body . The open-collared shirt beneath his jacket hugged his chest and revealed a thick, muscular throat.

She moved her gaze back to his face. Perfectly symmetrical, with high cheekbones, a powerful jaw and a noble nose. And his eyes were so dark, so deep, she could fall into them.

‘It’s impossible,’ she breathed. Because it was. She didn’t recognise a single inch of him. She didn’t know this man. ‘I don’t have a husband,’ she declared. ‘I have never been, and never will be, married.’

‘And yet you are married,’ he contradicted smoothly. Too smoothly. ‘To me.’

‘Ridiculous!’ she said, because it was.

Emma knew the truth.

She knew that love was not the fairy tale everyone said it was. She’d seen that first-hand, watched her mother wither under her father’s supposed love.

Her mother and father had never married, but he’d used her like a wife when it suited him and mistress when he didn’t.

She’d vowed long ago that she wouldn’t give a man— any man —a legal right to any of her.

‘Ridiculous?’ he repeated. ‘What is?’

‘You.’ She waved at...him. The entirety of him. And there was so much of him. He’d walked into her cubicle as if he had every right to be there. And when he’d demanded answers to questions she’d already answered, she’d thought nothing of it. He’d exuded the kind of confidence that you didn’t think to question. She could see her mistake now.

Emma sucked in a fortifying breath.

‘This very conversation,’ she said. ‘It has no basis in reality.’

‘Why would I lie?’

‘Are you insinuating I’m being dishonest?’

His eyes penetrated hers intensely. ‘No,’ he said roughly, and it crawled across her skin like a command for her body to react, to tighten. She dismissed it as an involuntary reaction because...he was consuming. His presence was stifling. And yet it soothed her too, in a way she couldn’t understand.

‘I’m not insinuating anything,’ he said. ‘Because you have forgotten who you are.’

‘I know exactly who I am,’ she snapped. ‘My name is Emma Powell.’

His jaw hardened. ‘No, you are Emma Cappetta.’

‘Emma Cappetta?’ she echoed, because she couldn’t help it. And the name felt at home in her mouth. It shouldn’t, she knew that. And yet, it did.

‘Yes,’ he confirmed. And she saw the flare to his nostrils, the swell of his chest. ‘ My wife.’

Wife. He said it with such conviction. Such possession.

‘I am nobody’s wife.’

She would be no one’s fool.

His fingers edged towards her, and she couldn’t tell him to stop. Her vocal cords refused to cooperate because her body was so warm.

She found herself eager for his touch on her skin.

She must have bumped her head harder than she thought.

He claimed her left hand. ‘Look,’ he demanded, and dipped his head to where his thumb stroked her ring finger.

And she begged her body not to betray her, not to allow him the satisfaction of her obeying his whim.

‘What am I meant to see?’ she asked and met his gaze defiantly. ‘Because all I see is a man touching a woman he doesn’t know.’ She snatched her hand away because it... tingled . ‘Making absurd declarations!’

‘You can feel it, can’t you?’

‘Feel what?’

She swallowed hard. A smile played on his lips, and there was an arrogance in his gaze. He knew that his ministrations had elicited a reaction quite unlike anything she’d ever felt before. And yet, it felt familiar too.

‘The chemistry between us,’ he answered, and the most frightening thing of all was the intensity of her body’s response to the idea of him touching her again.

Maybe she’d knocked herself out completely and was still out cold. Maybe this was all a dream.

‘The only fool in this room is you, thinking I’d believe we’re married. ’

His hand fell to his side. ‘You may not be wearing your ring,’ he said. ‘But the evidence is there, if only you’d look.’

She closed her eyes. Counted to ten. Slowly. Surely she was going to wake up any minute now.

Any. Minute.

‘What are you doing?’ His question was spoken as softly as velvet brushed against her skin. His was a deep, sensual voice her ears liked, because they perked up, as did the speed of her heart, to a painful staccato rhythm.

And it was... uncomfortable .

Her mind didn’t know him, but her body—

She opened her eyes. ‘What am I doing?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, hoping to challenge his deplorable confidence he belonged here, had the absolute right to touch her and call himself husband. When—

‘Watching you.’

‘Then stop it,’ she spat, because his eyes on her felt...hot.

Her temples pounded. Hard . A bass drum between her ears.

She placed her fingertips to her temples and rubbed, but the pressure behind her eyes only increased. Her brain throbbed mercilessly, as if her mind was searching for something but an error code kept appearing.

‘This isn’t a movie,’ she forced out. ‘I didn’t fall over and forget my life.’

‘You have forgotten it,’ he corrected. ‘You have forgotten... me .’

‘Who could forget you ?’

‘My wife, obviously.’

And she couldn’t help herself any longer. She looked down at her ring finger. And that was when she saw it.

‘Oh, my God.’

She brought her hand closer to her face. And sure enough, there on her finger was a tan line, a white circular band.

Just as he’d promised there would be.

Something had sat on her finger long enough for the sun to kiss the rest of her hand and leave this piece of her flesh untouched.

A ring.

‘It can’t be true,’ she whispered.

‘If you require it,’ he said, ‘I’ll produce our marriage certificate.’

‘Marriage certificate?’ She flexed her fingers out in front of her again. ‘Do you carry it around in your pocket for occasions such as this?’

Her laugh was a heavy cackle of self-mockery. Because what was a marriage certificate? Just a piece of paper. Her mother was, for all the intents and purposes, married . She’d had a child with a man she loved. She was devoted to him. Committed. But—

‘I do not have the certificate here,’ he said. ‘But I do have this.’

His left hand appeared next to hers. On his ring finger was a plain, simple gold wedding band. And on the finger next to it, on his little finger, was another ring. It was an exact match to the first one, only smaller, more feminine.

He removed it and slipped the ring onto her finger.

She’d never thought of herself as a Cinderella wannabe. Never longed for that life. But this was her glass slipper, wasn’t it? It was the perfect fit. A match. The white of her skin was hidden by the perfect circular thickness of gold on her finger.

It didn’t feel... wrong. It felt as if it had always been there.

Her thoughts spiralled. Why would the doctor call for a psychiatrist when her wounds were physical? Why wouldn’t they call her mum? Why did the nurse, the doctor, the registrar all look at her with pity when she’d explained she was twenty-two and living at home with her mum?

Because she didn’t live with her mum anymore? Her mum was gone, and...she lived with him?

Who was the prime minister? What day was it? Was it Thursday as she thought it was? Was her mum reading in the library? Was she Emma Powell? Or was she someone else? Someone’s wife? His wife?

Vulnerability threatened to close her windpipe.

But before it did, a warmth spread up her cheeks. This man, Dante Cappetta, was cradling her face. His hands were strong, and it made her feel...safe.

She couldn’t explain it. The touch was so intimate. They were strangers in every sense in her mind. But her face felt right cradled in his palms, like it belonged there. And she didn’t want him to let go, despite her logical mind knowing he shouldn’t be touching her this way.

‘You will come with me,’ he said, his eyes shimmering with confidence that she’d go with him and let him take charge. ‘You will see a doctor,’ he continued, ‘and be diagnosed with a plan of treatment within the next few hours.’

‘I’m already in a hospital,’ she reminded him.

His hands moved, releasing her face. His fingertips slid down her cheeks so softly, so gently .

Dante claimed her chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes dark with determined decision, he proclaimed, ‘We are leaving. Together. Now . This is the only choice. I will help you remember, Emma,’ he promised.

‘What if I don’t want to remember you?’ she asked, because someone— something —was lying to her, and if it wasn’t him, if it wasn’t her body, it was her mind, wasn’t it? And the mind did things to protect the body. The soul. The... heart .

‘What if my mind has blanked you out on purpose?’ she asked. ‘To protect me from you ?’

‘I am no threat to you, Emma,’ he said roughly. ‘We are married. I am your husband. Your protector. Trust me to protect you now.’

Marriage. Husband. Protector.

Those words did something inside her. Something she didn’t want to recognise.

Physically, she was safe. He was no physical threat. She just knew.

He’d walked in here with no overt displays of emotion. He’d found out the facts and taken charge. Her mind didn’t understand it. But her body...it liked it.

Everything felt uncertain. But his hands hadn’t. They were steady. In control.

Realisation settled on her shoulders, in her chest. She would go with him.

‘Okay,’ she said, because right now he was her anchor to the truth.

In his world, she was his wife. And a part of her wanted to know what that life looked like.

‘I’ll come with you.’