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Emilio lay onthe leather couch, a blanket tossed over his body, staring at the patterns in the ceiling of his bedroom. He traced every crystal in the chandelier with his eyes. He had barely slept. He kept thinking of everything Jasmine had said. How she couldn’t trust men. Couldn’t trust him, until he opened up.
Emilio couldn’t allay any of her fears. He didn’t want to lie to her, and he couldn’t tell her the truth. Being honest with her about Gia would only lose him any hope of having his child in his life, because he knew she would leave.
He couldn’t have that.
And keeping something from her wasn’t the same as lying. Jasmine was able to make a clean break from her past, but Emilio’s followed him. He might hate his brother for everything Enzo had taken from him—his father’s affection, Gia—but he would always be in Emilio’s life. Emilio had worked too hard for his position in the company to leave, and once the issue with vineyards was settled there would never be any escape.
He reached for his watch and in the sliver of light leaking through the curtains saw that it was still very early. Jasmine wouldn’t be awake for another few hours, but he could get up and start his walkthrough of the vineyards.
He tossed aside the blanket and crept to the bathroom as quietly as he could, trying not to disturb her. But he couldn’t resist looking at her. So peacefully asleep. Her curls wild, falling over the pillow like a halo of gold. She was so utterly beautiful, and she was married to him. But she was not his. She was so close but beyond his reach.
How would he survive this marriage? How could he wake up to her every morning and see her every night and not lose his mind to this longing, this constant ache? Every single time he saw her he had to fight the urge to kiss her senseless. To lose himself in her. He had felt her around him once and craved to feel it again—and wished in equal measure to have it wiped from his mind. At least then he wouldn’t know how perfectly they fit in passion.
‘Emilio,’ she mumbled in her sleep and his heart rate notched up a beat. Was she dreaming of him? Were her dreams anything like his?
He forced himself into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Hard, and lusting after his wife, he took himself in hand, thinking about her taste. About Jasmine’s lips on his. Her lips around his hardness. The euphoria of plunging into her over and over. Then, with her name on his lips, he was spilling into his hand, his release washed away in the current of water. It cleared his mind a little, but not enough to rid himself of this need for her.
It was always there.
Emilio dried off then dressed in a suit. He’d intended to walk out of his room without a backward glance but found himself lingering, going over and tucking her in firmly. It put a small, content smile on her sleeping face, a softness she wilfully kept at bay when awake. That fun, devil-may-care Jasmine was in there somewhere. Maybe one day she would trust him enough to let him see her again.
Trust you without you telling her about Gia?
Maybe not.
Emilio left the room and headed outside.
The sun was low in the sky and there wasn’t a soul out in the vineyard yet. He hadn’t seen it this quiet in a long time. Before his mother had died, he’d spent every moment he could spare with her. In fact, he hadn’t even come out here the last time he had been to Perlano. But how well he remembered running around here as a small boy, brandishing his tiny tools.
‘I want to help, Mamma! See, I brought my shovel!’
‘Very good,piccolo re. Are you ready to get dirty? There’s a lot of mulch here and I need a very strong helper.’
‘I’m strong!’
‘The strongest,mio figlio.’
‘Emilio!’
The memory of his mother in her sun hat and gloves dissipated like smoke. He wasn’t five years old now. He had to keep his mind focussed.
‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
Emilio turned towards the voice. ‘Buongiorno, Marco. How busy is your morning?’
Marco managed production here from seed to cellar, so Emilio suspected the answer was ‘very’. But he’d make time for the head of De Luca and Co’s North American empire.
‘It depends.’
‘I need a full tour.’
‘Of course,’ Marco replied, attaching a stylus to his tablet. ‘Where would you like to start?’
They walked amongst the rows of lush green plants, Marco talking about current projects, changes they’d implemented, the health of the plants and expected harvest dates. He emailed copies of reports to Emilio from his tablet, which Emilio skimmed on his phone as they spoke.
‘How often would my mother come out here?’
‘Before she became ill, most days. Afterwards, whenever she could manage. Even then we kept her abreast of operations. When she was well, she would do a full walkthrough and inspection every quarter, but she kept a close eye on the plants through each stage of growth.’