Page 48 of Italian Weddings

Emilia was in one such group, nodding and half-listening to the conversation, all the while allowing her gaze to flit across the crowd every few minutes, waiting, anticipating, knowing he was somewhere and almost giddy with the excitement of seeing him again.

Which was ridiculous.

They were seeing each other often enough that it shouldn’t have been a source of such excitement to contemplate this, and yet…

she sucked in a sharp breath of air as finally her eyes landed on him.

Well, on the back of his head, at least. Strange how easily she picked him out of the crowd, despite it only being a glimpse of him, but she instantly recognised the set of his broad shoulders, the bearing, so much so she could practically see his face even when it was angled away.

She tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help it.

Excitement fizzed in her belly as she imagined how she could extricate herself from this conversation and get closer to him.

Closer than this, at least. Out of the corner of her eye, a flash of red caught her attention, and she shifted her attention to a striking woman with light blonde hair and a stunning figure, as she cut through the crowd.

Emilia couldn’t say how she knew Salvatore was her destination.

But if Emilia’s eyes were locked on Salvatore, then the same could be said for this woman, who seemed to have the precision of a homing pigeon.

As Emilia watched, the woman tapped Salvatore on the shoulder, so he glanced at her first, and Emilia caught enough of his expression to see that he was, at first, reserved.

Then, however, he turned more fully, and his entire demeanor changed, his expression breaking out into a look of pure, unadulterated pleasure, as he wrapped his arms around the woman and pulled her tight to his body, holding her there as though seeing her was the highlight of his night.

Holding her there as though he couldn’t let go.

Emilia stared, the air leaving her lungs in a rush, so her eyes filled with stars and she felt lightheaded. She dug her fingernails into the palm of one hand, knowing she needed to look away, but not quite able to.

Salvatore lifted his head, still smiling, and the woman’s hands gripped his upper arms, her bright red nails, matching the dress, digging into the material of his tuxedo jacket. Emilia’s stomach twisted into knots, and her throat felt all thick and dry.

The woman said something, and Salvatore nodded. Something else, another nod, and then they were turning, Salvatore’s hand in the small of her back, just above the swell of her bottom, as they moved away from his group, and disappeared completely from view.

The anticipation Emilia had been feeling – so pleasant a moment ago – was now like ice in her veins.

She no longer saw the dramatic beauty of the foyer, nor heard the perfection of the music.

All she could hear, and feel, was the throbbing of her heart, as it fast-pumped blood through her body, so it washed through her ears with a frantic, nauseating regularity.

“Are you aware of the innovations, Emilia?”

She’d completely missed the conversation, and made an effort to focus, even when her brain was still trying to process what she’d just witnessed.

She’d never seen the other woman before, so she wasn’t a regular at these things. But that didn’t mean anything. She was clearly familiar to Salvatore, and it didn’t take the mental acuity of a brain surgeon to put two and two together and get ‘ex girlfriend’.

Why should that surprise her? She knew about Salvatore’s past. She’d known that going into this.

It was probably inevitable that she should come face to face with some figment of his life before Emilia.

How foolish of her not to have contemplated that.

Nor to have thought about what the future looked like, beyond this relationship.

This would be over, soon enough, and then they’d have to go back to pretending each other didn’t exist, ignoring one another at these events.

Seeing one another talk to other people. Go home with them.

Her heart rate kicked up a notch.

“Emilia? Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, pressing her fingertips to her temple. “I just need a moment.”

“Do you need company?” One of the women in the group asked. Emilia couldn’t remember her name, but the woman’s concern was obvious.

Emilia shook her head. Company was the last thing she wanted. “I’m fine. Thank you. Excuse me,” she added, as she took a few steps away and then turned, looking around for the quickest route to reprieve—she needed time. Just a little time, to process this.

Even when ‘this’ was nothing.

Nothing unexpected, anyway.

More fool her for thinking that what they were doing was somehow different to anything he’d done before.

Salvatore Santoro was, and always would be, an out and out bachelor.

Someone who lived and breathed to seduce, pleasure and enjoy.

There was nothing about what they were doing that was unique or special.

Nothing about her that was either of those things.

In some ways, this situation was no different to Jesse.

Yet again, she’d let herself want something she couldn’t have.

Even when she’d been telling herself, all along, that there were boundaries and rules in place around what they were doing, it hadn’t stopped her from starting to enjoy—more than she should have—the time they spent together. Maybe even to hope for more.

How stupid.

How dangerous.

Even when she’d told herself she’d never be reckless with her feelings again, she had been.

She’d let Salvatore dig into her, and seeing him with the other woman had underscored for her what a liability that was.

Because this man would always play the field.

He’d never commit, he’d never really care for a woman. It just wasn’t his way.

Frustration zipped through her, right alongside confusion. Instead of making her way to the ladies’ room, she kept her head down and weaved through the guests, towards the door, needing fresh air, and some time to think.

It felt different coming back to her apartment, having spent so much time at their shared hotel room in recent times. She went from room to room, flicking on the lights, looking at the luxurious space with a sense of disconnect.

This was her home. Here, she was surrounded with her trinkets and things, the physical manifestations of her life. Photographs of her friends, her family, artwork that was both beautiful and meaningful. This was her safe space, and yet tonight, it just felt void. Empty.

As though something was missing.

She groaned as she made her way to the kitchen, flicking on the coffee machine and making a short black. Her eyes stayed trained on the view beyond – a sparkling Manhattan – and she tried not to pick out the general direction of the party she’d just left.

Run away from.

Because the sight of Salvatore with that beautiful other woman had turned her into some kind of wildling, driven by sheer impulse. And those impulses weren’t good.

Jealousy had flooded her veins to the point she’d wanted to scratch the other woman’s eyes out.

What the hell was happening to her? A week ago, she’d reckoned with this, when they shared a bath.

He’d accused her of jealousy and she’d acted like it was impossible.

But he’d been right. She was jealous. Not just of the women he’d been with in the past, but of the certainty that he would move on from her quickly and easily.

That before she’d had time to adjust to life post-Salvatore, he’d already have someone else in his life, and bed.

But why did that flood her with vile envy?

Salvatore was her enemy. Or, if not her enemy, someone she’d been sworn to hate, her whole life.

He was the last person on earth she should be jealous of.

Using him for sex was one thing—letting him use her another.

But actually caring that he was flirting with other women? Possibly even sleeping with them?

How could she let herself be that stupid?

She threw back her coffee then paced into the living room, sitting on the sofa for a moment before becoming restless, and reaching for a book.

She flicked through the first chapter then let out a long breath, before tossing it onto the sofa cushions.

She was about to turn on the television and surf Netflix until a show grabbed her attention when her phone buzzed from the coffee table to her right.

She reached for it on autopilot, and was aware of the second her heart shunted to her throat. Salvatore’s name flashed onto the screen. She clicked into the text message, pulse firing wildly.

You’re not here.

Not a question, just a statement of fact, and she didn’t have to be a genius to work out where ‘here’ was.

Suddenly, the emptiness of her apartment was taunting her.

Laughing at her for running here, instead of going to the room he’d hired at the Plaza.

With him. To hell with her jealousy. To hell with the fact she’d just had a very visible reminder of her place in his life – temporary and meaningless.

None of that seemed to matter now, when she was here, alone, wanting him, needing him, and he was there – where she could have gone and taken exactly what she craved.

She hovered her finger over the reply button, wondering what she could say to that?

Because she had two clear choices. Go to the hotel and spend the night with him – and pretend she hadn’t seen what she’d seen, and that she didn’t know what it meant. Or stay here and lick her wounds – which meant admitting she had wounds.

As tempted as she was to throw caution to the wind and lose herself in the pleasures Salvatore could offer, pride, and common sense, won out.

She flicked off her phone and resolutely focused on Netflix, choosing a series to devour rather than letting herself think about what she could have been doing instead, if she’d been willing to admit to herself that she would put up with just about anything to be with Salvatore.

And how much that scared her.