‘THE VISCARI.’ NIC’S instruction as the car pulled away from the kerb outside the Marchese d’Arromento’s Rome apartment was curt.
His driver glanced round at him, as if questioning the instruction.
‘You heard me,’ Nic said, his tone grim.
He hadn’t set foot in the Viscari Roma since walking out all those years ago, refusing to kowtow to the pampered stripling who’d been handed on a gilded plate the managerial post Nic had worked so hard to merit.
Beside him sat the reason he was now going to walk back in.
She’d slid into the back seat, murmuring a stilted, low-voiced greeting, but since then had said nothing. As the car moved into the infamous Rome traffic Nic looked across at her, taking in the chic but understated cocktail frock—a couture number, he saw at a glance—the elegant coil of her chignon at the nape of her neck, a double row of antique pearls looped over her bodice, matching pearl drops at her ears. Every inch La Donna Francesca.
Memory pierced him of how he’d critiqued the dress she’d been wearing that first evening he’d set eyes on her as suitable for an academic dinner, but not doing full justice to her breathtaking beauty.
Well, the dress she wore now certainly did do her justice, but he would have given a fortune to have her back as the woman she’d been then.
But she never was that woman. She was always La Donna Francesca, whatever she told you.
He cleared his mind. No point thinking about that...no point remembering what had been, or never been. No point doing anything but addressing the situation they both faced now: Nicolo Falcone marrying Donna Francesca di Ristori.
‘Have you thought any more about our wedding?’ he said abruptly.
Fran’s eyes flickered to him. ‘Not really,’ she said.
It had been impossible to think about anything coherently. She’d spent the day in a kind of daze, still trying to come to terms with what she had agreed to do. It still seemed impossible, unreal—as unreal as going to dine at the Viscari with Nicolo Falcone.
She’d texted Carla to tell her that Nic would be with her that evening. She had added nothing more. Presumably Cesare would have informed his wife of his high-handed interference in her life. Now they could cope with the results. Starting with having dinner with both herself and the man she had, so it seemed, agreed to marry.
Her dazed thoughts whirled confusedly in her head. Finding no rest.
‘Obviously you have the pick of any of my hotels,’ Nic was saying now. ‘Unless you want to be married from your home?’
He realised he had no idea where that was. Some palazzo or castello somewhere—but where? He would have to look it up. There would be plenty of information on her family if he consulted the genealogies of the Italian nobility. It was a world he didn’t know and wasn’t interested in. Had no sympathy with.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘My sister’s getting married there next year—a huge affair. I think one of your hotels sounds better. Maybe abroad?’
She shouldn’t have said ‘abroad’. Instantly in her mind’s eye was the Falcone Nevada, an oasis of luxury, lapped by the desert, where she had taken Nic to be one of his own employees, taken off with him for the road trip that would change her life for ever. That had brought her to this destination now.
The tearing feeling assailed her again.
‘What about the Caribbean?’ Nic was continuing. ‘I’ve got a good few there you can choose from.’
‘I’m sure any one of them will be fine,’ she answered.
She didn’t mean to sound dismissive. It was just that the very thought of standing beside Nic, becoming his wife, seemed beyond unreal.
‘I’ll...um... I’ll look them up on the internet,’ she went on, trying to sound less blitzed.
The car was gliding up to the imposing frontage of the Viscari Roma. Nic climbed out, opening the passenger door for Fran, who got out gracefully.
Nic’s eyes went to her. He felt his stomach clench, as it always did whenever he looked at her. Per Dio, how beautiful she was.
He crushed the reaction down. He was not marrying her for her beauty, but for the baby she carried.
The doorman was coming forward, his eyes registering exactly who it was walking into his employer’s flagship hotel. A caustic smile tightened Nic’s mouth. Fran seemed unaware, turning towards him.
‘We’re meeting Cesare and Carla in the cocktail lounge,’ she said.
Nic’s eyes were sweeping around the lobby, going to the service door behind Reception that led down to the basement where he had first worked—the lowest of the low, the humblest employee of all. As he went forward towards the cocktail lounge, which opened off the lobby, his face was set.
It stayed set as they approached the Conte and his Contessa. The former got to his feet, greeting Fran with a kiss on her cheek, and then turned to Nic.
‘Falcone,’ he said, and held out a hand to him.
For a moment Nic was motionless. Then, wordlessly, he took the outstretched hand. After all, had the illustrious Conte not wanted him to be here with his ex-fiancée he would not have deigned to inform Nic that there was any requirement to call upon Fran that morning.
‘Signor Il Conte,’ he acknowledged.
The handshake was brief. Cesare’s hand was slim, but strong for all that, in Nic’s larger hand. Then the Conte was introducing his wife, whom Fran was already greeting cordially.
‘Contessa,’ offered Nic dutifully.
He could see the Contessa’s eyes were alive with curiosity. A dramatic brunette, her looks were a striking foil to Fran’s pale blondeness, and her dress in dark cerise was a vivid contrast to Fran’s eau de Nil. He wondered in passing whether he had ever seen her here at the hotel when he’d worked here, for she was, after all, Vito Viscari’s late uncle’s stepdaughter.
Nic and Fran took their seats and the Conte resumed his. For a moment there was silence, as if the full impact of just why he was there with his host’s former fiancée was pressing upon them all. Then a waiter was there, the Viscari emblem blazoned on his shirt.
‘Campari and soda, please,’ Nic heard Fran say.
And as he heard it memory thrust into his head. It was the very drink she’d ordered that night he’d homed in on her. Was she remembering it too? He thought she was, for she suddenly paled.
He ordered a martini for himself and then sat back, crossing one leg confidently over the other. He was here in the Viscari Roma—enemy territory—and he was socialising with Il Conte di Mantegna, who had once thought to marry the woman that he, Nic, was in fact going to marry.
And no way—no way on God’s earth—was Nicolo Falcone, who had dragged himself from slum kid to billionaire by his own efforts and had had nothing handed to him on a plate, going to do anything but own the evening.
‘Francesca and I are trying to decide where to have our wedding,’ he said, addressing his hosts, taking control of the conversation from the off, wanting nothing unspoken about why he was there. ‘At the moment the Caribbean is the front runner. I have several properties there to choose from.’
‘That sounds very romantic,’ the Contessa said brightly, sipping at her drink.
It wasn’t the best word to choose, and it hung awkwardly in the air.
Fran stepped into the gap. All the long-learned habits of social correctness slipping into gear. ‘I don’t really know the Caribbean,’ she mused. ‘How different are the islands?’
It started, as she’d hoped, a conversation—very civil, very anodyne, and completely masking the inherent strain of the situation—about the variety of islands to be found in the Caribbean. All seemed perfectly fine places to get married. Perfectly lovely. Perfectly acceptable. Perfectly—
Fran ran out of words to describe the place where she and Nic were likely to join their lives together. Unexpectedly. The word was utterly inadequate to describe the situation, as the prospect had only become real that morning.
Emotion jolted through her, but she pushed it aside. Not the time, not the place.
However, the subject of the Caribbean served its purpose and got them to the point of having menus discreetly handed to them. A discussion about food then followed, which got them through some more of the evening and was in turn followed by a discussion about which wines to choose.
A sommelier glided up to help them select the best from the extensive cellars the Viscari Roma had to offer its guests.
Nic glanced at the sommelier and recognised him. He raised a brief hand in casual greeting. ‘Pietro—ciao.’
The other man’s eyes flickered slightly, but all he said was, ‘Good evening, Signor Falcone.’
Nic knew why, and acknowledged his professionalism. But there was no way he was going to blank this man he’d worked with when both of them had been juniors. Pietro in the kitchens and Nic as general dogsbody, his strong physique making him ideal for shifting furniture, unloading delivery lorries, and doing any other heavy lifting that was required.
He smiled. ‘How are Maria and the children?’
Pietro had married his sweetheart—one of the chambermaids—and babies had swiftly followed.
Pietro nodded, but only as any member of staff might do to a guest. ‘They are all very well, Signor Falcone.’
Nic’s smile widened. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’
He could see that Fran was looking at him, her gaze questioning. The Conte was looking as if the conversation were not taking place. His Contessa was observing with a look of lively curiosity on her face.
‘Remember,’ Nic went on addressing his erstwhile fellow staffer, ‘if you ever want a change of scene from Viscari let me know—’
Tactfully, Pietro said nothing.
Nic’s gaze swept back to his hosts. ‘Pietro and I go back a long way. We both started work here at the same time, as teenagers,’ he said.
The questioning look on Fran’s face deepened. She was about to speak, but a voice behind Nic pre-empted her.
‘Here to poach my staff now, Falcone, as well as my garden designer?’
Nic turned, not rushing the movement. He’d half expected this approach. His eyes glinted sapphire. ‘Only if they want to improve their prospects—as I did,’ he returned with pointed acerbity.
Vito Viscari did not deign to reply to that. Instead he simply went on, his cultured voice cool, his eyes watchful. ‘And is headhunting the purpose of your patronage tonight?’ he probed.
His body’s stance radiated whatever the opposite of welcome was. Nic was only too aware of that. But before he could reply, he heard the Contessa interject.
‘Vito, I left a message for you. Obviously you never picked it up.’ She spoke casually, but there was a determined brightness to her voice. ‘Signor Falcone is here with Francesca.’
Vito’s cool gaze was suddenly sharp. ‘Is he?’
‘Yes,’ corroborated Fran, knowing it was time to defuse the situation. She lifted her chin. ‘I do hope that won’t cause any problems, Vito?’ Her question was as pointed as Nic’s comment had been.
Vito smiled—a tight smile, but a smile nevertheless. It was a professional smile, Nic could tell instantly—one to use with an influential and favoured guest as, of course, was Donna Francesca di Ristori.
His own hackles were rising, just as they always did when he encountered Vito Viscari. The only time they had not done so had been during those heady days a year ago when, armed with half the Viscari shares in his back pocket, he’d been able to stride into Viscari board meetings, and throw down a list of prime properties he intended to move to the Falcone brand.
A familiar stab of anger flared in him. Thanks to Vito’s mother-in-law his triumph had turned to ashes. Nepotism had struck again, balking him of his due.
‘Not at all,’ Vito was saying now, in reply to Fran.
As if belatedly aware that one of his sommeliers was waiting to discuss their wine for the evening, he nodded across at Pietro.
‘I’m interrupting—my apologies,’ he said. His eyes went back to his guests. ‘Enjoy your evening,’ he said, his smile warmer now as it encompassed the three people whose presence in his hotel he did not begrudge.
He walked away and Nic heard the Conte putting a question about a certain wine to Pietro, who immediately got involved. Nic left him to his discussion, aware that Fran wanted to speak to him.
‘I didn’t know you once worked here,’ she said.
That air of puzzled questioning was still in her tone of voice, her eyes, and Nic knew she was remembering that conversation they’d had in the motel by the desert lake, and him telling her how he’d got his start in life. He felt more memories push at him, seeking entrance—memories of everything else that had happened at that humble lakeside motel.
He crushed them from him. Returned to the moment in hand. Pietro had left them, to find the wines selected for their evening.
‘Yes, my first job was here, at sixteen. Right after the police made it clear it was either get work or be charged for assault for beating up the man beating up my mother.’
He was addressing the Conte and his Contessa now, not caring if he shocked them.
It didn’t shock Fran, hearing me tell her that.
The thought was in his head even as he saw Il Conte’s features tighten and the Contessa looking taken aback.
Then she rallied. ‘So you came to work here? I’m glad,’ she said. ‘My stepfather, Guido Viscari, was always keen on giving disadvantaged youngsters a start in life.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Nic dryly, ‘he certainly was happy to give us a start—providing we knew our place and kept to it.’ Like never aspiring to race up the management ladder ahead of his precious nephew.
‘Evidently he did not succeed in your case,’ Cesare murmured dryly.
Nic’s eyes flashed to his. ‘Evidently not,’ he agreed, with a tightness that was acerbic.
Then the maître d’ was coming up to them, murmuring to Il Conte that their table was ready for them. Dutifully, they all got to their feet.
Fran, Nic could see, had an introspective air about her. He held out his arm. ‘Shall we?’ he said.
With a little start she rested her hand on his arm, and they followed behind the Conte and Contessa into the opulent dining room beyond the bar. It was the lightest of touches but he still caught her scent, a delicate, expensive fragrance, and felt it pluck at him.
He almost turned to look down at her and smile, but then his attention was caught by another diner, whom he recognised as a society journalist who ran a diary column in one of the upmarket dailies. The Contessa had clearly spotted him too, and Nic recalled that she was some kind of journalist as well.
He watched as the Contessa murmured something sotto voce to her husband, resulting in a brief nod from him.
‘It was inevitable.’
He caught Il Conte’s reply, and knew what he was referring to.
He bent his head slightly towards Fran. ‘It seems we may make a news item tomorrow morning,’ he warned her.
Fran gave a little start again, and the Contessa explained. ‘He won’t be waspish. I know his style. But he will,’ she went on, ‘definitely speculate.’
‘He may also feed the news to his colleague on the finance pages, given that it is Nicolo Falcone dining at the Viscari,’ Cesare contributed.
Fran shut her eyes for a moment. She did not relish reading about herself and Nic in the morning papers.
I should have foreseen this.
Rome was such a hive of gossip, with everyone buzzing about what everyone else was doing, and who they were doing it with. Since living in the USA she’d forgotten just what a fishbowl it was. Belatedly, it dawned on her that the other diners here might well see her too, and speculate as to why she was here with Nicolo Falcone. And that might reach her parents.
I don’t want them to find out like that. I have to tell them myself.
She gave a sigh, opening her eyes again. Letting her gaze go to Nic.
But he isn’t Nic, is he? He’s Nicolo Falcone, a man rich and powerful enough to provoke the interest of journalists.
‘He’s welcome to do so,’ she heard him say, and there was a coldness in his voice that belonged to the billionaire hotelier, not to the man she had once known.
The arrival of their first course was a welcome diversion, and conversation returned to innocuous topics. Fran was grateful. Cesare, she could see, was exerting himself, though there was inevitably an air about him of what could only be deemed unconscious hauteur. Beside him, Carla was being her usual incisive and forthright self.
But it wasn’t her hosts who drew her attention. It was the man at her side.
Nic.
No, not Nic—Nicolo Falcone.
Her eyes flickered to him. That same overpowering impression she’d got of him in that disastrous exchange in the elevator at the Viscari St James’s slammed into her. The laid-back, easy-going man she’d spent those glorious days with in America was gone. This was a man of formidable achievement, of huge wealth, of the power and self-assertion that went with that. A man who scarcely smiled...
Memory flashed through her of that slashing smile like a desert wolf, crinkling the vivid blue eyes, warming them on her...
She blinked and it vanished, and there was Nicolo Falcone once more, making some impatiently scathing comment about the latest government delays in respect of the topic they seemed to have moved on to—Italy’s earthquake warning system. It was a subject Fran knew was of keen interest to Cesare, whose medieval castello was deep in the Apennine fastness, much prone to earthquakes.
‘I considered opening a mountain resort there at some point, but it’s just too risky,’ Nic was saying.
‘A pity—the area needs inward investment,’ Cesare replied.
Nic’s eyes flickered. Had that been intended as a criticism of him?
‘Something that surely is the responsibility of the landowners?’ he asserted.
Did aristocrats like Il Conte assume their effortlessly inherited wealth was there to spend on their own pleasures, not on the vast patrimony they possessed?
‘Indeed,’ acknowledged Cesare, and Fran could see his air of unconscious hauteur heightening. ‘And I make considerable investment in the local economy of my estates,’ he replied. ‘My family has done so for centuries.’
He reached for his wine, the candlelight catching the gold of a signet ring incised with his family crest—a crouching lion, ready to attack. Nic felt his hackles bristle in response, just as they had when Vito had strolled over to challenge his presence on his territory.
It was Vito’s step-cousin who spoke now. ‘I hope you will visit Castello Mantegna one day with Francesca,’ Carla said brightly. ‘It’s absolutely magnificent! For me, of course, the particular appeal is the artworks.’
She launched into a catalogue of her husband’s collection and Fran joined in, making some remark about how she had enjoyed seeing them when she had last been there.
Then she halted. The last time she’d been to Cesare’s castello had been when she had just become his fiancée. She had visited with her parents and siblings to celebrate their forthcoming union.
And now it’s a completely different man I’m going to marry. Going to have to marry.
She felt emotions pulling inside her, tugging in different directions like ropes knotted inside her. Unconsciously she ran a hand over her abdomen. Unbelievable to think that silently, invisibly, a child was growing there—a child that would be both hers and the man’s beside her... Uniting them.
Can anything unite us, though?
The question was unanswerable, impossible, and it hung silent in the space between them.
‘Are you all right?’ Nic’s voice was suddenly low in her ear.
There was concern in his voice. But it was not for her, she knew. It was for the baby she carried—his son or daughter.
Impulsively she seized at the opportunity he’d presented with his enquiry. ‘I do feel tired,’ she admitted. ‘It’s been a long day...’
She let the sentence trail. ‘Long’ had not been the problem. Weariness washed over her.
‘Perhaps I could just have coffee and skip dessert,’ she said.
It was what they all did, and Fran was grateful. Grateful too for the desultory conversation that limped on, with Carla doing her best to be bright and Cesare still exerting himself. And Nic... She gave an inward sigh. Nic was still broadcasting on all frequencies that he was no longer the man she’d known.
At last the evening came to an end. It had been an ordeal—she could only call it that. Weariness assailed her, but it was a weariness of the spirit.
As she climbed into Nic’s car she gave a sigh.
‘What is it?’ Nic’s voice was taut as he sank heavily down beside her. His mood was grim.
Fran looked at him. ‘I’m just not used to you being—well, who you really are.’
‘Do you imagine it isn’t the same for me?’ he answered, and she could hear the edge in his voice that she had heard there for most of the evening.
She did not reply—what could she say?
‘So, having got through an evening with the illustrious Conte di Mantegna and his Contessa,’ Nic was saying now, that edge still in his voice, ‘at what point will you be presenting me to your parents?’
Her expression flickered in the streetlights as the car made its way back to her parents’ apartment.
‘I’ll need to tell them first,’ she said. ‘And I must make sure they don’t hear it from any wretched gossip columnist!’ She gave another sigh. It was all so complicated. So difficult. So—
Impossible—that’s what it is.
But it didn’t matter that it was impossible. It had to be done.
She took a breath. ‘I don’t know when. Sometime this week I must head back to Cambridge. But maybe I can go via Milan and stop off at home first. Or maybe—’
‘I could drive you.’ Nic cut across her. ‘And you can tell them with me there. There’s no point prevaricating. The sooner the better. It has to be done.’
She shut her eyes. Yes, it had to be done—it all had to be done. She had to tell her parents, arrange a wedding somewhere, anywhere—it didn’t matter—and Nicolo Falcone had to become her husband and—
Her thoughts cut out. It was impossible to think any further ahead.
They reached her parents’ apartment and Nic helped her out. To her relief, he merely saw her to the door.
‘Come for lunch with me tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll send a car to collect you.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to eat out, Nic. Tonight was bad enough.’
His face tightened as they stood on the pavement. ‘We need to talk. There are arrangements to be made.’
‘Then come here for lunch,’ she said.
He nodded, and they agreed a time. Then he was climbing back into his car, nodding at the chauffeur, and the car was heading off again.
Wearily, Fran went upstairs. This time last night she had thought she was to be a single mother, and now...
‘Come through into the dining room. It’s just cold meat, bread and salad—I hope you don’t mind. I always give the maid time off when I’m here. I don’t need her.’
Fran led the way from the wide entrance hall into a room Nic had not seen the previous day, but it was similar to the one that he had seen. The same antique furniture—inherited, of course, not purchased, as his was at his headquarters and at his hotels—oil paintings on the wall, an abundance of silverware and porcelain. All the accoutrements of an aristocrat’s town apartment.
His mouth twisted unconsciously.
A simple meal was set out on a long mahogany table. White wine was chilling in a cooler, and there was fruit on the sideboard.
He took the place Fran indicated. She was not wearing couture clothes today, just a pair of elegantly cut trousers and a pale green shirt with a white stripe running through it. Her hair was caught back in a switch, and she wore no make-up. It was impossible to tell that she was pregnant.
For a moment—just a moment—Nic found himself wondering whether he should ask for confirmation of her pregnancy. He frowned.
Maybe it was a false alarm...maybe I don’t have to go through with this after all.
‘What is it?’ Fran’s voice was cool as she directed the question to him, sitting down opposite him at the table and reaching for a linen napkin.
Nic started. Had she read his mind? No, for she was continuing in the same cool, challenging voice.
‘Do you disapprove of something?’ She lifted her hand to indicate their surroundings.
Nic heard the challenge in her voice—a coolness that had never been there with him before.
Into his head came a moment from their very first encounter at the bar in the Falcone Nevada—the way she had challenged him to name three astrophysicists to corroborate his blatant hook-up line that she did not look like the stereotypical image of one.
There had been humour in that challenge. Amusement. Engagement with him.
There was none of that now. Now she was simply Donna Francesca, expressing her displeasure at any criticism of her father the Marchese’s choice of décor.
He shook his head, his expression shuttered. ‘It’s very elegant,’ he said.
‘It’s old-fashioned,’ she admitted, ‘but I like it. It hasn’t changed much since my grandparents’ time. Or even before theirs, I suspect,’ she added, trying to make her voice lighter.
But it was an effort to do so. Yet again into her mind shafted memories of how she had once been able to chat effortlessly with Nic, yet now she was conscious of the awkward restraint between them, making all conversation stilted. Laborious.
She indicated the spread on the table. ‘Help yourself,’ she said.
Memory shafted in her yet again—they’d had picnics en route several times on their road trip, stocking up at small town supermarkets, pulling over at viewpoints, eating out of paper bags...
She crushed the memories back. Those carefree days were gone. Now there were grimmer things to sort out.
‘I think you’re right about the Caribbean,’ she said, watching him help himself to freshly bought rolls and multiple slices of ham and salami, remembering how hearty his appetite had always been, to feed that powerful frame of his.
She dragged her mind away from such memories, away from how his smooth-muscled torso had felt beneath her gliding fingertips.
‘We should marry there, at one of your resorts.’ She paused. ‘But on our own.’ She paused again, made herself look at him. ‘It would be easier for my parents and...’ she swallowed ‘...since you don’t have any family—’
She broke off. That had been tactless. His glance at her was mordant, shuttered.
‘Suits me,’ he said, beginning to eat.
It was a laconic reply, but nothing like the laid-back way he’d spoken to her in America. This registered...indifference. A verbal shrug indicating how unimportant it was to him.
She blenched. Struggled on. Pushed a helping of salad around her plate. She wasn’t hungry in the slightest. Just nauseous.
And not because of her pregnancy.
‘It’s going to be difficult for them, Nic. I can’t help that. A shotgun wedding is never what parents want for their children.’ She gave a heavy sigh. ‘And an unintentional pregnancy is never ideal in the first place,’ she finished.
Blue eyes lifted, skewered her. Anger was suddenly spearing through him.
‘Did I ask you to come to me that night in London?’
The words stabbed from him and found their target. Fran blenched again as they impacted. He stabbed again.
‘Don’t blame me for your predicament. You’re as responsible for this as I am. I made it clear to you that I did not want to continue our...acquaintance—’ his mouth twisted on the word ‘—yet you persisted.’
His voice was icy—as icy as it had been in that elevator, telling her to make no further contact with him. She gave a cry, dropping her fork. Crested silver, he noticed absently.
‘I’m not trying to blame you. I’m simply saying that no one should have to marry for the sake of a baby that wasn’t planned.’ She shut her eyes. Misery filled her suddenly.
Dear God, however were they to make this marriage he was insisting on work? It was impossible.
‘Nic, it’s you going on about getting married—not me!’ Her eyes flew open again. ‘I told you I was OK with being a single mother—’
‘Well, I am not OK with that.’
His voice was grim and tight. He pushed his plate away. All appetite had left him. Hell, what a damnable mess this was. He stared across at the woman opposite him, his eyes hard. The woman he did not want to have to marry. The woman who came from a world he rejected and despised. The woman who so screamingly obviously considered it a massive problem for her, and for her precious aristocratic family, for her to be marrying him, a jumped-up slum kid.
His eyes targeted hers. She had paled, her face whitening, and for a moment—just a moment—it cut him to the quick. But then words were being spoken, and he could not call them back.
‘You will marry me, Donna Francesca.’ He deliberately used her title, incising each word so she could not mistake them. ‘Because I will accept nothing else. I will hear no more about single motherhood.’ His eyes were narrow shards of hardest sapphire. ‘Tell your parents whatever you want—it’s no concern of mine.’
He got to his feet, tossing aside his unused napkin—white damask, monogrammed.
‘My only concern—my only possible concern—is for the baby you carry. Nothing else.’
He strode from the room, heart pounding. Emotion thundered in his ears. Deafening him to everything else in the universe.
Behind him Fran sat shaking, staring blindly at the abandoned meal. It had been a disaster.
Emotion wrenched in her, crushing and tearing.
This was never going to work.