Page 66 of Forgotten Mistress, Secret Love-Child
Another surge of nausea made her hunch in her seat. She spent the next few wretched minutes riding wave after wave of pain, trying to blot out the voice of doubt.
Finally, she sat up straight, staring blind-eyed out the window. The roiling in her stomach was vanquished for now, yet she trembled in the aftermath of distress.
She lifted her chin. No matter that a craven part of her was tempted to agree with Livia, that she didn’t know how to go on in these rarefied social circles. Carys was here to stay. She was Alessandro Mattani’s wife and she’d prove to everyone, herself included, that she could handle whatever that entailed. She owed it to herself, and to Leo.
Her hand slid to her stomach. If she was going to bring up her family in this place, she couldn’t afford to let herself sink into the shadows as she’d done when she was young. She knew what that was like, and it was a place she didn’t want to visit again.
She’d worked all her adult life to make something of herself, prove to herself that she was as good as everyone else, and not live down to her family’s expectations. She refused to let anyone put her in that position again.
She was tired of being made to feel second best. Even by herself.
Carys slipped her cellphone from her handbag and punched in the number for Alessandro’s office. She ignored the tingle of fear running through her. Instead she reminded herself Alessandro trusted her.
Alessandro was out of his car and loping up the front steps before the echo of the Lamborghini’s engine died. The front door swung silently open before he reached it.
‘Where’s my wife?’
Paulo moved back to let him enter. ‘I believe madam is still at the pool. Master Leo has had his swim and gone up for a nap.’
‘Good.’ What needed saying was better done in private. Alessandro strode towards the fitness wing, his sense of urgency growing with each step.
He’d been driving home when his efficient new assistant called, explaining that the contessa had rung to ask about arrangements for the charity lunch. When she’d checked, it was to find the fool of a woman who’d been his temporary PA had arranged for Livia to host the event. Despite his express instructions that his stepmother no longer be invited to represent the family or his company.
He speared a hand through his hair, frustration rising. At Livia. At incompetent temps. At himself for not double-checking.
He stalked down the corridor. All the while his assistant’s voice echoed in his head. ‘No, she didn’t leave a message. No, she didn’t say anything. She hung up after I told her about the luncheon.’
Alessandro had a bad feeling about this. He knew Carys sometimes felt unsure of herself. That was why he’d taken it slowly introducing her to society. He guessed at the scars her family’s treatment of her had caused. Scars he suspected had never truly healed.
He thrust open the door to the pool, shrugging out of his jacket and tie as the warmth hit him. He dropped them on a chair, eyes fixed on the small form swimming in the pool. Usually she swam gracefully. This time there was a dogged determination about her freestyle stroke that spoke more of churning emotion than the need for exercise.
Carys let her palm slam onto the tiles at the end of the pool. She was too tired to make a proper racing turn. Her chest heaved, but still the hurt and anger bubbled inside. She’d do a few more laps, till her mind cleared.
A shadow fell on the tiles. Hands reached down.
‘Let me help you out.’
Automatically she kicked out off the wall, propelling herself away. But Alessandro forestalled her by grasping her upper arms and using his extraordinary strength to haul her out to stand before him.
She didn’t want to talk to him yet. Not till she was calm. Not till she’d got over the sense of betrayal. It was just a lunch, for goodness sake. Nothing to get worked up about.
Yet it felt like more. Like once again she hadn’t measured up. Like last time when he’d kept her to himself rather than trust her to socialise with his friends. Like all the times her parents hadn’t showed, or hadn’t remembered or just weren’t interested. Like she was doomed to be second best still.
‘Look at me, Carys.’
She looked. He stood in a puddle as water sluiced off her body. His trousers were wet from where he’d lifted her, and his shirt clung in a way that made her want to run needy hands over his sculpted chest and torso. The knowledge fuelled her anger just as she was aiming for calm.
‘You’re home early.’ It emerged as an accusation, belying the rapture she’d found so often when he returned in time to play with Leo, then take his wife to bed for some late afternoon loving. She bit her lip and looked over his shoulder.
