Summer Loving. Cathy Williams

      Cesare, of course, had walked out after reminding her coolly of their call to Celine the next day. She’d clamped her lips together, begging whatever fates were within hearing distance to help her hold it together until he was out of earshot.

      Then a long, hideous whimper had escaped her. The sound had reminded her of a wounded animal, alien and ugly, torn from the depths of her soul.

      In that moment she’d hated herself. She’d always been weak when it came to Cesare. Minutes after meeting him, and agreeing to have a drink with him at a wine bar in London, she’d known in a deep, innate part of her being that he possessed the power to make her do things, feel things no other human being could. They’d never made it to the wine bar. He’d taken her to his country pad in Surrey and they’d ended up making love, right there on the bonnet of his car in the middle of his driveway. It had been the start of the most erotic, soul-shaking six weeks of her life.

      Yes, he’d enthralled her from the very first look.

      But the sex wasn’t why she’d fallen for Cesare. During those six weeks, he’d taken care of her, treated her as if she was the most important thing in his life. And for someone who’d always felt like an afterthought in her family, it’d been like being handed a little piece of heaven.

      Ava turned over, punched her frustration into her pillow. For Cesare to deny the man he’d been before their marriage and Annabelle’s birth hurt her deeply. Because that man had been there—she hadn’t dreamed him. Or had she?

      She sucked in a shaky breath. Cesare’s accusation that she was pushy, of foisting her dreams on him, cut through her muddled thoughts like deadly acid.

      Falling pregnant with Annabelle so soon after meeting Cesare had merely accelerated the realisation of a lifelong desire, because nurturing a family she could call her own had always been her one and only dream. And when Cesare had proposed, she’d thought it’d been his dream too.

      How wrong she’d been.

      Because, she recalled, for a split second after she’d told him she was pregnant, Cesare had looked like a man who’d just glimpsed his worst nightmare.

      ‘But we were so careful. How could this have happened?’ he’d asked in shaken disbelief.

      Since she’d asked herself that very same question, but with a burgeoning joy, she couldn’t have summoned an answer to save her life.

      Ava threw back the covers and padded to the window. Moonlight gleamed off the courtyard flagstones—the same flagstones she’d stood on when Cesare had proposed.

      I never claimed to love you.

      Foolish tears prickled her eyes. She wanted to hate Cesare for his callous words, but he was right. He’d never said the words. Oh, he’d demonstrated his desire exceptionally well; he’d provided for her every carnal and materialistic wish. But he’d never told her he loved her. She’d just...assumed...

      Damn it. She wouldn’t cry. Hell, at the back of her mind she’d accepted that at some point one of them would have to make a move to dissolve this empty marriage.

      Except, of course, when the time had come she hadn’t demanded a separation or divorce. She’d practically begged for him to take her back.

      How pathetic was she? Furious with herself for wallowing in self-pity, she threw a shirt over her thigh-length nightgown, grabbed the monitor and left her suite.

      Aimlessly wandering the house, she finally ended up in the kitchen. A wry smile twisted her lips. Her brother, Nathan, the only one of her three brothers who’d come remotely close to acknowledging her existence when they were growing up, would have mocked her mercilessly if he’d seen she’d reverted to her old habit of comfort-eating. Opening the fridge, she took out a half bottle of Soave and poured herself a glass.

      A small platter of stromboli stood next to the large stove. She picked one and bit into it, then, on impulse, she tugged the phone off the wall, dialled her brother’s number. Her disappointment was tinged with relief when she got his voicemail.

      What would she have said to him anyway? That her husband had announced he’d never loved her and a part of her believed she’d caused her marriage breakdown by forcing a family? Grimacing, she left a short, nondescript message and hung up.

      She turned and jumped at the shadow looming in the doorway. Her heart flipped several times more when Cesare stepped into the subdued kitchen light.

      ‘Mi dispiace. I heard voices.’ His narrowed glance went to the phone, then returned to her. ‘Who were you calling at this time of the night?’ he demanded.

      ‘Nathan. I got his voicemail. I was leaving a message.’

      ‘Have any of your family been in touch recently?’

      ‘You mean have they developed a desperate need to get to know the sister they’ve rejected all their lives? That would be a no.’ She refused to acknowledge the pain.

      Cesare frowned. ‘Do they know what’s happened to you this past month?’

      She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘They don’t concern themselves with my well-being, Cesare. They never have.’

      ‘I’m sorry—’

      ‘I don’t need you to be. And I don’t need your pity. What I need you won’t give me, so you can either leave me in peace, or we can change the subject.’

      He stared at her for a full minute, then he leaned against the doorjamb. His gaze slid over her, lingering in places it had no right to linger. She wanted to scream at him to stop looking at her. But this was Cesare. Asking wouldn’t mean getting.

      Silence stretched as neither made a move to speak. The air in the open space closed off, growing thick until it felt as if they breathed the same pocket of oxygen.

      Slowly, excitement licked through her belly, transmitting knee-weakening desire along her nerve endings. Ava forced herself to remember. Remembering how she’d humiliated herself a mere two hours ago fortified her resolve. She moved forward, then paused, realising that to walk out of the door she’d have to go past him.

      Her glance fell to his hands and took in white padding and red specks where his knuckles bled. ‘You’ve been in the gym?’

      Cesare kept a fully equipped gym in all of his homes and kept ultra-fit by boxing.

      He gave a grim nod. ‘I was overwhelmed by the need to pummel something.’ His eyes locked on hers, drilling into her until she feared he could see right through her.

      ‘How did that work out for you?’ Her voice emerged breathless, strained. She took a hasty sip of her wine.

      ‘Not nearly as successful as I’d hoped it would. You?’

      ‘I leave the pummelling to others.’ She raised the items in her hand. ‘I prefer to wage my war armed with carbs and wine. I’ll let you know later if I’m winning.’

      Half of her had hoped her answer would drive him away. The other half, the foolish half that never listened to reason where Cesare was concerned, leaped with joy when he came closer, slowly unwinding the padding from his bound fingers. Sweat glistened off his honed biceps, emphasising the play of superb muscle as he moved. Even more riveting was his half smile, more potent now he’d stopped beside her.

      ‘Pour me a glass, would you?’ He nodded at her glass.

      ‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’

      He surveyed her with the sleepy regard of a jungle predator. The taut smile that barely curved his lips was acutely discerning. ‘For me to drink wine, or for us to be in the same room at the same time?’

      ‘Both.’ She cursed her candid tongue and tried to address the less volatile issue. ‘Also, isn’t water the recommended drink after hectic exercise?’

      Heat flared in her cheeks as his gaze turned even more intense. The torrid promise