Page 53 of Redemption of the Untamed Italian

‘He won’t be there.’ Laurence’s tone showed he wasn’t buying her act.

She needed to try harder. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’

Pausing to check her lipstick in the mirror and grab her clutch, she slipped her arm into the crook of Laurence’s. They were on one of the top floors of the hotel, and the ballroom was several floors down. The lift hurtled them there with elegant efficiency, and as soon as the doors opened the noise was deafening. A band was playing crooning jazz songs, and at least two hundred guests were packed into the beautiful, historical room.

Jemima stopped walking, her heart in her throat.

‘What is it?’ He was so solicitous, she felt like a complete cow for how self-absorbed she’d been. Even his triumph had become about her.

‘Laurence, I’m really so proud of you. Look at what you’ve done.’ She gestured towards the ballroom. ‘You said you were onto a winner and you were right.’ She smiled at him, then lifted up to press a kiss against his cheek.

He grinned, lopsided and so handsome, reminding her for a second of Cam with his cheeky eyes. ‘Thanks, Jem.’

The party was filled with investors, some of Europe’s wealthiest business people milling about in couture, chatting loudly. But Jemima was internationally known, and her entrance caused a different kind of stir. She was conscious of the eyes that followed her around. She was used to that kind of attention, but she hadn’t banked on how difficult it would be to keep up the veneer of happiness, knowing that she was being watched. Fortunately, she found a friend of Laurence’s she knew quite well and latched onto him, keeping the conversation light and superficial, so her mind was barely engaged.

When he asked her to dance, she agreed, if only because it would take a few more minutes out of the hour she’d promised Laurence, and she desperately wanted it to be over.

She was weary beyond bearing.

* * *

He watched her until he couldn’t bear it. He watched her dance, smile, her eyes lifting to whoever the hell was holding her so close to his goddamned body, and he gripped his hands into fists at his side, his expression like thunder so that no one dared approach him. He watched her and he felt as though he was going to punch someone or something.

Fury lashed at his spine, but he knew he didn’t have any right to feel like this. He’d told her there was no hope for them. He’d sent her away rather than admit there was any possibility they could be more to one another.

This was his choice. All of it.

He watched her dance and felt as though he was being lit on fire.

With a growl, he stalked from the ballroom, pressing his back to the darkly painted wall opposite, his eyes trained on the door.

He would stand here and he would wait. God help him if she emerged with the other man. What if they were seeing each other? Sleeping together?

His fist pumped. Insanity seemed to burst inside him.

He could picture her body, but never with any one else. It wasn’t possible.

Time dragged. He contemplated going back into the party, but he knew it wasn’t wise. If she was still dancing with the guy—hell, kissing him—then he wasn’t sure he could contain his reaction.

And so he waited, the burgundy carpet of the hotel somehow irritating even though it was an inanimate object.

He waited, and every time the doors opened he leaned forward, away from the wall. The first time it was a couple, too busy making out to notice he was there. The next time it was an elderly man, hobbling with the aid of a cane towards the lifts. Then, another couple, and following that a mother with a small child.

When the door next opened, he didn’t hold any hope, which made it all the more shocking to see her.

He stood straight, his eyes drinking her in. She was alone. His body rejoiced. But she was miserable. His insides rolled. She looked...

Broken.

The word breathed through him accusingly. He stayed exactly where he was, watching as she walked past, her head dipped forward, her forehead crinkled, her eyebrows knitted together, her expression so completely distracted. She sashayed as though she were on a catwalk, but he knew her well enough to know it wasn’t intentional. She wasn’t even conscious that she did that—it was an ingrained elegance she carried with her all the time.

God, he knew that about her, and everything else.

Why hadn’t he realised what was happening? How come he hadn’t realised that every night they’d spent together had embedded a part of her inside him?

She’d realised. She’d known. And she’d tried to make him understand that, but he’d been so damned determined.

She stopped walking and he held his breath. She stopped walking and stood perfectly still, her head bent, and then she shook it slowly from side to side before starting to walk once more.

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