A Deal with Di Capua

And how could Rosie not believe her when, a month later, there had been a wedding? She had heard it on the grapevine.

So did she want to start a tit-for-tat fight now? Did she want to hear him tell her exactly how little she had meant to him? The past was the past and re-opening old wounds was only going to hurt her. Angelo would be just fine.

And, if he never knew where that money had gone, then so be it. That too was a story wrapped up in guilt and not one she wanted to discuss.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ll pay you off,” Angelo intoned harshly. For a few seconds he had lost her. When they had been lovers, he had interpreted those fleeting moments of withdrawal when her eyes had clouded over as flashes of vulnerability. He had made it his mission to wait them out until she could tell him for herself where she had gone. Now he knew the answer. She hadn’t been so much dealing with some internal tussle, which she’d had yet to confide, as calculating how much she could screw him for. Doing the maths in her head. Indulging in a bit of mental arithmetic involving his money and all those expensive items of jewellery he had lavished on her.

Angelo didn’t come from money. He’d got there the hard way, working like a beast at school, a small backwater school in Italy where it wasn’t cool to get good grades. He’d lucked out when, at the age of sixteen, he had managed to win a scholarship to study abroad.

His mother had urged him to take it. He was her only son and she had wanted nothing more than for him to succeed. She’d worked in a shop and as a cleaner on two evenings a week. Did he want to end up scraping the barrel like her? He had grabbed the opportunity with both hands and had challenged any one of those rich, private-school kids to look down on him. He had made sure to stay focused and had realised that to get on he had to do one better than everyone else. He had to go the extra mile. He had. And he had at university. The price had been steep, for during that period his mother had died and he had not been there for her.

He had reasoned that life’s experiences made you tough. He was a rock, alone in the world and determined to master it as a legacy to his mother. He wasn’t one of those gullible kids born with a silver spoon in their mouth. He couldn’t be taken in by a pretty face. Except he had been, and just thinking about it made him see red. Rosie Tom had got to him in a way no other woman ever had. Hell, she had made him start revising his priorities.

“I can have people in tomorrow evaluating its worth and I can get a cheque to you the day after.”

“Is it because it’s of sentimental value?” Rosie hazarded.

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Do you feel attached to the place because it was somewhere she loved? I know that sometimes a person can feel helpless when dealing with someone who has a drinking problem.”

“Three years away and you really and truly imagine yourself as an amateur psychologist. Stick to the catering, Rosie, or the cooking, or whatever else it is you do.” Did she really think that he would ever fall for that sympathetic, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-the-mouth routine again?

Rosie flushed. “I don’t imagine myself as anything of the sort. I was just curious as to…”

“As to what happened once you exited the stage and the curtain fell?” He looked at her narrowly. “I really wouldn’t bother trying to fish for information. Just tell me when you intend to go to the cottage.”

“Why do you ask?” So there weren’t going to be any confidences. This was the tenor of whatever remained between them: bitterness and dislike. Well, that would make things easier, she told herself, but it still hurt to think how far they had both come from where they had once been.

“Because I intend to make sure that I’m there at the same time.”

“What for?” Rosie’s mouth dropped open as she contemplated seeing him again, having all these emotions churned up anew. “I can let you have my decision one way or another via Mr Foreman. If I decide that I don’t want the place, then I’m sure he’ll be the first to let you know. Or maybe,” she added with acerbity, “you want to make sure that there’s nothing there that doesn’t belong to you.”

“I actually hadn’t considered that possibility but, now that you’ve mentioned it, it’s certainly one worth thinking about.” The journey had passed without him even noticing. Now they were in front of a terraced house that was claustrophobically hemmed in by a sprawl of identical terraced houses on either side of it. In the depths of winter, there was nothing whatsoever charming about it, and he thought that even in the height of summer it would still proudly announce its mediocrity.

“That’s an awful thing to say.”

“Oh well, if the cap fits…” the car had pulled to a stop, smoothly pulling in to a vacant spot right in front of the house. “I see investment wasn’t part of the grand plan when you pawned the jewellery,” he observed. “Because I can’t imagine that this place will ever get to the elevated status of the up-and-coming.” Rosie flushed and paused midway to opening the car door.

“I don’t own this, I rent it, and I would rather if we didn’t dwell on the past. I mean, it’s over and done with and we’ve both moved on.” She thought about Jack and the guilt that had followed her around for such a long time. She hadn’t hesitated in pawning those items of jewellery even though, in another place and another time, the thought of selling things given to her by the man she had fallen in love with would have been abhorrent. In a place and time where her conscience was clear.

She knew that Angelo despised her for what she had done. How much more would he have despised her if he had known the full story?

“So, in other words, the cottage really would be a fantastic opportunity for you—no rent to pay, no mortgage to cover. I’m not surprised that you’re desperate to put the past to bed.”

Rosie looked at him, sprawled indolently against the car door, a lurking, dangerous predator having fun with the prey that had once escaped him. She got the feeling that he would be happy to maul her should she make one wrong move. And expressing interest in a cottage he considered his definitely fell into that category.

Whatever had gone wrong in his marriage—and she was certain that something had somewhere along the way, for why else would Amanda have taken to the bottle?—here they now were and the past certainly had not been forgotten.

“I just want to have a look at it.”

“Like I said, I’ll expect you to inform me the instant you decide to go there. I’m going to give you my private number. Use it.”

“And if I choose not to?” Rosie dared.

“Word of advice—don’t even think of going down that road.”

Rosie spent the next week seriously wondering whether she should just leave well alone. James Foreman had been in touch again, had wanted to find out what she intended to do. There were all sorts of papers that required signing. She would need to see him; he could arrange a meeting. There were things he needed to discuss with her.

Still tense and preoccupied after seeing Angelo and being subjected to the full force of his hatred, and still smarting from his warning to ditch any thoughts of actually taking up the legacy that had been deposited at her doorstep, Rosie deferred any meeting. She honestly no longer knew what she should do. London had not turned into the stuff of dreams, but it was home, for better or for worse. Could she sacrifice it on a whim, because she was in a difficult situation at the moment? Difficult situations didn’t last for ever.

And how ethical would it be to accept something from a woman she had spent the past three years trying to forget? How hypocritical to imagine that she could conveniently overlook the dire circumstances of their broken friendship to take what was on offer because it suited her? Her lawyer had hinted at Amanda’s regrets but could accepting a guilt gift ever be justified?

In the end, Ian made up her mind for her. Just as he had been the reason for her considering the cottage in the first place.

The calls from him, containing barely veiled threats. The bombardment of text messages…

Rosie had been to the police ages ago to be told that nothing could be done. A crime had yet to be committed. With no chance of an injunction being issued against him, Rosie battened down the hatches and tried to ignore his attempts to intrude into her life. She wasn’t a kid. She was an adult. She could deal with a loser who couldn’t take no for an answer. She had dealt with far worse growing up! He was no match for any of those creeps who had tried to make her life hell on the grim council estate where she had grown up. Being attractive had never worked to her advantage. But she found that she could deal with wolf-whistles and boys circling her on their bikes and trying to get her to go out with them.

And she could almost deal with the hang ups and the text messages from Ian. But, returning to her house on the Friday two weeks after that eventful funeral, Rosie unlocked the front door, entered the house and knew instantly that something was wrong.

It was very late and the lights had all been switched off. It was the first thing to alert her to the notion that someone was either inside the house or had been inside the house. She always left the light in the hall on during the winter; it lent the illusion of homeliness and dispelled the reality of a place that was as inviting and welcoming as a prison.

With one hand on her mobile, she silently scoured the property, which wasn’t large. Just three rooms downstairs, including the kitchen, and one bedroom upstairs with a bathroom adjoining it. At the first sign of an intruder, she would not have hesitated to call the police but, having reassured herself that the place was empty, she soon discovered that there was no room to breathe a sigh of relief because someone had certainly been to the house and it hadn’t taken her long to find out their identity.

Propped up against the toaster in the kitchen, Ian had left a note warmly telling her how wonderful it was finally to get to see the inside of her house and informing her that he hoped to be back soon, perhaps when she was there so that they could try and sort out their silly differences.

Heart beating fast, Rosie scrolled down the address book in her phone and found what she was looking for. She didn’t think twice. was that because old habits died hard? Once upon a time, Angelo had been her rock. He was now her sworn enemy but Was there still some lingering feeling lurking deep inside her that she could still depend on him if she was threatened? Was her lack of hesitation some left-over, unconscious emotion that she couldn’t quantify or explain?

Angelo answered on the second ring. He knew instantly who the caller was. He had given her his mobile number and she had grudgingly returned the favour by giving him hers. What choice had she had? Like it or not, with a cottage in the equation, there might be the need to communicate with him.

It was after ten-thirty at night, but he was still working, albeit in his sprawling London house. At the sight of her name on his phone, Angelo pushed himself away from his desk and swivelled his chair towards the impressive abstract painting which dominated most of one wall of the massive downstairs room which he had had converted into a study. He had paid a ridiculously large sum of money for it, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had given it a second glance.

He realised that he had been expecting her phone call for some time. in fact, he had anticipated her getting in touch pretty much as soon as they had parted company. One gold-digger living in a dump meets one freebie cottage in its own grounds in a beautiful part of the country and, hey presto, what else could follow but a rapid response? He’d found, as the days had passed, that he had been looking forwards to hearing her flimsy justification for grabbing what had landed in her lap. Indeed, he had been grimly looking forwards to the pleasurable prospect of ensuring that she didn’t get her hands on what she so clearly wanted. If it meant paying her off, then he looked forwards to handing her a cheque, while ramming home his scathing views on opportunists.

“Well, if it isn’t Rosie Tom,” he drawled, eyes on the painting, although he wasn’t actually seeing the slashing lines and curious splashes of paint on canvas. What he was seeing was the perfection of a heart-shaped face; a full mouth that always looked as though, given the right provocation, it would part in a brilliant smile; eyes that made something soften inside him, a body that had once driven him mad with desire.

“I’m really sorry if I’m disturbing you. I know it’s Friday and you’re probably out…”

Angelo decided that she was less than entitled to any clue as to his whereabouts. “Before you continue wasting time with a long, pointless spiel, just tell me what you want to say. Or rather, shall I tell you what you want to say? Save you the bother? You’ve had a good, long think and you’ve decided that you just can’t resist the pull of something for nothing.”

“I…” She thought about Ian finding his way into the house. There was no burglar alarm and little chance that her cheapskate landlord would ever run to one. Her voice wobbled and she took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, but like someone suddenly feeling the aftershock of some terrible disaster her body began to tremble and she had to sit down on the cheap sofa.

Lounging back, Angelo stiffened, sat up straight and frowned. Was she all right? For a second there, he could have sworn that she was going to burst into tears. He reminded himself that this was the woman who had successfully pulled the wool over his eyes for months.

“It’s late, Rosie, and I’m busy. So why don’t you just get to the point? Am I right?”