Cara knew she was fighting a losing battle, so she picked up the bag at her feet and stood up. She straightened her shoulders and held out a hand.
‘Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. O’Brien, and I appreciate your comments. I would just ask that if any vacancies come up for junior appointments in your firm you’d keep me in mind.’
He shook her hand firmly. ‘Of course I will, my dear. We’ll keep your CV on file.’
Along with hundreds of others, no doubt, thought Cara. It was the same story everywhere. A global recession loomed on the horizon, and everyone was nervous and tightening their belts, letting go of superfluous employees. It was the worst time to be inexperienced and coming home looking for a job. And yet when she walked out into a glorious late-spring day she knew she was glad to be away from London. Away from what had happened there.
Cara crossed the busy road, and when something caught her eye, she cursed her lack of foresight for unconsciously taking the direction she had. She was now faced with the brand-spanking-new restaurant that had just opened on one of the busiest corners of Dublin’s city centre streets.
Valentini’s. Just one in the hugely successful chain of distinctively colored green, white and red restaurants that were dotted all over the world, selling not only a cuisine experience unparalleled but also everything from food and Italian delicacies to homewares. What they offered was a slice of Italian life, a promise of sunshine and a lazier way of living.
The ironic thing was, having had no idea then of who Allegra’s brother was and yet knowing that Allegra was somehow connected to the family, the local Valentini’s coffee shop in London had become a refuge for Cara. She’d spent hours in there in her spare time, studying or reading, making a cappuccino last for as long as possible, relishing her rare solitude. And now here was one in Dublin, mocking her with its gleaming façade. Its robust sheen of success. Its reminder of the owner. Vicenzo Valentini obviously wasn’t suffering the downslide in the global economy. But she had to concede that it was just a cruel coincidence of timing, as no doubt his plans to set up in Dublin would have been made many months before.
She averted her eyes and hurried past, a feeling of nausea mounting.
Nausea was all too familiar to her. She’d been throwing up every morning for the past month, feeling worse and worse. Finally, after a visit to the doctor last week, she’d confirmed her worst fear. She was pregnant. On some level Cara knew she was still in shock, unable to take it in. She hadn’t even contemplated what she wanted to do in terms of contacting Vicenzo; that was a stretch too far at the moment.
Blindly she walked down the street, feeling very close to tears all of a sudden. The most important thing right now was to get a job. As it was she only had enough money to cover the rent in her dingy studio flat for another month, never mind to fund bringing a baby into the world. She fought the panic back and ducked into a newsagents to buy a stack of daily papers, ignoring the dwindling change in her purse.
A short while later Cara got off the bus and trudged to her flat. Halfway there the heavens opened, and in seconds she was soaked to the skin, the fickle Irish weather showing its true colors. A couple ran past her, holding hands and laughing, the woman sheltering under her boyfriend’s coat. Cara felt as though something infinitely precious and delicate had been ripped from her which could never be restored. It was innocence and optimism. For that brief moment before Vicenzo Valentini had dropped his bombshell she’d tasted a sliver of happiness for the first time in years.
Her heart hardened as she pushed her front door open. He had ripped away her fragile, nebulous hopes and dreams, and she hated him with an intensity that scared her.
In her bathroom she stepped out of her wet clothes as exhaustion snaked through her body. She left them where they lay and pulled on an old robe.
She caught her reflection in the mirror and stopped dead. She looked gaunt. The freckles stood out harshly against her pale skin. Her face looked too long, the cheekbones too stark. Her mouth was pursed. Her eyes looked shadowed, haunted. And her hair hung in rats’tails over her shoulders, its normal red vibrancy dulled.
Her hands went to her belly. She looked down, tears blurring her eyes before she could stop them. After Cormac had died Cara had foolishly thought she’d be free to start over—free to live her own life. And yet fate had stepped in and slapped her across the face. She looked back up and wiped her tears away, blew her nose on some toilet paper. She had to eat.
Had to take care of herself. Had to find a job. Had to somehow support herself and this child. It still stunned her, the immediate all-consuming love and protection she’d felt for this little being as soon as she’d found out, despite the circumstances of its conception. There was a deeper emotion attached to that too, but Cara didn’t want to analyze it. She went and heated up some of the homemade soup left over from the day before.
When she sat down she noticed the letter lying on the table beside her—a letter she’d opened that morning. Panic threatened to come back, robbing her of her appetite. She couldn’t deal with it now. She could only deal with one thing at a time, and that letter was a step too far. But the threat that lay starkly on the white paper made her tremble inwardly. She forced herself to eat, not to think of it, and then she set about going through the newspapers methodically. She circled any job vacancies and listed them in order, so that tomorrow once again she could start the rounds of calls and CV-drops to companies.
An hour later she opened the last paper—a broadsheet. She didn’t expect to find anything much, so she turned the pages half-heartedly and held back a yawn. Her lower back twinged and she longed for bed. But then she jerked upright, as if adrenalin had just been injected into her veins.
Her heart reacted first, its beats accelerating out of control as she looked down at a picture of Vicenzo Valentini, standing with another man. She couldn’t look away from him, her eyes avidly taking in those strong, harsh features softened in a rare smile which made him look more gorgeous than was humanly possible. The black and white of the image only highlighted his stark masculine beauty. That chiseled jaw.
He looked happy. He looked satisfied. He looked unconcerned.
Her hand went unconsciously to her still-flat belly. What right did he have to look so happy? While she sat here in near poverty, pregnant with his child, after he had decided to play God with her life? She closed her eyes, misery swamping her. Even now the knowledge of her brother’s methods appalled her—how far he would have gone and how duped Allegra had been. Because, as Cara well knew, the only person her brother had ever loved was himself.
She looked again at Vicenzo Valentini’s smiling face. The impeccable tuxedo and urbane surface just made his deception even worse. All the humiliated hurt and pain she felt from his premeditated revenge surged up through her, as strong as if it had happened yesterday. It had all been an act, a sham. His desire for her had never been what she had thought and believed. Had he really desired her at all?
He was due to appear at a function in Dublin the very next night, to celebrate the launch of his new restaurant. Cara might have imagined that he’d done this on purpose, just to send her another warning, but she knew that was irrational. It was just an unbelievably cruel coincidence.
She read the article again—more slowly this time. At the function he was due to announce a merger with a well-known Irish-based entrepreneur, Caleb Cameron, which would see Valentini’s homewares business franchised out to exclusive department stores around the country.
With Vicenzo Valentini so close it was as if he was taunting her all over again. She knew she had to do something while he was so close; had to make him see that he couldn’t ride roughshod over someone’s life—her life. He was responsible for the life growing in her belly, and something deeply visceral was urging her to consider confronting him.
Vicenzo Valentini stifled the urge to rip the bow-tie from his throat, fling it to the ground, open his top button and walk as fast as he could out of the packed ballroom and far, far away. Back to his island, Sardinia, where it would be quiet and the sky would be so filled to the brim with stars that he always fancied he could just reach out a hand and pluck one from the inky depths.
What was wrong with him? He felt disgruntled, irritable. Hadn’t been feeling right for weeks now. Two months, to be exact—wasn’t that right?
He froze, immediately rejecting that thought and the accompanying vivid images that came with it. His face darkened to a glower, making the person who had been approaching him turn and walk away. Pain hit him squarely in the solar plexus, along with a surge of guilt that he did not want to acknowledge. Two months ago he’d started the healing process, started avenging his sister’s untimely death. So, if that was the case, why did he feel anything but on the path to being healed?
He forced his mind away from uncomfortable thoughts as he saw his good friend Caleb Cameron come towards him in the crowd with his petite wife Maggie. Her long red curly hair gave Vicenzo an uncomfortable jolt, even though it wasn’t even the same colour as—He ruthlessly quashed the direction of his thoughts, disgusted with himself.