Perhaps this deadness inside him was all to the good.
Because the thought of giving away contact with his son, of never really being a father, merely pinged at his emotions instead of slaughtering them.
Striding to his desk, he reached for his phone.
He would need to notify his family of his wishes. He could not be with Lise ever again, nor his son. However, she needed people who loved and adored her so she’d be taken care of. His family would be shocked, yet not surprised at the news, at his confession of barbaric behavior. His personal activities had always, inevitably caused some kind of disaster. The only thing he’d ever been able to do well was business and this would be the only thing he touched from now on.
This he promised himself. And the Princesse. And his unborn son.
“Mr. Mattare?” His PA’s voice echoed over the intercom, just as he skimmed through his personal contacts looking for his momma.
“Si?” Vico gritted his teeth and kept clicking on the phone. He didn’t care what the interruption was. Lise was more important than anything at this moment.
“Your wife would like to see you.”
His finger stilled. “What?”
“Your wife is here.” His PA’s voice lilted with friendly regard. “She’d like a moment of your time.”
Lise? She had traveled to London by herself?
He almost howled. His plane had been here, not in Italy. She’d taken a commercial flight, alone and pregnant. His security had not informed him of this visit. They had not told him of her leaving the villa. So they didn’t know. The woman had left the safety of the villa and ventured out with no protection. The woman had hauled her luggage into some damn taxi, dragged it into the airport, and stuck herself in one of those cramped commercial seats without any help.
Was she crazy?
Another thought crashed into him. He didn’t want this. Couldn’t take this. He barely held himself together as it was. With Lise in his vicinity, the fragile hold he had on his emotions would disappear.
But he could hardly tell Sally to send his wife away.
“Send her in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door flew open. His wife marched into his office and slammed the door behind her. Her face was flushed, her hair wild around her head as if she’d hadn’t run a comb through it in days. She was dressed in an odd jumble of clothing—an old knitted sweater over a grey T-shirt, matched with a tan pair of pants she’d used only when she’d dug around in the villa’s garden.
A string of sharp memories suddenly stung him. The Princesse holding court in his boardroom, all sophisticated refinement. Lise on his bed that first night, all sex and elegance and lace and beauty. His mia dolce, all class and charm even when she wore only her bathing suit.
“This!” she shrieked, waving a tabloid at him. “I won’t put up with this!”
His soon-to-be-ex-wife never shrieked.
She’d yelled at him a time or two. She’d occasionally snarled.
Still, never would Lise Helton Mattare shriek.
“Do it again and I won’t be responsible for my actions.” The woman shrieked once more. In a much louder tone.
Could this possibly be his Lise?
Not yours anymore.
The thought brought him up short and pulled him out of his stunned disbelief. His anger at her stupidity at traveling alone returned with a vengeance. “Are you mad?”
“Yes.” She strode to his desk and slapped the offending paper down with a crack. “As a matter of fact I am.”
Gritting his teeth, he leaned over to stick his face in hers. “I meant, are you crazy to travel all this way with no protection? What the hell were you thinking?”
Her gaze blazed a fierce blue. A blue he’d never seen before. This blue did not resemble ice in any way. Her eyes were a hot, fiery cerulean. A glittering, radiant sear of color that tore into his blood with astounding speed.
His erection was immediate. And so inappropriate.
“Never again, do you hear me?” She matched his lean, their noses almost touching. “I will forgive you this one time. But not one time more.”
Forgive him? She didn’t know the extent of his sins. How could she forgive him? The pain flared, burning at the edges of the death crouched around his heart and soul.
This was too much for him.
Vico sucked in a breath and paced away to stand by the window. Glaring out at the laden clouds, he absently noticed the rain starting to drip down the glass.
None of this made sense. Why was she here? Why had she followed him?
Maledizione. The woman was eight months pregnant. She probably shouldn’t have been on a plane at all, much less alone without any security.
“You should not be here,” he intoned to the London landscape, trying to keep his voice even. “You should not have traveled in your condition.”