He grimaced. No doubt his absence had confirmed her belief that he was an uninterested father. The truth was far more complicated. He loved Rosa, but love was not something he’d had much experience of and he did not know how to get close to his child.
He closed his eyes, trying to control the searing pain in his head. The migraines that had plagued him since the accident four years ago had become more frequent in recent months, and were so debilitating that he was forced to resort to taking painkillers. It was no coincidence that this headache had started soon after he had spoken to Sergio and heard the shocking news his old friend Pietro was dead. The elderly vintner had suffered a fatal heart attack while trying to fight the blaze at the winery.
It was particularly poignant that Pietro had given his life for the wine that he was so proud of, he thought. Winemaking had been in Pietro Marelli’s blood. A third generation vintner, with no son to pass his knowledge on to, he had instead shared his expertise with Salvatore. But, more than that, Pietro had been a substitute father who had welcomed a lonely boy into his home and his heart. Every school holiday Salvatore had returned to the Castellano estate and rushed to see Pietro first, knowing that Tito, his father, would be working in his office and would not welcome being disturbed.
It was strange that he could remember his childhood but had no memory of the accident, Salvatore brooded. He had a clear vision of himself as a ten-year-old boy, walking through the vineyards with Pietro to inspect the grapes, but no recollection of the events that had happened after he had got behind the wheel of his car and driven Adriana away from that party. All he remembered was waking to find he was in hospital and being told that his wife had been killed when their car had spun out of control on a mountain road and plunged over the edge.
The doctor had told Salvatore he had been lucky to escape with his life, albeit with a seriously mangled right leg and a head injury. It had caused no permanent brain damage. His amnesia, so the specialist suspected, was psychogenic. In layman’s terms, his inability to remember the accident, or much of his marriage, was his brain’s defence mechanism in order to blot out the grim fact that he was responsible for his wife’s death.
Salvatore felt a familiar surge of frustration as he tried to cast his mind back in time and hit a wall of blackness. It seemed inconceivable that he could have married a woman, who had given birth to his child, and yet he had no recollection of their relationship. His mother-in-law had put photographs of Adriana everywhere in the castle, but when he looked at the pictures of his wife he felt no connection to her.
The specialist had told him it was likely his memory would eventually return, but until it did Salvatore felt he was trapped in a dark place, with no past and no future, unable to forgive himself for robbing his daughter of her mother.
He kneaded his throbbing temples with his fingers and thought about the rest of his conversation with his brother. Sergio had reported better news about the estate workers who had been burned in the fire. Their injuries were serious, but thankfully not life-threatening.
Hearing a tap on the study door, Salvatore turned his head and watched Darcey enter the room. Her silky copper-brown hair framed her face, and she had taken off her jacket. He could see the shape of her small, firm breasts beneath her blouse. His analytical brain registered that she was very attractive, but he was surprised by the bolt of awareness that shot through him. Earlier, in her office, he had ignored the sexual chemistry between them, but tonight, to his annoyance, his eyes were drawn to the curve of her mouth and he fleetingly imagined covering her soft lips with his.
None of his thoughts were revealed on his hard features, however. ‘Is Rosa asleep?’
‘Do you care?’ Green eyes flashed fire at him. ‘Your daughter went to bed forty minutes ago and stayed awake for ages, waiting for you come and wish her goodnight.’
‘I apologise.’ Salvatore’s eyes narrowed on Darcey’s furious face. ‘I had to deal with an important matter.’
‘It’s not me you should apologise to. Rosa was disappointed when you didn’t show up.’ Darcey’s mouth tightened. As she had watched Rosa struggling to stay awake she had recalled doing the same thing when she had been a child, waiting for her father to come home from the theatre. On the nights when Joshua had remembered to come up and kiss her goodnight she had fallen asleep feeling happy, but sometimes he’d forgotten and then she had cried herself to sleep.
Salvatore seemed to be unaware of how much his little girl needed him. Darcey glared at him, wishing she could ignore his potent masculinity. He had discarded his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to reveal darkly tanned forearms covered with a mass of black hair. His brooding sensuality was dangerously attractive—but she wasn’t looking for danger or excitement, wasn’t looking for a man at all. And certainly not one who made her feel so acutely aware of her femininity.