The Truth About De Campo(59)

Ah. He did. She’d been at a couple of parties he’d attended with his Hollywood ex.

“You’re killing me, Gabe.”

“Two years, Matty. Two years I’ve been waiting for this. To get them listening about the Malbecs.”

“Two years I’ve been in purgatory, fratello mio.”

“So we’ll both win. Be here for two. I promise I’ll get you back in time.”

The line went dead. He dialed their pilot with a low curse, then his PA and went inside to change. Texted Quinn his whereabouts from the cab to the airport. And thought about the doubts he still saw in her eyes every time the contract came up. Since he was now sure he was fully, irrevocably in love with her, perhaps he needed to do something to demonstrate exactly how serious he was.



Quinn let herself in the penthouse, juggling an armful of groceries, her heart thumping in that ridiculous way it did any time she was about to see Matteo. She had taken the rather risky step of attempting to cook dinner for him given he’d been working until all hours getting ready for the pitch and as far as she could see, not eating very much. Risky when it happened she couldn’t cook at all. But being with Matteo these past few weeks had inspired her to try a lot of new things. To push beyond who she’d thought she was.

She deposited the groceries on the counter and headed out to the terrace where Matteo preferred to work. They’d agreed he would stay with her until the pitch was over and take it from there. Figure out their schedules. But the door to the outdoor space was locked and there was no sign of him.

Figuring he’d gone for a run after the heat of the day, she slipped on an apron in the kitchen and started the water boiling. How hard could pasta be? Boil the water and put the pasta in. Throw it against the wall, apparently. But dicing? That was a foreign language. She took a wild guess and started chopping the vegetables into bite-size pieces. Thought how quiet, how lacking in life the apartment was without Matteo in it. How much she wanted him to come home so she could tell him about the insane step she’d taken of contacting the adoption agency to get in touch with her birth parents. Who knew where it was all going to end, but at least she might get some closure.

Butterflies swooped through her stomach. She shooed them determinedly away. Baby steps, that’s how she was going to do this. With Matteo too. The scariest part was how easily she could see him fitting into her life. Last night he’d started talking about how he’d love a house in Lincoln Park, and it had not been a stretch to picture herself living there with him. Which wasn’t baby steps at all. It was a huge, monstrous step that should have made her run, terrified. Except she hadn’t.

She reached for the prosciutto rather than address the adrenaline surging through her. She loved him. She finally understood what it was that had been missing with Julian. How your heart could feel so empty with one person and so full with another. How when it was right, it was just right.

When the pasta sauce was done and “reducing” in the pan, she went into the bedroom to change. The clock on the bedside table read 8:00 p.m., which made her frown because surely Matteo should be back from a run by now? She reached for her Harvard sweats hanging over a chair. Noticed Matteo’s overnight bag that had been lying in the corner was gone.

Her stomach seized. She strode into the bathroom. His toiletries were missing from the counter. She went into the living room and checked the table where he kept his laptop. Gone.

He was gone.

A buzzing sound filled her ears. Julian had walked out the door that day to Boston as if it was a run-of-the-mill trip to see his brother. And he’d never come back. Bile rose in the back of her throat. Had Matteo left her?

She gave her head a violent shake. That wasn’t him. He wouldn’t do that to her. She picked up her mobile and called him. Got his voice mail. Checked her email and texts to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

Nothing.

She thought about calling his PA but it was late and it didn’t seem appropriate at this time of night, so she showered, turned the stove off and sat down to wait with a glass of wine. Ten o’clock passed. Eleven. She tried him again and got his voice mail. Surely if there had been some sort of emergency he would have called?

Eyes burning, head throbbing, she went into the kitchen, dumped dinner into the garbage and brushed her teeth. Told herself to stay calm, that there must be some explanation for this. People didn’t just walk out on you.

When she came out of the bathroom, her phone was beeping. She snatched it up and pulled up the text message. It was from Matteo.





Saw you called. Can’t talk now. I need to talk to you before the pitch tomorrow. I’ll pick you up for a coffee before?