The flight to Rome seemed interminable. The shorter hop down to Naples took her even further away from him. She twisted the links of her gold chain necklace around and around her forefinger in impotent frustration as the vast distances crawled by.
Any other time, she’d be looking forward to meeting friends and workmates again, to interacting with passengers from all corners of the globe, to encouraging them to take part in the on-board concerts. Not this time. There were only two faces she wanted to see—Christian’s and Nicky’s.
The ship looked magnificent at her mooring, but where once the sight of the huge white liner would have filled her with anticipation, now it dragged her spirits down into a spiral of despair.
The taxi driver, with cheerful Italian insouciance, murmured, “Bella, bella!” eyeing both the ship and Fiona as he unloaded her bags. Normally she would have enjoyed the too-obvious flirting and dismissed him with a cheeky grin. This time she reacted with a prim nod, hefted her luggage and crept off to prison.
The weeks crawled by, endless and empty. Or empty of the only people she truly wished to see. No amount of shipboard bustle, no sunny exotic destinations, could fill the huge hole Christian had ripped in her life. She lived for his occasional phone-calls, and died a little more every time the connection between them was severed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Monica, will you be all right if I’m away for a week or so?”
The plump new nanny beamed at him.
“Of course we will, Mr Hartley. Won’t we, Nicola Jane? Is it Japan again?”
Christian shook his head. “Europe this time. Auckland en route. I’ll be leaving on Saturday afternoon.”
He saw Monica shoot him a besotted glance as he turned away. Eight weeks ago, when she’d first been appointed, he’d been deep in mourning—for Fiona as much as Jan. It had taken all of his patience and forbearance to be polite to the silly girl. She was wonderful with Nicky, no question about that, but it was disconcerting the way her eyes followed him across rooms like those of a devoted dog.
He presumed she and Amy Houndsworth discussed him sometimes. They were both enthusiastic if harmless gossips. Had they discerned the lightening in his manner over the last few days? Decided the weight of his grief had lifted a little?
He glanced at his watch. What time would it be in Italy? Had Fiona finished tonight’s concert? He picked up his phone and strolled out onto the big terrace to ensure privacy.
He heard her mobile making contact half a world away, and imagined her groping around to find it.
“Fiona Delaporte.”
“Christian Hartley.”
Every nerve in her body crackled.
“I was almost asleep,” she said, coming rapidly awake.
“Is it too late? Damn—I hoped I had it about right.”
“It’s always right when it’s you. Always wonderful to hear your voice.”
Always wonderful when my heart starts thumping and it feels like someone’s stolen all the air in the room.
“Always good to hear yours too, Blondie. So you’re in bed? Wish I was right there beside you.”
Fiona closed her eyes and pulled the sheet around her shoulders, imagining him there.
“There’s not much room for someone your size,” she murmured. “But I wish you were here too.”
“I’ll be there Tuesday. Will you have dinner in Venice with me on Tuesday evening?”
Regret washed over her, cold and killing.
“Not possible, Chris. We’ll be in Naples, but we’re not coming near Venice. Are you over on business?”
“Exciting business, Blondie.”
“Turin, I suppose. That’s the car city, isn’t it? God, you’ll be so close...”
“And I’ll take you out to dinner.”
“You truly can’t.”
“I truly can—I’ve cleared it with Captain Svenson.”
“What? You don’t just do that, Christian!”
“There’s an Air One return ticket, booked in your name, waiting for you at the airport in Naples,” he continued, unperturbed. “I’ll meet you at Marco Polo in Venice. Dinner, bed and breakfast in a private little hotel. Bring your high heels.”
Fiona couldn’t stop the shuddering sob that escaped. She stared wildly around in the half-light. Everything looked exactly the same as it had moments before. The same bedcover and curtains. The same family photos on the wall beside her. The same robe hanging behind the door.
And yet everything had changed. Suddenly her world had more color and vibrancy, more air and light and music.
“Venice,” she repeated in a far-from-steady voice.
“It’ll be our first proper date. I told you at the Lodge I’d come up with something better than a dining room full of people and separate beds afterwards.”