Page 2 of Italian Wife Wanted

‘If there’s nothing else, Mrs Cappetta...’

‘Thank you.’

James nodded and left her alone.

Alone as she’d been all day.

Just today?

The voice in her head mocked her. Because it was true. It had taken the death of her mother, her funeral, for her to understand.

But now she did understand.

The weight on her shoulders doubled, anchoring her to the spot.

Her eyes moved, taking in the plush silk rugs, the hand-carved and intricate side tables with professional lighting installed to highlight the priceless art hanging in just the right spot to awe and please.

It was a museum of priceless artefacts collected and displayed in a house that showed no signs—no evidence—of the people it housed.

No evidence ofthem.

It was further proof she didn’t belong here.

The inner-city girl who had grown up surrounded by discoloured high-rises had no business here in Mayfair.

She had no right—no claim—to any of it.

The tendons contracted in her throat.

She hadn’t realised it before, hadn’t seen it, but she was in too deep.

Had she already fallen victim in the same way her mother had? Fallen in—

No. This wasn’t love.

Love didn’t exist. It was an illusion. And her mother had been punished for her folly. She’d been left broken-hearted time and time again. It’s what had killed her, led to a heart attack at forty-three.

Emma straightened her spine.

The lie of love had killed her mother.

And it would kill her too if she allowed these feelings to take hold of her.

Emma slipped off her shoes where she stood and made her way to the spiral staircase. Two at a time, she climbed them.

She entered her bedroom.Theirbedroom.

At the sight of the perfectly made bed, heat engulfed her. She couldn’t help thinking of the nights, the mornings or the afternoons she’d spent in it. In his arms.

Sex wasn’t the problem. It never had been. In fact, it’s what had started it all.

Emma couldn’t let herself think of that now.

She moved to the desk positioned by the balcony doors to the view of the secret garden below.

There were only three secret gardens in London. Emma and Dante had visited all of them before they settled on this one. On this view from their bedroom. On this house.

He’d never promised her a home. He’d promised her a year. One year to allow the chemistry that raged between them to burn itself out.

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