‘Nice to think you sat around mourning me for . . . oh, how long was it? A few months. Fuck it, I was barely cold.’
‘You weren’t cold at all. You weren’t even dead.’
‘Oh, and that would have kept you happy, would it? If I really had been?’
Annie’s jaw dropped.
‘How can you say that?’ she spat out. ‘Look, I was in a hole. I had to act. You weren’t there. I had to think of Layla.’
‘Oh, the self-sacrificing mother,’ he mocked. ‘Prostituting herself to give her kid a roof over her head.’
‘I never prostituted myself. I married Constantine. I loved Constantine.’
‘Yeah, so you keep saying.’ For fuck’s sake, did she have to keep ramming that down his throat? She was standing here in tears beside the grave of her second husband, and yet he had no way of knowing if she had ever shed so much as a single tear over the loss of him.
‘I’m just telling the damned truth.’ Annie was trembling with rage as they stood nose to nose, glaring at each other. She pointed back to the grave. ‘The truth is you owe him. You owe him for keeping us safe when you weren’t there to do it.’
‘I know that.’
Annie stepped back. ‘What?’
‘I said, I know that.’ Max drew in a calming breath. ‘For God’s sake, what do you think I am, some sort of cunt? I know all that he’s done. That makes me feel a fucking sight worse, not better.’
Annie shook her head. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she said mournfully.
‘That’s obvious,’ said Max, and turned away from her. She was just dashing after him when he turned back. ‘Look,’ he said, grabbing her with his good arm. ‘Layla needs us both.’
‘I know that,’ said Annie. ‘I’ve been going through seven kinds of hell thinking of taking her away from you. I know how much she loves you.’
‘Then we’ll both go back to London and make a life there with her.’
Annie felt the pit of her stomach sink at his words. For Layla, he was willing to tolerate her. That’s what he was saying. He would spend the rest of his life beating her over the head with her ‘lapse’, as he saw it, and they would grow old and miserable and bitter together, but Layla would have her mum and dad there, both of them.
She shook her head furiously. ‘No! I couldn’t stand that.’
With Constantine, she had known what it was to be loved. Once, with Max, she had known the same sweet, incredible intensity of feeling. She couldn’t just live a half-life, going through the motions of a marriage for the sake of her child, however much she loved her.
‘What? You couldn’t stand living with me again? After him?’ His face was blank, masklike.
‘I couldn’t stand us living a lie, even if it was for Layla’s sake!’
‘Is that what it would be? A lie?’
‘Yeah! It would! Because you can’t let this go, because you don’t love me.’
Max’s brows drew together as he stared hard at her.
‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded, shaking her slightly. ‘You think I don’t love you? You really think I’d have been so fucking cut up about you running off with Constantine if I didn’t love you? You really think I’d have thrown myself in front of a bullet if I didn’t love you?’
Annie stood there, frozen in shock.
‘Well say something, if it’s only “bollocks”,’ he snapped. ‘I love you, you stupid mare. If you don’t love me, then fine. I understand. You’ve moved on. So we’ll be bloody civilized about it, all right? We’ll live apart but we’ll sort out something so that we both see Layla. It’s not a problem.’
Annie was silent, staring at his face.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ growled Max.
‘It is a problem,’ she said at last.
‘What?’
‘Living apart but both seeing Layla.’
‘I might’ve known you’d be bloody antsy about it . . .’
‘I’m not being antsy. I’m being honest. I can’t live apart from you because I don’t want to. I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you, not for one moment.’
Max was very still, not even breathing.
Finally, he gulped in air. ‘But you married Constantine.’
‘I loved Constantine. But I never forgot you, and I never stopped loving you. And the minute I saw you there in the Palermo, and you called me a slut, I thought, that bastard, how dare he say that to me? I was so mad I wanted to kick your teeth straight down your throat. But, you know what? Fool that I am, I fell in love with you all over again, right then.’
He said nothing.
The wind gusted icily across the graveyard. Annie wrenched a shaking hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. ‘Please say something,’ she moaned.
Now Max started to smile. ‘Like what?’
‘Like you love me.’
‘I just said that.’
‘Well, for God’s sake – just say it again, will you?’
For a long moment, he was still, just staring at her. Then, using his one good arm, he pulled her in tight against the front of his body. ‘I love you, Annie Carter,’ he said, and kissed her hard and long.
‘It’s Carter-Barolli,’ she corrected him when she came up for air.
‘No it ain’t. Not any more,’ said Max, and he put his arm around her and they walked back to the limo.
Just once, he glanced back. He knew he’d never come here again. He could see the blood-red roses lying there, starkly beautiful beneath the headstone and against the windswept greenery. His friend and colleague Constantine Barolli. Without him, would Annie have been able to save Layla? Would Annie herself have survived? He didn’t think so.
You owe him, she’d said.
And she was right of course. Constantine had trod on his territory, claimed what was Max’s for his own . . . but now Constantine was gone. And it was time to let the grudge go, or let it eat him alive and ruin what was going to be a good life with her and their child.
He couldn’t afford to let that happen. Not after they’d been through so much, not after they’d come so far and, against all the odds, found each other again.
He looked back at the grave and thought, All right, you old bastard. Thanks, okay? Thanks, pal. Rest easy there. Rest in peace.
And then he put his arm around his wife, kissed her, and together they walked away from the grave of Constantine Barolli.
Epilogue
Brother Benito had been expecting them; he’d received the letter two weeks ago at the monastery, and ever since then he’d been happily anticipating their arrival. Max hadn’t specified an exact date, but Benito held himself in readiness.
On the day when it finally happened, he’d been to prayers, had breakfast, gone out into the garden to dig the soil over for next season’s crops. Then he washed, had a small lunch with the brothers, and took his Bible out to his favourite shady spot in the garden to sit quietly and read and contemplate.
When the call went up from one of the younger monks, he left his seat and went smiling to the gate just as their car pulled up outside. Max Carter got out from the driver’s side. From the passenger’s side there emerged a tall, slender woman dressed in a plain white shift dress. Her long straight dark hair was being blown about in the wind, but she didn’t fuss with it. Benito saw that Max and the woman were arguing.
‘All right,’ Max was saying. ‘I’ll give you Dolly Farrell, okay? She can stay, she’s done a good job. But the signs stay too.’
‘Max . . .’ the woman said, her tone exasperated.
‘Don’t “Max” me. I’ve met you halfway, that’s fair. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘No. Actually, I wouldn’t.’
‘Max! My friend!’ called out Benito.
Max and the woman looked ahead to where Benito was waiting bes
ide the gate. Max gave a grin and raised his hand in greeting. The three of them walked up the dusty pink track towards him, Max with his arm casually thrown across the woman’s shoulders. When they reached Benito, Max stepped forward and gave him a hug, slapping him on the back.
‘You old bastard!’ He laughed as Benito embraced him.
‘That can’t be the way to talk to a monk,’ said Annie, scandalized.
Max glanced back at her. Layla was hiding behind her skirts now, overcome with shyness.
‘He’s very difficult to offend,’ said Max, grinning. ‘I told him to fuck off lots of times, and he never did.’
Annie’s eyes met Benito’s and she relaxed slightly. He really didn’t look too bothered by this irreverent behaviour. ‘This is Layla,’ she said, indicating the little girl.
‘She’s adorable,’ said Benito.
‘This is Brother Benito, the man who saved my life,’ said Max to Annie, drawing her closer. ‘This is Annie Carter,’ said Max proudly to Benito. ‘This is my wife.’
Benito smiled and shook her hand. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he said to Max.
‘Don’t tell her that, she’s vain enough as it is.’ Max’s eyes were teasing as they caught Annie’s.
Not a serious argument then, he thought. These two looked to be very much in love. He guessed they sparred a lot, but always made up.
‘Come in, come in. I want to know everything about how you found your family again . . .’
Benito led the way into the monastery grounds, thinking that this was perfect; that he was so happy for his friend. Things had gone full circle for Max Carter and it had all worked out well.
‘I have whisky,’ Benito said to Max, who burst out laughing. He remembered all too well that grim time in hospital, when Benito and his cheap, disgusting whisky were all that kept him sane.
‘Whisky . . .?’ asked Annie, puzzled.
‘I’ll explain,’ Max was saying as the monastery gates closed behind them. ‘I’ll explain everything, okay?’
‘Okay,’ she said, and smiled.
Acknowledgements
To all my friends who help me in all sorts of ways to carry on the business of writing. To Lynne, Steve, Karen, Mandasue, Louise, Judith, Sarah, Wayne, Ryan – and if I’ve missed out anyone else, you know who you are, and thanks.
To the people of Majorca, who answered my seemingly stupid questions with endless patience, and to the girls at the hotel in Cala Bona – thanks for coming over and saying hello and asking me to sign the books. Thanks to John Follain for his excellent and informative The Last Godfathers, and to Thomas Reppetto for American Mafia, a History of Its Rise to Power.
And finally, thanks to all my dedicated fans and friends on Facebook and Twitter, whose kindness and encouragement lifts me every day and who have been clamouring for Annie Carter to stroll back into their lives – well, gang, here she is. Keep those lovely comments coming!
About the Author
Jessie Keane is the bestselling author of Dirty Game, Black Widow, Jail Bird and The Make. Scarlet Women, the third book in the Annie Carter series, shot straight into the Sunday Times bestseller list. Jessie lives in Hampshire.
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Also by Jessie Keane
Dirty Game
Black Widow
Scarlet Women
Jail Bird
The Make
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Jessie Keane 2011
Jessie Keane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978 0 00 732656 3
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007332960
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
America
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Majorca
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Long Island
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
London
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
&
nbsp; Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
New York
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Jessie Keane
Copyright
About the Publisher