Chapter 3 The Unraveled Trip

# Chapter 3: The Unraveled Trip

The Italian countryside blurred past the window of our chauffeur-driven car, vineyards and cypress trees creating a landscape that belonged in a Renaissance painting. Three months into my marriage, Thomas had insisted on a family trip to the Ashford estate in Tuscany. Family, in this case, meant Thomas, myself, and Callum.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Thomas asked, squeezing my hand. "The estate has been in our family for generations."

"It's breathtaking," I replied, genuinely awed by the rolling hills and the golden light that seemed to bathe everything in warmth.

From the front passenger seat, Callum turned to look at us. "Wait until you see the villa, Juliette. It makes the London house look like a cottage."

Since that day by my bedroom door, Callum had maintained a careful distance—physically, at least. His eyes, however, followed me constantly. At breakfast, during family dinners, even at the charity gala Thomas had hosted last month. Always watching, always calculating, as though waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The car rounded a bend, and the Ashford villa came into view. "Villa" was an understatement. The sprawling estate sat atop a hill, surrounded by olive groves and vineyards, its stone walls glowing amber in the late afternoon sun.

"Home away from home," Thomas said with evident pride. "My grandfather acquired it in the thirties. The wine from these vineyards is among the finest in Tuscany."

As we pulled up to the entrance, staff emerged to greet us—all Italian, all deferential to Thomas in a way that spoke of years of service. Our luggage was whisked away, and we were led into a grand entry hall with a sweeping staircase and frescoed ceiling.

"Your room overlooks the eastern vineyard," Thomas told me. "The sunrise is spectacular."

"Our room," I corrected gently, and saw something flash in Callum's eyes.

"About that," Thomas said hesitantly. "I've had a call from Milan. The Bertolucci deal is proving more complicated than anticipated. I may need to leave for a day or two to handle it in person."

"Now?" I couldn't keep the disappointment from my voice. We'd been planning this trip for weeks.

Thomas looked genuinely apologetic. "I'm afraid so, my dear. But Callum will be an excellent host in my absence. You'll hardly notice I'm gone."

I glanced at Callum, who was examining a spot on the marble floor with sudden interest. When he looked up, his expression was perfectly neutral.

"Of course, Father. Juliette will want for nothing."

Dinner that evening was a subdued affair. Thomas spent most of it on calls, excusing himself repeatedly to speak with business associates in hushed tones. I pushed pasta around my plate, my appetite diminished by the thought of being left alone with Callum in this vast, unfamiliar place.

"You should try the wine," Callum suggested, filling my glass without waiting for permission. "It's from our vineyard. The very one outside your window."

"Thank you," I murmured, taking a small sip. The wine was rich and complex, warming me from within.

"Perhaps tomorrow I can show you the property," he continued. "There's a lake beyond the olive grove. Quite private. Excellent for swimming."

The memory of our last encounter by the pool made me set down my glass. "I'm not sure that's appropriate."

His smile was innocent, but his eyes were not. "We're family, Juliette. What could be more appropriate than a stepson showing his stepmother the family estate?"

Before I could respond, Thomas returned, looking weary. "I'm afraid I need to leave tonight," he announced. "The Bertolucci patriarch is threatening to pull out unless I meet with him personally first thing tomorrow."

"Tonight?" I echoed, unable to hide my dismay.

Thomas came around the table to kiss my cheek. "Just for one night, my dear. I'll be back tomorrow evening, I promise. Callum will take good care of you."

Callum raised his glass in acknowledgment. "You can count on me, Father."

Two hours later, I stood on the terrace outside my room—not our room, as Thomas had already departed—watching the headlights of his car disappear down the cypress-lined drive. The night air was heavy with the scent of jasmine, the sky clear and studded with stars.

I heard the sliding door open behind me but didn't turn. I knew who it was.

"He's always leaving," Callum said, coming to stand beside me at the railing. "Business before pleasure. Before family. That's the Ashford way."

"He's building a legacy," I replied, still looking at the now-dark road.

"Is that what he told you?" Callum sounded genuinely curious. "And what part do you play in this legacy, I wonder?"

I finally turned to face him. He was closer than I'd realized, his face half-illuminated by the warm light spilling from my room. In the shadows, with his guard down, he looked younger. Almost vulnerable.

"Why do you dislike me so much?" I asked quietly.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Is that what you think? That I dislike you?"

"What else would you call it? The constant watching, the provocative comments, the..." I gestured vaguely between us, unable to name the tension that had been building since our first encounter.

Callum leaned against the railing, studying me. "I think you know exactly what I'd call it, Juliette. And it isn't dislike."

A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the cooling night air. "I'm married to your father."

"Yes," he agreed, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. "That's the tragedy of it, isn't it?"

I stepped back, needing distance. "I'm going to bed. Alone."

His smile was slow and knowing. "For now."

I fled inside, sliding the door shut behind me with more force than necessary. My hands were shaking as I poured myself another glass of the estate's wine from the bottle that had been left in my room. One glass became two, then three, as I tried to drown out the thoughts of Callum—his voice, his touch, the look in his eyes that made me feel both hunted and desired.

The wine was stronger than I'd realized. By the time I finished the bottle, the room was spinning slightly, and my inhibitions had lowered just enough that when I heard a knock at my door, I answered it without hesitation.

Callum stood in the hallway, another bottle in hand. "I thought you might want company," he said, his eyes taking in my silk nightgown and robe.

I knew I should close the door. Instead, I stepped aside.

He moved past me, his cologne—spicy and masculine—filling my senses. He poured wine into my empty glass, then into a second he produced from somewhere.

"To Italy," he toasted, "and unexpected opportunities."

The wine slid down my throat like velvet. "This is a mistake," I said, but made no move to ask him to leave.

"Probably," he agreed, moving to the open terrace doors. "Come outside. The view is better at night."

Against my better judgment, I followed him. The terrace was bathed in moonlight now, the vineyard below a sea of silver and shadow. We stood side by side, drinking in silence, until Callum spoke.

"He's not good for you, you know."

I looked at him sharply. "Your father is a good man."

"He is," Callum conceded. "But he's married to his empire first. You'll always come second. Or third, after me." His smile was self-deprecating. "He's already left you alone on what was supposed to be a family vacation."

"With you," I pointed out.

His eyes met mine, and the intensity in them made my breath catch. "Yes. With me."

We were standing too close now, the wine making me bold, reckless. "What do you want from me, Callum?"

He set down his glass on the railing and took mine, placing it beside his. Then his hands were framing my face, gentle but insistent.

"What I've wanted since I saw you in that gallery, rain-soaked and luminous," he murmured. "What I've wanted every day since you married him instead of me."

His mouth found mine, and the kiss was nothing like I'd imagined in my most secret thoughts. It was hungry, desperate, as though he'd been starving for this moment. And God help me, I kissed him back with equal fervor, my hands clutching the front of his shirt.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine, his hands now at my waist, keeping me close.

"You are my father's woman," he whispered, his lips brushing my ear, "but you should be in my bed."

The words sent heat coursing through me, a shameful desire I couldn't deny. I should have pushed him away. I should have remembered my vows. Instead, I tilted my face up to his, offering my mouth once more.

"I shouldn't want this," I breathed against his lips.

His hands tightened on my waist. "But you do."

"Yes," I admitted, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside me. "God help me, I do."

His smile was victorious as he claimed my mouth again, backing me slowly toward the open doors to my bedroom. Outside, the Italian night concealed our sin in shadows, while inside, the moonlight spilled across the bed where my husband should have been.