Книга - Hot Nights with…the Italian: The Santangeli Marriage / The Italian’s Ruthless Marriage Command / Veretti’s Dark Vengeance

Hot Nights with...the Italian: The Santangeli Marriage / The Italian’s Ruthless Marriage Command / Veretti's Dark Vengeance
Lucy Gordon

HELEN BIANCHIN

Sara Craven


Hot Nights with an Irresistible Italian the santangeli marriage Renowned playboy Lorenzo is furious when his innocent wife Marissa flees on their wedding night. Lorenzo vows to bring his virgin bride home – and show her that there’s more to his desire than meets the eye.The Italian’s Ruthless Marriage Command Forced to share custody of his nephew with her, Dante d’Alessandri won’t let Taylor out of his sight! At first Dante sees Taylor as just a nanny. But soon he realises this ripe young beauty could fill another, more pleasurable role – in the bedroom.Veretti’s Dark Vengeance Arrogant tycoon Salvatore refuses to let a beautiful model inherit the company that’s rightfully his. Salvatore will heartlessly reclaim what he’s owed. But after meeting Helena, Salvatore changes tactics… he’ll take his vengeance between the sheets!












Hot nights with anItalian

The Santangeli Marriage

Sara Craven

The Italian’s Ruthless Marriage Command

Helen Bianchin

Veretti’s Dark Vengeance

Lucy Gordon









www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)



The Santangeli Marriage




About the Author


SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge – the Professionals.




CHAPTER ONE


THE glass doors of the Clinica San Francesco whispered open, and every head turned to observe the man who came striding out of the darkness into the reception area.

If Lorenzo Santangeli was aware of their scrutiny, or if he sensed that there were far more people hanging around than could be deemed strictly necessary at that time of night, and most of them female, he gave no sign.

His lean, six-foot-tall body was clad in the elegance of evening clothes, and his ruffled shirt was open at the throat, his black tie thrust negligently into the pocket of his dinner jacket.

One of the loitering nurses, staring at his dishevelled dark hair, murmured to her colleague with unknowing accuracy that he looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and the other girl sighed wistfully in agreement.

He was not classically handsome, but his thin face, with its high cheekbones, heavy-lidded golden-brown eyes and that mobile, faintly sensual mouth, which looked as if it could curl in a sneer and smile in heart-stopping allure with equal ease, had a dynamism that went beyond mere attractiveness. And every woman looking at him felt it like a tug to the senses.

The fact that he was frowning, and his lips were set in a grim line, did nothing to reduce the force of his blatantly masculine appeal.

He looked, it was felt, just as a loving son should when called unexpectedly to the bedside of a sick father.

Then, as the clinic’s director, Signor Martelli, emerged from his office to greet him, the crowd, hurriedly realising it should be elsewhere, began to fade swiftly and unobtrusively away.

Renzo wasted no time on niceties. He said, his voice sharp with anxiety, ‘My father—how is he?’

‘Resting comfortably,’ the older man responded. ‘Fortunately an ambulance was summoned immediately when it happened, so there was no delay in providing the appropriate treatment.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘It was not a serious attack, and we expect the Marchese to make a complete recovery.’

Renzo expelled a sigh of relief. ‘May I see him?’

‘Of course. I will take you to him.’ Signor Martelli pressed a button to summon a lift to the upper floors. He gave his companion a sidelong glance. ‘It is, of course, important that your father avoids stress, and I am told that he has been fretting a little while awaiting your arrival. I am glad that you are here now to set his mind at rest.’

‘It is a relief to me also, signore.’ The tone was courteous, but it had a distancing effect. So far, it seemed to warn, and no further.

The clinic director had heard that Signor Lorenzo could be formidable, and this was all the confirmation he needed, he thought, relapsing into discreet silence.

Renzo had been expecting to find his father’s private room peopled by consultants and quietly shod attendants, with Guillermo Santangeli under sedation and hooked up to monitors and drips.

But instead his father was alone, propped up by pillows, wearing his own striking maroon silk pyjamas and placidly turning over the pages of a magazine on international finance. Taking the place of machinery was a large and fragrant floral arrangement on a side table.

As Renzo checked, astonished, in the doorway, Guillermo peered at him over his glasses. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Finalmente.’ He paused. ‘You were not easy to trace, my son.’

Fretting, Renzo thought, might be an exaggeration, but the slight edge to his words was unmistakable. He came forward slowly, his smile combining ruefulness and charm in equal measure. ‘Nevertheless, Papa, I am here now. And so, thankfully, are you. I was told you had collapsed with a heart attack.’

‘It was what they call “an incident”.’ Guillermo shrugged. ‘Alarming at the time, but soon dealt with. I am to rest here for a couple of days, and then I will be allowed to return home.’ He sighed. ‘But I have to take medication, and cigars and brandy have been forbidden—for a while at least.’

‘Well, the cigars, at any rate, must be counted as a blessing,’ Renzo said teasingly as he took his father’s hand and kissed it lightly.

His father pulled a face. ‘That is also Ottavia’s opinion. She has just left. I have her to thank for the pyjamas and the flowers, also for summoning help so promptly. We had just finished dinner when I became ill.’

Renzo’s brows lifted. ‘Then I am grateful to her.’ He pulled up a chair and paused. ‘I hope Signora Alesconi did not go on my account.’

‘She is a woman of supreme tact,’ said his father. ‘And she knew we would wish to talk privately. There is no other reason. I have assured her that you no longer regard our relationship as a betrayal of your mother’s memory.’

Renzo’s smiled twisted a little. ‘Grazie. You were right to say so.’ He hesitated. ‘So may I now expect to have a new stepmother? If you wished to—formalise the situation I—I would welcome …’

Guillermo lifted a hand. ‘There is no question of that. We have fully discussed the matter, but decided that we both value our independence too highly and remain content as we are.’ He removed his glasses and put them carefully on the locker beside his bed. ‘And while we are on the subject of marriage, where is your wife?’

Well, I walked headlong into that, thought Renzo, cursing under his breath. Aloud, he said, ‘She is in England, Papa—as I think you know.’

‘Ah, yes.’ His father gave a meditative nod. ‘Where she went shortly after your honeymoon, I believe, and has remained ever since.’

Renzo’s mouth tightened. ‘I felt—a period of adjustment might be helpful.’

‘A curious decision, perhaps,’ said Guillermo. ‘Considering the pressing reasons for your marriage. You are the last of the line, my dear Lorenzo, and as you approached the age of thirty, without the least sign of abandoning your bachelor life and settling down, it became imperative to remind you that you had a duty to produce a legitimate heir to carry on the Santangeli name—both privately and professionally.’

He paused. ‘You seemed to accept that. And with no other candidate in mind, you also consented to marry the girl your late mother always intended for you—her beloved goddaughter Marisa Brendon. I wish to be sure that advancing age has not damaged my remembrance, and that I have the details of this agreement correct, you understand?’ he added blandly.

‘Yes.’ Renzo set his teeth. Advancing age? he thought wryly. How long did crocodiles survive? ‘You are, of course, quite right.’

‘Yet eight months have passed, and still you have no good news to tell me. This would have been a disappointment in any circumstances, but in view of the evening’s events my need to hear that the next generation is established becomes even more pressing. From now on I must take more care, they tell me. Moderate my lifestyle. In other words, I have been made aware of my own mortality. And I confess that I would dearly like to hold my first grandchild in my arms before I die.’

Renzo moved restively, ‘Papa—you will live for many years yet. We both know that.’

‘I can hope,’ said Guillermo briskly. ‘But that is not the point.’ He leaned back against his pillows, adding quietly, ‘Your bride can hardly give you an heir, figlio mio, if you do not share a roof with her, let alone a bed. Or do you visit her in London, perhaps, in order to fulfil your marital obligations?’

Renzo rose from his chair and walked over to the window, lifting the slats of the blind to look out into the darkness. An image of a girl’s white face rose in his mind, her eyes blank and tearless, and a feeling that was almost shame twisted like a knife in his guts.

‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I do not.’

‘Then why not?’ his father demanded. ‘What can be the problem? Yes, the marriage was arranged for you, but so was my own, and your mother and I soon came to love each other deeply. And here you have been given a girl, young, charming, and indisputably innocent. Someone, moreover, you have known for much of your life. If she was not to your taste you should have said so.’

Renzo turned and gave him an ironic look. ‘It does not occur to you, Papa, that maybe the shoe is on the other foot and Marisa does not want me?’

‘Che sciocchezze!’ Guillermo said roundly. ‘What nonsense. When she stayed with us as a child it was clear to everyone that she adored you.’

‘Unfortunately, now she is older, her feelings are very different,’ Renzo said dryly. ‘Particularly where the realities of marriage are concerned.’

Guillermo pursed his lips in exasperation. ‘What can you be saying? That a man of your experience with women cannot seduce his own wife? You should have made duty a pleasure, my son, and used your honeymoon to make her fall in love with you all over again.’ He paused. ‘After all, she was not forced to marry you.’

Renzo gave his father a level look. ‘I think we both know that is not true. Once she’d discovered from that witch of a cousin how deeply she was indebted to our family she had little choice in the matter.’

Guillermo frowned heavily. ‘You did not tell her—explain that it was the dying wish of your mother, her madrina, that financial provision should continue to be made for her?’

‘I tried, but it was useless. She knew that Mama wanted us to marry. For her, it all seemed part of the same ugly transaction.’ He paused. ‘And the cousin also made her aware that when I proposed to her I had a mistress. After such revelations, the honeymoon was hardly destined to go well.’

‘The woman has much to answer for, it seems,’ Guillermo said icily. ‘But you, my son, were a fool not to have settled matters with the beautiful Lucia long before you approached your marriage.’

‘If stupidity were all, I could live with it,’ Renzo said with quiet bitterness. ‘But I was also unkind. And I cannot forgive myself for that.’

‘I see,’ his father said slowly. ‘Well, that is bad, but it is more important to ask yourself if your wife can be persuaded to forgive you.’

‘Who knows?’ Renzo’s gesture was almost helpless. ‘I thought a breathing space—time apart to consider what we had undertaken—would help. And at the beginning I wrote to her regularly—telephoned and left messages. But there was never any reply. And as the weeks passed the hope of any resolution became more distant.’ He paused, before adding expressionlessly, ‘I told myself, you understand, that I would not beg.’

Guillermo put his fingertips together and studied them intently. ‘A divorce, naturally, could not be countenanced,’ he said at last. ‘But from what you are telling me it seems there might be grounds for annulment?’

‘No,’ Renzo said harshly, his mouth set. ‘Do not be misled. The marriage—exists. And Marisa is my wife. Nothing can change that.’

‘So you say,’ his father commented grimly. ‘But you could be wrong. Your grandmother honoured me with a visit yesterday to inform me that your current liaison with Doria Venucci is now talked of openly.’

‘Nonna Teresa.’ Renzo bit out the name. ‘What a gratifying interest she takes in all the details of my life, especially those she considers less than savoury. And how could a woman with such a mind produce such a gentle, loving daughter as my mother?’

‘It has always mystified me too,’ Guillermo admitted. ‘But for once her gossip-mongering may be justified. Because she believes it can only be a matter of time before someone tells Antonio Venucci exactly how his wife has been amusing herself while he has been in Vienna.’

He saw his son’s brows lift, and nodded. ‘And that, my dear Lorenzo, could change everything, both for you and for your absent wife. Because the scandal that would follow would ruin any remaining chance of a reconciliation with her—if that is what you want, of course.’

‘It is what must happen,’ Renzo said quietly. ‘I cannot allow the present situation to continue any longer. For one thing, I am running out of excuses to explain her absence. For another, I accept that the purpose of our marriage must be fulfilled without further delay.’

‘Dio mio,’ Guillermo said faintly. ‘I hope your approach to your bride will be made in more alluring terms. Or I warn you, my son, you will surely fail.’

Renzo’s smile was hard. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not this time. And that is a promise.’

However, Renzo was thoughtful as, later, he drove back to his apartment. He owned the top floor of a former palazzo, the property of an old and noble family who had never seen the necessity to work for their living until it was too late. But although he enjoyed its grace and elegance, he used it merely as a pied à terre in Rome.

Because the home of his heart was the ancient and imposing country house deep in the Tuscan countryside where he had been born, and where he’d expected to begin his married life in the specially converted wing, designed to give them all the space and privacy that newlyweds could ever need.

He remembered showing it to Marisa before the wedding, asking if she had any ideas or requirements of her own that could be incorporated, but she’d said haltingly that it all seemed ‘very nice’, and refused to be drawn further. And she had certainly not commented on the adjoining bedrooms that they would occupy after their marriage, with the communicating door.

And if she’d had reservations about sharing the house with her future father-in-law she hadn’t voiced those either. On the contrary, she’d always seemed very fond of Zio Guillermo, as she’d been encouraged to call him.

But then, Renzo thought, frowning, apart from agreeing to be his wife in a small wooden voice she hadn’t said too much to him at all. Something he should, of course, have noticed but for his other preoccupations, he conceded, his mouth tightening.

Besides, he was accustomed to the fact that she did not chatter unnecessarily from the days when she’d been a small, silent child, clearly overwhelmed by her surroundings, and through her years as a skinny, tongue-tied adolescent. A time, he recalled ruefully, when she’d constantly embarrassed him by the hero-worship she’d tried inexpertly to hide.

She hadn’t even cried at her own christening in London, which he’d attended as a sullenly reluctant ten-year-old, watching Maria Santangeli looking down, her face transfigured, at the lacy bundle in her arms.

His mother had met Lisa Cornell at the exclusive convent school they had both attended in Rome, and they had formed a bond of friendship that had never wavered across the years and miles that separated them.

But whereas Maria had married as soon as she left school, and become a mother within the year, Lisa had pursued a successful career in magazine journalism before meeting Alec Brendon, a well-known producer of television documentaries.

And when her daughter had been born only Maria would do as godmother to the baby. A role she had been more than happy to fill. The name chosen was naturally ‘Marisa’, the shortened form of Maria Lisa.

Renzo knew that, much as he had been loved, it had always been a sadness to his parents that no other children had followed him into the waiting nurseries at the Villa Proserpina. And this godchild had taken the place of the longed-for daughter in his mother’s heart.

He wasn’t sure on which visit to Italy she and Lisa Brendon had begun planning the match between their children. He knew only that, to his adolescent disgust, it seemed to have become all too quickly absorbed into family folklore as an actual possibility.

He’d even derisively christened Marisa ‘la cicogna’—the stork—a mocking reference to her long legs and the little beak of a nose that dominated her small, thin face, until his mother had called him to order with unwonted sternness.

But the fact that Marisa was being seriously considered as his future bride had been brought home to him six years ago, when her parents had been killed in a motorway pile-up.

Because, in a devastating aftermath of the accident, it had been discovered that the Brendons had always lived up to and exceeded their income, and that through some fairly typical oversight Alec had failed to renew his life insurance, leaving his only daughter penniless.

At first Maria had begged for the fourteen-year-old girl to be brought to Italy and raised as a member of their family, but for once the ever-indulgent Guillermo had vetoed her plan. If her scheme to turn Marisa into the next Santangeli bride was to succeed—and there was, of course, no guarantee that this would happen—it would be far better, he’d said, for the girl to continue her education and upbringing in England, at their expense, than for Renzo to become so accustomed to her presence in the household that he might begin to regard her simply as an irritating younger sister.

It was a proposition to which his wife had reluctantly acquiesced. And while Marisa had remained in England Renzo had been able to put the whole ridiculous idea of her as his future wife out of his mind.

In any case, he’d had to concentrate on his career, completing his business degree with honours before joining the renowned and internationally respected Santangeli Bank, where he would ultimately succeed his father as chairman. By a mixture of flair and hard work he had made sure he deserved the top job, and that no one would mutter sourly ‘boss’s son’ when he took over.

He was aware that the junior ranks of staff referred to him as ‘Il Magnifico’, after his namesake Lorenzo de Medici, but shrugged it off with amusement.

Life had been good. He’d had a testing job which provided exhilaration and interest, also allowing him to travel widely. And with his dynastic obligations remaining no more than a small cloud on his horizon he had enjoyed women, his physical needs deliciously catered to by a series of thoroughly enjoyable affairs which, the ladies involved knew perfectly well, would never end in marriage.

But while he’d learned early in his sexual career to return with infinite skill and generosity the pleasure he received, he’d never committed the fatal error of telling any of his innamoratas that he loved her—not even in the wilder realms of passion.

Then, three years ago, he had been shocked out of his complacency by his mother’s sudden illness. She’d been found to be suffering from an aggressive and inoperable cancer and had died only six weeks later.

‘Renzo, carissimo mio.’ Her paper-thin hand had rested on his, light as a leaf. ‘Promise me that my little Marisa will be your wife.’

And torn by sorrow and disbelief at the first real blow life had struck him, he had given her his word, thereby sealing his fate.

Now, as he walked into his apartment, he heard the phone ringing. He ignored it, knowing only too well who was calling, because the clinic would have used the private mobile number he’d left with them—which Doria Venucci did not have.

He recognised that, if he was to stand any chance of retrieving his marriage, she was a luxury he could no longer afford. However, courtesy demanded that he tell her in person that their relationship was over.

Not that she would protest too much. A secret amour was one thing. A vulgar scandal which jeopardised her own marriage would be something else entirely, he told himself cynically.

As he walked across his vast bedroom to the bathroom beyond, shedding his clothes as he went, he allowed himself a brief moment of regret for the lush, golden, insatiable body he’d left in bed only a few hours before and would never enjoy again.

But everything had changed now. And at the same time he knew how totally wrong he’d been to become involved with her in the first place. Especially when he’d had no real excuse for his behaviour apart from another infuriating encounter with Marisa’s damnable answering machine.

So she still didn’t want to speak to him, he’d thought furiously, slamming down his receiver as a bland, anonymous voice had informed him yet again that she was ‘not available’. She was still refusing to give him even the slightest chance to make amends to her.

Well, so be it, he had told himself. He was sick of the self-imposed celibacy he’d been enduring since she left, and if she didn’t want him he’d go out and find a woman who did.

It had not been a difficult task because, at a party that same evening, he’d met Doria and invited her to a very proper and public lunch with him the following day. Which had been followed, without delay, by a series of private and exceedingly improper assignations in a suite at a discreet and accordingly expensive hotel.

And if he’d embarked on the affair in a mood of defiance, he could not pretend that the damage to his male pride had not been soothed by the Contessa Venucci’s openly expressed hunger for him, he thought wryly.

He stepped into the shower cubicle, switching the water to its fullest extent, letting it pound down on his weary body, needing it to eradicate the edginess and confusion of emotions that were assailing him.

It could not be denied that latterly, outside working hours, he had not enjoyed the easiest of relationships with his father. He had always attributed this to his disapproval of Guillermo’s year-long liaison with Ottavia Alesconi, having made it coldly clear from the beginning that he felt it was too soon after his mother’s death for the older man to embark on such a connection.

And yet did he really have any right to object to his father’s wish to find new happiness? The signora was a charming and cultivated woman, a childless widow, still running the successful PR company she had begun with her late husband. Someone, moreover, who was quite content to share Guillermo’s leisure, but had no ambitions to become his Marchesa.

His father had always seemed so alive and full of vigour, with never a hint of ill health, so tonight’s attack must have been a particularly unpleasant shock to her, he thought sombrely, resolving to call on her in person to thank her for her prompt and potentially life-saving efforts on Guillermo’s behalf. By doing so he might also make it clear that any initial resentment of her role in his father’s life had long since dissipated.

Besides, he thought ruefully, his own personal life was hardly such a blazing success that he could afford to be critical of anyone else’s. And maybe it was really his bitter sense of grievance over being cornered into marriage that had brought about the coldness that had grown up between his father and himself.

But he could not allow any lingering animosity, he told himself as he stepped out of the shower and began to dry himself. He had to put the past behind him, where it belonged. Tonight had indeed been a warning—in a number of ways. It was indeed more than time he abandoned his bachelor lifestyle and applied himself to becoming a husband and, in due course, a father.

If, of course, he could obtain the co-operation of his bride—something he’d signally failed to do so far, he thought, staring broodingly in the mirror as he raked his damp hair back from his face with his fingers.

If he was honest, he could admit that he was a man who’d never had to try too hard with women. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but, nevertheless, it remained an indisputable fact. And it remained a terrible irony that his wife was the only one who’d greeted his attempts to woo her with indifference at best and hostility at worst.

He’d become aware that he might have a fight on his hands when he’d paid his first visit to her cousin’s house in London, ostensibly to invite Marisa to Tuscany for a party his father was planning to celebrate her nineteenth birthday.

Julia Gratton had received him alone, her hard eyes travelling over him in an assessment that had managed to be critical and salacious at the same time, he’d thought with distaste.

‘So, you’ve come courting at last, signore.’ Her laugh was like the yap of a small, unfriendly dog. ‘I’d begun to think it would never happen. I sent Marisa up to change,’ she added abruptly. ‘She’ll be down presently. In the meantime, let me offer you some coffee.’

He was glad that she’d told him what was being served in those wide, shallow porcelain cups, because there was no other clue in the thin, tasteless fluid that he forced himself to swallow.

So when the drawing room door opened he was glad to put it aside and get to his feet. Where he paused, motionless, the formal smile freezing on his lips as he saw her.

He could tell by the look of displeasure that flitted across Mrs Gratton’s thin face that Marisa had not changed her clothes, as instructed, but he was not, he thought, repining.

She was still shy, looking down at the carpet rather than at him, her long curling lashes brushing her cheeks, but everything else about her was different. Gloriously so. And he allowed the connoisseur in him to enjoy the moment. She was slim now, he realised, instead of gawky, and her face was fuller so that her features no longer seemed too large for its pallor.

Her breasts were not large but, outlined by her thin tee shirt, they were exquisitely shaped. Her waist was a handspan, her hips a gentle curve. And those endless legs—Santa Madonna—even encased as they were in tight denim jeans he could imagine how they would feel clasped around him, naked, as she explored under his tuition the pleasures of sex.

Hurriedly he dragged his mind back to the social niceties. Took a step forward, attempting a friendly smile. ‘Buongiorno, Maria Lisa.’ He deliberately used the version of her name he’d teased her with in childhood. ‘Come stai?’

She looked back at him then, and for the briefest instant he seemed to see in those long-lashed grey-green eyes such a glint of withering scorn that it stopped him dead. Then, next moment, she was responding quietly and politely to his greeting, even allowing him to take her hand, and he told himself that it must have been his imagination.

Because that was what his ego wanted him to think, he told himself bitterly. That it was an honour for this girl to have been chosen as a Santangeli bride, and if he had no objections, especially now that he had seen her again, it must follow that she could have none either.

Prompted sharply by her cousin, she accepted the party invitation, and agreed expressionlessly to his suggestion that he should return the next day to discuss the arrangements.

And although she knew—had obviously been told—that the real reason for his visit was to request her formally to become his wife, she gave no sign of either pleasure or dismay at the prospect.

And that in itself should have warned him, he thought in self-condemnation. Instead he’d attributed her lack of reaction to nervousness at the prospect of marriage.

In the past, his sexual partners had certainly not been chosen for their inexperience, but innocence was an essential quality for the girl who would one day bear the Santangeli heir. He had told himself the least he could do was offer her some reassurance about how their relationship would be conducted in its early days—and nights.

Therefore, he’d resolved to promise her that their honeymoon would be an opportunity for them to become properly reacquainted, even be friends, and that he would be prepared to wait patiently until she felt ready to take him as her husband in any true sense.

And he’d meant every word of it, he thought, remembering how she’d listened in silence, her head half-turned from him, her creamy skin tinged with colour as he spoke.

All the same, he knew he’d been hoping for some reaction—some slight encouragement for him to take her in his arms and kiss her gently to mark their engagement.

But there’d been nothing, then or later. She’d never signalled in any way that she wanted him to touch her, and by offering forbearance he’d fallen, he realised, annoyed, into a trap of his own making.

Because as time had passed, and their wedding day had approached, he’d found himself as awkward as a boy in her cool, unrevealing company, unable to make even the slightest approach to her—something which had never happened to him before.

But what he had not bargained for was losing his temper. And it was the guilt of that which still haunted him.

He sighed abruptly as he knotted a dry towel round his hips. Well, there was no point in torturing himself afresh over that. He ought to go to bed, he thought, and try to catch some sleep for what little remained of the night. But he knew he was far too restless to relax, and that the time could be used to better effect in planning the coming campaign.

He walked purposefully out of the bathroom, ignoring the invitation of the turned-down bed in the room beyond, and proceeded instead down the hallway to the salotto.

It was an impressive room, its size accentuated by the pale walls and a signal lack of clutter. He’d furnished it in light colours too, with deep, lavishly cushioned sofas in cream leather, and occasional tables in muted, ashy shades.

The only apparently discordant note in all this pastel restraint was the massive desk, which he loved because it had once belonged to his grandfather, and which now occupied a whole corner of the room in all its mahogany magnificence.

In banking circles he knew that he was viewed as a moderniser, a man with his sights firmly set on the future, alert to any changes in the market. But anyone seeing that desk, he’d always thought dryly, would have guessed immediately that underlying this was a strong respect for tradition and an awareness of what he owed to the past.

He went straight to the desk, extracted a file from one of its brass-handled drawers and, after pouring himself a generous Scotch, stretched out on one of the sofas and began to glance through the folder’s contents. An update had been received the previous day, but he’d not had a chance to read it before, and now seemed an appropriate time.

He took a contemplative mouthful of whisky as his eyes scanned swiftly down the printed sheet, then sat up abruptly with a gasp, nearly choking as his drink went down the wrong way and he found himself in imminent danger of spilling the rest everywhere.

He recovered instantly, eyes watering, then set down the crystal tumbler carefully out of harm’s way before, his face thunderous, he re-read the unwelcome information that the private surveillance company engaged for the protection of his absentee wife had provided.

‘We must advise you,’ it stated, ‘that since our last report Signora Santangeli, using her maiden name, has obtained paid employment as a receptionist in a private art gallery in Carstairs Place, apparently taking the place of a young woman on maternity leave. In the past fortnight she has lunched twice in the company of the gallery’s owner, Mr Corin Langford. She no longer wears her wedding ring. Photographic evidence can be provided if required.’

Renzo screwed the report into a ball and threw it across the room, cursing long and fluently.

He flung himself off the sofa and began to pace restlessly up and down. He did not need any photographs, he thought savagely. Too many of his own affairs had begun over leisurely lunches, so he knew all about satisfying one appetite while creating another—was totally familiar with the sharing of food and wine, eyes meeting across the table, fingers touching, then entwining.

What he did not—could not—recognise was the mental image of the girl on the other side of the table. Marisa smiling back, talking and laughing, the initial shyness in her eyes dancing into confidence and maybe even into desire.

The way she had never once behaved with him. Nor looked at him—or smiled.

Not, of course, that he was jealous, he hastened to remind himself.

Just—angrier than he’d ever been before. Everything that had happened between them in the past paled into insignificance under this—this insult to his manhood. To his status as her husband.

Well, if his reluctant bride thought she could place the horns on him, she was much mistaken, he vowed in grim silence. Tomorrow he would go to fetch her home, and once he had her back she would not get away from him again. Because he would make very sure that from then on she would think of no one—want no one—but him. That she would be his completely.

And, he told himself harshly, he would enjoy every minute of it.




CHAPTER TWO


‘MARISA? My God, it is you. I can hardly believe it.’

The slender girl who’d been gazing abstractedly into a shop window swung round, her lips parting in astonishment as she recognised the tall, fair-haired young man standing behind her.

She said uncertainly, ‘Alan—what are you doing here?’

‘That should be my question. Why aren’t you sipping cappuccino on the Via Veneto?’

The million-dollar question …

‘Well, that can pall after a while,’ she said lightly. ‘And I began to fancy a cup of English tea instead.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘And what does Lorenzo the Magnificent have to say about that?’

The note of bitterness in his voice was not lost on her. She said quickly, ‘Alan—don’t …’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He looked past her to the display of upmarket baby clothes she’d been contemplating and his mouth tightened. ‘I gather congratulations must be in order?’

‘God, no.’ Marisa spoke more forcefully than she’d intended, and flushed when she saw his surprise. ‘I—I mean not for me. A girl I was at school with, Dinah Newman, is expecting her first, and I want to buy her something special.’

‘Well, you seem to have come to the right place,’ Alan said, inspecting a couple of the price tickets with raised brows. ‘You need to be the wife of a millionaire banker to shop here.’ He smiled at her. ‘She must be quite a friend.’

‘Let’s just say that I owe her,’ Marisa said quietly.

I owe her for the fact that she recommended me to Corin Langford, so that I’m now gainfully employed instead of totallydependent on Renzo Santangeli. And for not asking too many awkward questions when I suddenly turned up in London alone.

‘Do you have to do your buying right now?’ Alan asked. ‘I just can’t believe I’ve run into you like this. I was wondering if we could have lunch together.’

She could hardly tell him that her lunch hour was coming to an end and it was time she went back to her desk at the Estrello Gallery. She had already instinctively slid her betrayingly ringless left hand into the pocket of her jacket.

Meeting Alan again was a surprise for her too, she thought, but tricky when she had so many things to conceal.

‘Sorry.’ Her smile was swift and genuinely apologetic. ‘I have to be somewhere in about five minutes.

‘At your husband’s beck and call, no doubt.’

She hesitated. ‘Actually, Renzo’s—away at the moment.’

‘Leaving you alone so soon?’

Marisa shrugged. ‘Well, we’re hardly joined at the hip.’ She tried to sound jokey.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I can imagine.’ He paused. ‘So, what do grass widows do? Count the hours until the errant husband returns?’

‘Far from it,’ she said crisply. ‘They get on with their own lives. Go places and see people.’

‘If that’s true,’ he said slowly, ‘maybe you’d consider seeing me one more time.’ His voice deepened urgently. ‘Marisa—if lunch is impossible meet me for dinner instead—will you? Eight o’clock at Chez Dominique? For old times’ sake?’

She wanted to tell him that the old times were over. That they’d died the day he had allowed himself to be shunted out of her life and off to Hong Kong, because he hadn’t been prepared to fight for her against a man who was powerful enough to kill his career with a word.

Not that she could altogether blame him, she reminded herself. Their romance had been at far too early a stage to command the kind of loyalty and commitment that she’d needed. It had only amounted to a few kisses, for heaven’s sake. And it was one of those kisses that had brought their relationship to a premature end—when Alan had been caught saying goodnight to her by Cousin Julia.

That tense, shocking night when she’d finally discovered what the future really had in store for her.

If Alan had really been my lover, she thought, I wouldn’t have been a virgin bride, and therefore there’d have been no marriage to Renzo. But I—I didn’t realise that until it was too late. Alan had already left, and, anyway, did I ever truly care enough for him to give myself in that way?

She concealed a shiver as unwanted memories stirred. Lingered disturbingly. ‘Alan—about tonight—I don’t know … And I really must go now.’

‘I’ll book the table,’ he said. ‘And wait. Everything else is up to you.’

She gave him an uncertain smile. ‘Well, whatever happens, it’s been good to see you again.’ And hurried away.

She was back at the gallery right on time, but Corin was hovering anxiously nevertheless, the coming session with his lawyers clearly at the forefront of his mind.

‘He’s going through a difficult divorce,’ Dinah had warned her. ‘The major problem being that he’s still in love with his wife, whereas her only interest is establishing how many of his assets she can take into her new relationship. So he occasionally needs a shoulder to cry on.’ She’d paused delicately. ‘Think you can manage that?’

‘Of course,’ Marisa had returned robustly. She might even be able to pick up a few pointers for her own divorce when it became legally viable, she’d thought wryly. Except she wanted nothing from her brief, ill-starred marriage except her freedom. A view that she hoped Lorenzo Santangeli would share.

‘I’d better be off,’ Corin said, then paused at the doorway. ‘If Mrs Brooke rings about that watercolour …’

‘The price remains exactly the same.’ Marisa smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry—I won’t let her argue me down. Now go, or you’ll be late.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and sighed heavily. ‘I suppose so.’

She watched him standing on the kerb, raking a worried hand through his hair as he hailed a cab. And he had every reason to appear harassed, she mused. The former Mrs Langford had not only demanded the marital home, but was also claiming a major share in the gallery too, on the grounds that her father had contributed much of the initial financial backing.

‘My father and hers were friends,’ Dinah had confided. ‘And Dad says he’d be spinning in his grave if he knew what Janine was up to. If she gets her hands on the Estrello it will be closed, and Corin will be out by the end of the year.’

‘But it’s very successful,’ Marisa pointed out, startled. ‘He’s a terrific businessman, and his clients obviously trust him.’

Dinah snorted. ‘You think she cares about that? No way. All she can see is a valuable piece of real estate. As soon as her father died she was badgering Corin to sell, and when he wouldn’t she decided to end the marriage—as soon as she found someone to take his place.’ She added, ‘He doesn’t deserve it, of course. But—as the saying goes—nice guys finish last.’

Yes, Marisa had thought bitterly, and bastards like Lorenzo Santangeli spend their lives in pole position. There’s no justice.

Feeling suddenly restive, she walked over to her desk and sat down, reaching determinedly for the small pile of paperwork that Corin had left for her. It might not be much, she thought wryly, but at least it would stop her mind straying down forbidden pathways.

The afternoon wasn’t particularly busy, but it was profitable, as people came in to buy rather than simply browse. A young couple seeking a wedding present for friends bought a pair of modern miniatures, Mrs Brooke reluctantly agreed to buy the watercolour at full price, and an elderly man eventually decided to acquire a Lake District landscape for his wife’s birthday.

‘We went there on our honeymoon,’ he confided to Marisa as she dealt with his credit card payment. ‘However, I admit I was torn between that and the wonderful view of the Italian coastline by the same artist.’ He sighed reminiscently. ‘We’ve spent several holidays around Amalfi, and it would have brought back a lot of happy memories.’ He paused. ‘Do you know the area at all?’

For a moment Marisa’s fingers froze, and she nearly bodged the transaction. But she forced herself to concentrate, smiling stiltedly as she handed him his card and receipt. ‘I have been there, yes. Just once. It—it’s incredibly beautiful.’

And I wish you had bought that painting instead, because then I would never—ever—have to look at it again.

She arranged a date and time for delivery of his purchase, and saw him to the door.

Back at her desk, entering the final details of the deal into the computer, she found herself stealing covert looks over her shoulder to the place on the wall where the Amalfi scene was still hanging.

It was as if, she thought, the artist had also visited the Casa Adriana and sat in its lush, overgrown garden on the stone bench in the shade of the lemon tree. As if he too had looked over the crumbling wall to where the rugged cliff tumbled headlong down to the exquisite azure ripple of the Gulf of Salerno far below.

From the moment she’d seen the painting she’d felt the breath catch painfully in her throat. Because it was altogether too potent a reminder of her hiding place—her sanctuary—during those seemingly endless, agonising weeks that had been her honeymoon. The place that, once found, she’d retreated to each morning, knowing that no one would be looking for her, or indeed would find her, and where she’d discovered that solitude did not have to mean loneliness as she shakily counted down the days that would decide her immediate fate.

The place that she’d left each evening as sunset approached, forcing her to return once more to the cold, taut silence of the Villa Santa Caterina and the reluctant company of the man she’d married, to dine with him in the warm darkness at a candlelit table on a flower-hung terrace, where every waft of scented air had seemed, in unconscious irony, to breathe a soft but powerful sexuality.

And where, when the meal had finally ended, she would wish him a quiet goodnight, formally returned, and go off to lie alone in the wide bed with its snowy sheets, praying that her bedroom door would not open because, in spite of everything, boredom or impatience might drive him to seek her out again.

But thankfully it had never happened, and now they were apart without even the most fleeting of contact between them any longer. Presumably, she thought, biting her lip, Renzo had taken the hint, and all that remained now was for him to take the necessary steps to bring their so-called marriage to an end.

I should never have agreed to it in the first place, she told herself bitterly. I must have been mad. But whatever I thought of Cousin Julia I couldn’t deliberately see her made homeless, especially with a sick husband on her hands.

She’d been embarrassed when Julia had walked into the drawing room that night and found her in Alan’s arms, but embarrassment had soon turned to outrage when her cousin, with a smile as bleak as Antarctica, had insisted that he leave and, in spite of her protests, ushered Alan out of the drawing room and to the front door.

‘How dared you do that?’ Marisa had challenged, her voice shaking when Julia returned alone. ‘I’m not a child any more, and I’m entitled to see anyone I wish.’

Julia had shaken her head. ‘I’m afraid not, my dear—precisely because you’re not a child any more.’ She’d paused, her lips stretching into a thin smile. ‘You see, your future husband doesn’t want any other man poaching on his preserves—something that was made more than clear when I originally agreed to be your guardian. So we’ll pretend this evening never happened—shall we? I promise you it will be much the best thing for both of us.’

There had been, Marisa remembered painfully, a long silence. Then her own voice saying, ‘The best thing? What on earth are you talking about? I—I don’t have any future husband. It’s nonsense.’

‘Oh, don’t be naive,’ her cousin tossed back at her contemptuously. ‘You know as well as I do that you’re expected to marry Lorenzo Santangeli. It was all arranged years ago.’

Marisa felt suddenly numb. ‘Marry—Renzo? But that was never serious,’ she managed through dry lips. ‘It—it was just one of those silly things that people say.’

‘On the contrary, my dear, it’s about as serious as it can get.’ Julia sat down. ‘The glamorous Signor Santangeli has merely been waiting for you to reach an appropriate age before making you his bride.’

Marisa’s throat tightened. She said curtly, ‘Now, that I don’t believe.’

‘It is probably an exaggeration,’ Julia agreed. ‘I doubt if he’s given you a thought from one year’s end to another. But he’s remembered you now, or had his memory jogged for him, so he’s paying us a visit in a week or two in order to stake his claim.’ She gave a mocking whistle. ‘Rich, good-looking, and a tiger in the sack, by all accounts. Congratulations, my pet. You’ve won the jackpot.’

‘I’ve won nothing.’ Marisa’s heart was hammering painfully. ‘Because it’s not going to happen. My God, I don’t even like him.’

‘Well, he’s hardly cherishing a hidden passion for you either,’ Julia Gratton said crushingly. ‘It’s an arranged marriage, you silly little bitch, not a love match. The Santangeli family need a young, healthy girl to provide them with the next generation, and you’re their choice.’

‘Then they’ll have to look elsewhere.’ Marisa’s voice trembled. ‘Because I’m not for sale.’

‘My dear child,’ Julia drawled. ‘You were bought and paid for years ago.’ She gestured around her. ‘How do you imagine we can afford to live in this house, rather than the one-bedroom nightmare Harry and I were renting when your parents died? Where did your school fees come from? And who’s been keeping the roof over our heads and feeding us all, as well as providing the money for your clothes, holidays and various amusements?’

‘I thought—you …’

‘Don’t be a fool. Harry edits academic books. He’s hardly coining it in. And now that he has multiple sclerosis he won’t be able to work at all for much longer.’

Marisa flung back her head. She said hoarsely, ‘I’ll get a job. Pay them back every penny.’

‘Doing what?’ Julia demanded derisively. ‘Apart from this part-time course in fine arts you’re following at the moment, you’re trained for nothing except the career that’s already mapped out for you—as the wife of a multimillionaire and the mother of his children. It’s payback time, and you’re the only currency they’ll accept.’

‘I don’t believe it. I won’t.’ Marisa’s voice was urgent. ‘Renzo can’t have agreed to this. He—he doesn’t want me either. I—I know that.’

Julia’s laugh was cynical. ‘He’s a man, my dear, and you’re an attractive, nubile girl. He won’t find his role as bridegroom too arduous, believe me. He’ll fulfil his obligations to his family, and enjoy them too.’

Marisa said slowly, ‘That’s—obscene.’

‘It’s the way of the world, my child.’ Julia shrugged. ‘And life with the future Marchese Santangeli will have other compensations, you know. Once you’ve given Lorenzo his heir and a spare, I don’t imagine you’ll see too much of him. He’ll continue to amuse himself as he does now, but with rather more discretion, and you’ll be left to your own devices.’

Marisa stared at her. She said huskily, ‘You mean he’s involved with someone? He—has a girlfriend?’

‘Oh, she’s rather more than that,’ Julia said negligently. ‘A beautiful Venetian, I understand, called Lucia Gallo, who works in television. They’ve been quite inseparable for several months.’

‘I see.’ Instinct told Marisa that her cousin was enjoying this, so she did her best to sound casual. ‘Well, if that’s the case, why doesn’t he marry her instead?’

‘Because she’s a divorcee, and unsuitable in all kinds of ways.’ She paused. ‘I thought I’d already indicated that Santangeli brides are expected to come to their marriages as virgins.’

Marisa said coolly, ‘But presumably the same rule doesn’t apply to the men?’

Julia laughed. ‘Hardly. And you’ll be glad of that when the time comes, believe me.’ Her tone changed, becoming a touch more conciliatory. ‘Think about it, Marisa. This marriage won’t be all bad news. You’ve always said you wanted to travel. Well, you’ll be able to—and first-class all the way. Or, with Florence on your doorstep, you could always plunge back into the art world. Create your own life.’

‘And that is supposed to make it all worthwhile?’ Marisa queried incredulously. ‘I allow myself to be—used—in return for a couple of visits to the Accademia? I won’t do it.’

‘I think you will,’ her cousin said with grim emphasis. ‘We’re Santangeli pensioners, my pet, all of us. Yourself included. We owe our lifestyle to their goodwill. And once you’re married to Lorenzo, that happy state of affairs will continue for Harry and myself. Because they’ve agreed that we can move out of London to a bungalow, specially adapted for a wheelchair, and employ full-time care when the need arises.’ For a moment her voice wavered. ‘Something we could never afford to do under normal circumstances.’

She rallied, her tone harsh again. ‘But if you try and back out now, the whole thing will crash and burn. We’ll lose this house—everything. And I won’t see Harry’s precarious future in jeopardy because a spoiled little brat who’s spent the past few years grabbing everything going with both hands, has suddenly decided the price is too high for her delicate sensibilities. Well, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, sweetie, so make the best of it.

‘And remember, a lot of girls would kill to be in your shoes. So, if nothing else, learn to be civil to him in the daytime, cooperate at night, and don’t ask awkward questions when he’s away. Even you should be able to manage that.’

Except I didn’t, Marisa thought wearily, shivering as she remembered the note of pure vitriol in her cousin’s voice. I failed on every single count.

She sighed. She’d fought—of course she had—using every conceivable argument against the unwanted marriage. She’d also spent the next few days trying to contact Alan, who had been strangely unavailable.

And when at last she had managed to speak to him on the phone, over a week later, she’d learned that he’d been offered a transfer, with promotion, to Hong Kong, and would be leaving almost at once.

‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he told her, his voice uncomfortable. ‘And totally unexpected. I could have waited years for something like this.’

‘I see.’ Her mind was whirling, but she kept her tone light. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t consider taking me with you?’

There was a silence, then he said jerkily, ‘Marisa—you know that isn’t going to happen. Neither of us are free agents in this. I know that strings were pulled to get me this job because you’re soon moving to a different league.’ He paused. ‘I don’t think I’m really meant to be talking to you now.’

‘No,’ she said, past the shocked tightness in her throat. ‘Probably not. And I—I quite understand. Well—good luck.’

After that it had been difficult to go on fighting, once her stunned mind had registered that she had no one to turn to, nowhere to go, and, as Julia had reminded her, barely enough academic qualifications to earn her a living wage.

But in the end she’d wearily capitulated because of Harry, the quiet, kind man who’d made Julia’s reluctant guardianship of her so much more bearable, and who was going to need the Santangeli generosity so badly, and so soon.

But if Renzo Santangeli believed she was going to fall gratefully at his feet, he could think again, she had told herself with icy bitterness.

It was a stance she’d maintained throughout what she supposed had passed for his courtship of her. Admittedly, with the result a foregone conclusion, he hadn’t had to try too hard, and she’d been glad of it, reflecting defiantly that the less she saw of him the better. But the fact remained that her avowed resolve had not actually been tested.

The only time she’d really been alone with him before the wedding, she thought, staring at the screensaver on her computer, was when he’d made that strange, almost diffident proposal of marriage, explaining that he wanted to make their difficult situation as easy as possible for her, and that he would force no physical intimacies on her until she’d become accustomed to her new circumstances and was ready to be his wife in every sense of the word.

And as far as their engagement went, he’d kept his word. She hadn’t been subjected to any unwelcome advances from him.

No doubt he’d secretly believed he wouldn’t have to wait too long, she decided, her mouth tightening. He’d been sure curiosity alone would undermine her determination to keep him at arm’s length, or further.

Well, he’d learned better during the misery of their honeymoon, and their parting at the end of it had come as a relief to them both. And, although he’d made various dutiful attempts to maintain minimal contact with her once she’d moved back to London, he clearly hadn’t seen any necessity to try and heal the rift between them in person. Not that she’d have allowed that, anyway, she assured herself hastily.

So, now he seemed to have tacitly accepted that, apart from the inevitable legal formalities, their brief, ill-starred marriage was permanently over. Soon he’d be free to seek a more willing lady to share the marital bed with him when he felt inclined—probably some doe-eyed Italian beauty with a talent for maternity.

Which would certainly please his old witch of a grandmother, who’d made no secret of her disapproval of his chosen match from the moment Marisa had arrived back in Italy under Julia’s eagle-eyed escort. Harry had not accompanied them, having opted to spend the time quietly at his sister’s home in Kent, but he’d announced his determination to fly out for the wedding in order to give the bride away.

But Renzo’s next wooing would almost certainly be conducted in a very different manner.

She’d wondered sometimes if it had been obvious to everyone that he’d rarely touched her, apart from taking her hand when making introductions. And that he’d never kissed her in any way.

Except once …

It had been during the dinner his father had given at the house in Tuscany for her nineteenth birthday, with a large ebullient crowd of family and friends gathered round the long table in the sumptuous frescoed dining room. She’d been seated next to him in her pale cream dress, with its long sleeves and discreetly square neckline, the epitome of the demure fidanzata, with the lustrous pearls that had been his birthday gift to her clasped round her throat for everyone to see and admire.

‘Pearls for purity,’ had been Julia’s acid comment when she saw them. ‘And costing a fortune too. Clearly he’ll be expecting his money’s worth on his wedding night.’

Was that the message he was intending to convey to the world at large? Marisa had wondered, wincing. She’d been sorely tempted to put the gleaming string back in its velvet box, but eventually she’d steeled herself to wear it, along with the ring he’d given her to mark their engagement—a large and exquisite ruby surrounded by diamonds.

She could not, she’d thought, fault his generosity in material matters. In fact she’d been astonished when she’d discovered the allowance he proposed to make her when they were married, and could not imagine how she’d spend even a quarter of it.

But then, as she had reminded herself, he was buying her goodwill and, as Julia had so crudely indicated, her body.

It was a thought that had still had the ability to dry her mouth in panic, especially with the wedding drawing closer each day.

Because, in spite of his promised forbearance, there would come a night when she would have to undergo the ordeal of submission to him. ‘Payback time’, as Julia had called it, and it scared her.

He scared her …

She had turned her head, studying him covertly from under her lashes. He’d been talking to the people across the table, his hands moving incisively to underline a point, his dark face vivid with laughter, and it had occurred to her, as swiftly and shockingly as a thunderbolt crashing through the ceiling, that if she’d met him that night for the first time she might well have found him deeply and disturbingly attractive.

His lean good looks had been emphasised by the severe formality of dinner jacket and black tie. But then, she’d been forced to admit, he always dressed well, and his clothes were beautiful.

But fast on the heels of that reluctant admission had come another thought that she’d found even more unwelcome.

That, only too soon, she would know what Renzo looked like without any clothes at all.

The breath had caught in her throat, and she’d felt an odd wave of heat sweep up over her body and turn her face to flame.

And as if he’d picked up her sudden confusion on some secret male radar, Renzo had turned and looked at her, his brows lifting in enquiry as he observed her hectically flushed cheeks and startled eyes.

And for one brief moment they had seemed caught together within a cone of silence, totally cut off from the chatter and laughter around them, his gaze meshing with hers, only to sharpen into surprise and—oh, God—amused awareness.

Making her realise with utter mortification that he’d read her thoughts as easily as if she’d had I wonder what he looks like naked? tattooed across her forehead.

He had inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, the golden eyes dancing, his mouth twisting in mocking appreciation, and reached for the hand that wore his ring, raising her fingers for the brush of his lips, then turning them so he could plant a more deliberate kiss in the softness of her palm.

Her colour had deepened helplessly as she’d heard the ripple of delighted approbation from round the table, and she had known his gesture had been noted.

And she had no one to blame for that but herself, she’d thought, her heart hammering within the prim confines of the cream bodice as she had removed her hand from his clasp with whatever dignity she could salvage. She had known, as she did so, that the guests would be approving of that too, respecting what they saw as her modesty and shyness, when in reality she wanted to grab the nearest wine bottle and break it over his head.

When the dinner had finally ended, an eternity later, she’d been thankful that courtesy kept Renzo with the departing guests, enabling her to escape upstairs without speaking to him.

Julia, however, had not been so easily evaded.

‘So,’ she said, following Marisa into her bedroom and draping herself over the arm of the little brocaded sofa by the window. ‘You seem to be warming at last to your future husband.’

Marisa put the pearls carefully in their case. ‘Appearances can be deceptive.’

‘Then you’re a fool,’ her cousin said bluntly. ‘He may be charming, but underneath there’s one tough individual, and you can’t afford to play games with him—blushing and sighing one minute, and becoming an ice maiden the next.’

‘Thank you,’ Marisa returned politely. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

She’d momentarily lost ground tonight, and she knew it, but it was only a temporary aberration. She’d find a way to make up for it—somehow.

And so I did, she thought now, only to find myself reaping a bitter harvest as a consequence.

Her reverie was interrupted by the return of Corin, looking woebegone.

‘She wants her half-share in the gallery,’ he announced without preamble. ‘She says that I’m far too conventional, and she’s planning to take an active part in the place—imposing some ideas of her own to widen the customer base. Which means she’ll be working next to me every day as if nothing’s happened. Well, it’s impossible. I couldn’t bear it.’

He sat down heavily at his desk. ‘Besides, I know her ideas of old, and they just wouldn’t work—not somewhere like this. But I can’t afford to buy her out,’ he added, sighing, ‘so I’ll just have to sell up and start again—perhaps in some country area where property isn’t so expensive.’

Marisa brought him some strong black coffee. She said, ‘Couldn’t you find a white knight—someone who’d invest in the Estrello so you could pay your wife off?’

He pulled a face. ‘If only. But times are bad, and getting harder, and luxury items like these are usually the first to be sacrificed, so I could struggle to find someone willing to take the risk. Anyway, investors generally want more of an instant return than I can offer.’

He savoured a mouthful of his coffee. ‘I may close up early tonight,’ he went on, giving her a hopeful look. ‘Maybe we could have dinner together?’

I’m sorry, Corin, she thought. But I’m not in the mood to provide a shoulder for you to cry on this evening—or whatever else you might have in mind. You’re a nice guy, but it stops at lunch. And it stops now. Because I have issues of my own that I should deal with.

Aloud, she said gently, ‘I’m sorry, but I already have a date.’

She hadn’t intended to meet Alan either, of course, but it had suddenly come to seem a better idea than sitting alone in her flat, brooding about the past.

That’s a loser’s game, she told herself with determination, and I need to look to the future—and freedom.




CHAPTER THREE


EVEN as she was getting dressed for her dinner date with Alan, Marisa was still unsure if she was doing the right thing.

It occurred to her, wryly, that even though it was barely a year since she’d actually contemplated running away with him her heart was not exactly beating faster as she contemplated the evening ahead.

And she hadn’t promised to meet him, so ducking out would be an easy option.

On the other hand, going out to a restaurant appeared marginally more tempting than spending another solitary night in front of the television.

Yet solitary, she thought with a faint sigh, is what I seem to do best.

Up to now, having her own place for the first time in her life had felt a complete bonus. Admittedly, with only one bedroom, it wasn’t the biggest flat in the world—in fact, it could have been slipped inside the Santangeli house in Tuscany and lost—but it was light, bright, well furnished, with a well-fitted kitchen and shower room, and was sited in a smart, modern block of similar apartments in an upmarket area of London.

Best of all, living there, as she often reminded herself, she answered to no one.

There was, naturally, a downside. She had to accept that her independence had its limits, because she didn’t actually pay the rent. That was taken care of by a firm of lawyers, acting as agents for her husband.

After the divorce was finalised, she realised, she would no longer be able to afford anything like it.

Her life would also be subject to all kinds of other changes, not many of them negative. In spite of Julia’s dismissive words, her academic results had been perfectly respectable, and she hadn’t understood at the time why she’d received no encouragement to seek qualifications in some form of higher education, like her classmates.

How naive was it possible to get? she wondered, shaking her head in self-derision.

However, there was nothing to prevent her doing so in the future, with the help of a student loan. She could even look on the time she’d spent as Renzo’s wife as a kind of ‘gap year’, she told herself, her mouth twisting.

And now she had the immediate future to deal with, in the shape of this evening, which might also have its tricky moments unless she was vigilant. After all, the last thing she wanted was for Alan to think she was a lonely wife in need of consolation.

Because nothing could be further from the truth.

She picked out her clothes with care—a pale blue denim wrap-around skirt topped by a white silk shirt—hoping her choice wouldn’t look as if she was trying too hard. Then, proceeding along the same lines, she applied a simple dusting of powder to her face, and the lightest touch of colour on her mouth.

Lastly, and with reluctance, she retrieved her wedding ring from the box hidden in her dressing table and slid it on to her finger. She hadn’t planned to wear it again, but its presence on her hand would be a tacit reminder to her companion that the evening was a one-off and she was certainly not available—by any stretch of the imagination.

Two hours later, she was ruefully aware that Alan’s thinking had not grown any more elastic during his absence, and that, in spite of the romantic ambience that Chez Dominique had always cultivated, she was having a pretty dull evening.

A faintly baffling one, too, because he seemed to be in a nostalgic mood, talking about their past relationship as if it had been altogether deeper and more meaningful than she remembered.

Get a grip, she thought, irritated. You may have been a few years older than I was, but we were still hardly more than boy and girl. I was certainly a virgin, and I suspect you probably were too, although that’s almost certainly no longer true for either of us.

He had far more confidence these days, smartly dressed in a light suit, with a blue shirt that matched his eyes. And he seemed to have had his slightly crooked front teeth fixed too.

All in all, she decided, he was a nice guy. But that was definitely as far as it went.

However, the food at Chez Dominique was still excellent, and when she managed to steer him away from personal issues and on to his life in Hong Kong she became rather more interested in what he had to say, and was able to feel glad that he was doing well.

But even so, the fact that he had not gone there through choice clearly still rankled with him, and although he’d probably bypassed a rung or two on the corporate ladder as a result of his transfer, she detected that there was a note of resentment never far from the surface.

As the waiter brought his cheese and her crème brûlée, Alan said, ‘Are you staying with your cousin while you’re in London?’

‘Oh, no,’ Marisa returned, without thinking. ‘Julia lives near Tonbridge Wells these days.’

‘You mean you’ve actually been allowed off the leash without a minder?’ His tone was barbed. ‘Amazing.’

‘Not particularly.’ She ate some of her dessert. ‘Perhaps—Lorenzo—’ she stumbled slightly over the name ‘—trusts me.’ Or he simply doesn’t care what I do …

‘So I suppose you must have a suite at the Ritz, or some other five-star palace?’ He gave a small bitter laugh. ‘How the other half live.’

‘Nothing of the sort,’ Marisa said tersely. ‘I’m actually using someone’s flat.’ Which was, she thought, an approximation of the truth, and also a reminder of how very much she wanted to get back there and avoid answering any more of the questions that he was obviously formulating over his Port Salut.

She glanced at her watch and gave a controlled start. ‘Heavens, is that really the time? I should be going.’

‘Expecting a phone call from the absent husband?’ There was a faintly petulant note in his voice.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I have an early appointment tomorrow.’ At my desk in the Estrello, at nine o’clock sharp.

At the same time she was aware that his remark had made her freeze inwardly. Because there’d been a time, she thought, when Renzo had called her nearly every day, coming up each time against the deliberate barrier of her answering machine, and leaving increasingly brief and stilted messages, which she had deleted as quickly as she’d torn up his unread letters.

Until the night when he’d said abruptly, an odd almost raw note in his voice, ‘Tomorrow, Marisa, when I call you, please pick up the phone. There are things that need to be said.’ He’d paused, then added, ‘I beg you to do this.’

And when the phone had rung the following night she’d been shocked to find that she’d almost had to sit on her hands to prevent herself from lifting the receiver. That she’d had to repeat silently to herself over and over again, There is nothing he can say that I could possibly want to hear.

Then, in the silence of all the evenings that followed, she had come to realise that he was not going to call again, and that her intransigence had finally achieved the victory she wanted. And she had found she was wondering why her triumph suddenly seemed so sterile.

Something, she thought, she had still not managed to work out to her own satisfaction.

She had a polite tussle with Alan over her share of the bill, which he won, and walked out into the street with a feeling of release. She turned to say goodnight and found him at the kerb, hailing a taxi, which was thoughtful.

But she hadn’t bargained for him clambering in after her.

She said coolly, ‘Oh—may I drop you somewhere?’

He smiled at her. ‘I was hoping you might offer me some coffee—or a nightcap.’

Her heart sank like a stone. ‘It is getting late …’

‘Not too late, surely—for old times’ sake?’

He was over-fond of that phrase, Marisa decided irritably. And his ‘old times’ agenda clearly differed substantially from hers.

She said, not bothering to hide her reluctance, ‘Well—a quick coffee, perhaps, and then you must go,’ and watched with foreboding as his smile deepened into satisfaction.

She didn’t doubt her ability to keep him at bay. She had, after all, done it before, with someone else, even though it had rebounded on her later in a way that still had the power to turn her cold all over at the memory.

But she told herself grimly, Alan was a totally different proposition. She’d make sure that when he’d drunk his coffee he would go away and stay away. There’d be no more meetings during this leave or any other.

As they went up in the lift to the second floor of the apartment block she was aware he’d moved marginally closer. She stepped back, deliberately distancing herself and hoping he’d take the hint.

But as she turned the key in the lock he was standing so close behind her that his breath was stirring her hair, and she flung the door open, almost jumping across the narrow hallway into the living room.

Where, she realised with shock, the light was on.

Also—the room was occupied.

She stopped so abruptly that Alan nearly cannoned into her as she saw with horror exactly who was waiting for her.

Lorenzo Santangeli was lounging full-length on the sofa, totally at ease, jacket and tie removed, with his white shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist, its sleeves turned back over his bronze forearms.

An opened bottle of red wine and two glasses, one half-filled, stood on the low table in front of the sofa.

As she stood, gaping at him, he smiled at her, tossed aside the book he was reading and swung his legs to the floor.

‘Maria Lisa,’ he said softly. ‘Carissima. You have returned at last. I was becoming worried about you.’

Throat dry with disbelief, she found a voice from somewhere. ‘Renzo—I—I …’ She gulped a breath, and formed words that made sense. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I wished to surprise you, my sweet.’ His voice was silky. ‘And I see that I have done so.’ He walked to her on bare feet, took her nerveless hand, and raised it briefly and formally to his lips before looking past her. With a feeling of total unreality she saw that he needed a shave.

He went on, ‘Will you not introduce me to your escort, and allow me to thank him for bringing you safely to your door?’

In the ensuing silence she heard Alan swallow—deafeningly. Got herself somehow under control.

She said quietly, ‘Of course. This is Alan Denison, an old friend, home on leave from Hong Kong.’ And he seems to have turned the most odd shade of green. I didn’t know people really did that.

For a moment she thought she saw a swift flicker of surprise in Renzo’s astonishing golden eyes. Then he said smoothly, ‘Ah, yes—I recall.’

‘We just—happened to run into each other.’ Alan spoke hoarsely. ‘In the street. This morning. And I asked your—Signora Santangeli—to have dinner with me.’

‘A kind thought,’ Renzo returned. He was still, Marisa realised, holding her hand. And instinct warned her not to pull away. Not this time.

All the same, he was far too close for comfort. She was even aware of the faint, beguiling scent of the cologne he used, and her throat tightened at the unwanted memories it evoked.

Alan began to back towards the door. If she hadn’t been in such turmoil, Marisa could almost have found it funny. As it was, she wanted to scream, Don’t go.

He babbled on, ‘But now I can safely leave her in your …’ He paused.

Oh, God, Marisa thought hysterically, please don’t say capable hands.

But to her relief, Alan only added lamely, ‘In your care.’

Which was quite bad enough, given the circumstances.

‘You are all consideration, signore. Permit me to wish you goodnight—on my wife’s behalf as well as my own.’ Keeping Marisa firmly at his side, Renzo watched expressionlessly as the younger man muttered something incomprehensible in reply, then fumbled his way out of the flat, closing the door behind him.

Once they were alone, she wrenched herself free and stepped back, distancing herself deliberately, her heart hammering against her ribcage.

As she made herself meet Renzo’s enigmatic gaze, she said defensively, ‘It’s not what you think.’

The dark brows lifted. ‘You have become a mind-reader during our separation, mia cara?’

‘No.’ It was her turn to swallow. ‘But—but I know how it must look.’

‘I know that he looked disappointed,’ Renzo returned pleasantly. ‘That told me all that was necessary. And you are far too young to claim a man as an old friend,’ he added, clicking his tongue reprovingly. ‘It lacks—credibility.’

She drew a deep breath. ‘When I want your advice I’ll ask for it. And Alan and I were friends—until you stepped in. Also,’ she went on, defiantly bending the truth, ‘he came back here this evening at my invitation—for coffee. That’s all. So please don’t judge other people by your own dubious standards.’

He looked at her with amusement. ‘I see that absence has not sweetened your tongue, mia bella.’

‘Well, you’re not obliged to listen to it,’ she said raggedly. ‘And what the hell are you doing here, anyway? How dare you walk in and—make yourself at home like this?’

Renzo casually resumed his seat on the sofa, leaning back against its cushions as if he belonged there. He said gently, ‘Not the warmest of welcomes, mia cara. And we are husband and wife, so your home is also mine. Where else should I be?’

Marisa lifted her chin. ‘I’d say that was an open question.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘And how did you get in, may I ask?’

Renzo shrugged. ‘The apartment is leased in my name, so naturally I have a key.’

There was a silence, then she said jerkily, ‘I—I see. I suppose I should have realised that.’

He watched her, standing near the door, her white cotton jacket still draped across her shoulders. His mouth twisted. ‘You look poised for flight, Maria Lisa,’ he commented. ‘Where are you planning to go?’

Her glance was mutinous. ‘Somewhere that you won’t find me.’

‘You think there is such a place?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I, on the other hand, think it is time for us to sit down and talk together like civilised people.’

‘Hardly an accurate description of our relationship to date,’ she said. ‘And I’d actually prefer you to be the one to leave.’ She marched to the door and flung it wide. ‘You got rid of Alan, signore. I suggest you follow him.’

‘A telling gesture,’ he murmured. ‘But sadly wasted. Because I am going nowhere. I came here because there are things to be said. So why don’t you sit down and drink some wine with me?’

‘Because I don’t want any wine,’ she said mutinously. ‘And if there’s any talking to be done it should be through lawyers. They can make all the necessary arrangements.’

He stretched indolently, making her tinglingly and indignantly aware of every lean inch of him. ‘What arrangements are those?’

‘Please don’t play games,’ she said shortly. ‘Our divorce, naturally.’

‘There has never been a divorce in the Santangeli family,’ Renzo said quietly. ‘And mine will not be the first. We are married, Maria Lisa, and that is how I intend us to remain.’

He paused, observing the angry colour draining from her face, then added, ‘You surely cannot have believed that I intended this period of separation to be permanent?’

She looked at him defiantly. ‘I certainly hoped so.’

‘Then you will have to preserve your optimism until death parts us, carissima.’ His tone held finality. ‘This was a breathing space, no more than that.’ He paused. ‘As I made clear, though you may have chosen to think otherwise. But it makes no difference. You are still my wife, and you always will be.’

Her hands were clenched at her sides, the folds of her skirt concealing the fact that they were trembling.

‘Is that what you’ve come here to tell me—that I can never be free of you, signore? But that’s ridiculous. We can’t go on living like this. You can’t possibly want that any more than I do.’

‘For once we are in agreement,’ he said softly. ‘Perhaps it is a good omen.’

‘Don’t count on it.’

His mouth twisted. ‘With you, Maria Lisa, I count on nothing, believe me. Tuttavia, I am here to invite you to return to Italy and take your place beside me.’

For a moment she stared at him, appalled, and then she said, ‘No! You can’t. I—I won’t.’

He poured more wine into his glass and drank. ‘May I ask why not?’

She stared down at the carpet. She said huskily, ‘I think you know the answer to that already.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You mean you are still not prepared to forgive me for the mistakes of our honeymoon. Yet even you must admit they were not completely one-sided, mia cara.’

‘You can hardly blame me,’ she flashed. ‘After all, I promised you nothing.’

‘Then you were entirely true to yourself, mia bella, because you gave nothing,’ Renzo bit back at her. ‘And you cannot pretend you did not know the terms of our marriage.’

‘No, but I didn’t expect they’d be exacted in that particular way.’

‘And I did not expect my patience to be tried so sorely, or so soon.’ His golden gaze met hers in open challenge. ‘Maybe we have both learned something from that unhappy time.’

‘Yes,’ Marisa’s voice was stony. ‘I have discovered you can’t be trusted, and that’s why I won’t be going with you to Italy, or anywhere else. I want out of this so-called marriage, signore, and nothing you can say or do will change my mind.’

‘Not even,’ he said slowly, ‘when I tell you my father is sick and has been asking for you?’

She came forward slowly and sat down on the edge of the chair opposite, staring at him. She said shakily, ‘Zio Guillermo—sick?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe you. He’s never had a day’s illness in his life.’

‘Nevertheless, he suffered a heart attack two nights ago.’ His tone was bleak. ‘As you may imagine, it was a shock to both of us. And now to you also, perhaps.’

‘Oh, God. Yes, of course. I can see …’ Her voice tailed away in distress. She was silent for a moment, then moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘Poor Zio Guillermo. Is it—very bad?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘He has been very fortunate—this time. You see that I am being honest with you,’ he added, his mouth curling sardonically. ‘At the moment his life is not threatened. But he has to rest and avoid stress, which is not easy when our marriage continues to be a cause of such great concern to him.’

She’d been gazing downwards, but at that her head lifted sharply. She said, ‘That’s—blackmail.’

‘If you wish to think so.’ Renzo shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, it is also the truth. Papa fears he will not live to see his grandchildren.’ His eyes met hers. ‘He does not deserve such a disappointment, Maria Lisa—from either of us. So I say it is time we fulfilled the terms of our agreement and made him a happy man.’

She stared back at him. She said, in a small, wrenched whisper, ‘You mean you’re going to—force me to have your child?’

He moved suddenly, restively. ‘I shall enforce nothing.’ His tone was harsh. ‘I make you that promise. What I am asking is your forgiveness for the past, a chance to make amends to you—and begin our life together again. To see if we can at least become friends in this marriage, if nothing else.’

Marisa sank her teeth into her bottom lip. ‘But you’ll still want me to do—that.’

His mouth hardened. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is how babies are made.’ He paused, then added quietly, ‘It is also how love is made.’

‘Not a word,’ Marisa said, icily, ‘that could ever be applied to our situation.’

He shrugged cynically. ‘Yet a girl does not have to be in love with a man to enjoy what he does to her in bed. Did your charming cousin not mention that in her pre-marital advice?’ He saw the colour mount in her face and nodded. ‘I see that she did.’

She said curtly, ‘It is not an opinion that I happen to share.’

‘And were you hoping for a more romantic encounter tonight, which I have spoiled by my untimely arrival?’ His smile did not reach his eyes. ‘My poor Marisa, ti devo delle scuse. You have so much to forgive me for.’

Her glance held defiance. ‘But not for this evening—which was a—mistake.’ One of so many I’ve made …

‘Che sollievo,’ he said softly. ‘I am relieved to hear it. He paused. ‘I have reservations on the afternoon flight tomorrow. I hope you can be ready.’

‘I haven’t yet said I’ll go with you!’ There was alarm in her voice.

‘True,’ he agreed. ‘But I hope you will give it serious consideration. However poorly you think of me, Maria Lisa, my father deserves your gratitude and your affection. Your return would give him the greatest pleasure. Can you really begrudge him that?’

She hesitated. ‘I could come for a visit …’

He shook his head. ‘No, per sempre. You stay for good.’ His mouth twisted. ‘You have to learn to be my wife, mia bella. To run the household, manage the servants, treat my father at all times with respect, entertain my friends, and appear beside me in public. This will all take time, although by now it should be as natural to you as breathing. I have waited long enough.’

He paused. ‘Also, at some mutually convenient time, you will begin to share my bed. Capisci?’

She turned away, saying in a suffocated voice, ‘Yes, I—I understand.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But I can’t possibly leave tomorrow. You see—I—I have a job, and I need to give proper notice.’

‘Your job at the Estrello Gallery is a temporary one,’ Renzo said casually. ‘And I am sure Signor Langford will make allowances once he understands the position.’

She swung back, staring at him in stunned silence. At last she said unevenly, ‘You—already knew? About my work—everything?’ Her voice rose. ‘Are you telling me you’ve been having me watched?’

‘Naturally,’ he returned, shrugging. ‘You are my wife, Marisa. I had to make sure that you came to no harm while we were apart.’

‘By having me—spied on?’ She took a quick breath. ‘My God, that’s despicable.’

‘A precaution, no more.’ He added softly, ‘And with your best interests at heart, mia cara, whatever you may think. After all, when you would not answer my letters or return my calls I had to maintain some contact with you.’

She pushed her hair back from her face with a shaking hand. ‘I only wish I’d thought of setting detectives on you. I bet I’d have all the evidence I need to be rid of this marriage by now.’

He said gently, ‘Or perhaps you would find that I am not so easily disposed of.’ He poured wine into the second glass and rose, bringing it to her. ‘Let us drink a toast, carissima. To the future.’

‘I can’t.’ Marisa put her hands behind her back defensively. ‘Because I won’t be a hypocrite. This is the last thing in the world I was expecting. You—must see that, and you have to give me more time—to think …’

‘You have had months to think,’ Renzo said. ‘And to come to terms with the situation.’

‘You make it sound so simple,’ she said bitterly.

‘You are my wife,’ he said. ‘I wish you to live with me. It is hardly complicated.’

‘But there are so many other girls around.’ She swallowed. ‘If not a divorce, we could have an annulment. We could say that nothing happened—after all, it hardly did—and then you could choose someone you wanted—who’d want you in return.’

‘There is no question of that.’ His tone was harsh. ‘I have come to take you home, Maria Lisa, and, whether it is given willingly or unwillingly, I shall require your agreement at breakfast tomorrow. No other answer will do.’

‘Breakfast?’ she repeated, at a loss. ‘You mean—you wish me to come to your hotel?’

‘You will not be put to so much trouble,’ he said. ‘I am spending the night here.’

‘No!’ The word burst from her. ‘You—you can’t. It’s quite impossible.’ She paused, swallowing. ‘Even you must see that the flat’s far too small.’

‘You mean that there is only one bedroom and one bed?’ he queried with faint amusement. ‘I had already discovered that for myself. But it need not be an obstacle.’

She wrapped her arms defensively round her body. ‘Oh, yes, it is,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Because I—I won’t …’ She flung her head back. ‘Oh, God, I knew I couldn’t trust you.’

‘Calmati!’ His voice bit. ‘I am under no illusion, mia bella, that I am any more welcome in your bed now than I was on our wedding night. And for the time being I accept the situation. So believe that you are quite safe. Inoltre, your sofa seems comfortable enough, if you will spare me a pillow and a blanket.’

She stared at him almost blankly. ‘You’ll—sleep on the sofa?’

‘I have just said so.’ His brows lifted. ‘Is there some law forbidding it?’

‘Oh, no,’ Marisa denied hastily. She sighed. ‘Well, if—if you’re determined to stay, I’ll—get what you need. And a towel.’

‘Grazie mille,’ he acknowledged sardonically. ‘I hope you will not be so grudging with your hospitality when you are called upon to entertain our guests.’

‘Guests,’ she said grittily, ‘are usually invited. Also welcome.’

‘And you cannot imagine that a day might come when you would be glad to see me?’ he asked, apparently unfazed.

‘Frankly, no.’

‘Yet I can recall a time when your feelings for me were not quite so hostile.’

Pain twisted inside her as she remembered how hopelessly—helplessly—she’d once adored him, but she kept her voice icily level. ‘The foolishness of adolescence, signore.’ She shrugged. ‘Fortunately it didn’t last. Not once I realised what you really were.’

He said reflectively, ‘Perhaps we should halt there. I think I would prefer not to enquire into the precise nature of your discovery.’

‘Scared of the truth?’ Marisa lifted her chin in challenge.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘When it is the truth.’ He looked at her steadily, his mouth hard. ‘But I swore to myself on my mother’s memory that I would not lose my temper with you again, whatever the provocation.’ He paused significantly. ‘Yet there are limits to my tolerance, Maria Lisa. I advise you to observe them, and not push me too far.’

‘Why?’ She looked down at the floor, aware of a sudden constriction in her breathing. ‘What more can you possibly do to me?’

He said quietly, ‘I suggest you do not find out,’ and there was a note in his voice that sent a shiver the length of her spine. ‘Now, perhaps you will fetch me that blanket—per favore.’

She was halfway to her room when she realised he was right behind her.

She said, ‘You don’t have to follow me. I can manage.’

‘My travel bag is on your floor,’ he said tersely. ‘Also I wish to use the shower.’

‘You have an answer to everything, don’t you?’

He gave her an enigmatic glance. ‘Not to you, mia bella. That is one of the few certainties in our situation,’ he added, bending to retrieve the elegant black leather holdall standing just inside her bedroom door.

And he walked away before she could commit the fatal error of asking what the others might be.

Not that she would have done, of course, Marisa told herself as she extracted a dark red woollen blanket and a towel from the storage drawers under her bed, and took a pillow from a shelf in the fitted wardrobes. She would not give him the satisfaction, she thought, angry to discover that she was trembling inside, and still breathless from their encounter.

But then she was still suffering from shock at having come back and found him there, waiting for her. Waiting, moreover, to stake a claim that she had thought—hoped—had been tacitly forgotten.

She’d actually allowed herself to believe that she was free. To imagine that the respite she’d been offered had become a permanent separation and that, apart from a few legal formalities, their so-called marriage was over.

But she’d just been fooling herself, she thought wretchedly. It was never going to be that easy.

Because as she now realised, too late, they’d never been apart at all in any real sense. Had been, in fact, linked all the time by a kind of invisible rope. And it had only taken one brief, determined tug on Renzo’s part to draw her inexorably—inevitably—back to him, to keep the promises she’d made one late August day in a crowded sunlit church.

And of course, to repay some small part of that enormous, suffocating debt to him and his family in the only currency available to her.

She shivered swiftly and uncontrollably.

She could, she supposed, refuse to go back to Italy with him. He was, after all, hardly likely to kidnap her. But even if they remained apart there was no guarantee that the marriage could ever be brought to a legal end. He had made it quite clear that she was his wife, and would continue to be so, and he had the money and the lawyers to enforce his will in this respect, to keep her tied to him with no prospect of release.

The alternative was to take Julia’s unsavoury advice. To accede somehow to the resumption of Renzo’s physical requirements of her and give him the son he needed. That accomplished, their relationship would presumably exist in name only, and she could then create a whole new life for herself, perhaps. Even find some form of happiness.

She carried the bedding down the hall to the living room, then stopped abruptly on the threshold, her startled gaze absorbing the totally unwelcome sight of Renzo, his shirt discarded, displaying altogether too much bronze skin as he casually unbuckled the belt of his pants.

She said glacially, ‘I’d prefer you to change in the bathroom.’

‘And I would prefer you to accustom yourself to the reality of having a husband, mia bella,’ he retorted, with equal coolness. He looked her up and down slowly, his eyes lingering deliberately on the fastening of her skirt. ‘Now, if you were to undress in front of me I should have no objection,’ he added mockingly.

‘Hell,’ Marisa said, ‘will freeze over first.’ She put the armful of bedding down on the carpet and walked away without hurrying.

Yet once in the sanctuary of her bedroom she found herself leaning back against its panels, gasping for breath as if she’d just run a mile in record time.

Oh, why—why—did the lock on this damned door have no key? she wondered wildly. Something that would make her feel safe.

Except that would be a total self-delusion, and she knew it. Because there was no lock, bolt or chain yet invented that would keep Renzo Santangeli at bay if ever he decided that he wanted her.

Instead, she had to face the fact that it was only his indifference that would guarantee her privacy tonight.

A reflection that, to her own bewilderment, gave her no satisfaction at all.




CHAPTER FOUR


THE sofa, Renzo thought bleakly, was not at all as comfortable as he’d claimed.

But even if it had been as soft as a featherbed, and long enough to accommodate his tall frame without difficulty, he would still have found sleep no easier to come by.

Arms folded behind his head, he lay staring up at the faint white sheen of the ceiling, his mind jagged and restless.

He was enough of a realist to have accepted that he wouldn’t find a subdued, compliant bride awaiting him in London, but neither had he anticipated quite such a level of intransigence. Had hoped, in fact, that allowing her this time away from him might have brought about a faint softening of her attitude. A basis for negotiation, at least.

But how wrong was it possible to be? he asked himself wryly. It seemed she had no wish either to forgive him—or forget—so any plans he’d been formulating for a fresh start between them were back in the melting pot.

The simplest solution to his problems, of course, would be to settle for the so-called annulment she had offered and walk away. Accept that their marriage had never had a chance of success.

Indeed, the days leading up to the wedding had been almost surreal, with Marisa, like a ghost, disappearing at his approach, and when forced to remain in his presence speaking only when spoken to.

Except once. When for one brief moment at that dinner party he’d discovered her looking at him with a speculation in her eyes there had been no mistaking. And for that moment his heart had lifted in frank jubilation.

He remembered how he hadn’t been able to wait for their dinner guests to leave in order to seek her out and invite her to go for a stroll with him in the moonlit privacy of the gardens, telling himself that maybe he was being given a belated opportunity for a little delicate wooing of his reluctant bride, and that, if so, he would take full advantage of it.

But once all the goodnights had been said, and he’d gone to find her, she had retreated to the sanctuary of her room and the chance had gone—especially as he’d had to return to Rome early the following morning.

But he hadn’t been able to forget that just for an instant she had lowered her guard. That she had seen him—reacted to him as a man. And that when he’d kissed her hand she’d blushed helplessly.

Which suggested that, if there’d been one chink in her armour, surely he might somehow find another …

So, he was not yet ready to admit defeat, he told himself grimly. He would somehow persuade her to agree to erase the past and accept him as her husband. A resolve that had been hardened by his unwanted interview with his grandmother that very morning.

He had arrived to visit his father at the clinic just as she was leaving, and she had pounced instantly, commanding him to accompany her to an empty waiting room, obliging him, teeth gritted, to obey.

‘Your father tells me you are flying to England today in an attempt to be reconciled with that foolish girl,’ she commented acidly, as soon as the door was closed. ‘A total waste of your time, my dear Lorenzo. I told my daughter a dozen times that her idea of a marriage between such an ill-assorted pair was wrong-headed and could only end in disaster. And so it has proved. The child has shown herself totally unworthy of the Santangeli family.

‘My poor Maria would not pay attention to me, sadly, but you must listen now. Cut your losses and have the marriage dissolved immediately. As I have always suggested, find a good Italian wife who knows what is expected of her and who will devote herself to your comfort and convenience.’

‘And naturally, Nonna Teresa, you have a candidate in mind?’ His smile was deceptively charming. ‘Or even more than one, perhaps? I seem to remember being presented to a positive array of young women whenever I was invited to dine with you.’

‘I have given the matter deep thought,’ his grandmother conceded graciously. ‘And I feel that your eventual choice should be Dorotea Marcona. She is the daughter of an old friend, and a sweet, pious girl who will never give you a moment’s uneasiness.’

‘Dorotea?’ Renzo mused. ‘Is she the one who never stops talking, or the one with the squint?’

‘A slight cast in one eye,’ she reproved. ‘Easily corrected by a simple surgical procedure, I understand.’

‘For which I should no doubt be expected to pay—the Marcona family having no money.’ Renzo shook his head. ‘You are the one wasting your time, Nonna Teresa. Marisa is my wife, and I intend that she will remain so.’

‘Hardly a wife,’ his grandmother said tartly. ‘When she lives on the other side of the continent. Your separation threatens to become a public scandal—especially after her mortifying behaviour at the wedding.’ She drew her lips into a thin line. ‘You cannot have forgotten how she humiliated you?’

‘No,’ Renzo said quietly. ‘I—have not forgotten.’

In fact, thanks to Nonna Teresa, he’d found the memory grating on him all over again—not merely on his way to the airport, but throughout the flight, when it had constantly interfered with his attempts to work. So he’d reached London not in the best of moods, when he should have been conciliatory, only to find his wife missing when he reached the flat.

And when she did return, she was not alone, he thought with cold displeasure. Was with someone other than the Langford man whom he’d come prepared to deal with. Someone, in fact, who should have been history where Marisa was concerned.

And to set the seal on his annoyance, his bride had not been in the least disconcerted, nor shown any sign of guilt over being discovered entertaining a former boyfriend.

But then, attack had always been her favourite form of defence, he recalled grimly, as his mind went back to their wedding day.

He’d always regarded what had happened then as the start of his marital troubles, but now he was not so sure, he thought, twisting round on the sofa to give his unoffending pillow a vicious thump. Hadn’t the problems been there from the very beginning? Even on the day when he’d asked Marisa to marry him, and felt the tension emanating from her like a cold hand on his skin, forcing him to realise for the first time just how much forbearance would be required from him in establishing any kind of physical relationship between them.

Nevertheless, the end of the wedding ceremony itself had certainly been the moment that had sounded the death knell of all his good intentions towards his new bride, he thought, his mouth tightening.

He could remember so vividly how she’d looked as she had joined him at the altar of the ancient parish church in Montecalento, almost ethereal in the exquisite drift of white wild silk that had clothed her, and so devastatingly young and lovely that the muscles in his chest had constricted at the sight of her—until he’d seen her pale, strained face, clearly visible under the filmy tulle of her billowing veil. Then that sudden surge of frankly carnal longing had been replaced by compassion, and a renewed determination that he would be patient, give her all the time she needed to accept her new circumstances.

He remembered too how her hand had trembled in his as he’d slid the plain gold wedding band into place, and how there’d been no answering pressure to the tiny comforting squeeze he’d given her fingers.

And how he’d thought at the time, troubled, that it almost seemed as if she was somewhere else—and a long way distant from him.

He’d heard the Bishop give the final blessing, then turned to her, slowly putting the veil back from her face.

She had been looking down, her long lashes curling on her cheeks, her slender body rigid under the fragile delicacy of her gown.

And he’d bent to kiss her quivering mouth, swiftly and very gently, in no more than a token caress, wanting to reassure her by his tender restraint that he would keep his word, that she would have nothing to fear when they were alone together that night.

But before his lips could touch hers Marisa had suddenly looked up at him, her eyes glittering with scorn, and turned her head away so abruptly that his mouth had skidded along her cheekbone to meet with just a mouthful of tulle and few silken strands of perfumed hair.

There had been an audible gasp from the Bishop, and a stir in the mass of the congregation like a wind blowing across barley, telling Renzo quite unequivocally, as he’d straightened, heated colour storming into his face, that his bride’s very public rejection of his first kiss as her husband had been missed by no one present. And that she’d quite deliberately made him look a fool.

After which, of course, he’d had to walk the length of the long aisle, with Marisa’s hand barely resting on his arm, forcing himself to seem smiling and relaxed, when in fact he had been furiously aware of the shocked and astonished glances being aimed at them from some directions—and the avid enjoyment from others.

Tenderness was a thing of the past, he had vowed angrily. His overriding wish was to be alone somewhere with his bride where he could put her across his knee and administer the spanking of her life.

But instead there had been the ordeal of the wedding breakfast, being held in the warm sunlight of the main square so that the whole town could share in the future Marchese’s happiness with his new wife. Where there would be laughter, toasting, and sugared almonds to be handed out, before he and Marisa would be expected to open the dancing.

What would she do then? he had wondered grimly. Push him away? Stamp on his foot? God alone knew.

However, she must have undergone a partial change of heart, because she had gone through the required rituals with apparent docility—although Renzo had surmised bitterly that they must be the only newlyweds in the world to spend the first two hours of their marriage without addressing one word to each other.

It had only been when they were seated stiffly side by side, in the comparative privacy of the limousine returning them to the villa to change for their honeymoon trip, that he’d broken the silence.

‘How dared you do such a thing?’ His voice was molten steel. ‘What possessed you to refuse my kiss—to shame me like that in front of everyone?’

She said huskily, ‘But that was exactly why. You’ve never made any attempt to kiss me before, and, believe me, that’s suited me just fine.’ She took a breath. ‘But now all of a sudden there’s an audience present, so you have to play the part of the ardent bridegroom—make the token caring gesture in order to look good in the eyes of your friends and family. So that you might make them think it’s a real marriage instead of the payment of a debt—a sordid business deal that neither of us wants.’

She shook her head. ‘Well—I won’t do that. I won’t pretend for the sake of appearances. And you, signore,’ she added with a little gasp, ‘you won’t make me.’

There was another silence, then Renzo said icily, ‘I trust you have quite finished?’ and saw her nod jerkily before she turned away to stare out of the car window.

Only it had not been finished at all, he thought bleakly as he pulled the blanket closer round him and turned awkwardly onto his side. On the contrary, it had been just the beginning of a chain of events from which the repercussions were still impacting on their lives. And God only knew how it might end.

She felt, Marisa thought, as if she’d swallowed a large lump of marble.

Curled into a ball in the middle of the bed, she tugged the coverlet over her head in an effort to shut out the ever-present hum of London traffic through the open window, just as if that was the only reason she couldn’t sleep.

Yet who was she trying to fool? she asked herself ironically.

Renzo’s unexpected reappearance in her life had set every nerve ending jangling, while her mind was occupied in an endless examination of everything he’d said to her.

Especially his galling assertion that it had been mistakes by them both that had caused the collapse of their marriage.

Because it was his fault—all his fault. That was what she’d told herself—the mantra she’d repeated almost obsessively during the endless nightmare of their honeymoon and since. Her determined and inflexible belief ever since.

Yet now, suddenly, she was not so sure.

She should have let him kiss her at the wedding and she knew it. Had always known it, if she was honest. Realised she should just have stood there and allowed it to happen. And if she hadn’t responded—had refused to return the pressure of his lips—her point would have been made, but just between the two of them. No one else would ever have known.

Julia, in particular.

‘Are you off your head?’ her cousin had said furiously, cornering her in the pretence of straightening her veil. ‘My God, he must be blazing. If you know what’s good for you tonight you’ll forget your little rebellion, lie on your back and pray that he puts you up the stick. Redeem yourself that way—by doing what you’ve been hired for.’

‘Thank you for the unnecessary reminder,’ Marisa threw back defiantly and moved away, her half-formed resolve to go to Renzo, to tell him she’d been overcome by nerves and obeyed an impulse that she’d instantly regretted, melting like ice in the hot sunlight.

Neither was her mood improved by their first exchange in the car, nor during the largely silent journey down to their honeymoon destination near Amalfi—the first time, she realised, that she’d been entirely alone with him since he proposed to her. A reflection she found disturbing.

It wasn’t the first time he’d ignored her, of course, she thought ruefully, casting a wary glance at his stony profile, but that had been when she was younger, because he’d regarded her as something of a pest. Not because he was angry and humiliated.

And she knew with a kind of detachment that she would have to pay for what she’d done in one way or another.

It occurred to her too that she’d never been his passenger before—another first for her to add to all the others—and as the low, powerful car sped down the autostrada under his casually controlled expertise she remembered a jokey magazine article she’d once read, which had suggested a man’s sexual performance could often be judged by the way he drove.

She observed the light touch of his lean fingers on the wheel and found herself suddenly wondering how they would feel on her skin, before deciding, with a swift churning sensation in the pit of her stomach as Julia’s words came back to haunt her, that from now on she would do better to concentrate firmly on the scenery. However, as the silence between them became increasingly oppressive, she felt that a modest conversational overture might be called for.

She said, ‘The villa—is it in Amalfi itself?’

‘No, in a village farther along the coast.’

His tone was not particularly inviting, but she persevered.

‘And you said it belongs to your godfather?’

‘Yes, it is his holiday retreat.’

‘It’s—kind of him to offer it.’

He gave a faint shrug. ‘It is quiet, and overlooks the sea, so he felt it would be a suitably romantic location for a newly married couple to begin their life together.’ He added curtly, ‘As he was at the wedding, I am sure he now realises his error.’

Marisa subsided, flushing. So much for trying to make conversation, she thought.

She looked down at her slim smooth legs, at the slender pink-tipped feet displayed by the elegant and expensive strappy sandals she was wearing—the same hyacinth-blue as her sleeveless dress.

Apart from having her hair cut, she’d not been a great frequenter of hair and beauty salons in the past, but that had all changed in the last few days, when she’d been taken to Florence and waxed, plucked, manicured and pedicured to within an inch of her life in some pastel, scented torture chamber.

She’d endured the ministrations of various beauticians in a state of mute rebellion, and as perfumed creams and lotions had been applied to the softness of her skin she’d found herself thinking that maybe the old joke about ‘Have her stripped, washed and brought to my tent’ wasn’t so damned funny after all. That there was nothing faintly amusing in finding herself being deliberately prepared for the pleasure of a man.

The beautician had imagined, of course, that she rejoiced in all the intimate preparations because she was in love and wanted to be beautiful for her lover. She’d seen the hastily concealed envy in their faces when they realised the identity of her bridegroom.

What girl, after all, would not want to spend her nights in the arms of Lorenzo Santangeli?

If they only knew, she thought wryly, wondering what other women passed their time in similar salons, being pampered for his delight.

Even that morning two girls had arrived at the villa—one to do her hair, the other her make-up—and she’d been presented with a beauty case containing everything that had been used. Presumably so that she could keep up the good work while she was away, she thought, biting her lip.

Except that it was all a complete waste of time and effort. Renzo had married her by arrangement, not as an object for his romantic desires, but in order to provide himself with a mother for his heir, because she was young, healthy and suitably innocent.

Not the kind of fate she had ever envisaged for herself, she acknowledged with an inward pang. But this was the situation, and she would have to learn to make the best of it—eventually.

And it might indeed have been a step in the right direction if she’d made herself accept that token kiss in church earlier, she thought uneasily. At least they’d have commenced this so-called honeymoon on talking terms. Whereas now …

Even at this late stage, and if they hadn’t been on a motorway, she might actually have been tempted to request him to pull over, so that she could follow her original plan and offer him some kind of apology. Try at least to improve matters between them.

But that clearly wasn’t going to happen in the middle of the autostrada, and besides, she had a whole month ahead of her in which to make amends—if that was what she wanted, of course, she thought, her hands knotting together in her lap. At the moment she felt too unsettled to decide on any definite course of action.

In addition, Renzo might well have his own ideas on how their marriage should be conducted, she reminded herself dejectedly, stifling a sigh as she risked another wary glance at his unyielding expression.

But no amount of dejection could possibly have survived her first glimpse of the enchanting coastline around Amalfi.

Marisa leaned forward with an involuntary gasp of delight as she saw the first small town, its white buildings gleaming in the late-afternoon sunlight, clinging intrepidly to the precipitous rocky slopes above the restless sea which dashed itself endlessly against them in foam-edged shades of turquoise, azure and emerald.

The road itself, however, was an experience all its own, as it wound recklessly and almost blindly between high cliffs on one side and the toe-curling drop to the sea on the other. The rockface didn’t seem very stable either, Marisa thought apprehensively, noting the signs warning of loose boulders, and the protective netting spread along the areas most at risk.

But Renzo seemed totally unconcerned as he skilfully negotiated one breath-stopping bend after another, so she sat back and tried to appear relaxed in her turn. She wasn’t terribly successful, to judge by the swift and frankly sardonic glance she encountered from him at one point.

‘If it’s all the same to you, just keep your eyes on the damned road,’ she muttered under her breath.

Yet, if she was honest, her nervousness wasn’t entirely due to the vagaries of the Costiera Amalfitana. It was perfectly obvious that they would soon arrive at their destination, and she would find herself sharing a roof with him—no longer as his guest, but as his wife.

And that infinitely tricky moment seemed to have come, she thought, her fingers twisting together even more tightly as they turned inland and began to climb a steep narrow road. Marisa glimpsed a scattering of houses ahead of them, but before they were reached Renzo had turned the car between tall wrought-iron gates onto a winding gravel drive which led down to a large, sprawling single-storey house, roofed in faded terracotta, its white walls half-hidden by flowering vines and shrubs.

He said quietly and coldly, as he brought the car to a halt. ‘Ecco, La Villa Santa Caterina. And my godfather’s people are waiting to welcome us, so let us observe the conventions and pretend we are glad to be here, if you please.’

Outside the air-conditioned car it was still very warm, but the faint breeze was scented with flowers, and Marisa paused, drawing a deep, grateful breath, before Renzo took her hand, guiding her forward to the beaming trio awaiting them.

‘Marisa, this is Massimo, my godfather’s major-domo.’ He indicated a small thin man in a grey linen jacket and pinstripe trousers. ‘Also his wife, Evangelina, who keeps house here and cooks, and Daniella, their daughter, who works as the maid.’

Evangelina must be very good at her job, Marisa thought, as she smiled and uttered a few shy words of greeting in halting Italian, because she was a large, comfortable woman with twinkling eyes, and twice the size of her husband. Daniella too verged towards plump.

Inside the house there were marble floors, walls washed in pastel colours, and the coolness of ceiling fans.

Marisa found herself conducted ceremoniously by Evangelina to a large bedroom at the back of the house. It was mainly occupied by a vast bed, its white coverlet embroidered with golden flowers, heaped with snowy pillows on which tiny sprigs of sweet lavender had been placed.

It was like a stage setting, thought Marisa, aware of a coyly significant glance from Evangelina. But contrary to the good woman’s expectations, the leading lady in this particular production would be sleeping there alone tonight, and for the foreseeable future.

The only other pieces of furniture were a long dressing table, with a stool upholstered in gold brocade, and a chaise longue covered in the same material, placed near the sliding glass doors which led onto the verandah.

On the opposite side of the room, a door opened into a bathroom tiled in misty green marble, with a shower that Marisa reckoned was as big as her cousin Julia’s box room.

Another door led to a dressing room like a corridor, lined with drawer units and fitted wardrobes, and at the far end this, in turn, gave access to another bedroom of a similar size, furnished in the same way as the first one except that the coverlet was striped in gold and ivory.

Presumably this was the room which Renzo would be using—at least for the time being, she thought, her mouth suddenly dry. And she was relieved to see that it, too, had its own bathroom.

Turning away hurriedly, she managed to smile at Evangelina and tell her that everything was wonderful—magnificent—to the housekeeper’s evident gratification.

Back in her own room, she began to open one of her suitcases but was immediately dissuaded by Evangelina, who indicated firmly that this was a job for Daniella, who would be overjoyed to wait upon the bride of Signor Lorenzo.

All this goodwill, Marisa thought with irony, as she followed the housekeeper to the salotto, where coffee was waiting. Yet how much of it would survive once it became clear to the household, as it surely would, that the bride of Signor Lorenzo was totally failing to live up to everyone’s expectations?

She’d braced herself for another silent interlude, but Renzo was quietly civil, showing her the charming terrace where most of their meals would be taken, and explaining how the rocky local terrain had obliged the large gardens to be built on descending levels, connected by steps and pathways, with a swimming pool and a sunbathing area constructed at the very bottom.

‘My godfather says the climb keeps him healthy,’ Renzo said, adding with faint amusement, ‘His wife has always claimed it is all part of a plot to kill her. But it does not, however, stop her using the pool every day.’

She looked over the balustrade down into the green depths. ‘Do you have the same plan, perhaps?’ It seemed worth carrying on the mild joke.

‘Why, no,’ Renzo drawled, his glance travelling over her. ‘You, mia bella, I intend to keep very much alive.’

I suppose I led with my chin there, thought Marisa, crossly aware she was blushing a little. And if he’s going to say things like that, I’d much rather he was silent again.

No one ate early in Italy, and she was used to that, but by the time dinner was eventually served the strain of the day was beginning to tell on her.

She was ruefully aware that she had not done justice to the excellence of Evangelina’s cooking, especially the sea bream which had formed the main course, and her lack of appetite was not lost on her companion.

‘You are not hungry? Or is there something you would prefer?’

‘Oh, no,’ she denied hurriedly. ‘The fish is wonderful. I’m just very tired—and I think I’m getting a headache,’ she added for good measure. ‘Perhaps you’d apologise to Evangelina for me—and excuse me.’

‘Of course.’ He rose politely to his feet. ‘Buona notte, mia cara.’

She walked sedately to the door, trying hard not to appear as if she was running away, but knowing he wouldn’t be fooled for a minute. But at least he’d let her go, and what conversation there’d been during the meal had been on general topics, avoiding the personal.

In her bedroom, she saw that the bed had been turned down on both sides, and that one of her trousseau nightgowns, a mere wisp of white crêpe de Chine, had been prettily arranged on the coverlet.

More scene-setting, she thought. But the day’s drama was thankfully over.

She had a warm, scented bath, and then changed into the nightgown that Daniella had left for her because there was little to choose between any of them. In fact all her trousseau, she thought, had been chosen with Renzo’s tastes in mind rather than hers.

Not that she knew his tastes—or wanted to—she amended quickly, but this diaphanous cobweb of a thing, with its narrow ribbon steps, would probably be considered to have general masculine appeal.

She climbed into the bed and sank back against the pillows, where the scent of lavender still lingered, aware of an odd sense of melancholy that she could neither dismiss or explain.

Sleep’s what I need, she told herself. Things will seem better in the morning. They always do.

She was just turning on her side when an unexpected sound caught her attention, and she shot upright again, staring towards the dressing room as its door opened and Renzo came in.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded huskily.

‘An odd question, mia bella, to put to your husband when he visits your bedroom on your wedding night.’

She sat rigidly against the pillows, watching him approach. He was wearing a black silk robe, but his bare chest, with its dark shadowing of hair, and his bare legs suggested that there was nothing beneath it.

She lifted her chin. ‘I—I said I was tired. I thought you accepted that.’

‘Also that you had a headache.’ He nodded. ‘And by now you have probably thought of a dozen other methods to keep me at a distance. I suggest you save them for the future. You will not, however, need them tonight,’ he added, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

It was a wide bed, and there was a more than respectable space between them, but in spite of that Marisa still felt that he was too close for comfort. She wanted to move away a little, but knew that he would notice and draw his own conclusions. And she did not wish him to think she was in any way nervous, she thought defensively.

As for what he was wearing—well, she’d seen him in far less in the past, when she’d been swimming or sunbathing in his company, but that, somehow, was a very different matter.

She marshalled her defences. ‘You still haven’t said why you’re here.’

He said, ‘I have come to bid you goodnight.’

‘You did that downstairs.’

‘But I believe that there are things that remain to be said between us.’

He paused. ‘We have not begun well, you and I, and these difficulties between us should be settled at once.’

‘What—what do you mean?’

He traced the gold thread on the coverlet with a fingertip. ‘Earlier today you implied that I had been less than ardent in my wooing of you. But if I stayed aloof it was only because I believed it was what you wanted.’

‘And so it was,’ she said. ‘I said so.’

‘Yet if that is true,’ he said softly, ‘why mention the matter at all?’

She said defiantly, ‘I was simply letting you know what a hypocritical farce I find this entire arrangement. And that I won’t play games in public just to satisfy some convention.’

‘How principled,’ he said, and shifted his position, moving deliberately closer to her. ‘But we are no longer in public now, mia cara. We are in total privacy. So there is no one else to see or care what I ask from you.’

She swallowed. ‘You—promised that you—wouldn’t ask.’ Her voice was thin. ‘So I’d really like you to go—please.’

‘In a moment,’ he said. ‘When I have what I came for.’

‘I—I don’t understand.’

‘It is quite simple,’ he said. ‘I wish to kiss you goodnight, Maria Lisa. To take from your lovely mouth what you denied me this morning—nothing more.’

She stared at him. ‘You said you’d wait …’

‘And I will.’ He leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. ‘But I think—don’t you?—that when you come to me as my wife it will be easier for both of us if you have become even a little accustomed to my touch, and learned not to dread being in my arms.’

‘What are you saying, signore?’ Her voice sounded very young and breathless. ‘That I’m going to find your kisses so irresistible that I’ll want more and more of them? That eventually I’ll want you?’

She shook her head. ‘That’s not going to happen. Because you can dress up what you’ve done any way you like, but the fact is you bought me. Anything you do to me will be little more than legalised rape.’

There was a terrible silence, then Renzo said, too quietly, too evenly, ‘You will never use such a word to me again, Maria Lisa. Do you understand? I told you I would not force myself on you and I meant it. But you would be unwise to try my patience twice in twenty-four hours.’

She threw back her head. ‘Your loss of temper doesn’t seem much to set against the ruin of my life, Signor Santangeli. Whatever—I have no intention of kissing you. So please leave. Now.’

‘And I think not.’ Renzo took her by the shoulders, pulling her towards him, his purpose evident in his set face.

‘Let me go.’ She began to struggle against the strength of the hands that held her, scared now, but still determined. ‘I won’t do this—I won’t.’

She pushed against his chest, fists clenched, her face averted.

‘Miacara, this is silly.’ He spoke more gently, but there was a note in his voice that was almost amusement. ‘Such a fuss about so little. One kiss and I’ll go, I swear it.’

‘You’ll go to hell.’ As she tried to wrench herself free one of the ribbon straps on her nightgown suddenly snapped, and the flimsy bodice slipped down, baring one rounded rose-tipped breast.

She froze in horror, and realised that Renzo too was very still, his dark face changing with a new and disturbing intensity as he looked at her. His hand slid slowly down from her shoulder to a more intimate objective, cupping her breast in lean fingers that shook a little. He brushed her nipple softly with the ball of his thumb, and as it hardened beneath his touch she felt sensation scorch through her like a naked flame against her flesh. Frightening her in a way she had never known before.

‘No.’ Her voice cracked wildly on the word. ‘Don’t touch me. Oh, God, you bastard.’

She flailed out wildly with her fists, and felt the jolt as one of them slammed into his face.

He gave a gasp of pain and reared back away from her, his hand going up to his eye. Then there was another silence.

She thought, the breath catching in her throat, Oh, God, what have I done? And, even worse, what is he going to do?

She tried to speak, to say his name—anything. To tell him she hadn’t meant to hit him—or at least not as hard.

Only she didn’t get the chance. Because he was lifting himself off the bed and striding away from her across the room without looking back. And as Marisa sank back, covering her own face with her hands, she heard first the slam of the dressing room door and then, like an echo, the bang of his own door closing.

And knew with total certainty that for tonight at least he would not be returning.




CHAPTER FIVE


EVEN after all this time Marisa found that the memory still had the power to crucify her.

I’d never behaved like that before in my entire life, she thought, shuddering. Because I’m really not the violent type—or I thought I wasn’t until that moment. Then—pow! Suddenly, the eagle landed. Only it wasn’t funny.

So completely not funny, in fact, that she’d immediately burst into a storm of tears, burying her face in the pillow to muffle the sobs that shook her entire body. Not that he could have heard her, of course. The dressing room and two intervening doors had made sure of that.

But why was I crying? she asked herself, moving restively across the mattress, trying to get comfortable. After all, it was an appalling thing to do, and I freely admit as much, but it got him out of my bedroom, which was exactly what I wanted to happen.

And he never came back. Not even after …

She swallowed, closing her eyes, wishing she could blank out all the inner visions that still tormented her. That remained there at the forefront of her mind, harsh and inescapable. Forcing her once again to recall everything that had happened that night—and, even more shamingly, on the day that had followed….

Once she was quite sure that he’d gone, her first priority was to wash the tearstains from her pale face and exchange her torn nightgown for a fresh one—although that, she soon discovered, did nothing to erase the remembered shock of his touch on her bare breast.

So much for his promise to leave her alone until she was ready, she thought, biting her lip savagely.

The way he’d looked at her, the delicate graze of his hand on her flesh, proved how little his word could be trusted.

Yet at the same time it had brought home to her with almost terrifying force how fatally easy it would be to allow her untutored senses to take control, and to forget the real reason—the only reason—they were together.

She’d agreed to this marriage only to repay a mountainous debt and to make life easier for a sick man who’d been good to her. Nothing else.

Lorenzo had accepted the arrangement solely out of duty to his family. And to keep a promise to a dying woman. That was all, too.

‘Oh, Godmother,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘How could you do this to me? To both of us?’

She’d assumed Renzo’s offer to postpone the consummation of their marriage was a sign of his basic indifference. Now she didn’t now what to think.

Because it seemed that Julia’s crude comments about his readiness to take full advantage of the situation might have some basis in truth, after all. That he might indeed find her innocence a novelty after the glamorous, experienced women he was used to, and would, therefore, be able to make the best of a bad job.

‘But I can’t do that,’ she whispered to herself. And as for learning gradually to accustom herself to the idea of intimacy with him, as he’d suggested—well, that would never happen in a million years.

A tiger in the sack, she recalled, wincing. Although she’d tried hard not to consider the implications in Julia’s crudity, the way Renzo had touched her had provided her with an unwanted inkling of the kind of demands he might make.

But then she’d known all along that spending her nights with her bridegroom would prove to be a hideous embarrassment at the very least. Or spending some of her nights, she amended hastily. Certainly not all of them. Maybe not very many, and hopefully never the entire night.

Because surely he would soon tire of her sexual naiveté?

In some ways she knew him too well, she thought. In others she didn’t know him at all. But on both counts the prospect of sleeping with him scared her half to death.

Not, of course, that sleeping would actually be the problem, she thought, setting her teeth.

She’d tried to play down her fears—telling herself that all he required was a child, a son to inherit the Santangeli name and the power and wealth it represented—and had spent time before the wedding steeling herself to accept that part of their bargain, to endure whatever it took to achieve it, assuring herself that his innate good breeding would ensure that the … the practicalities of the situation would be conducted in a civilised manner.

Only to blow her resolution to the four winds when he’d attempted to kiss her for the first time and she’d panicked. Badly.

She had reason, she told herself defensively. The night of her nineteenth birthday had made her wonder uneasily if Renzo might not want more from her than unwilling submission. And the last half-hour had only confirmed her worst fears—which was why she’d lashed out at him like that.

Her relationship with him had always been a tricky one, she thought unhappily. Leading his own life, he’d figured in her existence, when he chose to appear there, as eternally glamorous and usually aloof. Casually kind to her when it suited him, even occasionally coaching her at tennis and swimming, although never with any great enthusiasm, and almost certainly at his mother’s behest—as she’d realised later.

But all that had ended summarily when, longing for him just once to see her as a woman instead of a child, she’d made a disastrously misguided attempt to emulate one of the girls who’d stayed at the villa as his guest by ‘losing’ her bikini top when she was alone with him in the swimming pool—only to experience the full force of his icy displeasure.

‘If you think to impress me by behaving like a slut, you have misjudged the matter, Maria Lisa.’ His words and tone of voice had flayed the skin from her. ‘You are too young and too green to be a temptress, my little stork, and you dishonour not only yourself, but my parents’ roof with such ridiculous and juvenile antics.’ He’d contemptuously tossed the scrap of sodden fabric to her. ‘Now, cover yourself and go to your room.’

Overwhelmed by distress and humiliation, she had fled, despising herself for having revealed her fledgling emotions so openly, and agonising over the result.

She had felt only relief when her visits to Tuscany had gone into abeyance, and in time had even been able to reassure herself that any talk about her being Renzo’s future bride had been simply sentimental chat between two mothers, and could not, thankfully, be taken seriously.

And if I never see him again, she’d thought defiantly, it will be altogether too soon.

Now, when she looked back, she could candidly admit that she must have been embarrassment on a stick even before the swimming pool incident.

But that being the case, why hadn’t he fought tooth and nail not to have her foisted on him as a wife only a few years later?

Surely he must have recognised that there was no chance of their marriage working in any real sense?

On the other hand, perhaps he didn’t actually require it to work in that way. Because for him it was simply a means to an end. A business arrangement whereby her body became just another commodity for him to purchase.

Something for his temporary amusement that could be discreetly discarded when its usefulness was finished.

When she’d had his baby.

This was the viewpoint she’d chosen to adopt, and so, in spite of Julia’s insinuations, she hadn’t really expected him to behave as if—as if he—wanted her …

Or was that just a conditioned reflex? Girl equals bed equals sex? Identity unimportant.

That, she thought with a little sigh, was the likeliest explanation.

For a moment she stood staring at herself in the mirror, studying the shape of her body under the thin fabric of her nightdress. Noticing the length of her legs and the way the shadows in the room starkly reduced the contours of her face, making her features stand out more prominently. Especially her nose …

The stork, she thought painfully, was alive and well once more. And certainly not likely to be the object of anyone’s desire. Renzo’s least of all.

She turned away, smothering a sigh, and made her slow, reluctant way back to the bed, lying there shivering in its vastness in spite of the warmth of the night.

Still listening intently, she realised, for the sound of his return, no matter how many times she promised herself that it wasn’t going to happen. While at the same time, in her head, the events of the day kept unrolling before her in a seemingly endless loop of error and embarrassment.

It was several hours before she finally dropped into a troubled sleep. And for the first time in years there was no bedside alarm clock to summon her into a new morning, so she woke late to find Daniella at her bedside with a tray of coffee, her dark eyes sparking with ill-concealed interest and excitement as she studied Signor Lorenzo’s new bride.

Looking to see how I survived the night, Marisa realised, sitting up self-consciously, aware that her tossing and turning had rumpled the bed sufficiently to make it appear that she hadn’t slept alone.

My God, she thought, as she accepted the coffee with a stilted word of thanks. If she only knew …

And silently thanked heaven that she didn’t. That no one knew, apart from Renzo and herself, what a total shambles her first twenty-four hours of marriage had been.

Daniella’s grasp of English was limited, but Marisa managed to convince her gently but firmly that she could draw her own bath and choose her own clothing for the day without assistance, uttering a silent sigh of relief when the girl reluctantly withdrew, after informing her that breakfast would be served on the rear terrace.

Because she needed to be alone in order to think.

She’d made a few decisions before she’d eventually allowed herself to sleep, and rather to her surprise they still seemed good in daylight.

The first of them was that this time she must—must—apologise to Renzo without delay, and offer him some kind of explanation for her behaviour. She had no other choice.

But that would not be easy, she thought, cautiously sipping the dark, fragrant brew. Because if she simply told him that she’d been too scared to let him kiss her he would almost certainly want to know why.

And she could hardly admit that the angry words she’d hurled at him last night might in fact be only too true. That she’d feared she might indeed find the lure of his mouth on hers hard to resist.

No, she thought forcefully. And no again. That was a confession she dared not make. A painful return to adolescent fantasy land, as unwelcome as it was unexpected. Threatening to make her prey to the kind of dreams and desires she’d thought she’d banished for ever, and which she could not risk again. Not after they’d crashed in ruins the first time.

Oh, God, she thought, swallowing. I’m going to have to be so careful. I need to make him believe it was just a serious fit of bridal nerves.

From which I’ve now recovered …

Because that was important, she told herself, when considering the next huge obstacle she had to overcome. Which was, of course, the inevitable and unavoidable establishment of their marriage on as normal a footing as it was possible to achieve—given the circumstances.

She replaced her empty cup on the bedside table and drew up her knees, wrapping her arms around them. Frowning as she wondered how she could possibly tell him that she was now prepared to fulfil her side of their arrangement. While making it quite clear, at the same time, that she intended to regard any physical contact between them as solely part of a business deal and certainly not the beginning of any kind of—relationship.

He didn’t require her for that, anyway, she thought. According to Julia his needs in that respect were already well catered for by—what was her name? Ah, yes, Lucia, she recalled stonily. Lucia Gallo.

And throwing aside the covers, she got out of bed and prepared to face the day.

She hadn’t taken a great deal of interest in the purchase of her trousseau, except to veto her cousin’s more elaborate choice of evening dresses. But here she was, on the first morning of her marriage, with a tricky confrontation ahead of her, so choosing something to wear from the array that Daniella had unpacked and hung in one of the dressing room closets, suddenly seemed to acquire an additional importance.

She finally decided on one of her simplest outfits, a square-necked, full-skirted dress in pale yellow cotton. She brushed her light brown hair into its usual style, curving softly on to her shoulders, and added a coating of mascara to her lashes, a coral-based colour to her lips.

Then, slipping on low-heeled tan leather sandals, she left the bedroom and went in reluctant search of Lorenzo.

She’d assumed he would be at the breakfast table, but when she walked out into the sunshine she saw that only a single place was set in the vine-shaded pergola.

She turned to Massimo in faint surprise. ‘The signore has eaten already?’

‘Si, signora. Early. Very early. He say you are not to be disturbed.’ He paused, his face lugubrious. ‘And then he goes out in the car. Maybe to see a doctor—for his accident.’

‘Accident?’ Marisa repeated uneasily.

Evangelina came surging out to join them, bearing a fresh pot of coffee and a plate of sweet rolls to add to the platter of ham and cheese already on the table.

‘Si, signora,’ she said. ‘Last night, in the dark, Signor Lorenzo he walk into door.’ Her reproachful glance suggested that the signore should have been safely in bed, engrossed with his new bride, rather than wandering around bumping into the fixtures and fittings.

Marisa felt her colour rise. ‘Oh, that,’ she said, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Surely it isn’t that bad?’

Pursed lips and shrugs invited her to think again, and her heart sank like a stone as it occurred to her that Renzo might not be feeling particularly receptive to any overtures this morning, and that her apology might have to be extremely humble indeed if it was to cut any ice with him.

Which was not altogether what she’d planned.

She hung around the terrace most of the morning, waiting with trepidation for his return. And waiting …

Until Massimo came, clearly bewildered, to relay the signore’s telephone message that he would be lunching elsewhere.

Marisa, managing to hide her relief, murmured ‘Che peccato,’ and set herself to the task of persuading Massimo that it was far too hot for the midday banquet Evangelina seemed to be planning and that, as she would be eating alone, clear soup and a vegetable risotto would be quite enough.

She still wasn’t very hungry, but starving herself would do no good, so she did her best with the food, guessing that any lack of appetite would be ascribed to the fact that she was pining for Lorenzo.

She was already aware that glances were being exchanged over her head in concern for this new wife left to her own devices so soon after her bridal night.

If Renzo continued his absence they might start putting two and two together and making all kinds of numbers, she thought without pleasure.

Her meal finished, she rested for a while in her room with the shutters drawn, but she soon accepted that she was far too jittery to relax, so she changed into a black bikini, topping it with a pretty black and white voile overshirt, and went back into the sunshine to find the swimming pool.

As Renzo had indicated, it was quite a descent through tier upon tier of blossom-filled terraces. It was like climbing down into a vast bowl of flowers, Marisa thought, with the oval pool, a living aquamarine, at its base. The sun terrace surrounding the water was tiled in a mosaic pattern of ivory and gold, and sunbeds had been placed in readiness, cushioned in turquoise, each with its matching parasol.

At one end of the pool there was a small hexagonal pavilion, painted white, containing towels, together with extra cushions and a shelf holding an extensive range of sun protection products. It also contained a refrigerator stocked with bottled water and soft drinks.

The air was very still, and filled with the scent of the encircling flowers. The only sounds were the soft drone of bees searching for pollen and, farther away, the whisper of the sea.

Marisa took a deep breath. If she’d simply been visiting on holiday, by herself, she’d have thought she was in paradise. As it was …

But she wouldn’t think about that now, she told herself firmly. For the present she was alone, and she would make the most of it. Even if it was only the calm before an almost inevitable storm.

She slipped off her shirt and walked to the side of the pool. She sat on the edge for a moment, testing the temperature of the water with a cautious foot, then slid in, gasping with pleasure as the exquisite coolness received her heated body.

She began to swim steadily and without haste, completing one length of the pool, then another, and a third, feeling relaxed for the first time in days.

Out of the water, and dried off, she was careful to apply a high-factor lotion to her exposed skin before stretching out to sunbathe.

Allowing herself to burn to a frazzle might be an effective way of postponing the inevitable, she thought ruefully, but it wouldn’t do much to advance the cause of marital harmony. And she couldn’t afford to let matters deteriorate any further—not now she’d made up her mind to yield herself to him.

She capped the bottle and lay back on the padded cushions of her shaded lounger, closing her eyes and letting her thoughts drift.

Dinner tonight, she supposed, would probably be the best time to tell him of her decision—and then she might well drink herself into oblivion for the first time in her life, which was not something she’d ever contemplated, or a prospect she particularly relished.

It was just a question of doing whatever was necessary to get her through this phase in her life relatively unscathed, she thought unhappily, and alcohol was the only available anaesthetic.

It occurred to her that Renzo would probably know exactly why she was drinking as if tomorrow had been cancelled, but why would he care as long as he got what he wanted? she asked herself defiantly.

Anyway, she’d deal with that when the time came, and in the meantime she should stop brooding and turn her thoughts to something else entirely.

She ought to have brought something to read, she told herself ruefully. But when she’d mentioned packing some books into her honeymoon luggage Julia had stared at her as if she was insane, then told her acidly that Renzo would make sure she had far better things to do with her time.

Which brought her right back to square one again, she thought with a sigh, sitting up and reaching for her shirt.

She’d noticed some magazines yesterday in the salotto, and although they seemed exclusively to feature high fashion and interior design, they’d at least be a diversion.

Also they were in Italian, and Zio Guillermo had suggested kindly, but with a certain firmness too, that it would be good for her to start improving her language skills as soon as possible. So she could kill two birds with one stone.

Because of the heat, she deliberately took the climb up to the terrace very easily, pausing frequently to stand in the shade, and look back over the view.

But as she reached the top of the last flight of steps she halted abruptly, her heart thumping out a warning tattoo against her ribcage.

Because Renzo was there, sitting at the table, his feet up on an adjacent chair, reading a newspaper, a glass of wine beside him. He was wearing brief white shorts, a pair of espadrilles and sunglasses. The rest of him was tanned skin.

There was no way to avoid him, of course, Marisa realised uneasily, because this was the only route to the house. She just wished she was wearing more clothes. Or that he was.

It was all too horribly reminiscent of the last time he’d seen her in a bikini, when she’d given way to an impulse she’d hardly understood and been left to weep at her own humiliation.

She swallowed. But that had been years ago, and she wasn’t a child any longer—as he’d demonstrated last night.

And now there were things which had to be said, which couldn’t be put off any longer. Three birds, she thought, for the price of two. And bit her lip.

As she stood, hesitating, Renzo glanced up and saw her. Immediately he put his paper aside and got politely to his feet. ‘Buon pomeriggio.’ His greeting was unsmiling.

‘Good afternoon,’ she returned, dry-mouthed. In some odd way, he seemed taller than ever. ‘I—I was hoping you’d be back.’

He said expressionlessly, ‘I am flattered.’

His tone suggested the opposite, but Marisa ploughed on, trying to look anywhere but directly at him.

‘Evangelina said you might need medical treatment. I—I was—concerned.’

‘In case I had been blinded?’ he questioned with faint derision. He shook his head. ‘Evangelina exaggerates. As you see, no doctor was necessary,’ he added, removing his dark glasses.

She had to look at him then, staring with horror at the dark bruising at the corner of his eye. It was even worse than she’d expected.

She said huskily, ‘I—I’m truly sorry. Please believe that I didn’t mean to do it—that it was a total accident.’

He shrugged. ‘Then God help me if you ever intend to do it.’

Colour rose in her face. She said, ‘I never would. I—I was startled, that’s all.’ She spread her hands defensively. ‘All this—the strain of these last weeks—the wedding—it hasn’t been easy for me.’

‘And therefore my quite unreasonable wish to kiss you goodnight was the final straw?’ he said softly. ‘Is that what you are saying?’

She bit her lip. ‘Yes—perhaps.’ She looked down at the black and white marble tiles at her feet. ‘Although I realise it’s no excuse.’

‘At least we agree on something.’

He was not making this very easy for her, she thought. But then why should he? He was the one with the black eye.

‘Also,’ she went on, ‘I have to thank you for pretending that you walked into a door.’

‘It is the usual excuse, I believe,’ he said crisply. ‘Inoltre, I felt the truth would hardly be to the credit of either of us.’ His mouth twisted. ‘And Evangelina would have been most distressed. She is a romantic creature.’

She did not meet his gaze. ‘Then we must already be a terrible disappointment to her.’

‘No doubt,’ he said. ‘But we must all learn to live with our various disillusionments.’ He shrugged again. ‘And for some time to come, it seems, to judge by last night.’

The moment of truth had arrived. Earlier than she’d planned, but a few hours couldn’t really matter. Anyway, there was no turning back now, she thought, taking a deep breath. But her voice faltered a little just the same. ‘Well—perhaps not.’

There was an odd silence, then Renzo said slowly, ‘Why, Maria Lisa, are you saying you want me to make love to you?’

She realised that he was looking at her, studying her, allowing his eyes to travel slowly down her half-naked body. Thought again of a time when she would have responded with eager joy to the caress of his gaze, and how her pathetic attempt to lure him had met with rejection instead.

A small, cold stone seemed to settle in the middle of her chest.

She said, lifting her chin, ‘Shall we save the pretence for the staff, signore? You don’t want me any more than I want you. Julia told me you already have this Lucia Gallo in your life, so we both know exactly why we’re here, and what’s expected of us, and it has nothing to do with love.’

She stared rigidly past him. ‘You said last night that you wanted me not to—not to dread being with you, but that’s not going to happen. It—can’t. Because, however long you wait, I’m never going to be—ready in the way you wish.’

He was utterly still, she realised, and completely silent. In fact, she could have been addressing a statue. A man of bronze.

Oh, God, she thought. This would have been so much less complicated over dinner. And she wasn’t explaining it all in the way she’d rehearsed down at the pool either. In fact, she seemed to be saying all kinds of things she hadn’t intended. But she’d started, and she had to go stumbling on. She had no choice now.

‘You bought me for a purpose.’ Her voice quivered a little. ‘So you’re entitled to use me—in that way. I—I realise that, and I accepted it when I agreed to marry you. Truly I did. I also accept that you were trying to be kind when you said you’d be patient and—and wait in order to make … sex with you … easier for me. Except, it hasn’t worked. Because waiting has just made everything a hundred times worse. It’s like this huge black cloud hanging over me—a sentence that’s been passed but not carried out.’

She swallowed. ‘It’s been this way ever since we became engaged, and I can’t bear it any longer. So I’d prefer it—over and done with, and as soon as possible.’

She slid a glance at him, and for a brief instant she had the strangest impression that it wasn’t only the corner of his eye but his entire face that was bruised.

Some trick of the light, she thought, her throat closing as she hurried on with a kind of desperation.

‘So I need to tell you that it’s all right—for you to come to my room tonight. I’ll do whatever you want, and—I—I promise that I won’t fight you this time.’ And stopped, at last, with a little nervous gasp.

The silence and stillness remained, but the quality of it seemed to have changed in some subtle way she did not understand.

But all the same it worried her, and she needed it to be broken. To obtain some reaction from him.

She drew a breath. ‘Perhaps I haven’t explained properly …’

‘Al contrario, you have been more than clear, signora.’ His voice reached her at last, cool and level. ‘Even eloquent. My congratulations. I am only sorry that my attempt at behaving towards you with consideration has failed so badly. Forgive me, please, and believe I did not intend to cause you stress by delaying the consummation of our marriage. However, that can soon be put right. And we do not have to wait until tonight.’

Two long strides brought him to her. He picked her up in his arms and carried her towards the open French windows of the salotto.

She said, in a voice she did not recognise. ‘Renzo—what are you doing?’ She began to struggle. ‘Put me down—do you hear? Put me down at once.’

‘I intend to.’ He crossed the room to the empty fireplace, setting her down on the enormous fur rug that fronted it and kneeling over her. He said softly, ‘You said you would not fight me, Marisa. I recommend that you keep your promise.’

She looked up at him—at the livid bruising and the hard set of his mouth. At the cold purpose in his eyes.

‘Oh, God, no.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Not like this—please.’

‘Do not distress yourself.’ His voice was harsh. ‘Your ordeal will be brief—far more so than it would have been tonight. And that is my promise to you.’

He reached down almost negligently, stripping her of the bottom half of her bikini and tossing it aside, before unzipping his shorts.

He did not hold her down, nor use any kind of force. Shocked as she was, she could recognise that. But then he did not have to, she thought numbly, because she’d told him that she wouldn’t resist.

And he was, quite literally, taking her at her word.

Nor did he attempt to kiss her. And the hand that parted her thighs was brisk rather than caressing.

She tried to say no again, because every untried female instinct she possessed was screaming that it should not be like this.

That, whatever she’d said, this wasn’t what she’d intended. That she’d been nervous and muddled it all. And somehow she had to let him know this, and ask him, in spite of everything, to be kind.

But no sound came from her dry, paralysed throat, and anyway it was all too late—because Renzo was already guiding himself slowly into her, pausing to give her bewildered face a swift glance, then taking total possession of her stunned body with one long, controlled thrust.

Arching himself above her, his weight on his arms, his clenched fists buried in the softness of the rug on either side of her, he began to move, strongly and rhythmically.

Marisa had braced herself instinctively against the onset of a pain she’d imagined would be inevitable, even if she’d been taken with any kind of tenderness.

But if there’d been any discomfort it had been so slight and so fleeting that she’d barely registered the fact.

It was the astonishing sensation of his body sheathed in hers that was totally controlling her awareness. The amazing reality of all that potent, silken hardness, driving ever more deeply into her aroused and yielding heat, slowly at first, then much faster, that was sending her mind suddenly into free fall. Alerting her to possibilities she had not known existed. Offering her something almost akin to—hope.

And then, with equal suddenness, it was over. She heard Renzo cry out hoarsely, almost achingly, and felt his body shuddering into hers in one scalding spasm after another.

For what seemed an eternity he remained poised above her, his breathing ragged as he fought to regain his control. Then he lifted himself out of her, away from her, dragging his clothing back into place with frankly unsteady hands before getting to his feet and looking down at her, his dark face expressionless.

‘So, signora.’ His voice was quiet, almost courteous. ‘You have nothing more to fear. Our distasteful duty has at last been done, and I trust without too much inconvenience to you.’

He paused, adding more harshly, ‘Let us also hope that it has achieved its purpose, and that you are never forced to suffer my attentions again. And that I am not made to endure any further outrage to my own feelings.’

He walked to the door without sparing her one backward glance. Leaving her where she was lying, shaken, but in some strange way feeling almost—bereft without him.

And at that moment, when it was so very much too late, she heard herself whisper his name.




CHAPTER SIX


EVEN now Marisa could remember with total clarity that she hadn’t wanted to move.

That it had seemed somehow so much easier to remain where she was, like a small animal cowering in long grass, shivering with resentment, shame and—yes—misery too, than to pull herself together and restore some kind of basic decency to her appearance as she tried to come to terms with what had just happened.

Eventually the fear of being found by one of the staff had forced her to struggle back into her bikini briefs and, huddling her crumpled shirt defensively around her, make her way to her room.

There, she’d stripped completely, before standing under a shower that had been almost too hot to be bearable. As if that could in any way erase the events of the past half-hour.

How could he? she’d asked herself wretchedly as the water had pounded its way over her body. Oh, God, how could he treat me like that—as if I had no feelings—as if I hardly existed for him?

Well, I know the answer to that now, Marisa thought, turning over in her search for a cool spot on her pillow. If I’m honest, I probably knew it then too, but couldn’t let myself admit it.

It happened because that’s what I asked for. Because I added insult to the injury I’d already inflicted by telling him to his face that he didn’t matter. That sex with him would only ever be a ‘distasteful duty’—the words he threw at me afterwards.

She’d sensed the anger in him, like a damped-down fire that could rage out of control at any moment, in the way he’d barely touched her. In the way that the lovemaking he’d offered her only moments before had been transformed into a brief, soulless act accomplished with stark and icy efficiency. And perhaps most of all in his subsequent dismissal of her before he walked away.

Yet, anger had not made him brutal, she reflected broodingly. He had not behaved well, perhaps. After all, she had still been his new bride, and a virgin, but he had not forced her—merely used her confused and unwilling assent against her. And he most certainly hadn’t hurt her.

Or not physically, at least.

Which made it difficult to blame or hate him as much as she wanted to do, she realised, aggrieved.

An important stone that would for ever be missing from the wall of indifference she’d deliberately constructed between them.

And it was a wall that she was determined to maintain at all costs, Marisa told herself, now that Renzo had so unexpectedly come back into her life, it seemed with every intention of remaining there, totally regardless of her own wishes.

Which surely constituted just cause for resentment, however you looked at it?

Suddenly restive, she pushed the coverlet aside and got out of bed, moving soundlessly to the small easy chair by the window.

If ever she’d needed a good night’s sleep to ensure that she was fresh, with all her wits about her for the morning, it was now. And it just wasn’t going to happen—thanks to the man occupying her living room sofa and the memories his arrival had forced back into her consciousness.

Memories of leaning slumped against the shower’s tiled wall, a hand pressed against her abdomen as she realised it would be nearly three weeks before she knew for certain whether Renzo’s ‘purpose’, as he’d so bleakly expressed it, had been achieved, and his child was growing in her body.

Of trying desperately to formulate some credible excuse to avoid having to face him at dinner in a few hours’ time—or ever again, for that matter—and knowing there was none. She would have to pretend that she didn’t care how he’d treated her. That she’d neither anticipated nor wanted anything more from him, and was simply thankful that the matter had been dealt with and need not be referred to again.

Of eventually dressing in a pretty swirl of turquoise silk—not white, because it was no longer appropriate, and not black because it might suggest she was in some kind of mourning—and joining him with an assumption of calmness in the salotto.

Of accepting his coolly civil offer of a drink with equal politeness, realising he had no more wish to speak of the afternoon’s events than she did. And then of sitting opposite him in silence, during an interminable meal.

A pattern, she had soon discovered, that would be repeated each evening.

Not that he’d planned to spend time with her during the day either, as she had found out when she joined him for breakfast the following morning, at his request, conveyed by Daniella.

‘This is a very beautiful part of the world, Marisa, and you will no doubt wish to go sightseeing—to explore Amalfi itself, of course, and then discover the delights of Ravello and Positano.’

Was he offering to escort her? she wondered in sudden alarm, her lips already parting to deny, mendaciously, that she had any such ambition. To say she was quite content to stay within the precincts of the villa while he went off to Ravello, or wherever, and stayed there.

But before she could speak, he added smoothly, ‘I have therefore arranged to have a car placed at your disposal. The driver’s name is Paolo. He is a cousin of Evangelina and completely reliable. He will make himself available each day to drive you anywhere you want to go.’

So I don’t have to …

The unspoken words seemed to hover in the air between them.

‘I see.’ She should have been dancing with relief. Instead, she felt oddly—blank. She hesitated. ‘That’s—very kind of you.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing.’

And that she could believe, she thought bleakly. It was his way of dealing with an awkward and disagreeable situation—by simply ridding himself of the source of annoyance.

After all, he’d done it not that long ago—with Alan.

Renzo paused too. He went on more slowly, ‘I have also ordered a box of books to be delivered here for you—a selection from the bestseller lists in Britain and America. I recall you used to like thrillers, but perhaps your tastes have changed?’

Marisa found she was biting her lip—hard.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not really. And I’m very grateful.’ Adding stiffly, ‘Grazie.’

‘Prego.’ His mouth curled slightly. ‘After all, mia bella, I would not wish you to be bored.’

A comment, she thought stonily, that removed any further need for appreciation on her part.

For the next few days it suited her to play the tourist—if only because it got her away from the villa and Renzo’s chillingly aloof courtesy. To her endless embarrassment he continued to treat her with quite astonishing generosity, and as a result she found herself in possession of more money in cash than she’d ever dreamed of in her life, plus a selection of credit cards with no apparent upper limit.

She’d often wondered what it might be like to have access to unrestricted spending, only to find there was very little she actually wanted to buy.

Maybe I’m not the type to shop till I drop, she thought, sighing. What a waste.

But she did make one important purchase. In Positano she bought herself three maillots—one in black, another in a deep olive-green, and the third in dark red—to wear for her solitary late-afternoon swim, and to replace the bikinis she never wanted to see again, let alone wear.

In Amalfi she visited an outlet selling the handmade paper for which the region was famous, and dutifully bought some to send back to England to Julia and Harry. She also sent her cousin a postcard, with some deliberately neutral comments on the weather and scenery. After all, she thought wryly, she could hardly write Having a wonderful time.

She was particularly enchanted by Ravello, its narrow streets seemingly caught in a medieval time warp, and thought wistfully how much she would like to attend one of the open-air concerts held in the moonlit splendour of the gardens at the Villa Rufulo. But she acknowledged with a sigh, it was hardly the kind of event she could attend alone, without inviting even more speculation than already existed.

Paolo was a pleasant, middle-aged man who spoke good English and was eager to guide her round his amazing native landscape and share his extensive knowledge of its history. But Marisa was conscious that, like the staff at the villa, he was bemused at this bride who seemed never to be in her husband’s company, and she was growing tired of being asked if the signore was quite well.

Eventually she decided she had visited enough churches, admired enough Renaissance artefacts, and gaped at sufficient pictures. Also, she felt disinclined to give any more assurances about Renzo’s health—especially as the bruise on his eye was fading at last.

Her main danger was in eating far too many of the delicious almond and lemon cakes served in the cafés in Amalfi’s Piazza del Duomo, as she sat at a table in the sunlight and watched the crowds as they milled about in the ancient square.

So many families strolling with children. So very many couples, too, meeting with smiling eyes, a touch of hands, an embrace. No one, she thought, had ever greeted her like that, as if she was their whole world. Not even Alan. But their relationship hadn’t had a chance, being over almost as soon as it had begun.

And then, in her mind, she saw a sudden image of Renzo, standing at the altar only a week before, as if transfixed, an expression that was almost wonder on his dark face as she walked towards him.

And what on earth had made her think of that? she thought, startled, as she finished her coffee and signalled for the bill.

Not that it meant anything—except that the sight of her had probably brought it home to him that his head was now firmly in the noose.

All the same, the buzz of talk and laughter in the air around her only served to emphasise her own sense of isolation.

She thought, with a pang, I have no one. Unless, of course … And her hand strayed almost unconsciously to the flatness of her stomach.

The next morning, when Evangelina enquired at what hour the signora would require Paolo to call for her, Marisa said politely that she did not wish to do any more sightseeing for a while.

‘Ah.’ Something like hope dawned in the plump face. ‘No doubt you will be joining the signore by the pool?’

‘No,’ Marisa returned coolly. ‘I thought I would go up to the village for a stroll.’

‘The village is small,’ said Evangelina. ‘It has little to see, signora. Better to stay here and relax.’ She gave a winning smile. ‘Is quiet by the pool. No disturb there.’

In other words, Marisa thought, caught between annoyance and a kind of reluctant amusement, no one would go blundering down there in case the signore decided to take full advantage of his wife’s company by enjoying his marital rights in such secluded and romantic surroundings.

She shrugged. ‘I’ll swim later, as usual,’ she said casually. ‘After I’ve been for my walk.’ And she turned away, pretending not to notice the housekeeper’s disappointment.

Fifteen minutes later, trim in a pair of white cut-offs topped by a silky russet tee shirt, with her pretty straw bag slung across her shoulder, Marisa passed through Villa Santa Caterina’s wide gateway and set off up the hill.

Evangelina, she soon discovered, had been perfectly correct in her assessment. The village was small, and no tourist trap, its main street lined with houses shuttered against the morning sun, interspersed with a few shops providing life’s practicalities, among them a café with two tables outside under an awning.

Maybe on the way back she’d stop there for a while and have a cold drink. Enjoy the shade. Read some of the book she’d brought with her. Anything to delay the moment when she would have to return to Villa Santa Caterina and the probability of Evangelina’s further attempts to throw her into Renzo’s arms.

At the same time she became aware that every few yards, between the houses and their neat gardens, she could catch a glimpse of the sparkling azure that was the sea.

The view from the villa garden was spectacular enough, she thought, but up here it would be magical, and in her bag she’d also brought the small sketching block and pencils that she’d acquired on yesterday’s trip to Amalfi.

She was standing, craning her neck at one point, when she realised the lady of the house in question had emerged and was watching her.

Marisa stepped back, flushing. ‘Perdono,’ she apologised awkwardly. ‘I was looking at the view—il bel mare,’ she added for good measure.

Immediately the other’s face broke into a beaming smile. ‘Si—si,’ she nodded vigorously. She marched over to Marisa and took her arm, propelling her up the village street while chattering at a great and largely incomprehensible rate—apart from the words ‘una vista fantastica’, which pretty much explained themselves.

At the end of the street the houses stopped and a high wall began, which effectively blocked everything. Marisa’s self-appointed guide halted, pointing at it.

‘Casa Adriana,’ she announced. ‘Che bella vista.’ She kissed her fingertips as she urged Marisa forward, adding with a gusty sigh, ‘Che tragedia.’

A fantastic view, I can handle, Marisa thought as she moved off obediently. But do I really need a tragedy to go with it?

However, a glance over her shoulder showed that her new friend was still watching and smiling, so she gave a slight wave in return and trudged on.

As she got closer she saw that the wall’s white paintwork was dingy and peeling, and that the actual structure was crumbling in places, indicating that some serious attention was needed.

It also seemed to go on for ever, but eventually she realised she was approaching a narrow, rusting wrought-iron gate, and that this was standing ajar in a kind of mute invitation.

Beyond it, a weed-infested gravel path wound its way between a mass of rioting bushes and shrubs, and at its end, beckoning like a siren, was the glitter of blue that announced the promised view.

The breath caught in Marisa’s throat, and she pushed the gate wider so that she could walk through. She’d expected an outraged squeal from the ancient metal hinges, but there wasn’t a sound. Someone, she saw, had clearly been busy with an oil can.

This is what happens in late night thrillers on television, she told herself. And I’m always the one with her hands over her face, screaming Don’t do it! So it will serve me right if that gate swings shut behind me and traps me in here with some nameless horror lurking in the undergrowth.

But the gate, fortunately, displayed no desire to move, and the nameless horror probably had business elsewhere, so she walked briskly forward, avoiding the overhanging shrubs and bushes with their pollen-heavy blossoms that tried to impede her way.

There was a scent of jasmine in the air, and there were roses too, crowding everywhere in a rampant glory of pink, white and yellow. Marisa was no expert—her parents’ garden had been little more than a grass patch, while Julia had opted for a courtyard with designer tubs—but from her vacations in Tuscany she recognised oleanders mingling with masses of asters, pelargoniums, and clumps of tall graceful daisies, all wildly out of control.

Halfway down, the path forked abruptly to the right, and there, half-eclipsed by the bougainvillaea climbing all over it, was all that remained of a once pretty house. Its walls were still standing, but even from a distance Marisa could see that many of the roof tiles were missing, and that behind the screen of pink and purple flowers shutters were hanging loose from broken windows.

But there’d been attempts elsewhere to restore order. The grass had been cut in places, and over-intrusive branches cut down and stacked, presumably for burning.

In the centre of one cleared patch stood a fountain, where a naked nymph on tiptoe sadly tilted an urn which had not flowed with water for a very long time.

And straight ahead, at the end of the path, a lemon tree heavy with fruit stood like a sentinel, watching by the low wall that overlooked the bay.

Rather too low a wall, Marisa thought, when she took a wary peep over its edge and discovered a stomach-churning drop down the sheer and rocky cliff to the tumbling sea far below.

She stepped back hastily, and found herself colliding with an ancient wooden seat, which had been placed at a safe distance in the shade of the tree, suggesting that the garden’s owner might not have had much of a head for heights either.

That was probably the tragedy that her friend in the village had mentioned, she thought. An inadvertent stumble after too much limoncello by some unlucky soul, and a headlong dive into eternity.

She seated herself gingerly, wondering if the bench was still capable of bearing even her slight weight, but there was no imminent sign of collapse, so she allowed herself to lean back and take her first proper look at the panorama laid out in front of her.

One glance told her that ‘fantastic’ was indeed the word, and she silently blessed the woman who’d sent her here.

Over to her left she could see the cream, gold and terracotta of Amalfi town, looking as if it had grown like some sprawling rock plant out of the tall cliffs that sheltered it. The towering stone facades themselves gleamed like silver and amethyst in the morning sun under a dark green canopy of cypresses. And below the town the deep cerulean sea turned to jade and turquoise edged with foam as it spilled itself endlessly on the shingle shore.

She could even see the rooftop swimming pools of the hotels overlooking the port, and the sturdy outline of the medieval watchtower, which no longer scanned the horizon for pirates or enemies from neighbouring city states, but served food in its elegant restaurant instead. Beyond it lay Ravello, and if she turned to glance the other way she could see the dizzying tumble of Positano, and in the far distance a smudge that might even be Capri.

The horizon was barely visible, sky and sea merging seamlessly in an azure blur.

It was also very quiet. The sound of traffic along the ribbon of coast road was barely audible at this distance, and for the first time in weeks Marisa felt the tension within her—like the heaviness of unshed tears—beginning to ease, and something like peace take its place.

So good, she thought. So good to be truly alone and leave behind the pressure of other people’s expectations. To be free of the necessity of changing into yet another charming and expensive dress just to make occasional and stilted conversation across a dinner table with a young man whose smile never reached his eyes.

To be, just for a while, Marisa Brendon again and nothing more, with no apology for a marriage to haunt her.

She looked down at her hand, then slowly slid off her wedding ring, and buried it deep in her pocket.

There, she thought. Now I can pretend that I’m simply here on vacation, with my whole life ahead of me, free to enjoy no one’s company but my own.

Only to hear from behind her a small, mild cough which announced that she was not alone after all. That someone else was there, sharing her supposed solitude.

Startled, she jumped to her feet and turned, to find herself confronted by a small woman with rimless glasses and wisps of grey hair escaping from under a floppy linen sun hat. Her khaki trousers and shirt were smeared with earth and green stains, and she carried a small pair of pruning shears in one hand and a flat wicker basket full of trimmings in the other.

Oh, God, Marisa thought, embarrassed colour flooding her face. That house can’t be as derelict as I thought.

Aloud, she said, in halting and woefully incorrect Italian, ‘Please forgive me. I was not told that anyone lived here. I will leave at once.’

The newcomer’s brows lifted. ‘Another Englishwoman,’ said a gentle voice. ‘How very nice. And I’m afraid we’re both trespassers, my dear. I also came here one day to look at the view, but I saw a potentially beautiful space going to rack and ruin and I couldn’t resist the challenge. No one has ever objected,’ she added. ‘Probably because they think I’m mad to try.’

Her smile was kind. ‘So please don’t run away on my account. And I’m sorry if I startled you. You were a shock to me too, appearing so quietly. For a moment I thought Adriana had returned, and then I realised you were totally twenty-first century. Quite a relief, I have to say.’

She tugged off her thick gardening gloves and held out her hand. ‘I’m Dorothy Morton.’

‘Marisa Brendon.’ Well, I’ve done it now, Marisa thought as she returned the smile and the handshake. Crossed my own small Rubicon back to being single again.

‘Marisa,’ the older woman repeated thoughtfully. ‘Such a charming name. And Italian too, I believe?’

‘After my late godmother.’

‘Ah,’ said Mrs Morton. ‘And did she live locally? Are you familiar with the area?’

Marisa shook her head. ‘No, this is my first visit.’ And almost certainly my last. ‘I’m staying with—some people.’

‘My husband and I were fortunate enough to be able to retire here.’ Mrs Morton looked out at the bay with an expression of utter contentment. ‘We have an apartment nearby, but it only has a balcony, and I do miss my gardening. So I come here most days and do what I can.’ She sighed. ‘But as you see, it’s an uphill struggle.’

‘It must be tiring too.’ Marisa gestured towards the bench. ‘Shall we sit down—if you have time?’

‘My time is very much my own.’ Mrs Morton took a seat at the other end of the bench. ‘I have a most understanding husband.’

‘That’s—lovely for you.’ Marisa was suddenly conscious of the ring buried in her pocket. She added hurriedly, ‘But why has the garden been allowed to get into such a state?’ She glanced around her. ‘Doesn’t the owner—this Adriana—care?’

‘I think she would care very much if she was alive to see it, but she died a long time ago—over fifty years, I gather—and ownership of the property is no longer established.’

‘She didn’t have an heir?’ Marisa asked with a certain constraint. Another topic, she thought, she’d have preferred to avoid.

‘She and her husband were still newlyweds,’ Mrs Morton explained. ‘According to the local stories they made wills leaving everything to each other. And when he pre-deceased her she refused to make another.’

She shrugged. ‘Relatives on both sides have made legal claims to the estate over the years, but I suspect that most of them have died too by now, so the whole thing is in abeyance.’

‘Oh.’ Marisa drew a deep breath. ‘So that’s the tragedy. This wonderful place just left to—moulder away.’ She shook her head. ‘But why on earth didn’t this Adriana change her will?’

‘Oh, that’s quite simple,’ Mrs Morton said quietly. ‘You see, she never actually believed that her husband was dead.’

Marisa frowned. ‘But surely there must have been a death certificate at some point?’ she objected.

‘Under normal circumstances,’ the other woman said. ‘But sadly there was no real proof of death. Filippo Barzoni was sailing back from Ischia—he was a keen and experienced sailor, and had made the trip many times before—when a sudden violent squall blew up. Neither he nor his boat were ever seen again.

‘Some wreckage was washed up near Sorrento, but it was considered inconclusive as the storm had produced other casualties. However, no one but his widow believed that Filippo could possibly have survived. They were passionately in love, you see, and Adriana always claimed she would know, in her heart, if her husband were no longer alive. She felt most strongly that he was still with her, and that one day he would return.’

She sighed. ‘That’s why she had this bench placed here, so she could sit and watch the bay for a blue boat with maroon sails. She came every day to keep her vigil, summer and winter, and she refused to listen to any arguments against it. “One day, he will come back to me,” she used to say. “And he will find me waiting.”’

‘How awful,’ Marisa said softly. ‘Poor woman.’

Mrs Morton smiled again. ‘She didn’t see herself at all in that way, by all accounts. She was very calm, very steadfast, and doing what she believed in. As well as love, you see, she had faith and hope, so maybe she was one of the lucky ones.’

‘What happened in the end?’ Marisa asked.

‘She caught a chill, which she neglected, and which turned to pneumonia. She was taken to hospital, much against her will, and died a few days later.’ She added with faint dryness, ‘It’s said her last words were “Tell him I waited,” which one can believe or not.’

She put on her gloves and rose. ‘But this is far too lovely a day, and you’re much too young and pretty for any more sad stories about lost love. And I must get on with some work.’ She looked again at the sea. ‘However, this is a wonderful spot—especially to sit and think—and I hope I haven’t depressed you so much that you never come back.’

‘No,’ Marisa said. ‘I’d love to come and sit here—as long as I won’t be in the way.’

‘On the contrary, I think we can peacefully co-exist.’

‘And I have to say that it doesn’t actually feel sad at all.’

‘Nor to me,’ Mrs Morton agreed. ‘But I know some of the local people tend to avoid it.’

Marisa said slowly, ‘You said, when you saw me, that you thought for a moment Adriana had come back. Is that what people think?’

Behind her spectacles, Mrs Morton’s eyes twinkled. ‘Not out loud. The parish priest is very against superstition.’ She paused. ‘But I was surprised to see you, because so very few visitors come here. In fact, I always think of it as the village’s best-kept secret.’

‘Yet they told me?’ Marisa said, half to herself.

‘Well, perhaps you seemed like someone who needed a quiet place to think in the sunshine.’ As she moved away Mrs Morton glanced back over her shoulder. ‘But that, my dear, is entirely your own business.’

And co-exist, we did, Marisa thought, looking back with a pang of gratitude.

It had been late afternoon when she’d finally returned to Villa Santa Caterina, and she had fully expected to be cross-examined about her absence—by Evangelina if no one else, particularly as she’d failed to return to the villa for lunch. But not a word was said.

And no questions had been asked when she’d announced the following day that she was going for another walk, or any of the days that followed, when she’d climbed the hill to the house, passing her hours quietly on Adriana’s bench. She read, and sketched, and tried to make sense of what had happened to her and where it might lead.

Keeping, she realised now, a vigil of her own.

She’d invariably been aware of Mrs Morton’s relaxed presence elsewhere in the garden, and sometimes they had chatted, when the older woman took a break from her endeavours, having kindly but firmly refused Marisa’s diffident offer of help.

Conversation between them had been restricted to general topics, although Marisa had been aware that sometimes her companion watched her in a faintly puzzled way, as if wondering why she should choose to spend so much time alone.

Once, indeed, she’d asked, ‘Do your friends not mind seeing so little of you, my dear?’

‘No, not at all.’ Marisa looked down at her bare hand. ‘We’re not—close.’

And then, in the final week of the honeymoon, all her silent questioning was ended when she woke with stomach cramps and realised there would be no baby.

Realised, too, that she would somehow have to go to Renzo and tell him. And then, on some future occasion, steel herself to have sex with him again.

Both of those being prospects that filled her with dread.

She took some painkillers and spent most of the morning in bed, informing Evangelina that she had a headache, probably through too much sun.

‘Perhaps you would tell the signore,’ she added, hoping that Renzo would read between the lines of the message and guess the truth. That as a result she might be spared the embarrassment of a personal interview with him. But Evangelina looked surprised.

‘He is not here, signora. He has business in Naples and will not return before dinner. Did he not say?’

‘I expect so.’ Marisa kept her tone light. Let’s keep up the pretence, she thought, that this is a normal marriage, where people talk to each other. After all, in a few more days we’ll be leaving. ‘I—probably forgot.’

In a way she was relieved at his absence, but knew that her reprieve was only temporary, and that eventually she would have to confront him with the unwelcome truth.

By which time, she told herself unhappily, she might have thought of something to say.

The business in Naples must have taken longer than Renzo had bargained for, because for the first time Marisa was down to dinner ahead of him. And when he did join her he was clearly preoccupied.

She sat quietly, forcing herself to eat and making no attempt to break the silence between them.

But when the coffee arrived and he rose, quietly excusing himself on the grounds that he had phone calls to make, she knew she couldn’t delay any longer.

She said, ‘Can they wait for a few moments, please? I—I’d like to talk to you.’

‘An unexpected honour.’ His voice was cool, but he stood, waiting.

She flushed. ‘Not really. I—I’m afraid I have—bad news for you. I found out this morning that I’m—not pregnant after all.’ She added stiltedly, ‘I’m—sorry.’

‘Are you?’ His tone was expressionless. ‘Well, that is understandable.’

She wanted to tell him that wasn’t what she meant. That, however it had been conceived, during the weeks of waiting to her own astonishment the baby had somehow become very real to her—and in some strange way precious.

And that this had come home to her most forcefully today, when she’d had to face the fact that his child had never actually existed, and had found herself in the extremity of a different kind of pain.

She said with difficulty, ‘You must be very disappointed.’

His faint smile was as bleak as winter. ‘I think I am beyond disappointment, Marisa. Perhaps we should discuss this—and other matters—in the morning. Now, you must excuse me.’

When he had gone, Marisa sat staring at the candle-flame, sipping her coffee and feeling it turn to bitterness in her throat. Then she pushed the cup away from her, so violently that some of its contents spilled across the white cloth, and went to her bedroom.

She undressed, cleaned her teeth, and put on her nightgown, moving like an automaton. She got into bed and drew the covers around her as if the night was cold. The cramps had subsided long ago, and in their place was a great hollowness.

It’s gone, she thought. My little boy. My little girl. Someone to love, who’d have loved me in return. Who’d have belonged to me.

Except it was only a figment of my imagination. And I’m left with nothing. No one.

Until the next time, if he can ever bring himself to touch me again.

Suddenly all the pent-up hurt and loneliness of her situation overwhelmed her, and she began to cry, softly at first, and then in hard, choking sobs that threatened to tear her apart.

Leaving her, at last, drained and shivering in the total isolation of that enormous bed.




CHAPTER SEVEN


AND the following morning she had found that her honeymoon had come to an abrupt end.

Her confrontation with Renzo had taken place, to her discomfort, in the salotto—a room she’d tried to avoid ever since … since that day, and where she’d managed never to be alone with him again.

She had sat. He had stood, his face bleak, almost haggard. The golden eyes sombre.

He’d spoken quietly, but with finality, while she had stared down at her hands, gripped together in her lap.

As they were now, she noticed, while her memory was recreating once again everything he’d said to her.

He had wasted no time getting to the point. ‘I feel strongly, Marisa, that we need to reconsider the whole question of our marriage. I therefore suggest that we leave Villa Santa Caterina either later today or tomorrow, as no useful purpose can be served by our remaining here. Do you agree?’

She hadn’t wholly trusted her voice, so it had seemed safer just to nod.

When he had resumed, his voice had been harder. ‘I also propose that we spend some time apart from each other, in order to examine our future as husband and wife. Clearly things cannot continue as they are. Decisions will need to be made, and some consensus reached.’

He’d paused. ‘You may, of course, take as much time as you need. You need not fear that I shall pressure you in any way. Therefore I am quite willing to stay at my apartment in Rome, and make our home in Tuscany available to you for your sole occupation.’

‘No!’ She had seen his head go back, and realised how vehement her negation had been. ‘I mean—thank you. But under the circumstances that’s impossible. Your father will expect to see us together.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, I would very much prefer to go back to London. If that can be arranged.’

‘London?’ he’d repeated. He had looked at her, his eyes narrowing in faint disbelief. ‘You mean you wish to rejoin your cousin?’

All hell, Marisa had thought, would freeze over first. But she’d glimpsed a chance of escape, and had known a more moderate answer might achieve a better result.

She’d shaken her head. ‘She’s moving to Kent very soon, so the question doesn’t arise.’ She’d paused. ‘What I really want, signore, is a place of my own. Somewhere just for myself,’ she’d added with emphasis. ‘With no one else involved.’

There had been a silence, then Renzo had said carefully, ‘I see. But—in London? Do you think that is wise?’

‘Why not?’ Marisa had lifted her chin. ‘After all, I’m not a child any more.’ Or your tame virgin, who has to be protected from all predators but you, her eyes had said, and she’d watched faint colour burn along his cheekbones.

‘Besides,’ she’d added, her voice challenging. ‘If you have an apartment in Rome, why shouldn’t I have a flat in London?’

Renzo had spread his hands. He’d said, almost ruefully, ‘I can think of a string of reasons, although I doubt you would find any of them acceptable.’

‘Nevertheless, that is my choice.’ She’d looked down at her hands again. ‘And as we’ll be living apart anyway, I don’t see what difference it can make.’

There had been another pause, then he’d said quietly, ‘Very well. Let it be as you wish.’

For a moment she’d felt stunned. She had certainly not expected so easy a victory.

Unless, of course, he simply wanted her out of sight—and out of mind—and as quickly as possible …

For a moment, her feeling of triumph had seemed to ebb, and she’d felt oddly forlorn.

Yet wasn’t that exactly what she wanted too? she’d rallied herself. So why should she care?

She had looked at him. Forced a smile. ‘Grazie.’

‘Prego.’ He had not returned the smile. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, there are arrangements to be made.’ And he’d gone.

After that, Marisa recalled, things had seemed to happen very fast.

Renzo, it appeared, only had to snap his fingers and a first-class flight to London became available. Arrangements were made for a chauffeur and limousine to meet her at the airport, together with a representative from the Santangelis’ UK lawyers. He or she would be responsible for escorting her to a suite at a top hotel, which had been reserved for her as a temporary residence, before providing her with a list of suitable properties and smoothing her path through the various viewings. Money, of course, being no object.

In fact, she found herself thinking with a pang, as her plane took off and she waved away the offered champagne, what wouldn’t Renzo pay to be rid of the girl who’d so signally failed him as a wife?

Because this had to be the beginning of the end of their marriage, and his lawyers would soon be receiving other, more personal instructions concerning her.

And she would be free—able for the first time to make a life for herself as Marisa Brendon. Answerable, she told herself, to no one. Least of all to her erstwhile husband, now breathing a sigh of relief in Rome.

Her only regret was that she hadn’t had time to pay a final visit to Casa Adriana and say goodbye to Mrs Morton. But perhaps it was better this way.

Those warm, quiet days in the garden had begun to assume a dreamlike quality all their own. Even when she had been entirely alone there, she thought, in some strange way she had never felt lonely.

She did not believe that Adriana’s ghost had ever returned, but perhaps love and hope still lingered somehow. And they’d been her comfort.

Once established in London, she had not expected to hear from Renzo again, so his phone calls and letters had come as a distinct shock. A courteous gesture, she’d told herself, that she needed like a hole in the head and could safely ignore.

And now here he was in person, suddenly and without warning. Back in her life, she thought with anger, because in reality he’d never had the slightest intention of letting her go.

Her ‘breathing space’ was over and there was nothing she could do about it.

Because he clearly had no intention of giving her the divorce she’d been counting on, and she had no resources for a long legal battle.

The first of many bitter pills she would probably have to swallow.

Besides—she owed him, she told herself unhappily. There was no getting away from that. Morally, as well as fiscally, she was obligated to him.

And now, however belatedly, it was indeed payback time.

Was this the so-called consensus he’d offered that day at Villa Santa Caterina? she asked herself bitterly, then paused, knowing that she was banging her head against a wall.

What was the point of going back over all this old ground and reliving former unhappiness?

It was the here and now that mattered.

And she couldn’t escape the fact that she’d gone into their marriage with her eyes open, knowing that he did not love her and recognising exactly what was expected of her.

So, in that way, nothing had changed.

This was the life she’d accepted, and somehow she had to live it. And on his terms.

But now she desperately needed to sleep, before tomorrow became today and she was too tired to deal with all the difficulties and demands she didn’t even want to contemplate.

And this chair was hardly the right place for that.

With a sigh, she rose and crossed to the bed. As she slipped back under the covers it occurred to her that this might be one of the last nights she would spend alone for some time.

Something else, she told herself grimly, that she did not need to contemplate. Yet.

And she turned over, burying her face in the pillow, seeking for oblivion and discovering gratefully that, in spite of everything, it was waiting for her.

She awoke as usual, a few moments before her alarm clock sounded, reaching out a drowsy hand to silence it in advance. Then paused, suddenly aware that there was something not quite right about this wakening.

Her heart pounding, Marisa lifted her head and turned slowly and with infinite caution to look at the bed beside her. And paused, stifling an instinctive gasp of shock, when she saw she was no longer alone.

Because Renzo was there, lying on his side, facing away from her and fast asleep, his breathing deep and even, the covers pushed down to reveal every graceful line of his naked back.

Oh, God, Marisa thought, swallowing. Oh, God, I don’t believe this. When did he arrive, and how could I not know about it?

And why didn’t I spend the night in that bloody chair after all?

A fraction of an inch at a time, she began to move towards the edge of the bed, desperate to make her escape before he woke too.

But it was too late, she realised, freezing. Because he was already stirring and stretching, making her vividly conscious of the play of muscle under his smooth tanned skin, before turning towards her.

He propped himself casually on one elbow and studied her, his eyes quizzical. ‘Buon giorno.’

‘Good morning be damned.’ She found her voice. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

He had the gall to look faintly surprised. ‘Getting some rest, mia cara. What else?’

‘But you said—you promised that you’d sleep on the sofa.’

‘Sadly, the sofa had other ideas,’ Renzo drawled. ‘And I decided that I valued my spine too much to argue any longer.’

‘Well, you had no right,’ she said hoarsely. ‘No right at all to—to march in here like this and—and—help yourself!’

His brows lifted. ‘I did not march, mia bella. I moved very quietly so I would not disturb you. And I did not, as you continued to sleep soundly.’

He paused. ‘Besides, as a good wife, surely you do not begrudge me a little comfort, carissima?’ He added softly, ‘After all, despite considerable temptation, I made no attempt to take anything more.’

‘I am not a good wife.’ Totally unnerved by the tone of his voice, and the look in his eyes, she uttered the stupid, stupid words before she could stop herself, and saw his smile widen hatefully into a grin of sheer delight.

‘Not yet, perhaps,’ he agreed, unforgivably. ‘But I live in hope that when you discover how good a husband I intend to be your attitude may change.’

Marisa realised his eyes were now lingering disturbingly on her shoulders, bare under the narrow straps of her nightdress, and then moving down to the slight curve of her breasts revealed by its demure cotton bodice.

Her throat tightened. I have to get him out of here, she thought. Not just out of this bed, but this room too. Before I make an even bigger fool of myself.

‘But as we are here together,’ he went on musingly. ‘It occurs to me that maybe I should teach you what a man most desires when he wakes in the morning with his wife beside him.’

He reached out, brushing the strap down from her shoulder, letting his fingertips caress the faint mark it had left on her skin. It was the lightest of touches, but she felt it blaze like wildfire through her blood, sending her every sense quivering.

Suddenly she found herself remembering their wedding night, and that devastating, electrifying moment when she’d experienced the first stroke of his hand on her naked breast.

Dry-mouthed, she said, ‘No, Renzo—please.’ And despised herself for the note of entreaty in her voice.

‘But I must, mia bella,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t you think I have waited quite long enough to instruct you in my needs? What I like—and how I like it?’

She tried to think of something to say and failed completely. She was aware that he’d moved close, and knew she should draw back—distance herself before it was too late.

‘Because it is quite simple,’ the softly compelling voice went on. ‘I require it to be very hot, very black, and very strong—without sugar. Even you can manage that, I think.’

Marisa shot bolt upright, glaring at him. ‘Coffee,’ she said, her voice almost choking on the word. ‘You’re saying you want me to—make you—coffee?’ She drew a stormy breath. ‘Well, in your dreams, signore. I don’t know what your last slave died of, but you know where the kitchen is, so make your own damned drink.’

Renzo lay back against the pillows, watching her from under lowered lids. ‘Not the response I had hoped for, carissima.’ His drawl held amusement. He glanced past her at the clock. ‘However, I see it is still early, so maybe I will forgo the coffee and persuade you to join me in a little gentle exercise instead. Would you prefer that?’ Another pause. ‘Or has the kitchen suddenly become more attractive to you after all?’

She said thickly, ‘Bastard,’ and scrambled out of bed with more haste than dignity, grabbing at her robe. She was followed to the door by the sound of his laughter.

Once in the kitchen, she closed the door and leaned against it while she steadied her breathing.

Renzo had been winding her up, she thought incredulously, subjecting her to some light-hearted sexual teasing, and it was a side of him she hadn’t seen before.

Or not since the night of her birthday dinner, she amended, swallowing, when his eyes and the touch of his mouth on her hand had asked questions she’d been too scared to answer and once again she’d run away.

A girl does not have to be in love with a man to enjoy what he does to her in bed. His own words, and he clearly believed them.

But it isn’t true, she thought, her throat tightening. Not for me. Simply wanting someone isn’t enough, and never could be. I’d have to be in love to in order to give myself, and even then there’d have to be trust—and respect as well.

Things that Renzo had probably never heard of as he swanned his way through life from bed to bed.

Besides, he didn’t really want her. She was simply a means to an end. But what happened on their honeymoon obviously still rankled with him. For once his seduction routine hadn’t worked, and with his wife of all people.

His pride had been damaged, and he couldn’t allow that, so now he didn’t only want a son from her, but an addition to his list of conquests. To have her panting to fall into his arms each time he walked through the door.

Well, I don’t need this, she thought fiercely. I’ve no interest in his technique as a lover, and I won’t let myself be beguiled into wanting him. It’s not going to happen.

I’m going to be the one that got away. The one that proves to him, as well as myself, that there is life after Lorenzo Santangeli.

She filled the kettle and set it to boil, noting with rebellious satisfaction that there was no fresh coffee. So he’d have to drink instant and like it.

She spooned granules into a beaker, then glanced around her, wondering what would happen to her little domain when she returned to Italy. It was hardly likely she’d be able to retain it as a bolthole when her role as Santangeli wife and future mother became too much to bear.

Although she supposed she could always ask. Because she’d need somewhere eventually, after she’d given Renzo his heir and became surplus to requirements.

In fact, she could impose a few conditions of her own on her return to him, she thought. Let him know that her acquiescence to his wishes now, and later, was still open to negotiation.

Not just a place to live, she told herself, but a purpose in life, too. For afterwards …

In painful retrospect, she’d worked out that any plans she might have for her eventual child—the bond she’d once envisaged—would be little more than fantasy.

She’d seen the stately nurseries at the Santangeli family home, and knew that once she’d given birth her work would be over. There’d be no breastfeeding or nappy-changing for Signora Santangeli. The baby would be handed over to a hierarchy of doting staff who would answer its cries, be the recipients of its first smile, supervise the tooth-cutting and the initial wobbly steps, with herself little more than a bystander.

So she’d be left to her own devices, she thought bleakly, in Julia’s classic phrase. And would need something to fill her time and assuage the ache in her heart.

And quite suddenly she knew what it could be, what she would ask in return for her wifely compliance.

Simple, she thought. Neat and beautiful. Now all she required was Renzo’s agreement, which could be trickier.

The coffee made, she carried the brimming beaker back to the bedroom. But it was empty, the covers on the bed thrown back.

He was in the adjoining bathroom, standing at the basin, shaving, a towel knotted round his hips and his dark hair still damp from the shower.

‘You haven’t wasted any time.’ Self-consciously she stepped forward, and put the beaker within his reach.

‘I wish I could say the same of you, mia cara.’ His tone was dry. ‘I thought you had gone to pick the beans.’ He tasted the brew and winced slightly. ‘But clearly not.’

‘I’m sorry if it doesn’t meet your exacting standards.’

Damn, she thought. In view of what she was about to ask, a more conciliatory note might be an improvement.

He rinsed his razor and laid it aside. ‘Well, it is hot,’ he said. ‘And I am grateful for that, at least. Grazie, carissima.’

And before she could read his intention, or take evading action, his arm snaked out, drawing her swiftly against him, and he was kissing her startled mouth, his lips warm and delicately sensuous as they moved on hers.

The scent of his skin, the fragrance of the soap he’d used, were suddenly all around her, and she felt as if she was breathing him, absorbing him through every pore, as he held her in the strong curve of his arm.

And she waited, her heart hammering, for his kiss to deepen. To demand …

Then, with equal suddenness, she was free again. She took an instinctive step backwards on legs that were not entirely steady, the colour storming into her face as she met his ironic gaze.

‘So,’ he said. ‘We make progress, mia bella. We have not only shared a bed, but I have kissed you at last.’ He collected his razor and toothbrush, and put them in his wash-bag, then walked to the door, where he paused.

He said gently, ‘You were worth waiting for, Maria Lisa,’ and went out, leaving her staring after him.

If there had to be only one door in the flat with a bolt on it, she was glad it was the bathroom.

Not that she would be interrupted. Instinct told her that Renzo would not try to make immediate capital out of what had just happened, but would leave her to wait—and wonder.

Which, of course, she would, she thought, gritting her teeth.

She’d always known it would be dangerous to allow him too close, and she could see now that her wariness had been fully justified.

He was—lethal, she thought helplessly.

Yet even she could see it was ridiculous to be so profoundly disturbed by something that had lasted only a few seconds at most.

Her only comfort was that she had not kissed him back, but had stayed true to her convictions by remaining passive in his embrace.

But he was the one who stopped, a small, niggling voice in her head reminded her. So don’t congratulate yourself too soon.

Showered and dressed in her working clothes, with her hair drawn back from her face and secured at the nape of her neck with a silver clip, she emerged from the bathroom, mentally steeling herself for the next encounter.

Cool unresponsiveness would seem to be the answer, she thought, but a lot might depend on how the question was asked.

A reflection that sent an odd shiver tingling through her body.

But it seemed there was to be no immediate confrontation because, to her surprise, Renzo wasn’t there. The only sign of his presence was the neatly folded blanket, topped by the pillow, on the sofa.

She stood looking round her in bewilderment, wondering if by some miracle he’d suddenly decided to cut his losses and leave for Italy alone.

But it wasn’t a day for miracles, because his travel bag was still there, standing in the hall.

On the other hand, she thought, she could always fling a few things together herself, and vanish before he returned. There had to be places where the Santangeli influence didn’t reach—although she couldn’t call any of them to mind.

And with that she heard the sound of a key in the flat door and Renzo came in, dangling a bulging plastic carrier bag from one lean hand.

Marisa stared at it, then him. ‘You’ve been shopping?’

‘Evidently. I found the contents of your refrigerator singularly uninspiring, mia bella.’

‘But there’s nowhere open,’ she protested. ‘It’s too early.’

‘Shops are always glad of customers. This one was no exception.’ He held up the bag, emblazoned with the name of a local delicatessen. ‘I saw a light on and knocked. They were perfectly willing to serve me.’

‘Oh, naturally,’ Marisa said grittily. ‘How could anyone refuse the great Lorenzo Santangeli?’

‘That,’ he said gently, ‘is a question that you can answer better than anyone, carissima.’ He paused. ‘Now, shall we have breakfast?’

She wanted to refuse haughtily, furious at having been caught leading with her chin yet again, but she could smell the enticing aroma of warm bread and realised that she was starving.

He’d bought ham, cheese, sausage and fresh rolls, she found, plus a pack of rich aromatic coffee.

They ate at the small breakfast bar in the kitchen, and in spite of everything Marisa discovered it was one of the few meals she’d enjoyed in his company.

Renzo poured himself some more coffee and glanced at his watch. ‘It is almost time we were leaving. There are a number of things to be attended to before we leave for the airport, and you have yet to pack.’

‘That won’t take very long,’ she said. ‘I haven’t many clothes.’

‘No?’ he asked dryly. ‘You forget, mia cara, that I remember how many cases you brought with you to England.’

She bit her lip. ‘Actually,’ she said, trying to sound casual, ‘I don’t have those things any more.’

‘You had better explain.’

‘I gave all my trousseau away,’ she admitted uncomfortably. ‘To various charity shops. And the luggage too.’

‘In the name of God, why?’ He looked at her as if she had grown a second head.

‘Because I didn’t think I’d need clothes like that any more,’ she said defiantly. ‘So I’ll just have one bag.’

‘Very well.’ His voice held a touch of grimness. ‘Then let us start by going to this place where you have been working. Handing in your notice will take the least time.’

It wasn’t the ideal moment after her last revelation, Marisa thought, but it was still now or never.

She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, the visit may take rather longer than that. You see, there’s something I need to—discuss with you first.’

‘About the gallery?’ Renzo put the knife he’d been using back on his plate with almost studied care. ‘Or its owner?’

‘Well—both,’ she said, slightly taken aback.

‘I am listening,’ he said harshly. ‘But are you sure you want me to hear?’

‘Yes, of course. Because it’s important.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I want—I mean I would really like you to buy me—a half-share in the Estrello.’

There was a silence, then he said, almost grimly. ‘You dare ask me that? You really believe I would be willing to give money to your lover?’

Marisa gasped. ‘Lover?’ she echoed in disbelief. ‘You think that Corin—and I …? Oh, God, that’s so absurd.’ She faced him, eyes sparking with anger. ‘He’s a decent man having a bad time, that’s all.’

She paused, then added very deliberately. ‘I don’t have a lover, signore, and I never have done. As no one should know better than yourself.’

Renzo looked away, and for the second time in her life she saw him flush. ‘Then what is your interest in this place?’

‘Corin’s wife is divorcing him, and she wants a financial stake in the gallery. She’s not interested in artists or pictures, just in the Estrello’s potential as a redevelopment site. She’s even planning to work there after they’re divorced, so she can pressure him into selling up altogether.’

‘And he will do this?’ Renzo asked. ‘Why does he not fight back?’

‘Because he still loves her,’ Marisa said fiercely. ‘I don’t suppose you can imagine what it would be like for him, being forced to see her each day under those circumstances.’

‘Perhaps I am not as unimaginative as you believe,’ Renzo said, after another pause. ‘However, I still do not understand why you should wish to involve yourself—or me.’

‘For one thing it’s successful,’ she said. ‘So it would be a good investment.’ She hesitated. ‘For another, being part-owner will provide me with an interest—even a future career, which I’m going to need some day.’

His brows lifted sardonically. ‘It does not occur to you that some wives seem to find a satisfactory career in their marriages—their families?’

‘But not,’ she said, ‘when they know the position is on a strictly temporary basis.’ She paused. ‘Shall I go on?’

‘Please do. I assure you I am fascinated.’

‘Thirdly,’ she said, ‘Corin really needs the money. He would be so thankful for help.’ She looked away, biting her lip. ‘And I would be grateful too, of course.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘And what form would this gratitude take? Or is it indelicate to ask?’

It was her turn to flush. ‘I think it’s a little late for delicacy.’

‘Then tell me.’

She stared down fixedly at her empty plate. ‘I’ll go back to Italy with you—as your wife. And give you—whatever you want.’

‘However reluctantly,’ he said softly. ‘A new feast day should be proclaimed. The martyrdom of Santa Marisa.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Is it?’ His mouth twisted. ‘As to that, we shall both have to wait and see.’ He paused. ‘But this is the price of your—willing return to me?’

She lifted her chin. Met his gaze unflinchingly. ‘Yes.’

‘And your uncomplaining presence in my bed when I require it?’

‘Yes.’ She forced herself to say it.

‘Incredibile,’ he said mockingly. ‘Then naturally I accept. If I can agree to terms with this Corin, who needs another man’s wife to fight his battles for him.’

She was about to protest that that was unfair too. That it was not just for Corin, but herself, and her life after marriage, but she realised it would be wiser to keep quiet. So she contented herself with a stilted, ‘Thank you.’

Renzo got to his feet, and she rose too. As she went past him to the door he took her arm, swinging her round to face him.

He said unsmilingly, ‘You set a high price on your favours, mia bella. So this is a bargain you will keep. Capisci?’

She nodded silently, and he released her with a swift, harsh sigh.

But as she followed him out of the room she realised that she was trembling inside, and she thought, What have I done? Oh, dear God, what have I done?




CHAPTER EIGHT


‘DEAR child.’ Guillermo Santangeli kissed Marisa on both cheeks, then stood back to regard her fondly. ‘You look beautiful, although a little thin. I hope you are not on some silly diet.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ she returned awkwardly, embarrassed by the open affection in his greeting. It was as if the last painful months had never happened, she thought, bewildered, and she was simply returning home, a radiant wife, from her honeymoon. ‘But Renzo told me what happened to you, and I was—worried.’

Her father-in-law shrugged expansively. ‘A small inconvenience, no more. But it made me feel my age, and that was not good.’ His arm round her shoulders, he took her into the salotto. Renzo followed, his face expressionless. ‘Now that you are here I shall recover completely, figlia mia.

‘You remember Signora Alesconi, I hope?’ he added, as a tall, beautiful woman rose from one of the deep armchairs.

‘That is hardly likely, Guillermo.’ The older woman’s handshake was as warm as her smile. ‘I attended your wedding, Signora Santangeli, but I do not expect you to recall one person among so many. So let us count this as our true meeting.’ She turned, her expression becoming more formal. ‘It is also a pleasure to see you again, Signor Lorenzo,’ she added, as he bowed over her hand.

‘And I, signora, am glad to have this opportunity to thank you for acting so quickly when my father became ill,’ Renzo returned. ‘Please believe that I shall always be grateful.’ He smiled at her. ‘And that it is good to see you here.’

‘We are indeed a family party,’ his father remarked, studying an apparent fleck on his fingernail. ‘Nonna Teresa arrived this afternoon. She is resting in her room at present, but will join us for dinner.’

There was a pause, then Renzo said expressionlessly, ‘Now, that is a joy I did not anticipate.’

‘Nor I,’ said Guillermo, and father and son exchanged level looks.

Marisa felt her heart plummet. Of all the Santangeli connections, Renzo’s grandmother had always been the least friendly, dismissing the proposed marriage as ‘insupportable sentiment’ and ‘dangerous nonsense’.

And although Marisa had privately agreed with her views, it had still not been pleasant hearing her total unsuitability voiced aloud—and with such venom.

And now the signora was here—apparently uninvited—on what promised to be the most difficult night of her entire life.

Following, as it did, one of the most difficult days.

But for the emotional turmoil that had had her in its grip, the events at the Estrello Gallery that morning might almost have been amusing, she thought, as she took a seat and accepted the cup of coffee that Signora Alesconi poured for her.

Corin’s face had been a study when she’d broken the news that she was leaving, and why. And when finally, with trepidation, she had introduced an unsmiling Renzo as her husband, explaining that the problem of the gallery’s future might have a solution, the whole encounter had almost tipped over into farce.

Almost, she thought, swallowing, but not quite.

She’d been thankful to leave the pair of them to talk business in Corin’s cubbyhole of an office while she cleared her few personal items from her desk.

But her feelings had been mixed when Corin had emerged, clearly pole-axed, to tell her the deal was done and it was now down to the lawyers.

Because it had not simply been a matter of legalities, and she had known that. And so had the man who’d stood behind Corin, watching her, his dark face uncompromising. The husband who would seek recompense by claiming his right to her body that night.





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