Читать книгу Husband By Contract - HELEN BROOKS, Helen Brooks - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

‘GRACE! Grace!’ Lorenzo’s welcome was as ecstatic as his face as he caught sight of her, but in the next moment, as she gathered the thin ten-year-old child into her arms, he burst into a storm of weeping, stringy arms tight round her neck.

‘Hush, now, hush,’ she soothed softly, sitting down on one of the massive stone steps that led up to the studded front door and holding Lorenzo close against her, until the sobs racking the small frame lessened. ‘It’s all right, darling.’ What stupid things we say in moments like these, she thought silently as she nuzzled her chin into the small black head beneath hers. Lorenzo had just lost his beloved mother to whom he had been exceptionally close; of course it wasn’t all right. Nothing was all right in his small world.

‘I did not know if you would come.’ Lorenzo raised dark, tear-smudged eyes to her gentle gaze. ‘You have been away so long.’

‘I told you Grace would come, did I not?’ Donato asked over their heads, his voice soft. ‘And now here she is, just as I promised, but she does not want to be drowned before she has set foot inside the house,’ he added warningly. ‘Benito is waiting to see her too, you know, and he has a few more words in his vocabulary to show her, not all of them good,’ he finished darkly.

Lorenzo gave a weak smile and now his voice held a touch of its normal sparkle as he whispered, ‘One of the new gardeners taught him some bad words.’

‘Did he?’ Grace smiled, hugging him close once more before rising. ‘And knowing Benito I’m sure he repeats them with great relish?’ Benito was Lorenzo’s parrot, a huge bird whose big, compact body, strong, rounded wings and short, stout hooked bill were as formidable as his nature. He either loved or hated, there was no halfway house with Benito, and he could use his lethal bill and clawed feet to painful effect on occasion. However, the irascible bird adored his small master, who could do anything with him, and had never suffered so much as a small peck.

Lorenzo took her hand and they moved towards the open front door, and although the small, warm fingers clutching hers were wonderfully comforting, Grace was vitally aware of that tall, dark figure just behind her as they stepped across the threshold of Casa Pontina.

The light, cool hall, with its beautifully polished wooden floor and white walls hung with exquisitely framed paintings, was quiet and still, the air scented with a large bowl of freshly cut flowers, and for a moment Grace couldn’t believe that Liliana’s tall, gracious figure wouldn’t sweep out of the imposing drawing room to greet her, her lined but still beautiful face wreathed in smiles of welcome.

Liliana had lived for her family, loving all three of her children with an intensity that was very Italian, and Grace knew for a fact that Bianca’s being adopted had made her even more precious to her mother; that was the way Liliana was. Once Grace had married Donato she had become a second daughter in her mother-in-law’s eyes.

Lorenzo pulled her along the hall before she had time to reflect further, past the formal drawing room, ornate dining room and Donato’s massive study, and down the two steps that led to the back of the house where the breakfast room, kitchens and two large family rooms were situated. It was through one of the latter, specially designated to Lorenzo and filled with his toys and computer equipment, that they walked, and out onto a small covered patio that overlooked green lawns and trees, and in the far distance the vivid blue of an olympic-size swimming pool.

Benito was sitting on his perch, grumbling to himself as he watched one of the gardeners weeding a patch of salvias some fifty yards away, but at the sound of Grace’s voice he showed his pleasure by dancing clumsily and screaming a welcome in his harsh voice, ruffling his brightly coloured plumage and lowering his short neck for her to tickle his head, his bright, beady eyes half closed in delight.

‘He remembers me.’ Grace was almost reduced to tears by the bird’s faithfulness. ‘I thought he would have forgotten me by now,’ she said thickly, fighting back the weakening emotion as she stroked the beautiful silky feathers.

‘You are not easily forgotten.’ Donato’s voice was low and pitched only for her ears but the hypocrisy hit her as though he had shouted the words, and when she spun round to glare at him hot colour stained her cheeks scarlet. He had been silent for twelve months, not a phone call, a letter, not even a brief postcard, and now he dared to say she was not easily forgotten?

‘How is Maria these days?’ she asked tightly, as though the question was a natural follow-on to his comment—which to her it was. Maria Fasola: young, beautiful, family friend...and Donato’s mistress. ‘Well, I hope?’ she added grimly before he could speak.

‘As far as I know.’ He looked at her expressionlessly, his eyes veiled and dark. ‘Is there any reason why she shouldn’t be?’

‘None at all.’ Her voice was cold and she was about to say more when she noticed Lorenzo’s puzzled gaze as he glanced towards them, obviously unsure of what exactly was being said. ‘And I need not ask if Benito is well, need I?’ she asked the small boy, forcing a playful note into her voice. ‘He looks enormous, Lorenzo; I’m sure he has grown several inches since I saw him last.’

‘It is because he is fluffing out his feathers, Grace.’ The young voice was very earnest; Benito was his pride and joy and could do no wrong. ‘He is not fat.’

‘Grace! Grace!’ The irrepressible bird screeched her name noisily. ‘Donato and Grace!’

‘All right—That is enough!’ Donato waved a finger at the parrot who stared back at him cheekily, head on one side as he considered how far he dared go.

‘Enough! Enough!’ he mimicked wickedly. ‘Naughty Benito! Bad bird! Scusi, scusi.’

Grace saw Donato close his eyes for one infinitesimal moment and turned away to hide a smile. The autocratic head of the Vittoria empire might control his family and those about him with a rod of iron, his power and influence absolute and unquestioned, but in a battle of wills with Benito the parrot won every time. He was a definite thorn in Donato’s flesh and she couldn’t help admiring the bird’s intrepid spirit.

‘Come, you must refresh yourself and then Anna will serve lunch.’ Donato took her arm as he spoke, but before she allowed him to lead her back into the house she promised Lorenzo she would be back shortly as the small boy raised an anxious face to hers.

‘Grace?’ he called after her, his thin voice high. ‘You are not leaving again? You are staying at Casa Pontina now?’

She felt Donato stiffen at her side and turned slowly, not knowing how to reply, but then the little white face in front of her caught at her heartstrings and her well-laid plan of escape after three days blurred and softened. She knew how it felt when everything that was normal was whipped out from under your feet, and Lorenzo was a sensitive child, very loving and given to deep emotion. Although he was as close to Donato as the difference in their ages allowed, he needed the warmth and understanding of a motherly heart at this time, she thought rapidly.

Admittedly there were the female servants—Cecilia, the elderly cook, and Anna and Gina, the two young maids—and also the capable tutor Donato employed for his brother’s education, who came to the villa for several hours each day Monday to Friday, but Lorenzo was not close to them and, being a Vittoria, had been taught to maintain a stiff upper lip at all times.

The small boy’s love and devotion at the time of Paolo’s death had been an enormous comfort to her, and now she could do something for him when he needed her most, she reasoned painfully. All she wanted to do was to leave Casa Pontina and the memories of this past life and return to England as fast as she could, but she couldn’t abandon Lorenzo now.

In a few weeks, less even, the harsh shock of his mother’s death would begin to fade and the mercurial resilience of all children would come into play. This was the important time, the crucial time that might shape his personality for good or ill; she could spare him a few weeks of her life, surely? But could she stand being so close to Donato? She took a deep breath and smiled at the little face watching her so closely. She had no choice, as Donato had known all along.

‘I have a home in England now, Lorenzo, but I am going to stay with you until you are feeling better and don’t need me any more. Is that all right?’ she asked softly, knowing she had done the only thing possible when the small face relaxed and the look of panic and dumb confusion left the big dark eyes.

‘Sì.’ He nodded slowly before suddenly running to her, flinging his arms round her middle and hugging her tight, only to leave the room in a mad scamper, head downwards, to hide his tears of relief.

‘So...’ Donato stood with her, looking after the small figure as it disappeared. ‘This is not what you envisaged.’

‘No, no, it isn’t.’ His cool, controlled voice grated on her nerve-endings like barbed wire and she raised shadowed eyes to his. He had known what he was doing when he had sent that telegram, she thought bitterly, known her love and respect for his mother would force her to make the journey to Italy in spite of their failed marriage, and that once here she wouldn’t turn her back on Lorenzo’s plight.

He hadn’t bothered about her for months, had continued quite happily with his life here and all it held—an image of Maria’s lithe, sleek figure flashed into her mind and she dismissed it abruptly—and then when he needed to use her, and ‘use’ was the right word, she told herself with acid resentment, had had no compunction about turning her life upside down for a second time.

She saw that the dark gaze had seen into her mind and now Donato shrugged slowly, his voice low. ‘I cannot help the love he has for you, Grace; it has always been so.’

And you? You once loved me too, she thought with a pain that shocked her. Before it all went wrong, before the death of our child drove me nearly insane and you into the arms of another woman.

Oh, she shouldn’t have come. She turned from him, tears pricking at the back of her eyes with burning ferocity. She should have forgotten Liliana, Lorenzo, all of them, should have stayed in England where the nights were cool and the days humdrum and nothing disturbed her peace of mind.

‘Grace, I know this is hard for you—’

‘Don’t touch me!’ As he reached out to her she sprang back with a suddenness that surprised them both, her voice shrill and defensive. ‘Don’t you dare touch me, Donato. I’ve said I’ll stay for a few weeks until Lorenzo is feeling better but that doesn’t give you the right to maul me about.’

‘Maul you?’ He was utterly outraged, his big, muscular body taut and rigid and his handsome face black with fury. ‘I have never mauled a woman in my life,’ he said grimly.

‘Of course not,’ she agreed with icy sarcasm. ‘They just fall at your feet all by themselves.’ Like Maria. She didn’t want to feel such anger; she’d thought she had come through the fire of desolation and betrayal and had finally put it behind her, but since the first moment she had seen him again her vulnerability where this man was concerned had hit her as strongly as ever and it frightened her—frightened her more than she could say. ‘It amazes you, does it, that any woman could resist your fatal charm?’ It was a cheap jibe but she couldn’t help it; any defence was better than none.

His eyes continued to hold hers for one more long moment and then she saw him take a deep pull of air as he shook his head slowly. ‘You used to conduct yourself with refinement and charm,’ he said tightly. ‘What has happened to you that you have become so uncivilised?’

She heard the words as though in a vacuum, the sheer audacity of them failing to register for a few seconds, but when they did her hand shot out to connect with the hard, tanned skin of his face in a resounding slap that actually echoed in the room. ‘You can ask me that?’ she hissed furiously, her hand drawing back to strike again, but this time his fingers shot out to entrap her wrist in a steel hold that was bruising.

‘Yes, I can ask you that,’ he rasped, his eyes dangerous and the imprint of her hand beginning to stain the brown skin red. ‘I have every right to ask you to explain yourself; I am your husband.’

‘Not any more—’

‘The courts would disagree with you,’ he said harshly. ‘You are my wife, Grace, legally and before God. There has been no divorce; the marriage contract still stands.’

‘Not in my eyes.’ She was panting hard, her slim fairness overshadowed by his dark maleness as he held her fast. ‘You might be my husband by contract but that is all, and without love our marriage certificate becomes just a piece of paper.’

‘That is a very convenient line of thought but one that is totally without foundation,’ he said icily, ‘as you well know. Legally—’

‘I don’t care about “legally”, Donato,’ she ground out slowly, punctuating each word with a significant pause. ‘Do you understand that? I don’t care—about our marriage, you, all of this.’

‘No?’ Now he drew her closer, his hold on her intimidating rather than restraining. ‘But I think this is not altogether the truth, mia piccola,’ he said with a dangerous softness, ‘and I also think you are trying to convince yourself rather than me.’

‘Let go of me!’ He had both her wrists in his hand now, holding them against the hard-muscled wall of his chest as he fitted her against him, his other hand in the small of her back. She had always been tiny against the hard male breadth and height of him and she knew it was useless to struggle; nevertheless that was exactly what she did do as his dark head lowered to take her lips.

He growled softly, the sound impatient as she postponed the inevitable, and then his mouth covered hers, plundering the sweetness within as he urged her even closer against the hard frame of his body. She fought—for long seconds she fought, even more so when the realisation that his familiar touch and smell were evoking feelings she could well have done without dawned on her consciousness, but eventually she became still, knowing that she couldn’t win. She would never win against Donato.

When she had left the Vittoria mansion twelve months ago the same knowledge had had her pale-faced and shaking as Liliana had clung to her, the older woman’s normally proud and composed face awash with tears as she had begged her daughter-in-law to wait before asking Donato for the divorce Grace had said was inevitable.

‘Why? Why now, Grace?’ Liliana had wept, holding the younger woman close to her as they had waited for the taxi Grace had ordered. ‘He loves you—I know this, I know it. Please, for my sake, do not be hasty. Give yourself some time apart but do not be hasty.’

But as much as she loved Liliana Grace couldn’t tell her what she had learnt only that morning—of Donato’s affair with Maria; she had felt too raw, too humiliated at the time. Later she had regretted it, knowing that Donato would have covered his tracks well and that his mother would have been forced to think that she had ended the marriage on a whim, but by then she had made a new life in England and had believed there was always the chance, some time in the future, to put the record straight with Liliana. But ‘some time’ had never come.

She remembered Liliana’s last words to her before the taxi had taken her away. ‘This is all a mistake, my dear, and one day you will see it. You have suffered, I know how you have suffered, but Paolo was part of both of you; let your grieving pull you closer together. I shall say to Donato you want time to heal; that is all.’

But it hadn’t been her anguish over the death of her child that had driven her from her home and there had been a mistake all right—a great colossal giant of a mistake—and Donato had made it—with Maria. She had crept away that morning a year ago like a small, beaten animal seeking solace in a hole, unable to face another confrontation with Donato and leaving a letter to explain that she had discovered his affair with Maria.

But that had been then. Now she was a year older and a year wiser and more importantly she had survived a year without him; she had become autonomous—something she had thought impossible only months before.

The knowledge brought her senses fully alert, jerking her away from the edge of pleasure his lovemaking had taken her to, and now he let her move from him, his eyes narrowed as she faced him like a small, spitting tabby cat preparing to do battle with a vastly superior wild black panther.

‘If you try that again, or anything like it, I’m leaving here regardless of Lorenzo or anyone else. Is that clear?’ she spat with all the fury in her heart. ‘I came back for Liliana’s funeral, and only that, and if your ego can’t cope with that truth then I’ll get on the next plane home.’

“Oh, I think my ego can survive—just,’ he drawled grimly, ‘in spite of being pierced through.’

For a strange moment she thought there was an inflexion in his voice that spoke of pain, misery even, but the hard, handsome face was as implacable as always when her eyes searched the sculptured features. Nevertheless the brief second of uncertainty was enough to drain her rage and leave her pale and shaking as she fought for control, her red-gold curls throwing her pallor into even more stark relief.

How could people end up like this? How could they, she asked herself tensely, when they had shared the intimacies of marriage, the birth of a child? Oh, Paolo, Paolo.

‘I loved him too; you know.’ It was as though she had spoken her thoughts out loud and she started violently as Donato’s deep voice cut into her pain, but she could read nothing from his dark face. What was he thinking—really thinking? she asked herself wildly as she stared into the beautiful dark eyes that were like liquid onyx.

Once she had been able to tell, even teasing him on occasion that he could fool everyone else but her with his cold ice-man image, but now? Now she didn’t know—didn’t want to know, she qualified fiercely. If she didn’t let him get near her again he couldn’t hurt her again. Simple. What wasn’t so simple was the seductive need his touch had induced, the sweet, potent ache between her legs and the ripening of her breasts from their contact against his hard chest. But that was physical, just an instinctive response of her body to his as it had recognised the feel and taste of him, and as such it could be controlled. It could.

‘I know you loved Paolo, Donato.’ She didn’t try to prevaricate but it was only as she spoke her son’s name that she realised she had come a long way from the first devastating weeks of grief. Then the sound of his name had been like a sword piercing her through; now it produced a sad, tender yearning but without the raw, blinding pain. ‘We both did; we always will.’

‘Then for his sake could we not try to make the next few weeks as easy as possible?’ Donato asked quietly. ‘You have seen how things are with Lorenzo, you acknowledge he needs you here?’ She nodded silently. Yes, she could see the heartbroken little boy needed unconditional love and companionship in the immediate future. ‘Bianca has offered to take him into her home for the time being but he does not want that and I agree it would not be good for him. He needs to be in his own home, with things familiar. Benito for one,’ he added wryly.

She nodded again, guessing rightly that Bianca had refused to take the parrot; the two had always loathed each other but Benito’s dislike took the form of a verbal assault whenever Bianca was present, and although it was impossible it always seemed that Benito had planned exactly what he was going to say for maximum effect, proving himself a worthy adversary against Bianca’s caustic tongue. Perversely, the parrot adored Romano, Bianca’s husband, screeching with delight whenever he saw him and nuzzling his hand when Romano stroked him.

‘I shall need to let the surgery know as soon as possible,’ she said stiffly. ‘They may need to find a replacement.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they will keep the position open for you.’ His tone was smooth, but with that edge running underneath which she had recognised before. She ignored it; her nerves were shot to pieces as it was and she really couldn’t take much more. ‘Would you like to telephone now?’ he asked with suspect helpfulness.

‘I... Yes, I suppose I could.’ She stared at him warily. ‘Or after lunch; there’s no rush.’

‘There is also no time like the present; is that not what you English say?’ He smiled, but it didn’t reach the ebony eyes. ‘Use the phone in my study; you will not be interrupted there.’

He took her arm as he spoke, moving her out of the room and into the lower hall before she could reply, and although she wanted to speak the touch of his fingers was burning her through her thin cotton blouse and the delicious smell of him was sending all lucid thought from her head.

Why, oh, why did he have to affect her like this? she asked herself angrily as she trotted along at his side into the main part of the house. She didn’t want it—in the circumstances nothing could be more humiliating—so why did her senses go into overdrive at no more than a lift of those sardonic black eyebrows? It was over, finished. Her brain knew that, so why wasn’t it sending the message to her hormones? she thought testily.

‘Here we are.’ He opened the door to his study, standing aside for her to enter first with his normal courtesy and then following her into the room, shutting the door carefully behind him.

‘Would you like me to get the number for you?’ he asked silkily, walking across the beautifully furnished room to his large, gleaming walnut desk and picking up the phone before she could demur, his face impassive.

She stared at him, a little taken back without knowing why, but feeling even more certain that there was something running under the cool, controlled façade that was anything but cool and controlled. Following her into the room for what was obviously a private phone call was not Donato’s style; his manners were always impeccable, his good breeding absolute.

But perhaps he was merely trying to be helpful? she thought quickly. Especially after their conversation about compromise? ‘Thank you.’ She gave the number and then took the phone a few moments later when he spoke her name, his voice flat. After settling herself in the chair opposite his desk she hesitated, expecting he would now leave, but instead he strolled lazily to his own chair, seating himself without a word.

She was now positioned so that he was directly facing her across the polished expanse of wood, and he was making no effort to glance at any of the papers on his desk, his eyes tight on her flushed face as she began to speak.

‘Hello, Claire, is that you?’ she began hesitantly, annoyed to find he was making her nervous. ‘It’s Grace.’

‘Grace?’ Claire’s voice mirrored her concern and Grace felt warmed by her friend’s solicitude. They had only known each other for the last four months, Claire having come to work at the surgery following a long spell in hospital after a severe road accident, but the two of them had immediately hit it off. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day. How’s it going?’

‘OK.’ She took a deep breath and tried to clear her thoughts, which were gluing together under the rapier-sharp gaze across the desk. ‘But I’m going to need to stay in Italy longer than I thought,’ she said carefully.

‘You are?’ Now the anxiety was transparent. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you? I mean, I know it must be terribly difficult with the funeral and Donato and everything, but there’s nothing more?’

‘Don’t worry, Claire, I’m fine.’ She would have loved to unburden herself to this friend whom she had only known a short time but to whom she had been able to confide all the pain of the past and fears of the future, but with the dark presence across the desk freezing the air all around her it was most definitely not the time. ‘I’ll give you a ring once the funeral is over and we can talk properly, but I just thought I ought to let everyone know I shall be away a few weeks.’

‘I see. Hang on a mo and I’ll put you through to Jim; he left a message that he wanted to speak to you if you rang at any time.’ Claire paused before adding, ‘Take care, Grace, and don’t forget I’m here for you.’

‘I won’t; thank you, Claire.’ As the phone clicked she felt a moment’s surprise at Jim asking for her, and then told herself she should have expected it. Jim had joined the team of doctors at the same time that she had returned to England, and the fact that they were two newcomers had produced a certain affinity between them.

Jim was a mild-mannered, patient kind of individual, well suited to his chosen profession, and with her emotions still raw from Donato’s betrayal, coming as it had so swiftly after the horror of Paolo’s death, she had been grateful for his calm, placid friendship as she had struggled to take up the reins of her new life.

Grace had no immediate relations in England, having been brought up in a children’s home from the age of five, when her parents had been killed in a car accident, and all Jim’s family were in Scotland, so the two of them had got into the habit of eating together most evenings before they went home to their respective flats.

When Claire had joined the surgery she had accompanied them on occasion, as well as introducing Grace to her parents and friends, but Jim had still maintained a watchful, fatherly attitude towards her which she had thought rather touching considering he was only a few years older than her.

‘There is a problem?’ She looked up to find the brilliant dark eyes hard on hers.

‘No.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’m just waiting to be put through; I suppose there is someone with him at the moment.’

‘Him?’ Donato questioned softly.

‘Jim Penn.’ She flushed as she said the name although she wasn’t at all sure why, but there was something at the back of Donato’s glittering gaze that was unnerving. ‘He had left a message that he wanted to speak to me if I rang.’

‘How...thoughtful.’

The tone of his voice brought her eyes sharply to his but then Jim’s Scottish burr sounded down the line and she forced herself to concentrate on the disembodied voice.

‘Grace? What’s happening, girl?’ he asked loudly, concern in every syllable. She had confided the bare facts of her abrupt arrival back in England to Jim, and when the telegram had arrived he had been dead set against her returning to Italy for the funeral.

‘I’m at the Vittoria villa, Jim.’ She paused, vitally aware of the big body opposite her which dominated the masculine room. ‘And I shan’t be returning as quickly as planned so I thought I’d better let you know. I shall be staying in Italy for a few weeks.’

‘Why?’ The word was harsh and immediate and so unlike Jim’s normal mode of speech that she blinked before replying.

‘I...It’s Lorenzo—you know, the little boy?’ she said carefully. ‘He’s very upset and he needs me. It’ll be for a while, Jim, so if you and the others think it would be better to find someone else to take my place—’

‘There is no question of that.’ He sounded very definite and again she blinked, wondering if it was indeed sedate, unemotional Jim at the other end of the phone or if an alien had taken his place while she had been away. ‘Your job will be kept open for you as long as it’s necessary,’ he added in a softer tone.

‘That’s very good of you.’ She wondered if she should ask him to confirm such a statement with the other doctors but decided against it; this new Jim was less approachable than the old one and she wasn’t sure how he would take such a request.

‘No, it isn’t,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s the least we can do. I... We miss you, Grace. The surgery isn’t the same without your fairy footsteps bobbing about.’

There was an urgency in his tone that threw her for a moment and her laugh was forced before she said lightly, ‘They aren’t very fairy-like at the moment; I’m exhausted.’

‘How are things?’ he asked immediately, and again that throb in the Scottish burr made her flush.

‘Everyone is holding up very well.’ There was no movement from Donato, not a whisper of sound, but she could almost taste the dark waves flowing from his hard frame. ‘I’d better go, Jim; this call must be costing a fortune. I just wanted to let you all know as soon as I could. You couldn’t ask Claire to go and see my landlady and explain everything, could you?’ she asked carefully. ‘I wouldn’t like her to think I’m not coming back.’

‘Don’t worry about that side of things; I’ll sort it out,’ Jim said quickly. ‘I’ll go and see her and arrange to let her have a cheque at the end of the month.’

‘Oh, there’s no need for that; I can send her a cheque from here—’ Grace began, but he interrupted her, his voice brisk.

‘I’ll see to it, Grace; I’d like to. You can settle up with me when you’re home.’ There was a faint emphasis on the last word and again she flushed; the note of possessiveness in his voice had never been there before and she was sure she wasn’t imagining it.

‘All right, thank you.’ She hesitated a moment and then said, ‘Goodbye, then.’

‘Goodbye, Grace. Take care, won’t you? And...and don’t stand any nonsense,’ he said thickly and surprisingly.

‘I... No. Right, then, I’d better go...’ She was flustered now and it showed, and there was a moment of heavy brittle silence when she replaced the receiver before she could nerve herself to raise her eyes to Donato. The black gaze was waiting for her as she had known it would be.

‘Your...friend did not want you to come here?’ The words were soft and silky and deadly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ She had heard him perfectly well but needed time to collect her thoughts after the amazing phone call, during which she had seen a side to Jim she had never seen before.

‘He thought you should stay tucked away in safe little England with the ram and the wind and the number ten bus?’ Donato asked cuttingly, his voice vitriolic and his face set in pure unyielding granite.

He was jealous. The knowledge brought her eyes wide open for a split second before a surge of anger tightened her lips and raised her small chin. He didn’t want her, he had made that patently clear by his silence over the last twelve months, but he didn’t want anyone else to have her either! The Vittoria ‘ownership’ trait in full sail. But to be jealous of Jim—Jim of all people.

And then she remembered the timbre of Jim’s voice during the call and found herself flushing with shock. But she had never indicated to Jim, by word or deed, that there was anything more between them than friendship—never; the mere thought of more made her cringe. Jim was like the big brother she’d never had, a steady, dependable rock; if she’d thought for a second he wanted more...

Donato’s hard gaze slashed over her hot face and his voice was even softer when he said, ‘So? You have not answered my question.’ He folded his arms across his broad chest as he spoke.

‘Because it’s irrelevant,’ she said tightly, with bitter resentment.

‘I think not.’ He smiled, but it was a mere twisting of his lips, his eyes icy. ‘I asked you if he advised you not to come. That is a simple enough question, is it not?’

‘It’s nothing to do with anyone else what I do or don’t do,’ she said fiercely. ‘I make up my own mind; I won’t have it made up for me. Is that a simple enough answer?’

‘It will do.’ He rose so suddenly that she flinched before she could control the gesture. ‘Come, I will take you to your room,’ he said arrogantly. ‘You would like your lunch there?’ he continued as he walked to the door. ‘In view of your...exhaustion?’

The brief pause before the last word was meant to intimidate but she ignored the allusion to her conversation with Jim and smiled coolly, willing herself to sound distant and aloof as she said, ‘Thank you, that would be nice.’

Nice? It would be heaven, she thought weakly, preceding Donato out of the room on legs that were distinctly shaky. An hour or two to compose herself before she faced him again seemed like an oasis in the desert right at this moment, and she still had the hurdle of Bianca to overcome as well as the numerous relatives who would be sure to attend the funeral.

When she had first come to Casa Pontina five years ago as a shy and nervous eighteen-year-old she had thought the beautiful old house stretched for miles, and something of that feeling returned now as they walked along the high, elegant hall to the wide, gracious staircase that curved to the upper floor.

Besides the servants’ ample quarters, which were situated beyond the kitchens on the ground floor, there were six massive bedrooms in all, complete with en suite bathrooms, but when Donato had asked her to marry him two months after their first meeting he had ordered the immediate construction of a new wing to the building. The extension comprised a huge fitted kitchen, high-ceilinged dining room and two reception rooms, and four large bedrooms with bathrooms en suite upstairs.

There was no doubt the resulting addition was both aesthetically pleasing and unashamedly luxurious, but it was the fact that it was exclusively theirs that Donato had revelled in, although she had felt apprehensive and worried that Liliana in particular would feel rebuffed by Donato’s move from the main house.

She had been at Casa Pontina one Sunday afternoon just a few weeks before the wedding day when furnishings for her new home were being discussed, and something in her face must have told Romano, who was sitting opposite her at the dining table, how she was feeling.

‘Grace?’ He had sought her out after tea, which was unusual, taking her to one side and speaking quietly as he had looked down at her from his considerable height. ‘You feel uncomfortable about your new home, sì?’

‘Oh, I love it, I do love it,’ she said hastily, ‘and I can’t wait to live there.’ She blushed furiously at this point but he pretended not to notice. ‘It’s just that I don’t want Liliana to think we don’t want to be with her. It’s not that, really.’

‘You have told Donato this?’ Romano asked gravely.

‘Yes, and he said not to worry, that Liliana is happy about the arrangement. The thing is...’ She hesitated, feeling a bit silly. ‘I don’t want Donato to think I don’t want to live there so I haven’t really said anything else.’

‘Grace, I have known Liliana all my life, Donato and I have been friends since we were babies, so perhaps you would not think me presumptuous if I spoke to you on this matter?’ Romano asked quietly, smiling his rare smile as she shook her head quickly.

‘She is very happy that Donato has found you, and even more so that you are everything she would have liked in a daughter-in-law; I know this. She understands her son perfectly and feels it is right and proper that he wishes to be alone with you in his own domain; she even suggested that it might be time for her to move elsewhere. She feels a young married couple need time alone and she is right. This arrangement, therefore, is one that she is in complete harmony with, be assured on that, and also that she cares a great deal for you.’

‘Does she?’ Grace had no idea how her face had lit up at his words.

‘Indeed she does,’ Romano said gently. ‘In Liliana’s eyes she is mostly definitely gaining a daughter rather than losing a son; on this have no doubt.’

‘Thank you, Romano.’ She had smiled at him as she had spoken and he bowed slightly in acknowledgement, the action very Latin. It wasn’t the first time she had wondered how someone like Romano had come to be married to a petulant, attention-seeking woman like Bianca, but as before she dismissed the thought quickly, feeling faintly guilty to be thinking about Donato’s sister along those lines.

Romano’s words that day were just the reassurance she needed, and she got even closer to Liliana in the next few weeks as a result of them, her mind having been put completely at rest as to what Donato’s mother thought of her.

She told Donato what his friend had said when he drove her home that same night, and he nodded in agreement. ‘Madre is thrilled you have consented to be my wife; they are all thrilled, but it would not have mattered if I had not had one other person who approved of our match, my love. From the first moment I set eyes on you I knew you would be mine, I knew it; nothing could have kept us apart. You are my destiny, as I am yours; I am going to love you as no other woman has ever been loved before.’

And he had—oh, he had... Her eyes flickered now as she remembered how wildly passionate he was—something she had only fully appreciated on their wedding night, which had also been her nineteenth birthday, when the restraint he had employed during their courtship had blazed into a raging fire that had both thrilled and frightened her with its intensity.

Nevertheless, in the taking of her virginity he had also taken her to the heights, into an experience where she was pure sensation, liquid and mindless and wholly his. He had been the perfect lover, her ecstasy his ecstasy, her pleasure his first concern, and there had been times when their union had left them both stunned and shaking as they had slowly returned from the world of colour and light and exquisite richness that their lovemaking had taken them into.

But that time was over, dead, finished, slashed into oblivion by his infidelity, and now, as Donato passed the staircase and walked to the heavy carved oak door that led to the separate wing of the house, Grace caught at his arm, her voice taut. ‘You don’t expect me to stay in Bambina Pontina?’ she asked sharply, unconsciously using the nickname they had christened their home with in the early days.

‘Of course.’ She could feel the muscled strength in his arm beneath her fingers but he was completely still as he glanced down at her small, dainty hand on his body before raising his eyes to her face. ‘It is your home,’ he said flatly.

‘It was.’ She could hear the panic in her voice and forced it back as she continued, ‘“Was” being the operative word. I’ve no intention of staying anywhere but in the main house.’

‘Grace...’ Her name was said with deep exasperation and he closed his eyes for a moment before shaking his head slowly. ‘Are you going to continue to defy me at every turn? Is this to be my punishment while you remain at Casa Pontina?’

‘I’m not defying you...well, I am, but not just for the sake of it,’ she amended quickly, agitation evident in every line of her slim body and stiffly held head. ‘I want to stay in the main house, that’s all,’ she said firmly, taking a step backwards away from him.

‘I see.’ He surveyed her for a moment from dark, hooded eyes before continuing, ‘And the fact that all your clothes and belongings are as you left them in Bambina Pontina—your books, your records and tapes and so on—this does not mean it makes sense that you should stay there? You have your own sitting room, your own quarters—’

‘Donato—’

‘And your own bedroom, of course,’ he continued smoothly, his face expressionless. ‘I moved out of our bedroom shortly after it became apparent you did not intend to return immediately.’

‘Shortly after...’ Her voice trailed away as she stared at him in utter amazement. Her letter had been nothing if not succinct; she couldn’t have been more explicit about her non-return.

‘So you are quite safe, you understand?’ His eyes were mocking now, scornful of her unease. ‘I have not yet become so desperate for a woman that I have taken one against her will.’

‘I didn’t imagine you would do that,’ she snapped back quickly, angry that he had sensed her apprehension and wishing she hadn’t started the conversation. She couldn’t quite explain her reluctance to stay in their old quarters; it wasn’t that she imagined he would force himself on her—the mere thought of Donato Vittoria behaving in such an ill-bred way was absurd. It was more...more herself she feared.

The thought was shocking and brought her head bolt upright as she faced him, her deep blue eyes dark with confusion and her red-gold hair a blaze of silky fire. She didn’t want to feel attracted to him, to acknowledge that dangerous magnetism he exuded as naturally as breathing, not after the way he had betrayed her with Maria, but...

But nothing, she told herself with bitter self-contempt at her weakness. He was a man possessed of great charisma and power—from the first time she had met him she had seen women go down before that fascinating and indefinable charm like ninepins—but she wasn’t the kind of wife to tolerate liaisons and affairs and what he had done once he could do again. Why was she even thinking like this? she asked herself with very real amazement. There was no question that she would ever put herself in the position where he could betray her again—none.

‘So...’ He had been watching the play of emotions over her face with piercing interest although the ebony eyes were hooded and veiled. ‘There is no logical reason for you to refuse the privacy and comfort of Bambina Pontina, is there? And it will be reassuring for Lorenzo for life to resume some normality, if only for a short time,’ he finished smoothly.

‘I...’

She stared at him as her mind raced. She didn’t want to stay in their old home, not for an hour, a minute, but to admit she feared even the slightest intimacy with him would give that over-sized ego a massive boost. She needed to convince him, and herself, that she was immune to his charm and she would, even if it killed her, she told herself with gritted teeth before nodding tightly.

‘I suppose so. I’ve only brought a few clothes with me so it will be convenient to use the ones I left. I presume they are still in the wardrobe?’ she asked quietly, forcing herself to show no reaction to his touch when he took her arm and walked her over to the door leading to the wing.

‘Of course.’ He sounded almost shocked, she thought grimly. It was clearly all right to cheat on your wife but not to dispose of her belongings. ‘Nothing has been touched.’

Her heart began to thump as Donato opened the door and she stepped into the wide, cream-painted hall she had never expected to see again, the beautiful mosaic tiles beneath her feet and the collection of unglazed, lacy-patterned pottery plates on one wall achingly familiar.

‘Welcome home, Grace.’ His voice was soft and husky and his lips had brushed hers before she could protest, their touch igniting a small flame she strove to hide with harshness.

‘I told you not to do that.’ She glared at him, her cheeks fiery and her breathing shallow. ‘I told you.’

‘So you did.’ He straightened, smiling derisively. ‘But I prefer to give orders, not to take them. Besides—’ he stopped what was clearly going to be a blazing retort on her part with an uplifted hand ‘—it is the Italian way to be hospitable.’

‘That’s not hospitality, it’s...it’s...’

‘When you find an adequate adjective let me know, but, in the meantime, shall we...?’ He indicated the beautifully worked wrought-iron staircase with a nod. ‘I understand your suitcase is already in your room,’ he added smoothly.

‘I see.’ So he’d had this all worked out from the word go, had he? she thought balefully. ‘You’re so very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Donato?’ she said tightly as she shook his hand from her arm. ‘So sure you’ll always get what you want.’

‘Thank you, I like to think so.’ It was meant to annoy and it did, unbearably, but she strove not to let it show as she marched across to the staircase with her head held high. He was impossible—this whole thing was impossible. She should never have come—Liliana wouldn’t, couldn’t have expected her to... But she would have. The knowledge drummed in her head as she walked carefully up the stairs, painfully conscious of Donato watching her ascent from the hall below, his big, dark frame perfectly still.

Duty, respect, responsibility, sacrifice—Liliana had been of the old school and had lived her whole life by such standards. She would certainly have expected the woman she looked on as a second daughter to attend her formal departure from this world; her non-attendance would have been unthinkable.

White sunlight was slanting through the huge arched windows of the landing as Grace reached the top of the stairs and fairly flew along the polished wooden boards without looking to left or right, almost falling into the room they had designated as the master bedroom and then standing with her back pressed hard against the closed door, her eyes tightly shut.

That dream she had had, the night before the telegram had arrived... Liliana had told her then to come home; she could still hear the urgency in the older woman’s voice and see the way her arms had been stretched out towards her. ‘He needs you, Grace, more than you could ever imagine. It is only when you come home that the healing can begin. Come home, Grace, come home.’

She had woken from the dream in the middle of the night, shaking and wet with perspiration, her heart pounding and her mouth dry. Had Liliana really called her? she asked herself now, still with her eyes closed. And if so, if the woman she had loved as a mother had reached out from another world for her help, what would be expected of her?

The dream had confused her at the time; she had lain awake the rest of the night until dawn had broken, trying to convince herself it meant nothing, but since her arrival back in Italy she could see it was perhaps Lorenzo Liliana had been calling her for. That, at least, would make some sense, because her first supposition—that Donato’s mother had been referring to her eldest son—was too ridiculous to entertain, and she had known it immediately she had brought logic and reason to bear.

She slowly opened her eyes, forcing herself to look round the large, bright, sunlit room that had been her marital bedroom for three years. It was here that Paolo had been conceived after long, lazy hours of sweet lovemaking just three months after they had been married, hours when she had moaned under the exquisite sensations Donato had produced so effortlessly in her soft flesh, when the sexual feeling that had flowed in and around and through her had been so unbearably wonderful that she had thought she’d die from it...

Was that how he made Maria feel? She forced the name into her consciousness as a talisman against the weakness that was threatening to overwhelm her. Probably, she thought grimly as her eyes began to focus. Very probably. He was an accomplished lover.

And then she saw them, the carefully arranged display of wild flowers. Michaelmas daisies, blood-red poppies, ragged robin with its delicate pink petals, white and blue forget-me-nots, the deep green leaves and sky-blue petals of germander speedwell, coltsfoot, orange hawkweed, lady’s-smock, scarlet pimpernel...

‘Oh!’ Her hand went to her throat as she gasped out loud. Her wedding bouquet, and only Donato knew its significance. She walked across to the flowers slowly and stood looking at them for long moments before tentatively touching the tall spikes of purple loosestrife and pale blue buddleia, the tiny white flowers of shepherd’s purse splaying out beneath them.

All through the long years in the children’s home she had picked small posies of wild flowers, gathered from the hedgerows and lanes close by, to brighten her windowsill in the dormitory. The delicate beauty of the flowers had been something pure and lovely in the stark, regimented existence within the building where practicality had been the order of the day. They had been a comfort she couldn’t explain to anyone, a hope, a promise that life would get better, and when she had nervously tried to explain her feelings to Donato when the expensive hothouse blooms for the wedding were being discussed she hadn’t thought he’d listened.

And then, on her wedding day, the most exquisite bouquet had been delivered, tied and threaded through with white silk ribbons and lace, the marvellous array of wild flowers cascading almost to the floor in a declaration to their future.

She had cried then and she knew she was going to cry now. She threw herself onto the scented linen covers of the big double bed, curling into a tight little ball of misery and grief.

How could he? How could he have slept with Maria Fasola, held her, loved her, smiled at her, after all they had meant to each other? Their marriage, the moments they had shared, Paolo’s birth, his death—oh...oh, his death...

Her sobs were wrenched from the depths of her, harsh, angry, desperate sounds that reached the tall, dark man standing outside the room, freezing his fingers on the handle of the door and turning his face into a mask of stone before he turned savagely, striding away down the passageway with violent steps.