Читать книгу Hot Nights with...the Italian - Сара Крейвен, Lucy Gordon - Страница 8

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.