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THE Romano Gallery claimed prestige position in the famous Quadrilatero. It was double-fronted in plate glass, with black steel framework, and Rosetta Romano’s name made its point with eye-level modesty in black lettering on the door.

Class wasn’t in it. Only people of substance dared place their fingers on that door. A black-suited lackey did it for Marco and Antonia, pulling it inwards with panache and a crisp, ‘Buon giorno, Signor Bellini—signorina.’

The interior was an artistic exhibit in its own right—white walls, white floor and a white stairway leading up to the main gallery rooms. Its only decoration was a single black spot, strategically placed on one wall to offer perspective.

Marco’s hand at the base of her spine kept her moving towards the stairway. They took it together, climbing towards the two black-clothed waiters stationed at the top, holding trays loaded with glasses of champagne. Neither took a glass. To swallow right now would be an impossibility, with the tension rising steadily since they’d left the sitting room back at the apartment.

She had thought of ringing Stefan and insisting he explain about the painting so she could then decide whether to come or not. But two things had stopped her. One had something to do with a complicated thing called loyalty. To speak to Stefan just now seemed to be putting her loyalty to Marco into question. And the second was because she knew Marco would insist on coming here tonight no matter what she wanted to do. It was a male pride thing. Stefan had thrown him a challenge and Marco would rather slit his own throat than decline it.

But that didn’t mean she hadn’t spent time on her own, going over every painting from her days living with Stefan, looking for the one he had not shown in public before. As far as she could recall there wasn’t one—which worried her all the more, because he had to have something up his sleeve or he wouldn’t have thrown down that teasing gauntlet to Marco in the first place.

Dressed from neck to toe in black, at least she blended in with the status quo tonight, she then observed, as her gaze flicked around a semi-packed ante-room that fed into the main viewing rooms. Her hair was up, caught in a twist of black velvet, and her only adornment was a gold chain necklace with a single tear-drop diamond that Marco had placed around her throat just before they left the apartment. The diamond nestled against the black of her dress and sparkled as she moved.

‘Stunning,’ Marco had called her. ‘Too lovely to resist. Too perfect to touch.’

But she still didn’t deserve his surname, she mused, with a mockery that was a long way from humorous.

‘Ah, buona sera!’ Rosetta Romano came to greet them with all the extravagance of an Italian hostess. ‘Marco, mi amore…’ Both elegant hands touched his face, then were replaced with kisses to both cheeks. ‘Do you realise it must be over a year since you visited me here?’

It was a scold issued in the nicest possible way. While Marco said all the right things in reply Antonia studied Rosetta Romano, who had been a legend in her time for choosing husbands by the size of their wallets. Now that her beauty was fading she preferred to be known for her artistic eye. All the big names had exhibited here. Two years ago Stefan would not have stood a chance. Now—?

Rosetta turned her attention to Antonia. Her eyes sharpened, then narrowed searchingly. ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I see it. Stefan assured me I would. Buona sera, Signorina Carson,’ she greeted with a slightly wry smile. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you at last.’

Kisses on both cheeks were compulsory in Milan. The whisper Rosetta placed in her ear was most definitely not. ‘Stefan is such a wicked man. I do hope you are prepared for this.’

No, she wasn’t, and keeping that from showing on her face took a lot of self-control. But she wasn’t able to stop the small anxious shiver from chasing down her spine. Marco felt it, and his hand moved on her waist to draw her closer to his side.

‘What did she say to you?’ he questioned when Rosetta floated away to greet her next arriving guests.

Antonia didn’t even try to dress it up. ‘She wanted to know if I was ready for whatever is coming,’ she told him.

‘And are you?’ he asked curtly.

She flashed him a look. ‘The point is, are you?’ she coolly countered. ‘Since you seem to believe that anything to do with me and Stefan is deliberately engineered to reflect badly on you.’

She was right and he knew it. A muscle flexed in his jaw. Then he was forced to offer an amiable smile to some friends who immediately accosted them. After that it was other friends. Progress towards their main objective became a laboriously slow affair. With his hand never leaving contact with her, Marco conversed lightly with acquaintances while Antonia stood beside him, eyes constantly looking around the steadily thickening crowd in search of Stefan. But still he hadn’t put in an appearance.

What was he up to? Why was he piling on the tension like this?

People began filtering off into the adjoining rooms. With the smoothness of a man in no kind of hurry, Marco manoeuvred them into doing the same.

Antonia held her breath, Marco’s hand pressed her just the bit closer to his side as they stepped through to the main gallery. Together they paused, together they took stock of what was presented—and together they began to frown.

For there was nothing on these walls that could warrant the challenge with which Stefan had lured them here—if you didn’t count the evidence that Stefan had seemingly found himself a new subject to occupy his genius.

She was tall, she was dark, she was exquisitely different, and her rich African beauty could not have been further removed from what had gone before her. The long slender line of her body laid bare a sensuality that curled around the senses, the silken quality of her skin set fingers twitching with a need to reach out and touch. But, as usual, with Stefan, it was her eyes that drew you.

No hint of mirrors or ghosts anywhere, but a luxurious darkness that seemed to hold all the secrets of the universe.

Understanding came, trailing gentle fingertips over her emotions in the heart-rippling realisation that here, in these frames, was Stefan’s salvation.

He had set himself free. ‘Are you all right?’ Marco asked gruffly.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. But he knew that she wasn’t. He could feel her fighting a battle with tears as they walked from frame to frame. ‘She’s incredible, don’t you think?’

‘Bellisima,’ Marco quietly agreed. And he knew he should be pleased by what he was seeing, but in truth he wanted to wring Kranst’s selfish neck for choosing this way to tell her he had finally found someone else who drew this depth of emotion from him.

‘I presume by your response that you knew nothing about her?’

‘Not a thing,’ she replied, having to swallow the tears again.

‘Maybe you should ask him,’ he suggested, and drew her attention to where Stefan Kranst was standing, not far away, watching her responses with an intensity that made Marco’s blood boil.

Her head twisted round, her breath caught for a second, then her slender waist was sliding away from his hand. Without another word to him, she crossed the room towards a man who had always held too much power over her for Marco’s peace of mind. Grimly he watched her pause a step away, watched her head tilt to one side as it tended to do when she asked a question. He saw Stefan Kranst’s handsome face break into a rakish grin, and wanted to hit the self-obsessed bastard!

‘Who is she?’ was the question Antonia had put to Stefan.

‘My saviour,’ Stefan had grinned. ‘Her name?’ she demanded. ‘Tanya,’ he provided.

‘Tanya…’ Antonia repeated, and let her gaze drift to the nearest painting, where Tanya’s smile held the rich knowledge of all men’s needs. ‘It suits her,’ she murmured, then on a burst of soft laughter she went into his arms. ‘Oh, I’m so happy for you!’ she cried.

Across the room, Marco turned away from that embrace to continue to view the painting in front of him as if he had no problem at all with his woman falling into her ex-lover’s arms once again. Someone sidled up beside him.

Of course it had to be Louisa. ‘I do admire your confidence in those two, Marco,’ she drawled lightly. ‘Now, if, for argument’s sake, he belonged to me, I would be over there scratching her eyes out by now.’

‘But he doesn’t belong to you—he belongs to her,’ he said, indicating the beautiful black woman whose naked form exuded sexual contentment from every gifted brushstroke. ‘And Antonia,’ he then added very softly, ‘belongs to me.’

With that he walked away, in no mood to play tit-for-tat word games tonight. He wanted his woman back, and he wanted her now!

‘When do I meet her? Where is she?’ Antonia was demanding of Stefan.

‘Back in London, hiding away from you,’ he drawled lazily. ‘Just in case I was wrong about you, and you are secretly in love with me.’

Catching her soft burst of laughter as he approached, Marco also heard Antonia’s amused reply. ‘Of course you told her that I will always love you?’

‘Hello, Marco,’ Stefan greeted, a trifle drily. ‘Come to claim Antonia?’

The man could read minds.

‘We have to be leaving soon,’ Marco answered smoothly. ‘Another engagement, I’m afraid,’ he invented with bland ease.

The moment he began speaking Antonia moved to his side and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. She was making a point here, Marco recognised. And it should feel good.

So why did he feel as if she was taking second best by coming to him like this?

Irritation flicked to life. What the hell was he talking about? He scorned his own crazy imagination. He had never played second best to anyone in his life!

‘Dare I ask the expert for an opinion?’ Kranst reclaimed his attention. His expression was slightly wry, slightly challenging Marco to do his worst.

But Marco found he no longer wanted to play tit-for-tat games with Kranst, either. He just wanted to get Antonia somewhere private so he could make her forget Stefan Kranst’s name!

So, ‘You must know you’ve done it again,’ he said easily. ‘Have you sold the reproduction rights yet?’

‘Still negotiating.’ Stefan smiled. Then, ‘Thank you, Marco,’ he added seriously. ‘Your opinion means a lot to me.’

And to your reputation, Marco added silently. Though anyone with eyes should be able to see that the man was about to make his second killing here.

Glancing down, he found Antonia was smiling up at him as if he had just bestowed the greatest accolade he possibly could. It made him want to shake her for still caring so much about Kranst’s precious ego when it was clear the man didn’t give a damn about hers!

‘It’s time we were leaving,’ he told her, wishing they hadn’t bothered to come here at all. The man was a menace—to him and to Antonia!

‘Before you do that,’ Stefan Kranst inserted, looking at Antonia, ‘I have something for you, my darling, if you remember…’

Beside him, Marco felt her stiffen. ‘You mean this isn’t surprise enough?’ she laughed, in a voice strapped by strain.

‘No.’ The artist’s smile was rueful. ‘Special gifts come in solid form.’

Marco frowned at the answer, because it wasn’t true. Not where Antonia was concerned. It was a lesson he had learned himself only last week via the red Lotus. Then he remembered Kranst’s remark about the Mirror Woman, felt his own tension rise up to meet Antonia’s, and realised that she had remembered a whole lot sooner than he had done.

‘I have it waiting in Rosetta’s office,’ Stefan Kranst said smoothly, and turned away to stride purposefully towards Rosetta Romano’s private office.

It really left them with no choice but to follow. ‘This had better be worth the build-up,’ Marco muttered, unable to stop himself.

‘I hope not,’ Antonia mumbled in reply, which just about said it all for both of them.

Rosetta Romano’s office was a large white space of modern stylism. The only thing, therefore, that stood out in the room, was the giant black easel holding a large frame covered by a piece of fine black muslin.

The moment she saw it Antonia released a gasp of recognition, ‘Stefan…no!’ she shot out.

But Stefan was not willing to listen. He was already standing beside the easel and, with an agonising smoothness he trailed away the fine sheet covering.

Total silence arrived in starbursts of pain-bright recognition. Antonia began to tremble. Marco simply left her standing there and moved on legs suddenly in danger of collapsing to stand right in front of the painting.

It could have been a copy of the Mirror Woman. Certainly it was the same balcony, the same morning half-light touching that same sensual hint of gold to her silk-smooth skin. And it was certainly Antonia standing there naked, looking back over her shoulder in much the same way as the Mirror Woman did.

But it wasn’t the same painting. For this was no mirror reflection, there was no emptiness in her beautiful eyes. Instead they were filled with the truth.

Antonia was held paralysed by exposure, static eyes fixed on Marco’s hardening profile, static heart threatening to burst in her breast. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t. She wanted to say something in her defence, but she couldn’t do that because the evidence was so terribly damning.

Stefan came to stand beside her. His hand took hold of her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. But she didn’t feel comforted. Standing here watching the man she loved grimly coming to terms with the knowledge that she had been deceiving him filled her with the kind of dread that made every nerve-end she possessed scream in agony.

‘I can’t believe you’ve done this without my approval,’ she managed to breathe out frailly.

‘If I had asked, you wouldn’t have given it,’ Stefan gently replied.

‘But why have you done it?’ It seemed such a betrayal from the one person in this world she trusted completely.

‘It was time he knew,’ he said simply. ‘You’ve let it go on too long. You must know that by now, my darling.’

Knowing it and wanting this were two separate issues! ‘You should not have done it,’ she whispered, and felt her eyes start to burn as Marco reached out to touch the painting. A long finger gently grazed across a perfectly formed, blemish-free shoulder. Antonia felt that graze as if he’d reached out and touched her. Response shuddered through her on an electric spasm.

‘I’ll never forgive you,’ she told Stefan, and stepped away from him with the intention of going to this other man who was so very important to her—

Only to freeze yet again, when Marco chose the same moment to turn.

His face looked as if it had been chiselled out of marble. ‘You didn’t paint this.’ He honed his cold eyes directly on Stefan.

It was a clearly defined accusation. ‘There speaks the voice of an expert,’ Stefan smiled. Then, ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘This was—’

‘Mine,’ Antonia put in unequivocally. ‘It belongs to me!’ She looked at Marco for understanding. ‘It isn’t even Stefan’s to give to me! I own it! No one is supposed to—’

Marco’s hard-eyed narrowed look silenced her. ‘Who painted it?’ he demanded.

‘Does it matter?’ she begged. ‘It has never been put on public display and it never will be, Marco! I never—’

‘I didn’t ask if it had been shown,’ he cut in. ‘I asked you who the hell painted it!’

His fury was spectacular. Antonia drew back a step in dismay. ‘I think you’re missing the point, Marco,’ Stefan put in quickly. ‘I didn’t show you this to—’

It happened so quickly that Stefan had no time to react to it. With a smoothness of movement that gave no indication whatsoever of what he was intending to do, Marco took two strides and, with a lightning move of his long lean body, he floored Stefan with a punch to his jaw.

With a grunt, Stefan landed in a sprawl in front of him. Antonia’s cry as she lurched towards them filled his ears. ‘Why did you do that!’ she choked as she bent down beside Stefan.

‘For messing with your life. For messing with my life!’ he ground out violently, then just turned and strode out of the door.

Antonia watched him go with her heart in her eyes. On a groan, Stefan sat up and put a hand to his jaw. He was shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe he had allowed that to happen.

‘What have you done to me?’ Antonia sobbed out.

‘Fulfilled one of your dearest wishes and got him to punch my lights out,’ Stefan very drily replied.

Not the least bit in the mood for his kind of dry humour, she came upright then bent to help him get up. ‘Has he hurt you?’ she asked.

‘Don’t sound so sympathetic.’ He mocked her frosty enquiry. ‘Split my lip, that’s all,’ he then answered, only to really infuriate her by suddenly beginning to laugh!

‘Stop it!’ she choked. ‘How dare you laugh at a time like this? What have you done to me, Stefan? Why have you done it?’ The tears began to swim as she stared at the closed office door. ‘He’s never going to forgive me for this. You do know that,’ she told him thickly. ‘He’s even left without me!’

‘Not that man,’ Stefan stated confidently. ‘Give me a minute to put some ice on this, and we’ll go out there and find him. I promise you,’ he assured her pained white expression, ‘he’s going to be there…’

But Marco didn’t want to be found for, having walked out on one ugly scene, he now found himself standing outside Rosetta Romano’s door, flexing his abused fist and staring directly at the looming threat of yet another scene.

His mother had arrived. God alone knew where she had come from—and God alone knew why, when he’d believed her safely ensconced in Tuscany. But there she was, holding court in the middle of the ante-room surrounded by a host of delighted old friends and acquaintances.

In the black mood he was in, he actually contemplated pretending he hadn’t seen her and getting the hell out of there before she saw him!

Only he was not leaving without Antonia, he determined, with a grimness that promised a glimpse at hell for someone. And it took only a thin sliver of common sense to get through his anger, to tell him that he couldn’t avoid speaking to his own mother, for goodness’ sake!

But a meeting between her and Antonia? His blood ran cold at the very idea of it. It was a sensation that forced him to work hard at pulling a smooth mask down on his bubbling anger and then striking out towards his mother with the grim intention of getting the mother-son reunion out of the way before Antonia decided to put in an appearance with her famous ex-lover in tow!

But lady luck was not working in Marco’s favour tonight. The room was pretty crowded with Milan’s best. People who more or less knew each other on first-name terms. Isabella Bellini was known and liked by many. Her son even found an amused smile as he approached and saw just how many people were gathered around her slender form.

She saw him coming, and her lovely face broke into a welcoming smile. His smile became a rakish grin as he took this beautiful, delicate creature he adored into his arms and let her shower kisses all over his face.

Hands replaced kisses, followed by remarks to the crowd on how handsome he was, how cruel he was to his mother for not returning her calls. It was the Italian way. He accepted it and even enjoyed it. His apologies were profuse, his enquiries about his father sincere.

‘He is having a good week,’ his mother informed him—and the smiling circle. ‘So he threw me out and told me not to come back for at least two days. He says I fuss too much, but in truth,’ she confided, ‘he plans to play cards, drink wine and gamble with his friends without me around to disapprove.’

The laughter was warm and appreciative. From the corner of his eye Marco saw the door to Rosetta Romano’s office open; his skin began to prickle.

Isabella looked back at her son. ‘And this one,’ she announced, ‘cannot even find the time in his busy life to answer his mother when she calls to him! I get his housekeeper,’ she informed her audience.

Antonia was approaching him from his right. She looked pale, she looked anxious. She had no idea what she was going to walk into.

‘I get the message service,’ his mother was continuing. ‘I have to ring his friends to discover where he might be this evening!’ Marco smiled the expected rueful smile, and wondered which friend it was who had dropped him in this mess.

Antonia had now come to within a few paces of his right. Beside her was Stefan Kranst, wearing a bruise on his lip and a crooked smile. It was decision time, Marco accepted heavily. He either drew Antonia towards him, introduced her to his mother and risked offending his mother’s outdated ideas on what was acceptable in polite society, or he ignored Antonia standing there and offended her. It was a lousy choice to have to decide.

Someone arrived at his left side, diverting his mother’s attention. Her face broke into a beatific smile. ‘Ah, Louisa,’ she greeted. ‘There you are! And looking so beautiful, as always. I was just telling everyone how I had to call you up to discover where my own son would be tonight…’

Louisa. It had to be Louisa, Marco noted grimly. The knowledge tipped the balance of his decision away from his mother. For no one had the right to try manipulating either him or his life, and maybe it was about time that his mother and Louisa realised that!

Louisa was being welcomed with the usual kisses from his mother when Marco turned the half-inch it required to catch Antonia’s gaze. He saw the uncertainty there, the knowledge that she had recognised whom it was holding centre stage. His heart turned over. She was so beautiful. So much his woman, no matter what secrets she had been keeping from him, that it was suddenly no decision at all to smile and hold out his arm in invitation for her to come to him.

Her relief shone like the diamond at her lovely throat as she took the final irrevocable step which brought her beneath the protection of his arm and into the smiling circle.

Slender-boned, exquisitely turned out in matt-black creˆpe, her satin-black hair sleek to her beautiful head, Isabella Bellini was just emerging from her embrace with Louisa when she observed this little interplay—and her eyes began to cool.

‘Mother,’ Marco said formally. ‘I would like you to meet—’

As if he hadn’t spoken, and Antonia wasn’t there, Isabella Bellini simply turned her back on them. The deadening silence that followed was profound.

It was such a blatantly deliberate act, that it was all Antonia could do to remain standing there, with her stinging eyes lowered, hiding the deep gouge of humiliation that was tearing into the very fabric her pride was made of.

While Marco emulated a pillar of stone.

How many people actually witnessed what had just happened, Antonia didn’t know. But it really didn’t take an audience for her to understand that the cuckoo had just been devastatingly exposed.

The hum of conversation suddenly rushed into overdrive as people attempted to cover up the dreadful moment. Someone gently touched her arm. It was Stefan. ‘That—’ he growled, ‘was unforgivable.’

She began to shake. Stefan glanced angrily at Marco, who still hadn’t moved a single muscle. Then, ‘Come on,’ he murmured gruffly. ‘Let’s go back to Rosetta’s—’

‘No,’ a hard voice countermanded. And with it Marco broke free from his stone-like stasis. ‘We are leaving,’ he announced.

The hand tightened on her shoulder. Antonia could feel the anger in its biting grip and clenched the muscles beneath it.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Stefan declared, still gripping Antonia’s arm. ‘I have no wish to—’

‘No.’ Once again Marco cut him short. ‘We appreciate your concern, but this is not your problem.’

‘It is when it’s Antonia who has been insulted,’ Stefan said angrily.

‘And my mother who did the insulting,’ Marco coldly pointed out.

‘Excuse me,’ Antonia whispered, and broke free from both of them. She needed to get away from here, and she needed to do it now. Fighting tears, fighting the crawling worms of humiliation, fighting to keep her head up high as she went, she walked quickly for the stairs.

If she’d cared to look back, she would have seen that Marco’s mother was already feeling the discomfort of what she had done. She was touching her son’s arm, trying to get his attention. But Marco didn’t even offer her a glance as he strode after Antonia. His hand found her waist and clamped her close. Together they started down the stairs. In her haste Antonia tripped over her own spindly shoes. Marco grimly held her upright, and kept her moving while the throb of his anger pulsed all around her like the heartbeat pound of a drum.

They reached the plate-glass door at the same time as the doorman pulled it open. Neither realised the door was being opened to allow someone outside to come in. There was a bump of bodies.

‘Scuze signor—signorina,’ a deep, quietly modulated voice apologised.

It was automatic to glance up. Automatic to attempt the polite reply to the apology. Antonia looked into the stranger’s face, he looked into hers, and any attempt to speak was thoroughly suffocated beneath yet another thick layer of appalled dismay.

Black hair spiked with silver, grey eyes with a hint of green. As tall as Marco, but more slender than Marco, he was a man in the autumn years of his life.

Still, she knew exactly who it was she was staring at—and, worse, he knew that she knew.

‘Madonna mia,’ he breathed in shaken consternation. ‘Anastasia.’

Anastasia... It was too much in one short evening for Antonia to deal with. It was all she could do to shrink back into the only solid thing she could rely on right now.

Marco might be immersed in the red tide of anger, but he saw the exchanged looks, heard the name shudder from the other man’s lips. Knew there was yet something else going on here that he wasn’t privy to, and felt his anger switch from his mother and back to the woman now shrinking into his side.

‘You are mistaken,’ he clipped at the other man. ‘Please excuse us,’ he added coldly, then got them the hell out of there before anything else smashed into them.

Outside, the Quadrilatero was busy with windowshoppers. Marco’s car was parked in a side street not far away. Holding on to his temper until he got them there was a case of clamping his mouth shut and saying nothing.

Opening the passenger door, he helped her into the plush black leather seat, then squatted down to lock home her seat belt. She didn’t seem to notice. With yet another lash of anger, he grabbed her chin and made her look at him. Her eyes were almost black, her skin paste-white and her lovely mouth completely bloodless. She looked as fragile as a piece of fine Venetian glass, likely to shatter without careful handling.

But he didn’t feel like handling anything carefully. In fact, he wanted to shatter her into little pieces so he could reach the real woman, because this one had become a complete stranger to him!

With a harsh sigh he released her chin, stood up and closed the car door. He got in beside her, then fired the engine. Jaw locked, teeth clenched, he set them moving, bullying his way into the nose-to-tail traffic clogging up Milan’s crazy one-way road system, then took an amount of pleasure in doing the same thing in his quest to forge them the most direct route home.

Car horns blared at him in protest. Headlights flashed. Abuse was thrown at him in colourful Italian. He didn’t care. He was so angry! Angry with Kranst and his little party piece. With his mother and her unforgivable behaviour! And he was angry with Antonia for allowing him to believe the painting he had in his apartment was of her!

And then there was the man in the gallery doorway, he added to his long list of grievances because, despite appearing otherwise, he’d recognised him. His name was Anton Gabrielli, a wealthy industrialist turned recluse, who had rarely been seen in public since his wife died several years ago.

And he might have called Antonia Anastasia, but the error had been irrelevant. He knew her! And, more to the point, Antonia had recognised him!

‘How do you know Anton Gabrielli?’ he demanded.

It was like talking to a puppet. ‘I’ve never met him before in my life,’ she answered woodenly.

‘Don’t lie to me!’ he rasped. ‘He may have got your name wrong, but you knew each other all right. The mutual horror was all too revealing.’

‘I said I’ve never met him before!’ she shouted. It was so out of character that he threw a sharp look at her. No puppet now, he noted. She was shaking so badly that it made the diamond at her throat shimmer. On a choked little gasp, she turned her face right away from him so he couldn’t read it. It was the act of someone caught in a lie.

Without another word, he turned his attention to getting through the traffic, while a new filthy suspicion began to tear into him. Anton Gabrielli was about the same age as Kranst. If she’d enjoyed Kranst as a lover then why not Gabrielli? After all, what did he actually know about Antonia’s life before Kranst?

Nothing, he realised. Absolutely nothing.

As the ugly green stuff began to replace his blood again, he finally managed to reach his goal and pulled them to a screeching stop in the basement car park of his apartment. He switched off the engine—then clamped a hard hand on Antonia’s thigh as she released her seat belt.

‘Stay,’ he gritted. It was a dire warning. She wasn’t going to make him kick his heels down here for a second time while she rode the lift alone.

The fingers fluttered, then went to rest on her lap, her body melting back into the seat. With a tight hiss of satisfaction he got out, swung round the car, opened her door then bent to help her alight.

The lift took them upwards, with her shaking like crazy and him with his fists clenched to stop him taking hold of her and shaking her some more! When they reached the apartment door it was Marco who opened it; Antonia didn’t seem capable. But, once inside, the few seconds it required for him to deactivate the alarm system gave her the chance to get away from him.

She headed straight for the bedroom. He stayed where he was long enough to utter a few choice curses before grimly striding after her. If she’d locked the bedroom door on him then she was in for one hell of a shock! he vowed.

But the door wasn’t locked. And what he found when he tossed it back on its hinges stunned him to a complete standstill.