by Sara Wood
All because of someone who’d fed him lies—who?—and her strange illness which had prompted her to fling champagne about and thrash around in bed, thus sealing the death of her marriage.
‘That night—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it!’
She noticed that his fist had clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white.
‘I need to know what happened—!’
‘Then talk to your boyfriend,’ he said coldly. ‘Or the people in the clubs you frequented—’
‘There was no boyfriend!’ she declared vehemently, sitting up and wriggling around to confront him. ‘No clubs! No reason,’ she added, her hair swinging around her angry face, ‘other than an all-consuming fever that…’
Her voice tailed away. She gulped.
‘An all-consuming fever,’ he husked.
Anger had ceased to dominate his expression. His eyes had fired with desire. His lips had parted over his teeth as his breath hissed in and out in short, hot bursts. They were inches away. In a moment, she imagined wistfully, she would be in his embrace and the past would be forgotten.
She let her eyelids flutter down and waited, hoping for the miracle to happen.
‘Hold me!’ she whispered, intending it to be a soundless wish.
And yet he’d heard her, his impatient outbreath making her snap open her eyes at once in alarm and disappointment.
‘Damn you, Miranda! Stop using your body as a weapon!’ he snapped.
She blinked in confusion. ‘What?’
He shook his head irritably. ‘We have to live together in harmony, Miranda! For the sake of that future relationship, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt over the way you’re behaving at this moment. I am going to assume that you are not using this as a cold-blooded opportunity to get me into bed. I’ll be charitable and believe that you’re frightened and you’re looking for comfort.’
Her face flamed with humiliation. Comfort and love. Wasn’t everyone? she thought resentfully.
‘Of course that’s right!’ she mumbled, appalled by her weakness for him.
He stood up, pulling his robe across his chest to cover it. Every gesture, the set of his body, told her that he was distancing himself from her emotionally. She bit her lip. He was going to leave. She’d handled this very badly.
‘We can’t allow ourselves to get into this kind of situation, Miranda,’ he said harshly. ‘I’m sorry that you’re frightened and upset but there’s a limit to what I can do for you. Or what I want to do.’ His eyes burned into hers. ‘You know perfectly well that if I hold you, we’ll have sex because our bodies are still programmed to do so. I’m flesh and blood, as you know too well. You’re a woman, in bed and provocatively dressed, and I haven’t had sex for some time.’
‘Sex,’ she whispered. ‘Is that all it is for you?’
‘It’s a powerful drug and we’ve become addicts,’ he growled. ‘But anything between us would be lust and nothing else and I’d be disgusted with myself afterwards. I’d also be angry with you. A sexual relationship would complicate our business arrangement. I’m sure you would agree.’
So cold. He might have been a total stranger. She began to withdraw into her shell, wrapping herself in her long-established defences so she would not be hurt again.
‘Perhaps,’ she suggested in compromise, hoping she sounded cool and composed, ‘you could sit in the chair over there for a while.’
He studied her. She was conscious of her tumbling hair and the fact that the bedclothes no longer covered her. She had scrambled up with her body curled to one side, her nightdress settling in rich folds around her thighs and leaving her long legs bare.
His brooding stare lowered from her dishevelled hair and drowsy eyes to her throat, where a pulse beat hard and urgently. To her creamy shoulders. The curving line where her nightdress dipped and rose sinuously to hug her breasts.
Her defences crumbled in an instant. Flames licked through her body unmercifully.
‘I think not,’ he said thickly.
He raked a hand through his hair till it was uncharacteristically tousled. He looked almost vulnerable, his dark eyes huge and liquid. However hard she tried, she couldn’t stop wanting him. And it was crucifying her.
There seemed to be a current flowing between them. A last remaining link perhaps, however tenuous, of the passions they had aroused in one another. He despised her—but he desired her, as well.
The evidence was all too obvious and she felt a spasm of excitement vibrating in every nerve of her body. Because there was one sure way to get rid of their unwanted lust. And before she realised what she was doing, she found herself saying recklessly,
‘Dante…I can see that you hate being tied to me. I feel the same about you. I want to be back in control. Why don’t we lay all the ghosts once and for all? We are married, after all—’
‘Out of the question!’ he exclaimed, knowing by her expression exactly what she had in mind.
To make love. To rid themselves of this need for one another. And to start again, cold, indifferent, businesslike.
Or would they?
She heaved in a breath, realising that they’d never know. He’d fight his desire all the way. But then it was easier for him. He’d never loved her as she’d loved him.
‘I had thought you might be prepared to comfort me,’ she faltered. ‘Hold me securely until I slept.’
‘And?’ he challenged.
Trapped by his laser stare, she lowered her eyes, unable to understand why she couldn’t get it into her head that he had never had any deep feelings for her. It seemed her heart just wouldn’t accept that fact. Nor her body. It seemed inconceivable that she could ever contemplate sex without love. Worse, that she could want a man who had nothing but contempt for her.
And yet she seemed to be obsessed by Dante. He possessed her, body and soul, and she was alarmingly helpless in the face of her irrational passion. All her life she’d been in command of herself. Losing control like this was alarming. The situation had to change. She decided to be frank.
‘I’m not going to beat about the bush. You said yourself that we want one another,’ she defended quietly.
‘And we must resist that, for our own self-respect,’ he muttered.
Then she looked up at him, catching a wrench of despair crossing his face. Emboldened by the evidence of his dilemma, she spoke her mind.
‘You say it’s inevitable that these feelings will remain for a while—and you’re right. What are we going to do when this happens again, then? Spend our spare time taking cold showers?’
‘There can be no other solution,’ he replied bleakly.
‘You and I had sex without love for the whole of our marriage,’ she pointed out with some tartness.
He might not have loved her, but he’d been perfectly willing to use her. She went cold. Had he found someone else?
Fury blazed in his eyes and his mouth compressed. ‘That’s no excuse to repeat it. I am not your comfort blanket!’ he snarled. ‘I will not be used to satisfy your needs! The situation is too delicate. I accept that this has been a difficult day for both of us but I am sure things will be easier in the morning. You’re tough, Miranda. You’ll get used to the lack of sex—’
‘And you?’ she asked unhappily.
One day he’d really fall in love. She felt her stomach cramp. Even if there wasn’t anyone at the moment, there was a danger that he’d meet the love of his life one day. Another woman in his bed, as his wife. The pain racked her.
Another woman mothering Carlo. Then, Miranda thought in dismay, she’d really be defunct. Fear raced through her, draining what little strength she had. The danger had never dawned on her before. She wouldn’t let that happen! But how could she ever prevent it?
‘I can get used to anything if it means Carlo is happy,’ Dante replied, his eyes like cold black pebbles. ‘His welfare will always be uppermost in my mind. We have to make this work, Miranda! We can’t let him down.’
She knew then that she would move heaven and earth to clear her name. Perhaps then, she thought wistfully, like many who were in arranged marriages, he’d eventually fall in love with her.
It was her only hope if she was to stay close to the two people who had captivated her heart.
‘I know! I swear that I will do everything I can to make this a success!’ she whispered, choked with emotion.
‘Make sure you do.’
After one last look at her huge, bruised eyes, he spun around on his heel and strode rapidly into her sitting room. The light there flicked off, leaving her in the dark. The connecting doors closed softly and she heard the sound of a key turning.
A subdued Miranda slid beneath the bedclothes, her heart beating like a drum. As well as the nightmares when she went to bed, she’d be living one during each day. Being close to Dante and behaving with polite restraint would be harder than she could ever have believed. It would be torture to be in his company—and yet not able to reveal her true feelings.
He still held her heart in his hands. Despite everything, she loved him more than she could believe possible. Wanted him. As a friend, companion, a lover, a husband. Longed for his respect and admiration. And that all seemed a very long way from being realised.
‘Oh, sweet heaven!’ she whispered into the blackness of the room. ‘Make me strong for Carlo’s sake!’
Dante was wrong. It wouldn’t be better in the morning. Miranda gritted her teeth, determined not to be destroyed by the situation. Tomorrow she might be calmer and able to deal with the problem.
Her life had been hard before and she had overcome it. Nothing was impossible. Not even winning Dante’s approval and, one day, his love. Which meant she must become lovable in his eyes. A warm and inviting woman.
So she would have to change.
Dante had found her rigid self-control to be a barrier between them. But could she risk surrendering that and exposing herself to hurt?
Sleep would not come. After tossing and turning for a while, she gave up and slipped from the bed. By feeling her way across the room, she managed to locate the floor-to-ceiling window and the mechanism to pull back the drapes.
Immediately she felt soothed. Across the tar-black lake, village lights twinkled seductively and danced in the water with their shimmering gold reflections. The garden below was lit with soft-focus lamps, making it seem a magical place. A paradise in which Carlo could grow up.
Her heartbeat slowed. Yes. She could do it. It would take tenacity and grit, but she would slowly and surely establish her position as someone with high moral values and total devotion to the family. That was all that mattered.
Her thoughtful gaze fell on a figure, which had stepped out onto the terrace. Dante, dressed in jeans and a sweater, with the antenna of a baby alarm sticking out of his pocket. Miranda drew back a little, not wishing to be seen, but he didn’t glance back at the house once.
Like her, he studied the view and she saw his high shoulders gradually ease to a more normal level. Head lowered, he began to pace up and down. For a while she watched in some sympathy, then she stumbled back to bed, somewhat consoled that he too had been disturbed, even though his agitation had probably only been caused by unrelieved lust.
And perhaps also, she thought wryly, by the idea of harbouring an alcoholic junkie under his roof!
For a long time she chewed over the situation. Gradually she came to the conclusion that, however ruthless he might be, he was also honest and fair. He’d acknowledged her distress and had realised that it had been a difficult day for her. Hopefully their misunderstandings would be corrected. They must be, if she was to survive his suspicion.
One joy remained to boost her spirits. She smiled tenderly as she snuggled into the pillow. In the morning she would be with Carlo. And for that privilege, she would weather any storms and cope with any hardships.
She had a chance to prove herself. For the three of them to become a real family. And for that result, she would go to hell and back. And, she thought wryly, she probably would.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS A glorious morning. Some inner alarm woke her early and she hurried to take a shower and dress before Carlo woke. She wanted to be ready when he did.
Feeling very positive and excited and energised by the fabulous day, she pulled on the camisole and skirt of the suit she’d worn the day before, making mental plans to organise the packing of her clothes and effects in London. Her make-up was a hasty affair and she whisked her hair into a casual version of her usual neat chignon, the ends spiking out rather rakishly.
For half an hour she sat, drumming her fingers on the dressing table and making occasional adjustments to her make-up. And then she heard the key turn in the lock of the connecting door.
She leapt up, her heart in her mouth. Nervously she smoothed her skirt. Walked shakily to the door. And opened it.
Only Dante was in the room, dressed in a casual cream shirt and pale honey jeans, both so beautifully cut that they’d probably been made to measure. Miranda thought he could have just stepped off a designer catwalk.
He took one look at her pale, elated face. His mouth tightened and he turned.
‘Carlo!’ he called. ‘Your surprise has arrived!’
Miranda heard a clatter as if a toothbrush had been dropped in a basin. She held her breath, hardly daring to believe that her son was really here. And then, there he was, tinier than she remembered, his hair longer, whiter, his small and much-adored face a picture of amazement.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’ he squealed and, laughing in delight, he ran barefooted to her, his arms outstretched in welcome.
‘My darling!’
Swamped by emotion, she swept him up and hugged him close. Carlo’s warm, plump arms wrapped around her neck and he squeezed so tightly that she almost choked.
‘Oh, sweetheart!’ she whispered, kissing his soft little cheek. ‘Sweetheart!’
‘Finish dressing him. He’ll show you where we have breakfast.’
Her sparkling eyes flicked to Dante. He was walking out of the door and looking grim, his normally fluid body jerky and uncoordinated. Presumably with anger.
But she was too happy to care that he couldn’t deal with Carlo’s love for her. She was back with her son and life was improving by the minute.
‘Why you cryin’, Mummy?’ Carlo demanded.
She beamed at him through a mist of tears.
‘Laughing, not crying,’ she told him softly. ‘Sometimes when you laugh, it makes your eyes water. Shall we get you ready for breakfast? Show me where your things are.’
It was the beginning of a new life, she thought as Carlo slid from her arms and gleefully rushed to find his shoes and socks. She would risk everything to be accepted as Carlo’s mother and Dante’s wife.
She took a deep breath. She wanted their love. And would settle for nothing less.
But how? a little voice queried inside her. And she dismissed it because she could not find the answer.
‘He seems very happy.’
She nodded in acknowledgement of Dante’s comment and watched Carlo excitedly running into the scuola materna. She smiled. It was a lovely name for nursery school.
Carlo turned and waved, his rucksack bouncing on his back. They both waved back at him and grinned at his beam of pure delight before he grabbed a little friend’s hand and ran into the nursery.
At first she’d been upset that Dante had told her Carlo must continue with his routine. She’d wanted to spend the whole day with her son and had fully expected Carlo to refuse when Dante had told him to get his rucksack for nursery.
But a beam had spread across Carlo’s face as if the sun had come out and he’d raced off to collect the bag without a murmur. She’d been torn between disappointment for her own sake and relief that his life was continuing as normal.
‘I thought he might not want to go this morning,’ Dante mused, voicing Miranda’s thoughts as their son disappeared through the double doors of the little
school.
‘He seemed a bit anxious the way he clung to me before breakfast,’ she admitted.
‘Yes.’ Dante’s voice grew sombre. ‘I was worried that he might be unsettled for a while.’
‘That’s why I talked about getting my clothes and things sent here from England,’ she explained. ‘Then your suggestion about us all going off to Maggiore for tea and cakes after nursery seemed to set his mind at rest.’
‘Blatant bribery, I’m afraid,’ Dante said with a faint smile.
‘It doesn’t matter. Desperate needs, desperate measures!’ She chuckled. ‘The main thing is that he’s convinced I’m here to stay.’
Dante looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You are, aren’t you?’
She met his wary eyes and wondered if he guessed how she felt when she did so. If he knew the bitter-sweet pangs of love that stabbed at her body over and over again.
‘I will never leave,’ she said quietly, not even attempting to conceal her adoration.
He jerked his head away, his expression tense. ‘I wonder what they’re having for lunch,’ he said in an odd, over-bright tone. And he peered at a notice on the gate. ‘Pasta and tomato sauce, boiled beef and green vegetables, fruit. Very good.’
The mood lightened, and Miranda laughed as they began to walk away. ‘Do they provide a menu every day?’ she asked, impressed.
‘Of course. Lunch is an important social occasion. It’s virtually part of the curriculum.’
‘Curriculum?’ she repeated in amusement.
Dante grinned, and for her it was a huge breakthrough in their tricky relationship that he felt he could unbend a little towards her.
‘Daverro! Indeed! Let me see. This term it’s tastes and smells, opposites and colours. Nothing heavy. Just a general awareness of the differences in life. And they’re emphasising friendship this week, too. Carlo is popular, they tell me,’ he said with the touching pride of a doting father, ‘because of his sunny nature. He loves being with other children—that’s why he settled so well.’
‘He’s a very lovable child,’ she said with affection. ‘Open and outgoing.’
