Second Marriage

by Helen Brooks

  'I… You made a promise?' There was something more to all this, Claire thought bemusedly, but she couldn't even begin to think what. 'I don't understand.'

  'I can't… Oh, forget it. I'm talking out of turn. Please, forget it,' Grace said awkwardly.

  'It's forgotten.' Claire smiled, changing the subject to one that never failed these days—that of possible baby names. But even as they talked and laughed over the next hour or two she knew that it wasn't forgotten and, more unsettling still, that Romano Bellini had the power to disturb her more than any other man she had met in her life.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  'Was it as bad as you expected?' The dark voice was so soft Claire thought she had misheard for a moment. 'Well?' Romano prompted when she still didn't speak.

  They were in his Ferrari travelling back along the coastal road from Amalfi after a very pleasant day with Anna and Alessandro—a day when Romano had been the perfect companion, without a frown or taunt in sight, and a day which she had to admit she had enjoyed every minute of.

  'I don't understand what you mean,' she prevaricated carefully. 'I was looking forward to meeting Anna and Alessandro, and to seeing the children. Grace had told me what a darling Emanuele is—'

  'I meant being with me.'

  Yes, she had known that was what he meant, but she had hoped that the uneasy truce might have continued until she was safely back at Casa Pontina. Here, in the close confines of the powerful car, he was too big, too threatening, too… too much of everything, she concluded weakly. 'I…why do you think I expected that to be bad?' she asked quietly, throwing the ball back into his court.

  'Didn't you?' he asked sardonically, the cool black gaze raking over her face for a brief moment before he concentrated on the road again, his mouth set in a wry twist.

  'No, not really,' she lied politely, her composure slip­ping a little as he laughed with husky disbelief.

  'Oh, I like this demure little English girl image,' he said mockingly, 'it is more restful than the fire-and-brimstone virago I have grown to expect. I thought it was merely for Anna and Alessandro's benefit, or per­haps so you did not frighten the children—'

  'Now just you look here!' He'd done it again. In spite of all her good intentions, he'd got right under her skin—but she just couldn't help it. He was so utterly arrogant.

  'Sì?' The car swerved off the road and executed a neat emergency stop that brought a fine dust-cloud feathering into the air. 'Sì, Claire, I am looking.' His voice was very deep now, and soft, and although she wanted to maintain her annoyance it nevertheless caused her toes to curl. 'I have to confess I like to look, that I have been looking a lot today. You are very good to look at—'

  'Stop it.' She made the mistake of turning to glare at him, and then froze at the expression in his eyes, her whole being becoming still as the glittering gaze held hers.

  He lifted a lazy hand to her face, raising her chin slightly as he slowly bent forward and took her mouth in a warm, coaxing kiss that brought desire pounding through her veins and a delicious dizziness to her senses—a dizziness that had her shutting her eyes and just going with the flow before she realised what she was doing and brought her eyes open with a little snap as she jerked away. 'Don't,' she whispered shakily.

  '"Stop it." "Don't",' he mocked softly. 'But your body is saying something quite different, is it not?'

  'No, it is not.' She was pressed against her door now, her body half turned to his and her face hot. 'And even if it was, it's just chemistry, physical chemistry. That doesn't mean a thing.'

  'And this…chemistry that doesn't mean a thing—you are telling me you have felt it with all your other boy­friends?' he asked silkily. 'That you feel it with Attilio?'

  'Attilio?' Was he mad? Was he quite mad? she asked herself incredulously. What on earth had Lorenzo's tutor got to do with this? 'Attilio isn't a boyfriend any more than you are,' she snapped heatedly. 'And my love-life—' or lack of it, she amended silently '—is nothing to do with you.'

  'True.' He leant back now, crossing muscled arms across his broad chest, his eyes narrowed. The stance did nothing for her equilibrium, emphasising, as it did, the dark, brooding force that was an intrinsic part of his attractiveness.

  'So?' She had waited for a full minute until the silence was too much to bear. 'Are we going home or not?'

  'Not.' He turned in his seat and the Ferrari growled into life.

  'Not?' Her voice was too shrill, but for the life of her she couldn't moderate it as she squeaked, 'What do you mean, not?'

  'I mean I do not want to take you back to Grace and Donato yet,' he said with a curious lack of expression in his voice as he swung the car back onto the road. 'Not until we have had dinner at least.'

  'But they're expecting me back,' she said frantically, her face panic-stricken. 'Besides which, I'm not dressed for going out to dinner.' Especially after that kiss, she acknowledged desperately, a kiss that had made her feel wild, excited, tempting her mind into all sorts of forbid­den avenues—

  'You are dressed perfectly.' The jet-black eyes glanced her way for a moment and she felt their power catch her breath. 'For me, that is.'

  'Romano—'

  'Just dinner, Claire.' His voice was a soft murmur, caressing, dark. 'You have to eat, as do I, so why not together?'

  'But—'

  'And I will phone Grace to tell her of our plans, OK?' That hard profile wasn't going to take no for an answer, she knew it, and what could she do apart from throw herself out of the car like some thirties heroine with a villain attacking her virtue? Claire asked herself help­lessly. But she didn't want to have dinner with him. She knew it was dangerous, that she was playing with fire, and yet on the other hand…she wanted it more than anything in the world. Oh, this was crazy. She was crazy—

  'OK?' he persisted softly.

  Oh, why not? Why not? She knew why not, but it didn't stop her mind from continuing. She had had four years of an uphill battle to come to terms with who and what she was since the accident, to put Jeff's betrayal behind her, to control any bitterness and anger that her life had been ripped apart through no fault of her own, to put the harsh memories of the crash, that surfaced occasionally in nightmares even now, behind her.

  She had lost all confidence in herself for a time, had reached the bottom of the pit of despair. But she had clawed her way out of it, day by day, week by week, month by month. And one day she would work with children again, would possibly meet someone. It would happen. So she wasn't afraid of having dinner with Ro­mano Bellini, she wasn't. She wouldn't let herself be.

  He wasn't asking her to go to bed with him—her hand instinctively touched her stomach—he was merely sug­gesting dinner, and she wanted to eat with him, she ac­knowledged silently, so why not?

  'Why not?' She spoke the words out loud, her voice slightly dazed.

  'Why not indeed?' There was a great deal of satisfac­tion in the deep voice.

  And if she had pondered on the sudden rush of adrenalin, the shivery feeling that swept over her from head to toe and caused goose pimples to sprinkle her skin, she might have known why not, but she didn't. She smiled brightly, forcing the breath of chill perspiration dewing her skin away with sheer will-power as she told herself that she was young, single, and it was the most normal thing in the world to accept an invitation from a handsome man for dinner. The most normal thing in the world…

  'Oh, it's lovely. It's a gorgeous place, Romano, but I'm not dressed for somewhere like this—'

  'Nonsense.' His arm was around her waist, his touch light but firm as he guided her through the archway and into the sottoportico, a little passageway beyond which a magnificent restaurant could be seen, bathed in light from a hundred or so tiny lanterns. 'All sorts of people eat here, from kings to paupers,' he said easily.

  Yes, and she knew exactly which category she'd fall into, Claire thought wryly as they walked through the main doors and into a vast room which was almost me­dieval in its decor.

&n
bsp; She had dressed smartly but simply for the visit to Anna and Alessandro's home, her plain, long-sleeved shirt in white silk and tailored jade-green trousers ideal for that occasion, but not for a formal dinner at an ex­pensive—very expensive, if her intuition served her right, Claire thought desperately—and very select hotel.

  A quick glance at the tables scattered round the large, barrel-ceilinged room told her that most of the women were in cocktail dresses, although the men's clothes var­ied from full evening dress to casual open-neck shirts and trousers. Nevertheless, the ambience suggested cul­ture and class, as had the car park stocked with the sort of cars that always got a second and third glance.

  The waiter who greeted them appeared to know Romano, but she had been half expecting that, and they were led to a table for two near the dance floor, but in an intimate little corner, for which she was really grate­ful. It gave her a chance to relax and get her bearings without any interested onlookers, and also to absorb the atmosphere of the place, which was electric. Diamonds flashed, waiters glided, the music was soft and low and the clientele very definitely the beautiful people—the ones who never glanced at the price tag on anything.

  'Do you come here often?' She realised too late it was the ultimate cliché, but he didn't appear to notice, his eyes searching on her face before their dark depths were veiled.

  'Not now.' He looked at her impassively, his voice cool. 'But in the past I used to come often.'

  He meant with his wife. She continued to hold his glance without flinching, although she longed to break the hold. Bianca would have fitted in perfectly here. All heads would have turned at their entrance—the exquis­itely beautiful woman and the commandingly handsome man. She could just picture it. 'With your wife?' She didn't know what had prompted the words, she really hadn't meant to say them, but they were out, hanging in the air between them like live things.

  'Sì.' He didn't attempt to prevaricate. 'She…Bianca liked this place.'

  'Did she?' The surge of jealousy was so hot and fierce that it shocked her.

  'Do you?' His words were flat, almost expressionless, and yet somehow Claire felt there was something more hanging on them than the actual question that had been voiced.

  What should she say? Her mind raced in the few sec­onds before she replied, and then she realised that the truth was the only answer. Simple. She wasn't a Bianca, or a Grace, or anything else but herself. And she liked herself. She hadn't at first, in those first bitter days and weeks after the accident, when she had discovered Jeff had left her and convinced herself she was the most worthless creature on earth, but now? Now she did. She was worth something, she realised, the bolt of awareness hitting her between the eyes. She had known it for some time but she just hadn't acknowledged it in the core of her emotions.

  'Yes, it's very nice.' She didn't flinch from the word. 'I like unusual places, something with a bit of character, and this must be very old.'

  'Sì.' His eyes had narrowed but otherwise his face remained quite still.

  'But…' She hesitated, and then continued, 'It seems a shame that these sorts of places are made into restau­rants and things like that in one way—that we lose a little bit of the true past and reduce it to modern-day living. Do you know what I mean?' she finished uncom­fortably. The nineties are so frantic most of the time, everything seems geared to wealth and power, and peo­ple never stop and assess the true values.'

  'You did not tell me you were a philosopher.' It was said lightly, but there was something more there behind the cool words and she stared at him uneasily. 'And what, in your estimation, are the true values, Claire?' he asked quietly, his gaze steady on her flushed face.

  The waiter returning with the sparkling pink cocktails Romano had ordered interrupted them, but once they were alone again, the menus in their hands, he looked across at her and said slowly, 'Well?'

  'What do I consider true values?' She took a long sip of the delicious drink to combat the quivery feeling in her stomach, the sort of feeling that came with confron­tation, and breathed deeply before she said, 'The sort I've been brought up with, I suppose—family life, hon­esty, contentment—'

  'And you think all these people do not have such values?'

  'I didn't say that.' She hadn't liked his caustic tone. 'You asked me what my values were and I told you, that's all. I do think that many people seem obsessed with succeeding in this era in which we live, often at the cost of family life and friends. I'm not stupid, I know it's necessary to earn the daily crust and all that, but the spirit of the age seems more…aggressive than that. A woman has to be beautiful, to have a perfect body, the right proportions, and men have to be powerful and wealthy to be respected, to have some street cred. The desire to win at any cost, it's…just everywhere.'

  'Umm.' He gazed at her thoughtfully, the black eyes narrowed and gleaming like polished stone. 'You seem a little cynical about your fellow man.'

  'I'm not,' she flashed back indignantly. 'I'm certainly not. But I don't see the world through rose-coloured glasses either. Half the world is starving because the other half s governments are too greedy, the rainforests are being destroyed for the same reason, and animals, birds, insects become extinct—and all in the supposed name of progress—' She stopped abruptly as she became aware of his amused speculation.

  'What a passionate little thing you are,' he said softly.

  'Please don't patronise me, Romano.' It wasn't tactful, and it certainly wasn't the sort of pre-dinner conversa­tion to induce indigestion-free eating, but at that moment she didn't really care. He had asked her how she viewed things and she had told him, and she was blowed if he was going to mock her and get away with it, she thought hotly.

  'Is that what you think I am doing?' The amusement died very quickly.

  'Yes.' She stared back at him defiantly.

  'Then you are wrong,' he said, with a strange, tight grimness that checked more words from her. 'I am not patronising you, Claire, far from it. I envy you. I envy you the ability to care so much, to want to see things changed—'

  'But don't you?' she interrupted bewilderedly. 'Surely you must?'

  'Must I?' His face was dark and cold now, his voice as thin and deadly as a finely honed blade of steel. 'Why must I? I see nothing in my fellow man to care about. Human nature is rotten from the inside out, and even the veneer of civilisation cannot hide it in the final analysis. Self-love is what drives most people, and it is the only true emotion I know.'

  'That's awful.' She stared at him aghast. 'You can't say that.'

  'I just did.'

  'But you can't mean it,' she objected vehemently. 'What about Grace and Donato? They love each other— really love each other, don't they?'

  'There is always the exception that proves the rule,' he said darkly.

  'The world is full of so-called exceptions, then.' She settled back in her chair, eyeing him angrily. 'My par­ents, for one. You can't lump the whole human race together and say there is no such thing as real love.'

  'And you? Have you ever been in love?' he asked suddenly, his gaze on the soft red sheen of her hair be­fore it slowly moved over her creamy skin to hold her velvety brown eyes with his own.

  She stared at him for a full minute, quite unable to answer at first. 'I thought I was once,' she said at last, unaware of how expressive her face had been to the big dark man watching her so closely.

  'And now? Do you think you were now, with hind­sight?' he persisted softly.

  'No.' Her voice was flat.

  'So what changed?' he asked quietly. 'You do not accept that your love was an illusion, that it couldn't really last?'

  'No.' She twisted in her seat as she spoke. 'That's not it—not really. I realise now…' She shook her head, find­ing the self-analysis painful with those deadly eyes trained on her face. 'The thing is that Jeff wasn't who I thought he was. He had never been the person I imag­ined. I don't know if it was me being blind or whether he consciously tried to project a different image—I'
m not sure—but I do know that when I found out who he really was I didn't like him.'

  'And so you finished with him?'

  'No.' She looked him straight in the eyes then, and hers were cloudy with pain. 'He had finished with me some time before that, actually, after I had had an ac­cident and he knew I would be in hospital some time. He…he found someone else.'

  He swore very softly, in Italian, but she couldn't doubt the meaning, and then said, 'What a fool he must have been,' as he reached forward over the table and took her hands in his. 'What a blind, stupid fool.'

  She was quite still, she didn't even dare breathe, and then he rose slowly to touch her lips with his own, cra­dling her face in his cupped hands for a moment when he raised his head, one finger stroking the soft, full con­tours of her lips caressingly before he sat down again and picked up his menu.

  She felt totally, utterly shattered by the contact, by the tenderness he had displayed that was so at odds with what she knew of Romano Bellini and the image he projected so ruthlessly.

  And she had thought she'd got it wrong with Jeff? she thought numbly as she lowered her head and gazed unseeingly at her own menu. That might have been a mis­take but it was minuscule compared to the one she had made about Romano. Because she wasn't just physically attracted to this man, it was more, much more than that—as the brief moment of gentleness had forced her to realise.

  She loved him. She loved a man whose love for his dead wife had shut his emotions up in solid ice, who was more complicated than any other human being she had ever met, who was wildly handsome, fabulous­ly rich, and as much out of her grasp as the man in the moon.

  'Claire?' She came out of the whirling confusion to the knowledge that the waiter had been standing pa­tiently waiting for her order for some minutes, that she hadn't even seen the dancing black letters on the gilt-embossed menu, and that her brain wouldn't allow her to focus on anything but the awful realisation that she had fallen in love with Romano Bellini. 'What would you like?' Romano prompted quietly.