Sally digested this piece of information slowly. 'He doesn't discuss business with me,' she said at last. 'How do you feel about the arrangement?'
'It relieves me of any worry. The more I think about it, the more I realise how fortunate I am in having someone with Luke's financial wizardry behind me. Now, I really must go. Don't forget my dinner party next Friday evening.'
'Let me cook it for you,' she pleaded with sudden inspiration. 'It can be an early Christmas dinner—not necessarily Christmas fare, but I'd love to—really,' she assured him as he looked doubtful. 'Luke won't mind.' Well, I hope he won't, she reflected idly, but even if he does object, I'll do it anyway!
'That would be nice,' Joe agreed. 'Ring me when you've obtained his approval.'
Luke, however, was adamant in his refusal when she broached the subject.
'Why?' Sally queried coldly, feeling the familiar resentment begin to unfurl. 'What possible difference can it make whether we arrive together at my father's apartment, or if I'm already there and you come afterwards?'
Luke poured two drinks from the decanter, then turned and handed her one. His eyes were dark and implacable, and she felt this was one argument he had no intention of permitting her to win.
'Your father's dinner parties are his own affair,' he began with assumed indolence. 'We will accept his invitation but I will not have you take responsibility for the preparations. Is that understood?'
'You're being chauvinistic, and deliberately difficult!’
One dark eyebrow rose slightly. 'Chauvinistic?'
She flashed him an angry look that had no effect whatever. 'You'd allow me to prepare dinner for your —our,' she amended with emphasis, 'guests. But not for my father. Well,' she declared with renewed determination. 'I don't see how you can stop me.'
'No?'
The silky query raised a shiver of apprehension. As an opponent, Luke was infinitely formidable. 'What will you do—lock me in my room?' she countered defiantly.
'If you insist on behaving like a child, be warned that you will be treated accordingly.'
'Oh? What's that supposed to mean? Sent to bed with no dinner—or perhaps you'll forbid me to view television for a week?'
Luke's gaze was sardonic. 'None of those,' he dismissed cynically. 'My hand in hurtful contact with your elegantly-shaped derriere. Be sure of it, Sally,' he warned hardly.
She didn't doubt that he meant it—oh, he was hateful ! 'If you so much as touch me, I—I'll——'
Suddenly he was standing much closer than before, and Sally took a backward step. 'You have not finished your drink,' he indicated smoothly. 'Carlo will doubtless announce dinner in a matter of minutes. A pity to waste such excellent sherry.'
'A change of subject won't change my mind,' she said stoically, and his lips twisted into a wry smile.
'The conversation is finished, piccina.'
'Oh, stop being so infernally patronising!' Sally burst out furiously. 'I'm a person in my own right. I won't be dictated to by a tyrannical husband. I won't!'
'Then be prepared to take the consequences, mia sposa.''
Deliberately, Sally drained the contents of her glass in one long swallow. 'I don't think I could bear to sit down at the same table with you. In fact, I'm not even hungry.'
'But you will eat,' Luke indicated dangerously. 'I shall insist on it.'
'Of course,' she said bitterly. 'I must be well fed with nourishing food—all the better to conceive the necessary bambino. One mustn't lose sight of my sole purpose as Luciano Andrettí's wife.'
His eyelids drooped, partially screening his eyes, and for a moment Sally was vividly reminded of a jungle cat about to spring on an unwary prey. She watched in mesmerised fascination as he reached out and placed the flat of his hand against her stomach. 'We have been married exactly one week—already you may be incínta with my son.'
'That you should be so fortunate!'
'Would you wish me a daughter?' he mocked, not removing his hand, and she wrenched away from his touch.
'If I could have my say, a whole bevy of daughters! But I shall pray for a son so that my debt is paid. Then I can escape,' she ended bitterly.
'Could you walk away from the child that has burgeoned inside your body until birth, then suckled at your breast?' he queried meaningfully. 'My child—but also yours? Allow it to grow up unseen, unaware of its childish triumphs and disappointments?'
Sally felt her eyes widen, mirroring the inner conflict his words aroused. She looked at him wordlessly, and was unable to utter a single sound. At last, after an interminable length of time, she managed to find her voice. 'Damn you, Luke Andretti,' she cursed shakily. 'Damn you to hell!' She turned and ran from the room—at least, that was her intention, only a steely grip on her arm halted her flight before she had taken two steps. In a blaze of anger she swung back to face him, and there were tears shimmering in her eyes. 'I couldn't eat—the food would only stick in my throat.'
'You will eat something, nonetheless.'
At the table in the dining-room she sat in stony silence, taking only a spoonful or two of the gazpacho, a morsel of veal parmigiana, leaving the side salad untouched, and she refused dessert. She did drink a glass of wine, but that served only to make her feel sleepy, and it was with infinite relief that she stood to her feet at the end of the meal. The brief glance she spared Luke revealed an expression deliberately bland and enigmatic.
'I don't want any coffee,' she said quietly, moving towards the door. She preceded Luke into the hallway, then made her way past the lounge to the stairs, half expecting him to stop her. He didn't, and she almost ran upstairs in her hurry to get away from his hateful presence.
In their bedroom the huge bed looked inviting, and Sally sat down on its edge, feeling shaken and totally bereft. She didn't know whether to weep or give way to childish temper. His words kept echoing through her brain, and she stretched out, sinking down into the soft mattress with utter weariness.
She must have slept, although she had no recollection of drifting into that state. Her turbulent thoughts seemed to extend into her subconscious mind, assuming nightmarish proportion, so vivid as to be almost a reality, and she wept, coming sharply awake at the sound of her own voice.
The room was dark, and for a moment she had to think where she was. With a hand that shook she reached out to switch on the bedside lamp, then buried her face in her hands.
The door swung open, and Luke stood in the aperture. 'In the name of heaven, what——' He moved into the room, then strode with measured steps to the bed. 'Sally, what is it, child?'
Sally shook her head, unwilling to admit her distress. 'Nothing. I had a dream, that's all.' She trembled violently as she felt the bed depress with his weight.
'From the sound of your scream, it was more nightmare than dream,' he determined grimly. 'You shall have some brandy.'
'I don't want anything,' she said wretchedly. 'Just go away and leave me alone.' She stood to her feet and crossed to the bathroom. A shower might shake off the strange wobbly sensation invading her limbs.
Ten minutes later she emerged into the bedroom, and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Luke standing beside the bed, a half-filled tumbler of spirits in his hand. He had discarded his clothes, and his well- muscled frame was covered with a short towelling robe.
'I don't like brandy—it makes me cough,' she refused.
'Sip it, piccina,' he commanded quietly. 'It will help you sleep.'
'If I don't, I suppose you'll hold my nose and make me!'
A wry smile twisted his lips. 'Something like that.'
'You're a diabolical fiend, Luke Andretti!' The cry was one of anguish, and her eyes filled with frustrated tears.
'And a brute, eh?' he mocked cynically. 'Undoubtedly you wish you had never set eyes on me, let alone married ' He uttered a soft humourless
laugh. 'Chained to the devil himself, are you not, mia?' He moved to stand beside her and held the glass to her lips. 'Sip it, cara,' he bade, 'un
til every drop has gone.'
His eyes forbade her to demur, and Sally took a few sips, then turned her face aside. 'I don't like the taste.'
'But it runs like warm fire through your veins, does it not? Come, a few drops more.' The glass tilted, and she sipped slowly, feeling a soft lethargy steal over her. 'Into bed, piccina.'
'I think you're a perfect——' She paused, unable
to think of an adequate noun to describe him, and she was too bemused in an alcoholic mist to struggle when he lifted her into bed.
On the edge of sleep, she was vaguely aware of snuggling close against him as she pillowed her head on his chest, curious that she should feel both safe and secure in the arms of a man she professed to hate.
CHAPTER SIX
IT was just as well she had bought a new evening gown, Sally determined as she donned the patterned off-the-shoulder ankle-length dress the following evening. Of voile, featuring small multi-coloured roses against a black background, it hugged her waist, then flared in softly-gathered flounces to her ankles. She executed a slow pirouette before the mirror and was well pleased with the effect, loving the feel of the delicate material as it floated about her limbs with every move she made.
The news that they were to dine out that evening had been divulged very much as an afterthought by Luke a few minutes prior to his departure for the squash courts early Saturday afternoon. It irked her somewhat that he hadn't asked if she would like to accompany him, for squash was a game she enjoyed, and she would have relished pitting her skills against those of his—not that she expected to win, but the exercise would have proved a satisfying outlet.
Now, she carefully applied eye-shadow and mascara, coloured her lips and added a touch of lip-gloss, then examined her hair. Upswept on top of her head, or left loose? Perhaps a compromise, she pondered thoughtfully, swirling a thick swathe of hair into a carelessly- contrived knot on top of her head. There, that looked casually elegant, and went rather well with the style of her gown. A few dabs of perfume, and she was ready. The black cobwebby shawl lay on the bed, together with her evening bag.
'I will be accused of cradle-snatching,' Luke's voice drawled from the doorway, and Sally turned slowly to face him, a silent query arching her eyebrows.
'You look barely seventeen,' he explained dryly, and she retaliated with faint mockery.
'And never been kissed?'
'Your tongue has a sharp edge, piccina—could it be that I am at fault in some way?' He strolled into the room with the ease and assurance of a jungle cat, looking darkly handsome in a formal black suit that contrasted sharply with his immaculate white silk shirt.
'Did you enjoy your afternoon?' she parried, and heard his soft laugh.
'Ah, so that is it, hmm? I did not realise you were so anxious for my company.'
'I'm not,' she responded hastily, and deliberately crossed to the bed to collect her shawl and evening bag. 'I would have enjoyed a game—although not necessarily against you.'
'Afraid I might beat you?'
Sally shot him a withering glance. 'You have the distinct advantage of added height and strength—what chance would I have?'
Luke's eyes gleamed with humour. 'So you play the game too,' he mused. 'Very well, cara, we shall oppose one another—tomorrow afternoon?'
'Why not?' she accepted lightly, cherishing the thought that he was in for a surprise. Victory would be his—but not easily won, she'd make sure of that if she could!
The restaurant was exclusive and luxurious, and one to which Sally had not previously been escorted. They were joined within ten minutes by three other couples, and she found their company pleasant, the flow of conversation easy to maintain.
The meal was excellent, although Sally found it difficult to refrain from analysing each course, and she would have given much to discover the chef's recipe for moussaka. There was a subtle difference, a variation she had hitherto not experimented with, that added a piquant flavour to the dish.
Luke was at his most urbane, adopting the cloak of sophistication with utmost ease, and for a moment Sally viewed him with the eyes of a stranger. The discovery that she found him likeable was almost ludicrous, and yet there was a part of her that wished they were meeting for the first time—without the prickling resentment and the dislike she harboured against him. Would it make any difference? Decry it as she might, there was an indefinable pull—a charge of emotions that ran like liquid fire between them. She could hate him with every nerve in her body, but he had only to touch her and she was lost. It was almost as if she were two people inside one skin—one to hate, one to love. A taunting thought teased her brain. What would it be like to be loved and adored by Luke Andretti? Dear Lord—the wine must be going straight to her head!
'Dance with me, cara.'
Sally looked up, her lips parting with surprise as she saw Luke standing beside her, ã strangely gentle smile curving his mouth, and she stood to her feet, not questioning her motives for placing her hand in his and following him on to the dance floor.
They didn't exchange a word, but it was almost as if there was a sudden merging of spirits that would have made conversation an intrusion. She felt his lips brush her temple, and it wasn't imagination that his arms tightened fractionally.
It wasn't until later that harsh reality brought her down to earth with a crashing thud, and afterwards Sally wondered whether fate was responsible for choosing that precise moment in urging her towards the powder-room. A few more minutes and she would not have encountered Chantrelle, the only other occupant, calmly tidying her hair before the large mirror.
'Well, just look who's here, and looking quite starry- eyed into the bargain!' Chantrelle trilled brittlely. 'I've had my eyes on you for the past two hours, yet I doubt you've even noticed me. Philip is positively seething with frustrated jealousy.'
Sally felt her heart sink. Of all the luck, with the vast number of restaurants in Sydney, they had to choose the same one! 'The lighting is fairly dim, Chantrelle,' she suggested evenly.
'Enjoying married life, are you, dear? With a virile man such as Luke for a husband, you should be.' She uttered a harsh laugh, and cast Sally a pitying glance. 'Quite a coincidence, isn't it, how your father's business has made such a remarkable recovery? You were all set to become a modern-day Cinderella—then, hey presto, along came a fairy-tale prince to the rescue! Ah—but then you weren't suffering the delusion that Luke married you for love, surely?'
Sally felt her temper begin to rise. Calm, she must remain calm. The other girl's invective was deliberately designed to make her angry, and there was no way she would allow Chantrelle that satisfaction.
'You seem overly concerned with something that involves only Luke and myself,' she managed lightly.
'He's too much of a man for a child like you to handle,' Chantrelle declared disparagingly. 'A few weeks, a month maybe, and he'll become bored—then he'll begin seeking solace elsewhere.'
'You hope with you?'
Chantrelle returned her attention to the mirror and carefully scrutinised her reflection. 'Doesn't it bother you that there have been a long line of women in Luke's life?'
Sally felt she had had enough. 'Why should it?' she queried with amazing calm considering her inner turmoil. 'He married me. That should be self-explanatory, surely?' She ignored Chantrelle, deliberately shutting her ears to the derisive laugh as the other girl swept past.
Sally took unnecessarily long attending to her toilette, for in truth her hands shook with anger so that her lipstick had to be reapplied twice. Her eyes were stormy, and her smile when she practised it was sadly lacking.
The noise of muted chatter and background music served to lighten her features somewhat, and she was halfway back to their table when a hand caught her arm, bringing her to a halt.
'Sally!' The low-pitched voice reached her ears, and she cast a startled glance at the owner, unable to believe that Philip had the gall to seek her out. His face was an eloquent mask, and she had to school her featur
es into politeness.
'Hello, Philip. Is there something you wanted?'
'Why did you do it—in the name of God, why?' he groaned urgently. 'You must have known I'd have helped you, given time to think things over.'
Sally looked at him carefully, seeing the visible signs of weakness in his too-handsome face, and wondered why she hadn't noticed them before. Compared with Luke, Philip resembled an indecisive, insecure youth. She winced slightly as his grip on her arm increased in pressure.
'Can't we meet somewhere—lunch, maybe? We've things we must discuss.' He glanced round the crowded room, then drew her closer towards him
'Perhaps we should dance—it would look better.'
She tried to extricate her arm without success. 'I don't want to dance, thank you,' she refused with icy politeness. In a minute she'd explode! Really, he was unbelievable. 'And I have absolutely no intention of meeting you anywhere.'
'I go nearly crazy,' Philip muttered huskily, 'thinking about you in his arms, his bed. You don't know what you do to a man, Sally.' He bent close and his breath fanned the tendrils of hair that curled low on her neck. 'Leave him, I beg of you. Whatever——'
'If you don't let go of me this instant, I'll slap you,' she promised evenly.
'Why, you—bitch! I'd like to——'
'Another word, Mannering——' a voice warned
with dangerous softness, and Sally's eyes flew sideways to catch sight of Luke standing less than a foot away. His expression was an enigmatic mask, but his eyes held an angry glitter she found positively frightening.
'Sally and I were just talking,' Philip blustered, and Luke raised an enquiring eyebrow.
'What I overheard could scarcely be deemed polite conversation,' he alluded cynically.
Philip went an unbecoming red, and ventured sullenly, 'I love her, dammit!'
'What makes you think I do not?' Luke queried silkily.
'You have a certain reputation, Andretti,' the other accused in a ugly tone.
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