by Sara Craven
It had started in the first awful weeks of her banishment from Mannion, as she lay crying herself to sleep each night, hating the injustice of it all. Hating Zac for making a fool of her, then lying about it. Hating him for the dreams she was ashamed to remember in the morning.
They talked about people adding insult to injury, but in her case the opposite was true. Zac’s cynical attempt at seduction, pretending to be Adam, had been the insult.
But accusing her of being some kind of teenage nymphomaniac and having her dismissed from Mannion had been the ultimate injury, for which she would never forgive him.
As the days passed, she’d become unhappily accustomed to her small, hot room at the top of the house, the London traffic noise which never seemed to stop, and even the spoiled whiny children. Most of the time she was able to shut it all out of her mind.
But not Zac Belisandro. He was always there in her head. She found herself almost feverishly scanning the papers for news about Belisandro International and the man they’d christened the Playboy Tycoon, waiting, hoping to read that his life had crashed and burned too.
Instead, he’d seemed to go from strength to strength, in the personal as well as the business sense. The glossy magazines were full of the girls he was dating—usually for weeks, but sometimes, recalling a beautiful French actress and a blonde American model, for months.
It was then that the dreams started again, but this time with herself an unwilling bystander, unable to move, forced to watch him with a series of strangers in his arms.
Common sense told her to give up what almost amounted to an addiction. To stop looking for his name in the news columns and on the internet.
Instead, she’d told herself defensively that she needed to keep tabs on him—to know where he was living, and the places he frequented so she could avoid them. So she could make sure she never bumped into him, even by chance.
His move to the Melbourne office had been like the unlocking of a cage.
I’m free at last, she’d told herself, almost exultant with relief. And one of the chief barriers to Mannion has been removed too. My life is going to change.
And so it had—but in a way she’d never imagined possible.
I want you...
Three little words, blunt and unequivocal, without any gloss of tenderness.
Was that how Zac would be with her—greedy and uncaring—intent solely on his own pleasure?
She told herself that she wished she could think so.
That she longed to believe that the beguilement of his mouth, the whisper of his fingers on her skin meant nothing more than a fixed determination to have his way with her. And that any kind of response from her was not a requirement of the transaction.
It was, she thought, her only hope of a reprieve from what, she now realised with stunning force, was the very real threat of self-betrayal.
I can’t let that happen, she whispered silently. Even when I was a young girl, I recognised the power he had, and it scared me. So, I can’t allow him to control me now. I have to resist. Fight him. And fight myself.
Forget there was a wedding today and treat it as a mere business transaction. And hope that Zac soon becomes bored and starts looking for other interests.
Because to wish for anything else would be madness.
She turned to get out of this room with all its connotations and halted, gasping when she saw that Zac was standing in the doorway to his dressing room, hands on hips, his coat and tie discarded, his shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist, with its sleeves turned back over his forearms.
His appearance might be casual but, to Dana, it made him no less formidable.
She said, her voice breathless, ‘I thought you’d be still engaged with your visitor. You—you startled me.’
‘So I saw,’ Zac returned drily. ‘And my visitor came only to make a delivery.’ He strolled forward. ‘Perhaps, in future, I should signal my arrival by whistling loudly, or shouting Hi! What do you think?’
She shrugged defensively. ‘That it’s probably best to leave things as they are. After all, they say you can become accustomed to anything in time.’
‘I wonder if marriage is included in that generalisation,’ he said musingly, and paused. ‘So, as a beginning, can you become used to the changes in this room, mia cara?’
‘I would prefer to have been consulted,’ she said, casting a coolly appraising look around her. ‘You did say the house was my domain.’
Ungrateful, she thought, hating herself. Ungrateful and ungracious.
His brows lifted. ‘Then I apologise. I hoped it would be a pleasant surprise for you. And that it might make the room, you understand, more acceptable.’
Yes, she understood, and knew that if this was a real marriage and she was here for the right reasons, she’d have been in his arms by now, whispering ‘Grazie’ between kisses.
As it was, she needed more than ever to stick to the path she’d chosen.
‘On the subject of surprises,’ she went on. ‘Was it really necessary to carry me into the house in front of Mrs Harris? I could have walked.’
‘Blame my Roman ancestry, mia bella,’ Zac drawled. ‘If a bride stumbled on the threshold of her new home in ancient times, it was considered a great misfortune, so it was deemed better to carry her.’
‘And, of course, our situation is so perfect,’ Dana said tautly. ‘Besides which, I have always regarded Mannion as my own home, as I’m sure you know.’
His mouth tightened, but when he spoke, his tone was pleasant. ‘Then put the incident down as an irresistible impulse, carissima.’
‘You said something too. What was it?’
‘Another old custom. I said, “Ubi tu Gaia, ego Gaius.” It means “Wherever you are mistress, I am master.”’
‘Not everywhere,’ Dana said. ‘Just here in this house. But thank you for the history lesson.’
‘If I did not know better,’ Zac remarked softly, ‘I would think you were trying to pick a quarrel with me, Dana mia.’ He paused. ‘I am permitted to presume that you are mine, I hope, or will that prove another bone of contention?’
She bit her lip, and he sighed. ‘Shall we declare a truce for a while? I have been sent to tell you there is tea on the terrace.’ He paused. ‘Unless you would prefer to remain here and wait for dinner, which I have ordered for eight o clock.’
But would she be waiting alone?
‘Tea,’ she said, ‘would be lovely.’
It was deliciously warm on the terrace and Zac was clearly relaxed, leaning back against the cushions, his dark gaze offering frank appreciation of the first smooth roundness of her breasts revealed by her dress. She might resent his scrutiny, but it was trivial compared with the realisation that, in a few short hours, Zac would have the right to see her wearing nothing at all.
‘When I return from my tour,’ he said, ‘my father wishes us to join him at our house on Lake Como. I believe he wishes us to have our marriage blessed in the family chapel.’
‘Under the circumstances, that seems almost blasphemous.’ Dana lifted her chin. ‘And anyway, I can’t be away. I have far too much to do here.’
He sat up. ‘You cannot spare my father a few days to welcome you as a daughter?’
‘I didn’t realise our deal contracted me to play happy families,’ she returned coolly.
‘Then you know it now.’ His tone did not encourage further argument. ‘In return, I am happy to accompany you to Spain to visit your mother.’
She looked down at her hands, tightly clasped in her lap. She said quietly, ‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.’
He said nothing, but she had a sense of harsh anger, rigidly controlled, and began to feel angry herself. Hadn’t Linda suffered enough without having to endure Serafina’s cousin of all people invading he
r Spanish sanctuary?
Anger was good, she told herself. So was resentment. Feeding them would prevent foolish thoughts. Crazy longings...
She said tautly, ‘And Mrs Latimer? I can’t imagine she’ll be welcoming me to Italy in any guise. Or that she’ll forgive either of us for the fact that I’m now occupying her home.’
‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘this house ceased to be a home for her after the deaths of her husband and her only son. It became an empty shell that she was glad to leave, nor did she care who would live here after her.’
A heap of stone in the middle of nowhere...
Adam had said that, she thought. But it wasn’t true. It would never be true. She would see to that.
‘And when you meet again,’ Zac added, ‘she will expect you to call her Serafina as I do. Capito?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
‘And resent it, I think.’ His voice was suddenly rueful. ‘So let me share with you some news that will please you better. Your car has arrived. My driver brought it down a short while ago.’ He took the key from his pocket and placed it on the table between them. ‘No doubt you are glad to have it again.’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, picking up the key and weighing it in her hand. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘You see it as a means of escape, perhaps?’ He shook his head. ‘It will not happen.’
‘You’d stop me?’
‘No. Simply trust you, mia bella, to honour our agreement to the full.’
‘“Honour”,’ she repeated bitterly. ‘That’s a strange word to use in this context.’
‘You should have thought of that,’ he said. ‘Before you allowed me to place my wedding ring on your hand this morning.’
He allowed her to absorb that then sighed abruptly.
‘Perhaps, Dana mia, it would do us both good to cool off a little.’ He got to his feet and held out his hand to her. ‘I am going for a swim. Will you come with me?’
Dana stiffened as she was assailed by an inconvenient memory—an image of Zac leaving the water, bronzed and naked. It seemed highly unlikely that he planned to wear anything this time either.
‘No, thank you,’ she said tersely. ‘I’m quite comfortable as I am.’
‘If a little flushed,’ he said, a faint smile playing around his mouth.
‘And I’m not a good swimmer,’ she went on hurriedly.
Zac shrugged. ‘Non importa. I am not likely to let you drown.’
‘Even so,’ she said. ‘The answer is still no.’
‘Sì, carissima,’ he said softly. ‘But to how many questions?’
And he turned away, walking down the steps and heading off in the direction of the Orangery, leaving her staring after him.
* * *
Left alone, Dana made herself drink her tea and eat a sandwich and a slice of cake. An attempt at normality in what, by anyone’s standards, was an abnormal situation.
Her best plan, she decided, would be to concentrate on something completely different. Keep busy by finding somewhere she could establish as a workplace and make a start on her real purpose for being here.
And she would start by changing into everyday gear, she thought, rising to her feet.
A short while later, wearing denim Capri pants and a white shirt knotted at the midriff, she came back on to the terrace, where Mrs Harris was clearing the tea things.
As she turned to go into the house, Dana halted her. ‘Mrs Harris, have a desk and sofa been delivered for me by any chance?’
‘They are due to arrive tomorrow, madam. Mr Belisandro has ordered the morning room to be cleared to make room for them.’
Dana smiled pleasantly, ‘Well, I may have ideas of my own about that,’ she said, heading for the terrace steps.
For a long time, she’d regarded the summer house as a strictly no-go area but that was ending right now, she told herself as she walked across the lawn.
After all, whatever memories it held would soon be superseded by others far more potent, leaving her free to treat it as no more than an extension to the house.
Her private sanctuary, in fact, with her own furniture.
It would need work, of course. Electricity was an absolute essential.
No more being left in the dark, she told herself grimly.
The path up to it seemed much narrower, and the trees and shrubs which flanked it had been allowed to grow unchecked, so much so that they concealed any view of the building.
Then as she rounded the final corner, she saw why. Because where the summer house had stood, there was now just empty space, the ground churned up as if it had been ploughed with not even a wooden plank remaining.
Dana stared at the desolation, feeling as if all the wind had been knocked out of her.
Why? she thought. In God’s name—why?
She turned and plunged back down the slope. When she reached the lawn again, one of the gardeners was emerging from the shrubbery, pushing a wheelbarrow and she accosted him.
‘Can you tell me what happened to the summer house?’
‘Pulled down and carted away, miss. Boss’s orders.’ He paused. ‘Old Mr Godstow tried to talk him out of it, seemingly, but he wouldn’t listen. Just said he’d always hated the bloody place—except he didn’t say bloody.’
‘I see,’ Dana said numbly, but it wasn’t true and her immediate instinct was to find Zac, wet or dry, and demand to know the reason for this cruel act of vandalism.
But, halfway to the swimming pool, she halted, realising she couldn’t ask any such thing. Couldn’t let him know that the summer house mattered, or why she was left hurt and bewildered at its destruction.
Far better not to mention it, she decided unhappily. And if he did, pretend total indifference.
After all, what was one more pretence among so many?
I need to forget the past, she told herself as she turned towards the house, and concentrate on the future. On bringing Mannion back to life. Because that’s why I’m here and it’s all that can be allowed to matter.
Accompanied by Mrs Harris and armed with a notebook and pen, Dana began upstairs, deciding which of the bedrooms needed to be completely redecorated and which only needed new curtains and bedding.
‘I’m afraid this wedding is going to involve you in a lot of work, Mrs Harris,’ she said apologetically.
‘On the contrary, madam, I’m looking forward to it. Such a lovely girl, Miss Nicola.’ The other woman beamed. ‘And Mr Belisandro has arranged for me to have help with the cleaning—Mrs Cawston from the village will be coming every weekday from now on and she has a niece who can help out in emergencies.’
‘That is good news,’ Dana agreed. ‘Now I think I’d better let you go as you’ll be wanting to get on with dinner.’
‘That’s all done,’ Mrs Harris assured her. She went a little pink. ‘And Mr Belisandro told me you will serve yourselves and has given me the evening off.’
‘Oh,’ said Dana, flushing in turn. ‘Oh, of course.’
As she went downstairs, she decided it might be time to make friends with the morning room, as it now seemed likely she’d be spending much of her time there.
But as she passed the book room, Zac was just emerging. He said, ‘I was coming to find you. We need to talk a little about money.’
On the desk, Dana saw an array of platinum credit cards, a very large chequebook and a green folder containing a sheaf of papers, neatly clipped together.
She said, ‘I do already have a credit card and a chequebook.’
‘Naturalamente. But in order to run Mannion, you will also need these. As well as the usual household expenses, there are wages to pay, and of course the cost of your redecoration programme.’ He indicated the file. ‘All the details are here, and you will need to
give the bank a specimen of your signature—in your married name.’
She nodded. ‘I presume your instructions include an upper limit?’
Zac shrugged. ‘Al contrario, spend whatever you wish.’ He added softly, ‘My side of our bargain, carissima.’
Our bargain, Dana thought. That ugly, evil thing she’d seized on so blindly—to satisfy the desire to possess which had dominated her life since childhood.
Money-grubbing greedy tart. Adam’s vicious words—coming back to flay the skin from her body, because she could no longer deny their truth. Or the shame of them.
And telling herself that, as Jack Latimer’s daughter, Mannion should have been hers anyway no longer worked. Because the end did not—could not—justify the means she had chosen.
She said in a voice she hardly recognised, ‘You’re—very generous.’
‘Why not?’ he said, and the cynical note in his voice made her flinch. ‘When I expect to be so exquisitely rewarded.’
He paused. ‘You have changed out of your beautiful dress. Why?’
‘I had things to do and thought working gear would be more appropriate. Anyway, I didn’t know you’d noticed my dress,’ she added without thinking.
His brows lifted. ‘You imagine I am blind?’
‘No. It—it was a stupid thing to say. And I wasn’t fishing for a compliment either.’
His smile was swift and ironic. ‘Or, at least, not from me. I need no reminder of that.’
He paused. ‘May I suggest we eat quite soon? You touched little of your lunch and almost nothing since then.’
So he hadn’t just noticed her dress, thought Dana, her throat tightening. She would have to make a show of enjoying dinner, or he would think she was on hunger strike.
She said with unaccustomed meekness, ‘Yes, a meal would be good.’
And, to her surprise, it was.
They dined on chilled avocado soup, followed by salmon mayonnaise and rounded off by a delicate lemon mousse with fresh raspberries. All of it accompanied by a crisp, fragrant white wine which was new to her.
