The Santangeli Marriage

by Sara Craven

  ‘You have an answer to everything, don’t you?’

  He gave her an enigmatic glance. ‘Not to you, mia bella. That is one of the few certainties in our situation,’ he added, bending to retrieve the elegant black leather holdall standing just inside her bedroom door.

  And he walked away before she could commit the fatal error of asking what the others might be.

  Not that she would have done, of course, Marisa told herself as she extracted a dark red woollen blanket and a towel from the storage drawers under her bed, and took a pillow from a shelf in the fitted wardrobes. She would not give him the satisfaction, she thought, angry to discover that she was trembling inside, and still breathless from their encounter.

  But then she was still suffering from shock at having come back and found him there, waiting for her. Waiting, moreover, to stake a claim that she had thought—hoped—had been tacitly forgotten.

  She’d actually allowed herself to believe that she was free. To imagine that the respite she’d been offered had become a permanent separation and that, apart from a few legal formalities, their so-called marriage was over.

  But she’d just been fooling herself, she thought wretchedly. It was never going to be that easy.

  Because as she now realised, too late, they’d never been apart at all in any real sense. Had been, in fact, linked all the time by a kind of invisible rope. And it had only taken one brief, determined tug on Renzo’s part to draw her inexorably—inevitably—back to him, to keep the promises she’d made one late August day in a crowded sunlit church.

  And of course, to repay some small part of that enormous, suffocating debt to him and his family in the only currency available to her.

  She shivered swiftly and uncontrollably.

  She could, she supposed, refuse to go back to Italy with him. He was, after all, hardly likely to kidnap her. But even if they remained apart there was no guarantee that the marriage could ever be brought to a legal end. He had made it quite clear that she was his wife, and would continue to be so, and he had the money and the lawyers to enforce his will in this respect, to keep her tied to him with no prospect of release.

  The alternative was to take Julia’s unsavoury advice. To accede somehow to the resumption of Renzo’s physical requirements of her and give him the son he needed. That accomplished, their relationship would presumably exist in name only, and she could then create a whole new life for herself, perhaps. Even find some form of happiness.

  She carried the bedding down the hall to the living room, then stopped abruptly on the threshold, her startled gaze absorbing the totally unwelcome sight of Renzo, his shirt discarded, displaying altogether too much bronze skin as he casually unbuckled the belt of his pants.

  She said glacially, ‘I’d prefer you to change in the bathroom.’

  ‘And I would prefer you to accustom yourself to the reality of having a husband, mia bella,’ he retorted, with equal coolness. He looked her up and down slowly, his eyes lingering deliberately on the fastening of her skirt. ‘Now, if you were to undress in front of me I should have no objection,’ he added mockingly.

  ‘Hell,’ Marisa said, ‘will freeze over first.’ She put the armful of bedding down on the carpet and walked away without hurrying.

  Yet once in the sanctuary of her bedroom she found herself leaning back against its panels, gasping for breath as if she’d just run a mile in record time.

  Oh, why—why—did the lock on this damned door have no key? she wondered wildly. Something that would make her feel safe.

  Except that would be a total self-delusion, and she knew it. Because there was no lock, bolt or chain yet invented that would keep Renzo Santangeli at bay if ever he decided that he wanted her.

  Instead, she had to face the fact that it was only his indifference that would guarantee her privacy tonight.

  A reflection that, to her own bewilderment, gave her no satisfaction at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE sofa, Renzo thought bleakly, was not at all as comfortable as he’d claimed.

  But even if it had been as soft as a featherbed, and long enough to accommodate his tall frame without difficulty, he would still have found sleep no easier to come by.

  Arms folded behind his head, he lay staring up at the faint white sheen of the ceiling, his mind jagged and restless.

  He was enough of a realist to have accepted that he wouldn’t find a subdued, compliant bride awaiting him in London, but neither had he anticipated quite such a level of intransigence. Had hoped, in fact, that allowing her this time away from him might have brought about a faint softening of her attitude. A basis for negotiation, at least.

  But how wrong was it possible to be? he asked himself wryly. It seemed she had no wish either to forgive him—or forget—so any plans he’d been formulating for a fresh start between them were back in the melting pot.

  The simplest solution to his problems, of course, would be to settle for the so-called annulment she had offered and walk away. Accept that their marriage had never had a chance of success.

  Indeed, the days leading up to the wedding had been almost surreal, with Marisa, like a ghost, disappearing at his approach, and when forced to remain in his presence speaking only when spoken to.

  Except once. When for one brief moment at that dinner party he’d discovered her looking at him with a speculation in her eyes there had been no mistaking. And for that moment his heart had lifted in frank jubilation.

  He remembered how he hadn’t been able to wait for their dinner guests to leave in order to seek her out and invite her to go for a stroll with him in the moonlit privacy of the gardens, telling himself that maybe he was being given a belated opportunity for a little delicate wooing of his reluctant bride, and that, if so, he would take full advantage of it.

  But once all the goodnights had been said, and he’d gone to find her, she had retreated to the sanctuary of her room and the chance had gone—especially as he’d had to return to Rome early the following morning.

  But he hadn’t been able to forget that just for an instant she had lowered her guard. That she had seen him—reacted to him as a man. And that when he’d kissed her hand she’d blushed helplessly.

  Which suggested that, if there’d been one chink in her armour, surely he might somehow find another…

  So, he was not yet ready to admit defeat, he told himself grimly. He would somehow persuade her to agree to erase the past and accept him as her husband. A resolve that had been hardened by his unwanted interview with his grandmother that very morning.

  He had arrived to visit his father at the clinic just as she was leaving, and she had pounced instantly, commanding him to accompany her to an empty waiting room, obliging him, teeth gritted, to obey.

  ‘Your father tells me you are flying to England today in an attempt to be reconciled with that foolish girl,’ she commented acidly, as soon as the door was closed. ‘A total waste of your time, my dear Lorenzo. I told my daughter a dozen times that her idea of a marriage between such an ill-assorted pair was wrong-headed and could only end in disaster. And so it has proved. The child has shown herself totally unworthy of the Santangeli family.

  ‘My poor Maria would not pay attention to me, sadly, but you must listen now. Cut your losses and have the marriage dissolved immediately. As I have always suggested, find a good Italian wife who knows what is expected of her and who will devote herself to your comfort and convenience.’

  ‘And naturally, Nonna Teresa, you have a candidate in mind?’ His smile was deceptively charming. ‘Or even more than one, perhaps? I seem to remember being presented to a positive array of young women whenever I was invited to dine with you.’

  ‘I have given the matter deep thought,’ his grandmother conceded graciously. ‘And I feel that your eventual choice should be Dorotea Marcona. She is the daughter of an old friend, and a sweet, pious girl who will never give you a moment’s uneasiness.’

  ‘Dorotea?’ Renzo mused. ‘Is she the one who
never stops talking, or the one with the squint?’

  ‘A slight cast in one eye,’ she reproved. ‘Easily corrected by a simple surgical procedure, I understand.’

  ‘For which I should no doubt be expected to pay—the Marcona family having no money.’ Renzo shook his head. ‘You are the one wasting your time, Nonna Teresa. Marisa is my wife, and I intend that she will remain so.’

  ‘Hardly a wife,’ his grandmother said tartly. ‘When she lives on the other side of the continent. Your separation threatens to become a public scandal—especially after her mortifying behaviour at the wedding.’ She drew her lips into a thin line. ‘You cannot have forgotten how she humiliated you?’

  ‘No,’ Renzo said quietly. ‘I—have not forgotten.’

  In fact, thanks to Nonna Teresa, he’d found the memory grating on him all over again—not merely on his way to the airport, but throughout the flight, when it had constantly interfered with his attempts to work. So he’d reached London not in the best of moods, when he should have been conciliatory, only to find his wife missing when he reached the flat.

  And when she did return, she was not alone, he thought with cold displeasure. Was with someone other than the Langford man whom he’d come prepared to deal with. Someone, in fact, who should have been history where Marisa was concerned.

  And to set the seal on his annoyance, his bride had not been in the least disconcerted, nor shown any sign of guilt over being discovered entertaining a former boyfriend.

  But then, attack had always been her favourite form of defence, he recalled grimly, as his mind went back to their wedding day.

  He’d always regarded what had happened then as the start of his marital troubles, but now he was not so sure, he thought, twisting round on the sofa to give his unoffending pillow a vicious thump. Hadn’t the problems been there from the very beginning? Even on the day when he’d asked Marisa to marry him, and felt the tension emanating from her like a cold hand on his skin, forcing him to realise for the first time just how much forbearance would be required from him in establishing any kind of physical relationship between them.

  Nevertheless, the end of the wedding ceremony itself had certainly been the moment that had sounded the death knell of all his good intentions towards his new bride, he thought, his mouth tightening.

  He could remember so vividly how she’d looked as she had joined him at the altar of the ancient parish church in Montecalento, almost ethereal in the exquisite drift of white wild silk that had clothed her, and so devastatingly young and lovely that the muscles in his chest had constricted at the sight of her—until he’d seen her pale, strained face, clearly visible under the filmy tulle of her billowing veil. Then that sudden surge of frankly carnal longing had been replaced by compassion, and a renewed determination that he would be patient, give her all the time she needed to accept her new circumstances.

  He remembered too how her hand had trembled in his as he’d slid the plain gold wedding band into place, and how there’d been no answering pressure to the tiny comforting squeeze he’d given her fingers.

  And how he’d thought at the time, troubled, that it almost seemed as if she was somewhere else—and a long way distant from him.

  He’d heard the Bishop give the final blessing, then turned to her, slowly putting the veil back from her face.

  She had been looking down, her long lashes curling on her cheeks, her slender body rigid under the fragile delicacy of her gown.

  And he’d bent to kiss her quivering mouth, swiftly and very gently, in no more than a token caress, wanting to reassure her by his tender restraint that he would keep his word, that she would have nothing to fear when they were alone together that night.

  But before his lips could touch hers Marisa had suddenly looked up at him, her eyes glittering with scorn, and turned her head away so abruptly that his mouth had skidded along her cheekbone to meet with just a mouthful of tulle and few silken strands of perfumed hair.

  There had been an audible gasp from the Bishop, and a stir in the mass of the congregation like a wind blowing across barley, telling Renzo quite unequivocally, as he’d straightened, heated colour storming into his face, that his bride’s very public rejection of his first kiss as her husband had been missed by no one present. And that she’d quite deliberately made him look a fool.

  After which, of course, he’d had to walk the length of the long aisle, with Marisa’s hand barely resting on his arm, forcing himself to seem smiling and relaxed, when in fact he had been furiously aware of the shocked and astonished glances being aimed at them from some directions—and the avid enjoyment from others.

  Tenderness was a thing of the past, he had vowed angrily. His overriding wish was to be alone somewhere with his bride where he could put her across his knee and administer the spanking of her life.

  But instead there had been the ordeal of the wedding breakfast, being held in the warm sunlight of the main square so that the whole town could share in the future Marchese’s happiness with his new wife. Where there would be laughter, toasting, and sugared almonds to be handed out, before he and Marisa would be expected to open the dancing.

  What would she do then? he had wondered grimly. Push him away? Stamp on his foot? God alone knew.

  However, she must have undergone a partial change of heart, because she had gone through the required rituals with apparent docility—although Renzo had surmised bitterly that they must be the only newlyweds in the world to spend the first two hours of their marriage without addressing one word to each other.

  It had only been when they were seated stiffly side by side, in the comparative privacy of the limousine returning them to the villa to change for their honeymoon trip, that he’d broken the silence.

  ‘How dared you do such a thing?’ His voice was molten steel. ‘What possessed you to refuse my kiss—to shame me like that in front of everyone?’

  She said huskily, ‘But that was exactly why. You’ve never made any attempt to kiss me before, and, believe me, that’s suited me just fine.’ She took a breath. ‘But now all of a sudden there’s an audience present, so you have to play the part of the ardent bridegroom—make the token caring gesture in order to look good in the eyes of your friends and family. So that you might make them think it’s a real marriage instead of the payment of a debt—a sordid business deal that neither of us wants.’

  She shook her head. ‘Well—I won’t do that. I won’t pretend for the sake of appearances. And you, signore,’ she added with a little gasp, ‘you won’t make me.’

  There was another silence, then Renzo said icily, ‘I trust you have quite finished?’ and saw her nod jerkily before she turned away to stare out of the car window.

  Only it had not been finished at all, he thought bleakly as he pulled the blanket closer round him and turned awkwardly onto his side. On the contrary, it had been just the beginning of a chain of events from which the repercussions were still impacting on their lives. And God only knew how it might end.

  She felt, Marisa thought, as if she’d swallowed a large lump of marble.

  Curled into a ball in the middle of the bed, she tugged the coverlet over her head in an effort to shut out the ever-present hum of London traffic through the open window, just as if that was the only reason she couldn’t sleep.

  Yet who was she trying to fool? she asked herself ironically.

  Renzo’s unexpected reappearance in her life had set every nerve ending jangling, while her mind was occupied in an endless examination of everything he’d said to her.

  Especially his galling assertion that it had been mistakes by them both that had caused the collapse of their marriage.

  Because it was his fault—all his fault. That was what she’d told herself—the mantra she’d repeated almost obsessively during the endless nightmare of their honeymoon and since. Her determined and inflexible belief ever since.

  Yet now, suddenly, she was not so sure.

  She should have let him kiss her at the wedd
ing and she knew it. Had always known it, if she was honest. Realised she should just have stood there and allowed it to happen. And if she hadn’t responded—had refused to return the pressure of his lips—her point would have been made, but just between the two of them. No one else would ever have known.

  Julia, in particular.

  ‘Are you off your head?’ her cousin had said furiously, cornering her in the pretence of straightening her veil. ‘My God, he must be blazing. If you know what’s good for you tonight you’ll forget your little rebellion, lie on your back and pray that he puts you up the stick. Redeem yourself that way—by doing what you’ve been hired for.’

  ‘Thank you for the unnecessary reminder,’ Marisa threw back defiantly and moved away, her half-formed resolve to go to Renzo, to tell him she’d been overcome by nerves and obeyed an impulse that she’d instantly regretted, melting like ice in the hot sunlight.

  Neither was her mood improved by their first exchange in the car, nor during the largely silent journey down to their honeymoon destination near Amalfi—the first time, she realised, that she’d been entirely alone with him since he proposed to her. A reflection she found disturbing.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d ignored her, of course, she thought ruefully, casting a wary glance at his stony profile, but that had been when she was younger, because he’d regarded her as something of a pest. Not because he was angry and humiliated.

  And she knew with a kind of detachment that she would have to pay for what she’d done in one way or another.

  It occurred to her too that she’d never been his passenger before—another first for her to add to all the others—and as the low, powerful car sped down the autostrada under his casually controlled expertise she remembered a jokey magazine article she’d once read, which had suggested a man’s sexual performance could often be judged by the way he drove.

  She observed the light touch of his lean fingers on the wheel and found herself suddenly wondering how they would feel on her skin, before deciding, with a swift churning sensation in the pit of her stomach as Julia’s words came back to haunt her, that from now on she would do better to concentrate firmly on the scenery. However, as the silence between them became increasingly oppressive, she felt that a modest conversational overture might be called for.