by Sara Craven
‘But I must, mia bella,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t you think I have waited quite long enough to instruct you in my needs? What I like—and how I like it?’
She tried to think of something to say and failed completely. She was aware that he’d moved close, and knew she should draw back—distance herself before it was too late.
‘Because it is quite simple,’ the softly compelling voice went on. ‘I require it to be very hot, very black, and very strong—without sugar. Even you can manage that, I think.’
Marisa shot bolt upright, glaring at him. ‘Coffee,’ she said, her voice almost choking on the word. ‘You’re saying you want me to—make you—coffee?’ She drew a stormy breath. ‘Well, in your dreams, signore. I don’t know what your last slave died of, but you know where the kitchen is, so make your own damned drink.’
Renzo lay back against the pillows, watching her from under lowered lids. ‘Not the response I had hoped for, carissima.’ His drawl held amusement. He glanced past her at the clock. ‘However, I see it is still early, so maybe I will forgo the coffee and persuade you to join me in a little gentle exercise instead. Would you prefer that?’ Another pause. ‘Or has the kitchen suddenly become more attractive to you after all?’
She said thickly, ‘Bastard,’ and scrambled out of bed with more haste than dignity, grabbing at her robe. She was followed to the door by the sound of his laughter.
Once in the kitchen, she closed the door and leaned against it while she steadied her breathing.
Renzo had been winding her up, she thought incredulously, subjecting her to some light-hearted sexual teasing, and it was a side of him she hadn’t seen before.
Or not since the night of her birthday dinner, she amended, swallowing, when his eyes and the touch of his mouth on her hand had asked questions she’d been too scared to answer and once again she’d run away.
A girl does not have to be in love with a man to enjoy what he does to her in bed. His own words, and he clearly believed them.
But it isn’t true, she thought, her throat tightening. Not for me. Simply wanting someone isn’t enough, and never could be. I’d have to be in love to in order to give myself, and even then there’d have to be trust—and respect as well.
Things that Renzo had probably never heard of as he swanned his way through life from bed to bed.
Besides, he didn’t really want her. She was simply a means to an end. But what happened on their honeymoon obviously still rankled with him. For once his seduction routine hadn’t worked, and with his wife of all people.
His pride had been damaged, and he couldn’t allow that, so now he didn’t only want a son from her, but an addition to his list of conquests. To have her panting to fall into his arms each time he walked through the door.
Well, I don’t need this, she thought fiercely. I’ve no interest in his technique as a lover, and I won’t let myself be beguiled into wanting him. It’s not going to happen.
I’m going to be the one that got away. The one that proves to him, as well as myself, that there is life after Lorenzo Santangeli.
She filled the kettle and set it to boil, noting with rebellious satisfaction that there was no fresh coffee. So he’d have to drink instant and like it.
She spooned granules into a beaker, then glanced around her, wondering what would happen to her little domain when she returned to Italy. It was hardly likely she’d be able to retain it as a bolthole when her role as Santangeli wife and future mother became too much to bear.
Although she supposed she could always ask. Because she’d need somewhere eventually, after she’d given Renzo his heir and became surplus to requirements.
In fact, she could impose a few conditions of her own on her return to him, she thought. Let him know that her acquiescence to his wishes now, and later, was still open to negotiation.
Not just a place to live, she told herself, but a purpose in life, too. For afterwards…
In painful retrospect, she’d worked out that any plans she might have for her eventual child—the bond she’d once envisaged—would be little more than fantasy.
She’d seen the stately nurseries at the Santangeli family home, and knew that once she’d given birth her work would be over. There’d be no breastfeeding or nappy-changing for Signora Santangeli. The baby would be handed over to a hierarchy of doting staff who would answer its cries, be the recipients of its first smile, supervise the tooth-cutting and the initial wobbly steps, with herself little more than a bystander.
So she’d be left to her own devices, she thought bleakly, in Julia’s classic phrase. And would need something to fill her time and assuage the ache in her heart.
And quite suddenly she knew what it could be, what she would ask in return for her wifely compliance.
Simple, she thought. Neat and beautiful. Now all she required was Renzo’s agreement, which could be trickier.
The coffee made, she carried the brimming beaker back to the bedroom. But it was empty, the covers on the bed thrown back.
He was in the adjoining bathroom, standing at the basin, shaving, a towel knotted round his hips and his dark hair still damp from the shower.
‘You haven’t wasted any time.’ Self-consciously she stepped forward, and put the beaker within his reach.
‘I wish I could say the same of you, mia cara.’ His tone was dry. ‘I thought you had gone to pick the beans.’ He tasted the brew and winced slightly. ‘But clearly not.’
‘I’m sorry if it doesn’t meet your exacting standards.’
Damn, she thought. In view of what she was about to ask, a more conciliatory note might be an improvement.
He rinsed his razor and laid it aside. ‘Well, it is hot,’ he said. ‘And I am grateful for that, at least. Grazie, carissima.’
And before she could read his intention, or take evading action, his arm snaked out, drawing her swiftly against him, and he was kissing her startled mouth, his lips warm and delicately sensuous as they moved on hers.
The scent of his skin, the fragrance of the soap he’d used, were suddenly all around her, and she felt as if she was breathing him, absorbing him through every pore, as he held her in the strong curve of his arm.
And she waited, her heart hammering, for his kiss to deepen. To demand…
Then, with equal suddenness, she was free again. She took an instinctive step backwards on legs that were not entirely steady, the colour storming into her face as she met his ironic gaze.
‘So,’ he said. ‘We make progress, mia bella. We have not only shared a bed, but I have kissed you at last.’ He collected his razor and toothbrush, and put them in his wash-bag, then walked to the door, where he paused.
He said gently, ‘You were worth waiting for, Maria Lisa,’ and went out, leaving her staring after him.
If there had to be only one door in the flat with a bolt on it, she was glad it was the bathroom.
Not that she would be interrupted. Instinct told her that Renzo would not try to make immediate capital out of what had just happened, but would leave her to wait—and wonder.
Which, of course, she would, she thought, gritting her teeth.
She’d always known it would be dangerous to allow him too close, and she could see now that her wariness had been fully justified.
He was—lethal, she thought helplessly.
Yet even she could see it was ridiculous to be so profoundly disturbed by something that had lasted only a few seconds at most.
Her only comfort was that she had not kissed him back, but had stayed true to her convictions by remaining passive in his embrace.
But he was the one who stopped, a small, niggling voice in her head reminded her. So don’t congratulate yourself too soon.
Showered and dressed in her working clothes, with her hair drawn back from her face and secured at the nape of her neck with a silver clip, she emerged from the bathroom, mentally steeling herself for the next encounter.
Cool unresponsiveness would seem to be the answer, s
he thought, but a lot might depend on how the question was asked.
A reflection that sent an odd shiver tingling through her body.
But it seemed there was to be no immediate confrontation because, to her surprise, Renzo wasn’t there. The only sign of his presence was the neatly folded blanket, topped by the pillow, on the sofa.
She stood looking round her in bewilderment, wondering if by some miracle he’d suddenly decided to cut his losses and leave for Italy alone.
But it wasn’t a day for miracles, because his travel bag was still there, standing in the hall.
On the other hand, she thought, she could always fling a few things together herself, and vanish before he returned. There had to be places where the Santangeli influence didn’t reach—although she couldn’t call any of them to mind.
And with that she heard the sound of a key in the flat door and Renzo came in, dangling a bulging plastic carrier bag from one lean hand.
Marisa stared at it, then him. ‘You’ve been shopping?’
‘Evidently. I found the contents of your refrigerator singularly uninspiring, mia bella.’
‘But there’s nowhere open,’ she protested. ‘It’s too early.’
‘Shops are always glad of customers. This one was no exception.’ He held up the bag, emblazoned with the name of a local delicatessen. ‘I saw a light on and knocked. They were perfectly willing to serve me.’
‘Oh, naturally,’ Marisa said grittily. ‘How could anyone refuse the great Lorenzo Santangeli?’
‘That,’ he said gently, ‘is a question that you can answer better than anyone, carissima.’ He paused. ‘Now, shall we have breakfast?’
She wanted to refuse haughtily, furious at having been caught leading with her chin yet again, but she could smell the enticing aroma of warm bread and realised that she was starving.
He’d bought ham, cheese, sausage and fresh rolls, she found, plus a pack of rich aromatic coffee.
They ate at the small breakfast bar in the kitchen, and in spite of everything Marisa discovered it was one of the few meals she’d enjoyed in his company.
Renzo poured himself some more coffee and glanced at his watch. ‘It is almost time we were leaving. There are a number of things to be attended to before we leave for the airport, and you have yet to pack.’
‘That won’t take very long,’ she said. ‘I haven’t many clothes.’
‘No?’ he asked dryly. ‘You forget, mia cara, that I remember how many cases you brought with you to England.’
She bit her lip. ‘Actually,’ she said, trying to sound casual, ‘I don’t have those things any more.’
‘You had better explain.’
‘I gave all my trousseau away,’ she admitted uncomfortably. ‘To various charity shops. And the luggage too.’
‘In the name of God, why?’ He looked at her as if she had grown a second head.
‘Because I didn’t think I’d need clothes like that any more,’ she said defiantly. ‘So I’ll just have one bag.’
‘Very well.’ His voice held a touch of grimness. ‘Then let us start by going to this place where you have been working. Handing in your notice will take the least time.’
It wasn’t the ideal moment after her last revelation, Marisa thought, but it was still now or never.
She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, the visit may take rather longer than that. You see, there’s something I need to—discuss with you first.’
‘About the gallery?’ Renzo put the knife he’d been using back on his plate with almost studied care. ‘Or its owner?’
‘Well—both,’ she said, slightly taken aback.
‘I am listening,’ he said harshly. ‘But are you sure you want me to hear?’
‘Yes, of course. Because it’s important.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I want—I mean I would really like you to buy me—a half-share in the Estrello.’
There was a silence, then he said, almost grimly. ‘You dare ask me that? You really believe I would be willing to give money to your lover?’
Marisa gasped. ‘Lover?’ she echoed in disbelief. ‘You think that Corin—and I…? Oh, God, that’s so absurd.’ She faced him, eyes sparking with anger. ‘He’s a decent man having a bad time, that’s all.’
She paused, then added very deliberately. ‘I don’t have a lover, signore, and I never have done. As no one should know better than yourself.’
Renzo looked away, and for the second time in her life she saw him flush. ‘Then what is your interest in this place?’
‘Corin’s wife is divorcing him, and she wants a financial stake in the gallery. She’s not interested in artists or pictures, just in the Estrello’s potential as a redevelopment site. She’s even planning to work there after they’re divorced, so she can pressure him into selling up altogether.’
‘And he will do this?’ Renzo asked. ‘Why does he not fight back?’
‘Because he still loves her,’ Marisa said fiercely. ‘I don’t suppose you can imagine what it would be like for him, being forced to see her each day under those circumstances.’
‘Perhaps I am not as unimaginative as you believe,’ Renzo said, after another pause. ‘However, I still do not understand why you should wish to involve yourself—or me.’
‘For one thing it’s successful,’ she said. ‘So it would be a good investment.’ She hesitated. ‘For another, being part-owner will provide me with an interest—even a future career, which I’m going to need some day.’
His brows lifted sardonically. ‘It does not occur to you that some wives seem to find a satisfactory career in their marriages—their families?’
‘But not,’ she said, ‘when they know the position is on a strictly temporary basis.’ She paused. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘Please do. I assure you I am fascinated.’
‘Thirdly,’ she said, ‘Corin really needs the money. He would be so thankful for help.’ She looked away, biting her lip. ‘And I would be grateful too, of course.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘And what form would this gratitude take? Or is it indelicate to ask?’
It was her turn to flush. ‘I think it’s a little late for delicacy.’
‘Then tell me.’
She stared down fixedly at her empty plate. ‘I’ll go back to Italy with you—as your wife. And give you—whatever you want.’
‘However reluctantly,’ he said softly. ‘A new feast day should be proclaimed. The martyrdom of Santa Marisa.’
‘That’s unfair.’
‘Is it?’ His mouth twisted. ‘As to that, we shall both have to wait and see.’ He paused. ‘But this is the price of your—willing return to me?’
She lifted her chin. Met his gaze unflinchingly. ‘Yes.’
‘And your uncomplaining presence in my bed when I require it?’
‘Yes.’ She forced herself to say it.
‘Incredibile,’ he said mockingly. ‘Then naturally I accept. If I can agree to terms with this Corin, who needs another man’s wife to fight his battles for him.’
She was about to protest that that was unfair too. That it was not just for Corin, but herself, and her life after marriage, but she realised it would be wiser to keep quiet. So she contented herself with a stilted, ‘Thank you.’
Renzo got to his feet, and she rose too. As she went past him to the door he took her arm, swinging her round to face him.
He said unsmilingly, ‘You set a high price on your favours, mia bella. So this is a bargain you will keep. Capisci?’
She nodded silently, and he released her with a swift, harsh sigh.
But as she followed him out of the room she realised that she was trembling inside, and she thought, What have I done? Oh, dear God, what have I done?
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘DEAR child.’ Guillermo Santangeli kissed Marisa on both cheeks, then stood back to regard her fondly. ‘You look beautiful, although a little thin. I hope you are not on some silly diet.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ she return
ed awkwardly, embarrassed by the open affection in his greeting. It was as if the last painful months had never happened, she thought, bewildered, and she was simply returning home, a radiant wife, from her honeymoon. ‘But Renzo told me what happened to you, and I was—worried.’
Her father-in-law shrugged expansively. ‘A small inconvenience, no more. But it made me feel my age, and that was not good.’ His arm round her shoulders, he took her into the salotto. Renzo followed, his face expressionless. ‘Now that you are here I shall recover completely, figlia mia.
‘You remember Signora Alesconi, I hope?’ he added, as a tall, beautiful woman rose from one of the deep armchairs.
‘That is hardly likely, Guillermo.’ The older woman’s handshake was as warm as her smile. ‘I attended your wedding, Signora Santangeli, but I do not expect you to recall one person among so many. So let us count this as our true meeting.’ She turned, her expression becoming more formal. ‘It is also a pleasure to see you again, Signor Lorenzo,’ she added, as he bowed over her hand.
‘And I, signora, am glad to have this opportunity to thank you for acting so quickly when my father became ill,’ Renzo returned. ‘Please believe that I shall always be grateful.’ He smiled at her. ‘And that it is good to see you here.’
‘We are indeed a family party,’ his father remarked, studying an apparent fleck on his fingernail. ‘Nonna Teresa arrived this afternoon. She is resting in her room at present, but will join us for dinner.’
There was a pause, then Renzo said expressionlessly, ‘Now, that is a joy I did not anticipate.’
‘Nor I,’ said Guillermo, and father and son exchanged level looks.
Marisa felt her heart plummet. Of all the Santangeli connections, Renzo’s grandmother had always been the least friendly, dismissing the proposed marriage as ‘insupportable sentiment’ and ‘dangerous nonsense’.
And although Marisa had privately agreed with her views, it had still not been pleasant hearing her total unsuitability voiced aloud—and with such venom.
