by Sara Craven
And now the signora was here—apparently uninvited—on what promised to be the most difficult night of her entire life.
Following, as it did, one of the most difficult days.
But for the emotional turmoil that had had her in its grip, the events at the Estrello Gallery that morning might almost have been amusing, she thought, as she took a seat and accepted the cup of coffee that Signora Alesconi poured for her.
Corin’s face had been a study when she’d broken the news that she was leaving, and why. And when finally, with trepidation, she had introduced an unsmiling Renzo as her husband, explaining that the problem of the gallery’s future might have a solution, the whole encounter had almost tipped over into farce.
Almost, she thought, swallowing, but not quite.
She’d been thankful to leave the pair of them to talk business in Corin’s cubbyhole of an office while she cleared her few personal items from her desk.
But her feelings had been mixed when Corin had emerged, clearly pole-axed, to tell her the deal was done and it was now down to the lawyers.
Because it had not simply been a matter of legalities, and she had known that. And so had the man who’d stood behind Corin, watching her, his dark face uncompromising. The husband who would seek recompense by claiming his right to her body that night.
‘So—partner.’ Corin had given her a wavering smile. ‘I guess it’s hail and farewell—for a while, anyway.’ He shook his head. ‘God, I can hardly believe it. I—I don’t know how to thank you. Both of you,’ he added, sending a faintly apprehensive glance back at Renzo.
Then he brightened. ‘Perhaps you’ll let me give you something to mark the occasion—a combined wedding present and goodbye gift, eh?’
And before Marisa could stop him he went over to the wall and lifted down the Amalfi picture.
‘I’ve often seen you looking at this,’ he confided cheerfully. ‘I realise now that it may have been reviving some happy memories.’
‘A most generous thought,’ Renzo interposed smoothly as Marisa’s lips parted in instinctive protest. ‘My wife and I will treasure it.’
‘Treasure it?’ Marisa queried almost hoarsely a little later, as the picture, well cushioned by bubble-wrap and brown paper, shared the opulent rear of the limousine that was taking them to Renzo’s next appointment at the London branch of the Santangeli Bank. ‘I’d like to put my fist through it.’ She shook her head. ‘God, how could you say such a thing? Tell such a downright lie?’
His brows lifted. ‘Did you wish me to tell him the unhappy truth?’ he enquired coolly. ‘Besides, it is a beautiful scene, very well painted. I have no objection to owning it. However, if you prefer, I will hang it where you are unlikely to see it.’ He paused, adding sardonically, ‘In my bedroom, perhaps.’
She sat back, bright spots of colour blazing in her cheeks, unable to think of a riposte that wouldn’t lead to worse embarrassment.
After a pause, Renzo went on, ‘So, Marisa, as you wished, you now have a half-share in a London gallery.’
She did not look at him. ‘And you have me.’
‘Do I?’ His tone was reflective. ‘I think that has yet to be proved, mia bella.’
He added, more briskly, ‘If there is anything you wish to take from the flat apart from your clothes then you should make a list. I will have them sent on to us. After our departure the place will be cleared for re-letting.’
‘Oh.’ She bit her lip. ‘I hoped I—we—might keep it. Maybe as a pied à terre for visits to London.’ She paused. ‘It could be useful, don’t you think?’
‘I am sure, in time, you will prefer less cramped surroundings.’
And that, she realised resentfully, was that. Renzo had made his final concession. From now on it would be her turn. And she shivered.
Later, he watched while she packed, and she saw his mouth tighten when he observed the few basic items that her wardrobe contained, but he made no further comment.
Possibly, she thought, because for once he was lost for words. Or calculating how much it would cost him to re-equip her for her unwanted role.
No! Her self-reproach was instant and whole-hearted. That was totally unfair. If money was all it took to make her happy, then by now she’d be ecstatic, because in material ways she’d lacked for nothing from the very beginning.
Kept in the lap of luxury, she told herself derisively. And knew she would not be the first to discover how lonely and unrewarding that could be.
As she sat beside him on the way to the airport, trying to present at least an appearance of calm, he was the first to break the silence between them.
‘Our flight is booked to Pisa, but I am wondering whether Rome would not be a better option.’ He paused, glancing at her. ‘A transfer is easily arranged. We could spend a few days at my apartment and then travel to Tuscany at the weekend.’
A few days, she thought, her throat tightening. And a few nights—alone with him.
A situation which bore all the hallmarks of a second honeymoon, but the same propensity for disaster as the first. In an apartment that she’d never seen, and which might not have the separate bedrooms which offered at least a semblance of privacy at the Villa Proserpina.
And then, with dizzying abruptness, she found herself remembering those few brief moments earlier that day, when his arms had held her and his lips had touched hers for the first time.
When she’d experienced the hard, lean warmth of his body against hers and realised, in a blazing instant of self-knowledge, that she didn’t want him to let her go…
And she wondered if he had known it too.
Shock jolted her like a charge of electricity. No, she protested in silent horror. Oh, please, no. That didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. I’m just uptight, that’s all. And the kiss took me by surprise.
She said, too quickly, ‘But your father’s expecting us. He’ll be disappointed if we break our journey like that.’
‘You are all consideration, mia bella. Tuttavia, I think, given the circumstances, he would completely understand.’ He added with faint amusement, ‘In effetti, he could even be pleased.’
Her heart missed a beat. ‘But I would still worry,’ she said. ‘After all, he’s been ill. And I want to see him. So maybe we should stick to the original arrangement.’
There was a brief silence before he said quietly, ‘Then let it be as you wish.’
As I wish? she thought, with a mixture of bewilderment and desperation, as new tensions—new forebodings—began to twist themselves into a knot in her mind. Dear God, suddenly I don’t know what I wish—not any more. And that really scares me.
Because nothing had changed. That kiss had simply been to prove a point. Unfinished business, that was all. Because he’d made no attempt to put a hand on her since. Even sitting side by side in the back of the car like this, he was making sure there was a distinct space between them.
But, she thought, swallowing, all that would change tonight. There was no escaping that harsh reality. And she’d had that softly arousing brush of his mouth on hers to warn her what she might expect.
She was trembling inside again, bleak with an apprehension she couldn’t dismiss, and in spite of the comfort of the flight, and the assiduous attentions of the cabin staff, she found herself developing a headache.
However, as she reminded herself tautly, it would hardly be politic, in the current situation, to mention the fact—even if he believed her. Better, indeed, to suffer in silence than to be treated with icy mockery. Or anger again.
No, she thought, please—not anger.
And she closed her eyes, wincing.
They were met at Galileo Galilei airport by her father-in-law’s own sumptuous limousine and its chauffeur, who, with due deference, handed Renzo a briefcase as he took his seat.
‘You will excuse me, mia cara?’ He spoke, she thought, as if the flight had been an endless exchange of sweet nothings, instead of several more edgy hours almost totally lacking
in conversation. ‘There are some urgent messages I must read.’
Huddled in her corner, Marisa observed some of the most exquisite scenery in Europe with eyes that saw nothing. Maybe one of the messages would summon him immediately to the other side of the globe, she thought, without particular hope.
But he went through the sheaf of papers swiftly, scribbling notes in the margins as he went, then returned them to the briefcase just as the car turned in between the tall stone pillars and took the long avenue lined with cypresses leading to the gracious mass of pinkish-grey stone that formed the Villa Proserpina.
All too soon they’d arrived at what would be her home for the foreseeable future, and as if things weren’t quite bad enough Teresa Barzati had to be waiting for them, like a thin, autocratic spider that had invaded and occupied a neighbouring web.
But we could have been elsewhere, of course, Marisa reminded herself bitterly, sitting on the edge of her chair, tension in every line of her body. Renzo offered me an alternative, and in retrospect Rome seems marginally the better choice, no matter what I thought at the time. Because no change of location is going to make the obligation of going into his arms—his bed—any easier.
But it’s too late now. Everything’s much too late.
Wearily, she pushed her hair back from her face, aware that her head was throbbing badly now, and she was almost grateful when her untouched cup was taken from her hand and Renzo said quietly, ‘You have had a long day, Marisa. Perhaps you might like to follow Nonna Teresa’s example and relax for a while in your room?’
Yes, she thought longingly. Oh, yes! Some time and space to herself, however brief.
Renzo stepped to the long bell-pull beside the fireplace, and gave succinct instructions in his own language to the uniformed maid who answered its summons.
As a result, only a few minutes later Marisa found herself lying under the silk canopy of the large four-poster bed that dominated her bedroom, divested of her outer clothing and covered by a thin embroidered quilt.
In addition, a cloth soaked in some soothing herbal essence had been placed on her forehead, and she’d been offered two anonymous white tablets and a glass of water to swallow them with.
Even while she was telling herself that relaxation under the circumstances was totally impossible, she went out like a light.
* * *
He had never, Renzo thought, felt so nervous. Not even on his wedding day.
He dried his face and applied a little aftershave, reflecting as he did so that his hand had shaken so much while he was carefully removing even the tiniest vestige of stubble from his chin that it was a miracle he’d not cut himself to ribbons.
Like some adolescent, he thought in self-derision, with his first love. Except he was no longer a boy, but a man and a husband, wanting everything to be perfect on this, his real wedding night, with the girl he planned to make his own at last. Somehow…
Yet he was afraid at the same time that it might already be too late for the errors of the past to be forgotten. Or forgiven.
Especially that first disastrous time, which it still shamed him to remember.
Are you saying you want me to make love to you?
He recalled the faint flicker of hope in his question.
Say—yes, he’d prayed silently. Ah, Dio, say yes, carissima mia, and let me take us both to heaven.
Instead, stunned by anger and disappointment, and wounded by her declared indifference, he’d simply taken her without any of the gentleness and respect he’d promised himself he would bring to her initiation, forcing himself to remain grimly oblivious to anything but his own physical necessity.
To appease by that brief and selfish act the aching desire that had tormented him since that moment at her cousin’s house when he’d first seen her as a woman. And which had only increased throughout the weeks of self-imposed denial that had followed their engagement.
With hindsight, he knew that in spite of what he’d said afterwards he should have swallowed his pride and gone to her that night, and for both their sakes put matters right between them. That he should have told her that since her acceptance of his proposal there’d been no other girl in his life, that Lucia Gallo was history, and then convinced her that he did indeed want her by devoting himself exclusively to her pleasure until she slept, fulfilled and sated, in his arms.
One small sign—one—over dinner that night that she too had regrets was all it would have taken. But there’d been nothing except that quiet, nervous politeness that had chilled him to the soul.
Leaving him to wonder in anguish whether that afternoon’s quick, soulless episode was all she would ever want from him—as much intimacy as she would ever permit. Whether she neither expected nor required any joy or warmth from the uniting of their flesh. Whether her real hope was that pregnancy would release her from any further demands by him.
Forcing him to realise too that she had no more wish to spend her days with him than she did her nights. That she seemed to prefer total solitude to even a moment of his company. Which was perhaps the most hurtful thing of all.
And that was why, when she’d told him in that small, stony voice that after all there would be no baby, it had seemed like a reprieve. As if he’d been given another chance to redeem himself and their marriage, he’d thought, hiding his instinctive thankfulness.
A God-given opportunity to try again.
Evangelina had told him, brow furrowed, that ‘the little one’ had spent an uncomfortable day, which had given him the excuse he needed to go to her at last. To share her bed, he’d told himself dryly, without even a suspicion of an ulterior motive, and prove to her that he could be capable of real tenderness.
And in doing so accustom her by degrees to his continued presence beside her at night. So that he could tell her gently, at some point, that he wanted their baby made in mutual happiness and delight. Perhaps more.
He’d shaved again that night too, he recalled ironically, before walking resolutely down the length of the dressing room corridor to her door, where he’d paused to knock.
The first time that he’d ever hesitated to enter a woman’s bedroom.
And then, as he’d raised his hand, he’d heard her weeping—listened, frozen in shock, to the harsh, agonised sobs reaching him all too clearly through the thick wooden panels—and every thought, wish, desire that had accompanied him from his room to hers had vanished. Leaving in its place a sick, empty void.
Because she couldn’t have been crying over a child that had never existed—a child she hadn’t even wanted.
No, it was the realisation that eventually she would have to submit to him again—allow her body to be used a second time— that must have released such a terrible storm of grief. Grief, he’d recognised painfully, and revulsion. It could be nothing else.
His worst fears had been horribly justified.
Yet who was to say that anything had changed now—tonight? Renzo asked himself broodingly as he dropped the towel he’d been wearing and put on his robe. What if the morning’s bravado suddenly deserted her, and when the time came for her to redeem her promise he found her in tears again?
What would he do then?
Last time he’d returned silently to his room and spent a wretched night sleepless with his regrets, knowing, as dawn approached, that he had to let her go for a while. That he simply did not trust himself to live any longer as they had been doing.
Because there would come a night, he’d told himself with brutal candour, when his need for her might overwhelm him. And he could not risk that.
Of course any separation would be purely temporary. He would make that clear. Then gradually he would resume contact between them, and begin courting her as he should have done from the first.
A laudable ambition, Renzo thought wryly, as he combed his damp hair, but doomed from the moment she’d announced her defiant determination to leave Italy.
He’d accepted that his fight to win her would be conducted from a di
stance, at least at the start, but he’d never for a moment anticipated crashing headlong into the implacable wall of silence she’d proceeded to build between them from London.
Leaving him struggling a second time against that lethal combination of damaged pride and sheer bad temper that had been his downfall previously.
And proving, he told himself bitterly, that he’d learned precisely nothing in the intervening period.
Because he should, of course, have followed her, preferably on the next flight, and courted her properly. Sweeping away her resentment and resistance until he found her again.
Found Maria Lisa—the girl who’d once looked at him as if he was the sun that warmed her own particular universe.
Every instinct he possessed told him that she had to be there, somewhere, if only he could reach her.
So what had stopped him? The fear, perhaps, that she might still elude him and he could fail?
He did not, after all, take rejection well. So when all his overtures had been ignored he’d looked deliberately for the most practical form of consolation he could find.
And now he was back at the beginning, trying to construct a whole new marriage from the ruins of the old.
The only certainty being that she would not make it easy for him.
She hadn’t even trusted him enough to tell him that she’d been in pain on the journey, but he’d seen the strain in her eyes, the way her hand had gone fleetingly to her forehead when she’d thought he wasn’t looking, and had taken appropriate action once they’d reached the villa.
But that was the simple part, he thought wryly. Now, somehow, he had to win her.
And for the first time in his life he had no idea how to begin.
Marisa awoke slowly and lay for a moment, feeling totally disorientated. Then, as her head cleared, she remembered where she was. And more importantly, why.
Swallowing, she sat up, pushing the hair back from her face as she stared around her, feeling once more as if she’d been caught in some time warp.
