The Santangeli Marriage

by Sara Craven

  Marisa could feel her throat tightening. Was aware that she was beginning to tremble inside once more.

  She said, ‘And if I—asked you to stay?’

  He turned slowly, his face expressionless.

  He said quietly, ‘Give me one good reason why I should do so.’

  She looked back at him—at the hooded watchful eyes and the firm mouth that seemed as if they would never smile again. At the lean body that had taught her with gentleness and skill such an infinity of pleasure. And she could sense tension flowing like an electrical current between them.

  Hurt, she thought. Lonely…

  And her mind became suddenly and quite magically clear.

  She said, softly and simply, ‘Because I want you.’

  She waited for him to come to her—to take her in his arms—but he stayed where he was, putting the last shirt almost too carefully into place.

  And when he spoke his voice was harsh. ‘Prove it.’

  For a moment she stood, frozen, as she realised what he was asking. As all her insecurities threatened to come flooding back to defeat her.

  She thought, I can’t…

  Only to recognise, once again, that she had no choice. That this could be her last chance, and she had to make it work—had to…

  And if this is all he’ll ever require from me, she thought, then—so be it.

  Without haste, she began to release the first of the buttons that fastened the green dress from neckline to hem, holding his eyes with hers.

  When she’d undone them all, she shrugged the dress from her shoulders, unhooked her bra and let it drop, cupping her breasts with her fingers, watching the flare of colour along his cheekbones. She allowed her hands to drift down to the edge of her lace briefs, and pause teasingly as she smiled at him, touching her parted lips with the tip of her tongue.

  As she uncovered herself completely for the intensity of his gaze.

  She moved slowly across the space that divided them until she was within touching distance, then, remembering what she’d believed was a dream, she put up a hand to stroke his hair, before running her fingers, delicate as the petals of a flower, down the strong line of his face to the faint roughness of his chin.

  Her hands slid down, freeing the remaining buttons on his shirt, pushing its edges wide apart so that her fingers had the liberty to roam over his shoulders and bare chest. To feel the clench of his muscles and experience the sudden unsteadiness of his heartbeat as she deliberately tantalised the flat male nipples, feeling them harden as she moved closer to brush them with the aroused peaks of her own breasts.

  She began to touch him with her lips, planting tiny fugitive kisses all over the warm skin as her hands slid down to deal with the waistband of his trousers, pausing, the breath catching in her throat, as her fingers flickered on the iron-hardness beneath the fabric and heard his soft groan of response.

  She tugged at his zip, then dragged the heavy fabric over his hips and down to the floor, so that he could step free of it. Then her fingers returned to release his powerfully aroused shaft from the cling of his silk shorts and, shyly at first, to caress him.

  She felt his hand move in its turn, tangling in the soft fall of her hair, holding her still as his mouth came down on hers, his kiss hard and deep, his tongue probing all her inner sweetness.

  Then, still kissing her, he lifted her into his arms and carried her into the other room and across to their bed.

  There was no gentle wooing this time. No slow ascent to pleasure. Their mutual hunger was too strong, too urgent for that. Instead, he stripped off his shorts and sank into her, filling her, as he gasped his need against her parted lips. And Marisa arched against him, her body surging in a reply as rapturous as it was uncontrollable.

  Almost before they knew it they had reached the agonised extremity of desire. Marisa sobbed into his mouth as she felt the first quivers of sensual delight ripple through her innermost being, then deepen voluptuously until her entire body was shaken, torn apart by a series of harsh, exquisite convulsions bordering on savagery. She called his name, half in fear, half in exultation, as the sensations reached their peak, and heard in the next instant his hoarse cry of pleasure as his body found its own scalding, shuddering release in hers.

  Afterwards they lay wrapped together, exchanging slow, sweet kisses.

  ‘Was that proof enough?’ Marisa asked at last, nibbling softly at his lower lip.

  ‘Let us say a beginning, perhaps. No more,’ Renzo returned lazily, his fingers curving round her breast. ‘You may, however, become more convincing in Stockholm,’ he added musingly. ‘And by the time we reach Brussels I may even start to believe that I have a wife.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You’re taking me with you?’

  ‘I have no intention of leaving you behind, carissima. Not again. Rosalia can pack for you while we’re having dinner.’

  ‘But I thought you wanted to leave straight away.’

  ‘I have changed my mind,’ he said. ‘I expect to be far too exhausted to drive anywhere tonight.’ He moved deliberately. Significantly. ‘With your co-operation, of course, signora.’

  ‘I’ll try to be of assistance, signore,’ Marisa whispered, and lifted her smiling mouth to his.

  But later, when he’d fallen into a light sleep, and she lay in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, Marisa found the echoing tremors of delight were being replaced by an odd sadness.

  Wife, she thought. At last she was his wife. But for how long would he want her? Until she’d justified her presence in his life—when he would have no further cause to play the passionate husband?

  That was the uneasy possibility that was now suggesting itself.

  Because her insistence on leading an independent life once she’d given him an heir might well turn out to be a two-edged sword.

  The purpose of their marriage achieved, Renzo, too, would be free to live as he wished—even to renew the bachelor existence that had caused so much trouble between them in the past.

  She knew herself better now, she thought wryly, so she could recognise that it was not dislike or indifference which had created the rift at the start of their marriage, but plain old-fashioned jealousy.

  Julia’s reference to Lucia Gallo had quietly gnawed away at her throughout her engagement, freezing her emotions and convincing her she would rather do without him altogether than share his attentions with another girl.

  Her heart told her that she would feel no differently if there was a similar situation in the future. Indeed, it would be worse now that she had learned the meaning of delight in his arms.

  And she thought painfully, there would be nothing she could do about it next time but accept—and suffer.

  And remember that once, for a little while, he’d belonged to her completely.

  ‘My dear Signora Santangeli,’ Dr Fabiano said gently. ‘I am sure that you are allowing yourself to worry without necessity over this matter.’ He put down his pen and smiled at her. He was a tall, rather stooped man with a goatee beard and kind eyes behind rimless glasses. ‘You have only been married for just over a year, I think.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marisa admitted. ‘But I thought—by now—it might have happened.’

  Especially, she thought, as she and Renzo had spent the past three months in the passionate and uninhibited enjoyment of each other’s bodies, without any precautions whatsoever.

  He’d said nothing more about learning to be man and wife. The imperative now was the continuation of the Santangeli name.

  ‘And we both want a child so much,’ she added.

  Renzo needs his heir, she thought, and I—I just wish him to have his heart’s desire. To please him in this special way because I love him so desperately. And because if I give him the son he wants then I might begin to mean more to him than just the girl currently in his bed.

  He—he might start to—love me in return. Because he’s never said that he does, or even hinted it.

  Not before. Not wh
en we’ve been going half-crazy in each other’s arms. And not afterwards when he holds me as we sleep. When perhaps I need to hear it most.

  ‘Sometimes nature likes to take its own time,’ the doctor said easily. ‘Also, signora, your husband may not wish to share you just yet.’ He paused. ‘Or does he share your anxieties?’

  ‘We haven’t really discussed it,’ Marisa said. In fact, if she was completely honest, she admitted silently, the subject hadn’t been mentioned at all. Or not out loud, anyway.

  However physically attuned she and Renzo might have become, there were still no-go areas in the marriage. Subjects they walked around rather than introduced as topics into the conversation.

  But she was aware that Renzo watched her quite often, as if he was—waiting for something.

  She took a breath, ‘I expect it’s all my imagination, dottore, but as the weeks pass I do find myself wondering if everything’s all right. With me, that is.’

  He looked surprised. ‘I have your notes from your doctor in England. Your general health seems excellent, and at the moment, Signora Santangeli, I would say you were glowing.’

  ‘I feel fine,’ she said, flushing a little. ‘I suppose I’m just looking for—reassurance.’

  ‘Because this would be a precious child.’ He smiled at her. ‘Perhaps a future Marchese Santangeli. I understand, of course.’

  He paused thoughtfully. ‘There are, of course, tests we can do—examinations that can be carried out. Usually I would not recommend them after so short a marriage—but if they put your mind at rest they could be useful. What do you think?’

  She said, ‘I think they could be exactly what I need.’

  ‘Then I will make the necessary arrangements.’ He pulled a pad towards him and began to scribble something on it. ‘You will naturally tell your husband what you are planning?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  When it’s all over and done with, and I know that it’s just a question of patience and perseverance, because everything’s fine. I’ll tell him then, and we’ll laugh about it.

  * * *

  Marisa was thoughtful as she drove home later. Uneasy too.

  But she had to believe she’d just made a positive move. One that could change her life for the better.

  As if it hadn’t already altered in innumerable ways, she thought wryly. The fact that she had a driving licence and a car of her own now was only one of them. Yet she couldn’t help remembering Renzo’s quiet words as he had put the keys in her hand. ‘A step towards your freedom, mia cara.’

  Had he been reminding her that, despite the passion they shared, their present intimacy was only transient, and that one day their paths would permanently diverge?

  No, she told herself, keep being positive. Apart from anything else, she was now the accepted mistress of the Villa Proserpina. If the staff had looked at her askance in the days of her estrangement from Renzo, she now basked in their approval.

  And she had Zio Guillermo’s whole-hearted support too. She could still see the expression of joyful incredulity on his face when she’d entered the salotto that first evening, shy but radiant, with Renzo’s arm around her and his hand resting on her hip in a gesture of unmistakable possession.

  And she had heard his muttered, ‘At last—may the good God be praised.’

  Later, when they could not be overheard, Ottavia too had whispered teasingly, ‘I see the fight is over, cara, but I will not ask who won.’

  And she’d started to travel too. Whenever possible Renzo insisted on taking her with him on his business trips, and gradually, with his encouragement, she’d begun to feel less gauche on the inevitable social occasions, was able to hold her own at cocktail parties and formal dinners, even once overhearing herself described as ‘charming’.

  When she’d repeated this to Renzo later, he’d merely grinned wickedly and drawled, ‘I am glad that they cannot know precisely how charming you are at this moment, mia bella,’ letting his mouth drift slowly and sensuously down her naked body.

  The apartment in Rome was no longer unknown territory for her either. But her initial visit had almost sparked off a quarrel between them. Because that first night there, when he’d taken her in his arms, she’d found it difficult to relax, her imagination going haywire as she wondered, despite herself, who else had shared this particular bed with him.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ His hand had captured her chin, making her look at him.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she’d said, too quickly. ‘Really—I’m fine.’

  His mouth had tightened. ‘Then remain so by avoiding unwise speculation,’ he’d advised coldly. ‘Because no other woman has ever stayed here. Not on moral grounds,’ he’d added cynically. ‘But because in the past I have always valued my privacy too highly. Perhaps I was wise.’ And he’d turned over and gone to sleep.

  He’d woken her around dawn, offering reconciliation with the ardour of his lovemaking, and it had never been mentioned again.

  But Marisa had seen it as a warning that references to his past were now strictly taboo. And presumably the same sanction would apply to any future amours he might engage in.

  He would be discreet, and would expect her, in turn, to be blind. Probably dumb too, she thought, and sighed.

  But whatever happened she would still be his wife, with all the courtesies her status demanded. She would wear his ring, and manage his homes and raise their children.

  Those were her rights, she told herself. No one could take them away from her.

  And in spite of the heat of the day, she felt herself shivering.

  ‘You are going where?’ Ottavia asked, her brows lifting in astonishment.

  ‘To the Clinica San Francesco,’ Marisa said, her throat tightening. ‘Just for a day—overnight, perhaps. Apparently Dr Fabiano wants me to have another more detailed examination.’

  She looked down at her hands. ‘And as I may not feel like driving immediately afterwards, I wondered if you’d be good enough to take me there in your car—and bring me back.’

  ‘But this should be for Lorenzo to do,’ the signora protested. ‘He should not be in Zurich, but here with you. I am astonished that he should absent himself at such a time.’

  Marisa was silent for a moment, then she said reluctantly, ‘Renzo doesn’t know.’

  Ottavia’s jaw dropped. ‘You have not told him?’

  Marisa shook her head. ‘Not about the initial tests, or this—new development.’ She paused. ‘I cried off from Zurich—told him I had a tummy upset because I didn’t want to worry him.’

  ‘I think you should worry for yourself,’ Ottavia told her grimly. ‘When he finds out he will be very angry.’ She groaned. ‘Guillermo too, I think.’ She took Marisa’s hands in hers. ‘Be advised, cara. You know where Renzo can be contacted. Ask him to come home and tell him everything.’

  ‘But there may not be anything to tell,’ Marisa said. ‘In which case I’ll have brought him back from an important round of meetings for no reason.’ She tried to smile. ‘He might not be very pleased about that either.’

  ‘Another risk you should take.’

  ‘I’d much rather deal with it by myself. There are so many problems in the financial markets these days that I don’t want to burden him with anything else. Especially if it turns out to be some kind of—glitch.’

  She looked appealingly at the other woman. ‘So, will you do this for me? I—I have no one else I can ask.’

  Ottavia sighed. ‘When you put it like that—yes.’ She hesitated. ‘But understand this, Marisa, I will not lie for you on this matter. If Renzo returns and asks where you are, or Guillermo comes back early from Milano with the same question, then I shall tell them. Capisce?’

  ‘Yes,’ Marisa said steadily. ‘I do understand. But I’m sure it won’t be necessary, and I shall be back here long before either of them.’ She took a deep breath. ‘No harm done.’

  She was praying wordlessly, as she’d done every day since the fi
rst tests, that it would be no more than the truth.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHE couldn’t stop crying. Ever since she’d looked at the grave, concerned faces at the foot of her bed, and realised that her inexplicable uneasiness was fully justified after all, tears had never been far away.

  And now they were there, possessing, destroying her. Eyes blinded, throat raw with the long choking sobs, she could not… stop.

  Although she’d been icily, deadly calm when they’d told her what she’d insisted on knowing, dismissing their protests that she should not be alone—that her husband, that Signor Lorenzo must be sent for while she heard what the tests and examinations had actually revealed.

  When they had admitted with the utmost reluctance that there was something—not a simple matter of infertility alone, which could be treated, but a malformation of some kind—which, in the unlikely event that she ever conceived, would not allow her to carry the child full-term.

  She’d said, in a voice she had not recognised, ‘But there must be something to rectify the condition.’ She’d bitten her lip until she tasted blood. ‘Surely some kind of operation…?’

  And had listened to the gentle, lengthy explanations, full of medical terms that she did not fully comprehend. But then she didn’t have to. Because she understood only too well that beneath the compassion and the technicalities they were telling her no. There was nothing. Nothing…

  As somehow she had already known, with some strange, inexplicable female instinct. She’d felt that strange fear like a black shadow in the corner of her life, getting closer with every day that passed, until it blotted out the sun and left her in the cold dark.

  But at least now, she could be alone with her misery—her aching, uncontrollable despair.

  The nursing staff, so hideously well-meaning as they fluttered around her with offers of water to drink, to wash her face, to help swallow a sedative, had finally been persuaded to leave. And they’d clearly been glad to go, hardly knowing what to do for this patient—this girl—this wife, Santa Madonna, of such an important man. So powerful, so attractive, so virile. Yet doomed, it seemed, through no one’s fault, to be the last of his ancient name.