The Proud Wife (8 page)

‘It's—not quite two years,' she managed, wincing at the roughness of her voice. ‘I would have thought that…'

‘That what?' Pietro prompted when her voice failed her.

‘That you only had to wait another couple of months and we could have been divorced quietly and quickly—no blame—because we had been separated for two years. I would have thought that would be easier.'

‘I thought you wanted your freedom,' Pietro said unexpectedly, startling her into turning to face him, to look him in the eye and try to read there just what he meant.

There was nothing there to help her. Nothing but the brief cold, clear stare of a man in total control. A man who had thought things out, decided on a plan of action and was determined to see it through. And something in the coolness of that stare gave her the disturbing feeling that, in spite of her earlier conviction that she had thrown
him off-balance, she had in fact somehow played right into his hands.

‘My freedom?'

He'd said that twice and she hadn't understood what lay behind it.

‘You—you thought…?'

‘That you wanted to move on. I also happen to believe that it is best to dispose of one spouse before considering another.'

‘One spouse? Before considering… Stuart!'

How did he know about Stuart? She barely even considered him to be part of her life herself, yet…

‘Have you been having me watched?'

Pietro made no response either to deny or agree, but the eyes that were fixed on the road ahead narrowed sharply in a way that was more than what was needed to concentrate on his driving.

‘Is that what all this is about? Because you think that I have some new man in my life, you're…?'

The sudden thought that she might actually have to use the word ‘jealous' to describe Pietro's reaction brought her up sharp. But no—to be jealous, you had to feel something. And what Pietro felt would only be a dark possessiveness and a strong concern for the D'Inzeo good name, not wanting it to be dragged through the mud by her new relationship.

‘I have no intention of marrying Stuart—so if that was what was behind this sudden rush to divorce then you needn't have worried. You could have waited another few months and we could have had the divorce quickly and quietly on the grounds of two years' separation.'

‘I did not want to wait another few months.'

Well, she'd asked for that. She had practically lain down and begged him to tell her that he couldn't wait to divorce,
to be free of her. It was only what she had been claiming all the time she had been here.

‘I do not wish to drift towards a divorce without thought, without making a decision. What is that the poet says? Not with a bang but with—'

‘A whimper,' Marina finished for him when he left the sentence hanging.

She had the unnerving feeling that there was something she was missing, but for the life of her she couldn't begin to think what it was. It sounded almost as if Pietro had not been quite so hell-bent on a divorce as she had first thought. But in that case why summon her here like this?

Because he had heard about Stuart? He hadn't denied the accusation of having her watched, and now that she thought about it she recalled something he had said back in Matteo's office when the lawyer had been detailing the conditions set out in the divorce papers.

‘And can you say the same for your boyfriend?' Pietro had demanded, hard and sharp. She hadn't taken much notice of it at the time, her mind too much on other things, but now she found herself taking out the memory and looking at it in a very different light.

Had the news of Stuart's place in her life really been the trigger that had pushed her husband into declaring that he wanted to bring their marriage to a formal end?

‘What do you mean, a whimper?' she asked carefully.

‘I believe that something as important as the ending of a marriage should be decided on rationally and talked out face to face by the two people involved.'

‘And that justifies you kidnapping me like this?' she said, the words uneven as she struggled with the possible implications of that thought.

‘I haven't kidnapped you. You came of your own free will.'

‘Hardly
free
—you bullied me into doing as you wanted. But you can't just ride rough-shod all over me and expect me to like it!'

‘Oh, I don't expect you to
like
it.'

There was laughter in Pietro's response but it was a dark, dangerous amusement, nothing close to real warmth at all.

‘I know you too well for that. But you are the one who changed all the terms on which we were negotiating. You did not want the lawyers involved, so you left me no choice. And I did not bully you.'

‘Oh, so does “bully” mean something else entirely in Sicilian?' Marina asked sarcastically. ‘Something like “gently persuasive” or perhaps “carefully considerate”? Because, in English, being locked in a car with a man you never want to see again, and driven who knows where without your consent amounts to bullying in my book. You know that I expected to be in my hotel.'

‘And I knew that you would probably use that as an excuse to dodge the discussion that we need to have. Hotels have doors and keys. I have always had a strong aversion to having one slammed and locked right in my face.'

He definitely knew her too well, Marina acknowledged inwardly. Either that or she had somehow given away the fact that that had been her plan all along—to escape to her room in the hotel and lock the door firmly against him. Only then would she have felt safe from his dangerously seductive presence, free from the sexual strings he seemed to be able to coil round her simply by existing.

Sitting here like this, so close to him in the confines of the car, was like being in the dry heat of a sauna in spite of the rain still coming down outside. The clean masculine scent of Pietro's body made her nostrils flare in sensual response and every movement he made, whether steering
the powerful vehicle or changing gear, made the muscles in his strong back shift and slide under his clothes in a way that tugged on every nerve she possessed. Etched against the window, his strong profile with its olive skin and the straight slash of his nose looked as if it should have been the face of an emperor found on some Roman coin, unchanged over all the centuries.

But there had been an extra emphasis on that comment about doors that made it tug uncomfortably on her conscience, knowing how she had used that as a defence mechanism in the past.

‘So is there any point in asking where we're going?'

‘Somewhere where we can be a lot more comfortable—and a lot more private.'

That sent a shiver running down Marina's spine, making her feel as if one of the raindrops that was sliding down the windows had dropped down between her collar and her neck and was slowly, icily slithering down her back.

‘Which tells me precisely nothing.'

‘You'll find out when we get there. In the meantime, why don't you relax and enjoy the drive?'

‘Relaxed is the exact opposite of the way I'm feeling.'

Again Pietro laughed, and this time there was a warmth in the sound that tugged at her heart and made the same tears that had stung her when she had thought of his kiss push at the backs of her eyes.

‘No more questions,' he said. ‘You will find out soon enough.'

‘In other words, shut up and do as you are told. Well, that's fine by me. I'm not saying another word until I find out exactly where it is we're headed.'

Pietro's smile of wry acknowledgement almost had her breaking her word right at the start, particularly when she registered the direction they were taking. He was
heading for the coast, she realised, and a sudden, shaken thud of her heart had her fearing that he might be heading home—driving towards the Castello D'Inzeo—the huge seventeenth-century house surrounded by vineyards and olive groves that had been home to his family for generations.

And the place where he had brought her as his bride less than three short years before.

She couldn't bear it, she told herself. He couldn't be so cruel. How could he take her to the place where she had once been so happy? The home that they had shared for the brief months of their passionate marriage?

Correction—the home where she had
believed herself
to be so happy, she amended bitterly. She had thought she was loved and had been dreafully deceived. Harsh reality had soon disabused her of the dreams her innocence had built around her naive, trusting heart.

They had left the city now and were speeding down the coast road with the blue, blue Thyrrhenian sea spread out before them. Marina's heart gave a little kick of distress as she recalled the spontaneous cry of joy she hadn't been able to hold back the very first time that they had rounded a curve in the road and she had seen the jewel-bright ocean spread out before them, the white foaming crests of the waves sparkling in the sunlight. She'd seen it then as a symbol of the brilliant, beautiful future that lay ahead of her.

Now she had to acknowledge how that thought had been as much of an illusion as the fact that the cool, colourless water had managed to look so like a sparkling aquamarine jewel. An unexpected return to the
palazzo
from a trip home to England a day earlier than she had been expected had shown her that. Fired with a new resolution that things were going to be so different, and desperate to be reunited
with her husband, to ask him to start again, she had hurried to seek him out.

Only to find that he wasn't there. That he had left on an ‘important business trip' and, so the curt note he had left behind informed her, he didn't plan to be home for at least ten days. Perhaps she could take the time to think about their marriage and where they went from here. If anywhere.

She hadn't needed ten days or anything like it. She had turned and run out of there before she could give in to the violent nausea roiling inside her stomach. Turned and fled back the way she had come, flinging herself into her car and driving away at top speed down the wide, curving drive as if all the hounds of hell were after her. She hadn't stopped until she had reached the airport where she had snatched at the first flight to London that was available, fleeing home, unable to settle until she had put hundreds of miles between herself and her uncaring, unloving husband.

She hadn't been back since. She hadn't even been able to bear to think of the place.

And the thought that Pietro might be taking her to the
palazzo
for his ‘private' and ‘comfortable' talk brought a bitter taste into her mouth, so that she feared she might actually be ill.

Pietro… Please…
The words sounded in her head but she couldn't get them on to her tongue to actually speak them.

The turning for the
palazzo
came up on the left and she tensed apprehensively. But Pietro drove straight past, his attention still focused straight ahead.

The sense of relief was so great it was almost like a blow to her heart, making her breath escape in a rush, as with a deep sigh she subsided back in her seat.

Not the
palazzo
, then. But, if not the
palazzo
, then where?

Some time later, she had her answer. As the road climbed to a high point, with a sheer cliff on one side falling right down to the sea, Pietro slowed the car, indicated and turned down a steep, rutted road, heading towards the shore.

That was when she knew exactly where they were heading. And that it was worse, so much worse, than being taken to the
palazzo
.

T
HE
cottage was exactly as she remembered it. Small and single-floored, it stood in the middle of vineyards, exotic cacti and fig and olive trees. On three sides of the property was a large terrace, partly covered, so that inside and out became one. It had a beautiful view of the strikingly large, arched bridge at the beginning of the valley of San Cataldo that opened out below it.

The house itself was painted an unexpected and uncompromising pink, so much so that Marina had laughed out loud at seeing it the first time when they had arrived at the cottage, Casalina, on their honeymoon.

‘What are we doing here?'

The tangled feelings that had knotted in her throat made the words come out in a strangled gasp, one that had her wishing she could control herself better and not give so much away.

Pietro barely spared her a glance as he steered the car into the small courtyard and brought it to a smooth halt.

How could he be so heartless as to bring her here, to the tiny isolated cottage where they had spent the seven magical days of their honeymoon?

For one short week she had lived an idyll of joy and innocence. It had all been so totally perfect. She had been crazily in love with her brand-new husband and had
believed that he felt the same about her. It was only when they had moved to the spectacular surroundings of the
palazzo
, and the sophisticated way of life that Pietro knew there, that she had realised how naive she was to think that the week in Casalina had been anything like the reality she could look forward to.

‘I said I wanted somewhere quiet.'

Well, it was that—too quiet, as far as Marina was concerned. Quiet might have made for perfection when she had been alone with him before. When all she had wanted was to be with Pietro, revel in his company, enjoy his conversation and indulge in the untamed sensuality of his love-making. Then, being alone with him had been a glorious thing, each day pure joy from start to finish. Now it was something to dread, to anticipate with a terrible sense of foreboding, like a dark thundercloud looming on the horizon bringing with it the threat of dangerous weather.

‘Are you coming in?' he asked her now, striding into the small house as if all the memories that were swirling round her, tugging at her nerves and twisting her heart in pain, meant nothing at all to him.

But then, of course, that was probably exactly how he felt. There would be no distress in his thoughts of their honeymoon, the time spent at Casalina together, because he had never suffered from the foolish, romantic delusions that had held her in their grip. He had never thought that all his dreams had come true—in fact she doubted if he had ever dreamed of anything in his life.

Except perhaps the heir he had thought that she was going to provide him with. The baby that had still been alive, still growing inside her, when she had first arrived at Casalina.

Her heart lurched, her throat closing on a sound that
was almost a sob no matter how hard she tried to hold it back.

She couldn't go into the cottage, not with him, not now, not with all the hurts of the past coming between them. Yet what choice did she have? As she hesitated on the threshold, her eyes went to where the car stood, still with the key in the ignition. For a moment she was tempted to dash back to the vehicle, pull open the door and slide into the driving seat. She could put her foot down, get out of here and then…

Her thoughts slid to a halt. And then what?

Where could she go? What would she do? The thought of facing the busy traffic of Palermo's streets made her stomach quiver sharply on something close to panic. And, if she did manage to find her way back to the hotel, she would only be walking straight into the ambush set by the paparazzi who had been hanging about outside. Straight from the frying pan into the fire. And right now she didn't know if she'd rather face Pietro and his ‘quiet and private talk' or the fearsome pressures of the press, the flash of their camera bulbs, the fierce thrust of their microphones in her face.

Drawing in a deep breath, she forced herself to follow him inside the cottage, fighting the ache of memories that every step awakened.

The cottage really was tiny, just a single open-plan room with a kitchen at one side, the doors to the bedroom and bathroom leading off it. It hadn't been changed or even redecorated since she had last been there. The polished wooden floor, painted furniture and red-cushioned settee brought back so many emotions in a rush that for a moment she actually staggered, unsteady, on her feet.

‘You OK?' Pietro had spotted her reaction, and his head turned sharply in her direction.

‘I'm fine.'

She suspected that the smile with which she accompanied the words was rather too much. Too wide, too bright. Too obviously false. So she covered it with a hasty explanation.

‘It's a bit dark in here after the sunlight.'

She didn't need Pietro's cynical-eyed glance out of the window, where the weak sun was struggling through the still-cloudy sky, to tell her that she hadn't convinced him at all. The door to the bedroom stood slightly ajar, she noticed, the space it left revealing the wide, king-sized bed, totally unexpected in a tiny house like this. She didn't want to remember that bed or the images that were sparked off inside her unwilling head simply by the briefest glimpse of it.

‘Why did you bring me here?' she asked and heard his breath hiss in through his teeth in a sound of impatient irritation.

‘You know why. The paparazzi.'

‘That isn't what I meant.'

‘No?'

She had his attention now. And she didn't know if she was glad of the fact that at least he was listening intently to her or if she wished that she hadn't made him focus on her quite so closely. The living room of the cottage was so small, so compact, that his powerful form seemed to be exaggerated in its lean height and strength. His dark head was turned towards her, burning eyes fixed on her face, and his broad, straight shoulders seemed to block out all the daylight, bringing an ominous shadow into the room.

‘No, what I meant was why did you bring me here
then
? When we were first married? Why bring me to a tiny place like this when there was that huge
castello
just a few miles away—the perfect place for a honeymoon?'

Why
had
he brought her here? Pietro asked himself. ‘Why' seemed to be the word that had been swinging round and round in his head so much since the moment Marina had walked into his lawyer's room and back into his life.

Why had he ever married her? Why had he decided that now was the time to divorce her? Why had he felt the need to bring his brand-new bride to Casalina for their honeymoon instead of taking her straight to the luxury of the
castello
?

‘If you must know, I thought that you could get to know the real Sicily. A place of beauty where the way of life is simple and basic. Where the lemons ripen in the groves, and often the only movement during the day is when the shepherd's family who live higher up the valley drive their flock to the mountains early in the morning, wandering back when the sun begins to set.'

Maledizione
, that was only part of the answer, though he hated to admit it. Admitting it meant that he would have to acknowledge he had had his doubts even then, even in the first days of their marriage. Life, and one too many bad experiences, had taught him to be wary. He knew from bitter reality how often women were attracted to his money, his position, and not to the man himself. So he had brought Marina here because he had wanted to see the truth. To see her response to the reality of the simplest style of Sicilian life instead of the wealth that belonged to his family.

He had had second thoughts even before they had settled in his home. He had known that they had rushed into marriage, that the heat and hunger of their sexual passion had scrambled his brain and had him thinking with far more basic parts of his anatomy. So he had brought her here as a sort of a test, the result of which he had believed would show him the truth behind the enticing sexual façade. One
hesitation, one blink of disappointment, and he would have known the truth.

‘I thought you enjoyed our honeymoon here.'

If she hadn't, he would have played things much more carefully, watched her more closely. But she had shown such enthusiasm for the cottage, and the countryside around it, that he had relaxed his scrutiny, let down his guard.

‘Oh, I did. I loved it here. But I never understood why you did things that way.'

‘I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.'

He might as well tell her the truth now. There was no reason to hold back, no point in concealing anything from her.

‘I had been disillusioned in the past. What is it that you say? One bite…'

‘Once bitten, twice shy,' Marina supplied automatically, her tone odd, her expression distracted—much as he expected his own face would look if he could see it.

‘And I did not think that it was fair to force you to spend your honeymoon in the same house as your mother-in-law.'

‘Particularly not a mother-in-law who really wanted a pure-bred Sicilian wife for you. She never really forgave me for being English. Or for not giving you the heir you needed.'

She was wandering round the room, trailing her fingers over the backs of the chairs, along the blue-painted surface of the cupboard against the wall. As he watched he was taken back to those early days of their marriage, to a time when it had seemed to him that a new dawn had broken in his life. That a new era of trust and peace—and, damn it, happiness—had formed. She had wandered around the room in much the same way then, though she had had a very different expression on her face. A half-smiling, half-
dream-like look that had made her appear so wonderfully young and innocent. So lovable.

He had actually allowed himself to hope that this marriage could really be for ever. The sort of ‘for ever' he had never really believed in before—not with the evidence of his parents' war-zone of a relationship before him. An arranged marriage between two important families, their marriage had barely lasted as long as his own. No sooner had the all-important heir—Pietro himself—been born than the marriage had crashed and burned with husband and wife living entirely separate lives.

But Marina had seemed so different, so fresh, so innocent. He had been totally unprepared for the disillusionment when it had come.

Just as he recalled why he had played things so carefully in the beginning, so he now remembered the force and determination with which she had thrown the divorce papers in his face and her ardent declaration that she wanted nothing from him. He had been so wrong to have suspicions about her only having married him for his money. So, then, what did she truly want from him?

‘Did you really not read the divorce papers through?'

When she turned to face him, her green eyes were strangely opaque, all expression under control so that it was like looking at a mask. A carved, motionless veneer covered her features. It was a sight that took him back into bitter memories of their marriage.

‘No, I didn't. Why would I?'

‘I was going to give you this place.'

Immediately he could see it in the change in her face. Her expression suddenly altered, the mask slipped, and he caught sight of a very different person underneath.

At last he'd got through to her. At last he'd pushed her to reveal something she'd been determined to keep hidden.
And what had flashed into her eyes in that moment had showed him a very different side to her. It was as if the years in between had suddenly been stripped away and she was once more the woman he had first met.

Had she really looked so much younger? She had only been twenty-two, he reminded himself. He had never really thought about how young that was.

She had seemed so alive then, so vivid and bright, like a butterfly. Like the woman who had walked into Matteo's office, not the pinched-faced, remote, unwelcoming wife she had become at the end of their marriage.

‘Why?' Marina asked. She'd got herself back under control but there was still a faint quaver in her voice that he caught, attuned to her as he was, before she clamped down hard on it again. ‘Why would you do that?'

Why?

He didn't have an answer to that except the one that had been uppermost in his thoughts when he had been discussing the details of the divorce with Matteo. His lawyer had told him in no uncertain terms that his reasons for putting Casalina into the settlement at all were stupid to the point of crazy, but he hadn't listened.

‘Because you loved it.'

‘Because…'

Marina felt as if her rational mind had suddenly fused, blinked off, leaving her in total darkness for a moment. Then when it came back on again it was as if everything had changed and she was in a world she had never inhabited before. A world where nothing really made sense.

Because you loved it
.

So why tell her now? Why let her know that the cottage had been part of the divorce settlement that he had been prepared to give her? Was this a test, to see if he could get her to change her mind, alter her tactics? She couldn't
answer that; she only knew that in the moment he had told her he had been prepared to give her Casalina she had temporarily lost her grip on the control that was so vital to her seeing through this difficult time with any degree of success and composure. Just for the space of a couple of uneven heartbeats, she had been unable to hold back on the rush of emotion that had swamped her, the terrible, slashing need that had torn at her heart.

‘How can you say that?'

The words felt as if they had been torn from her, ripping their way up her throat, so that she felt they should emerge splattered with drops of blood.

‘How could you be so cruel?'

‘Cruel?'

If she had lashed out with her hands instead of her words, and slapped him hard in the face, she couldn't have had more of a dramatic effect. Pietro actually took a step backwards, flinging up his head, pale eyes clashing with hers.