HELEN BROOKS - Husband By Contract

‘I’m not defying you...well, I am, but not just for the sake of it,’ she amended quickly, agitation evident in every line of her slim body and stiffly held head. ‘I want to stay in the main house, that’s all,’ she said firmly, taking a step backwards away from him.

‘I see.’ He surveyed her for a moment from dark, hooded eyes before continuing, ‘And the fact that all your clothes and belongings are as you left them in Bambina Pontina—your books, your records and tapes and so on—this does not mean it makes sense that you should stay there? You have your own sitting room, your own quarters—’

‘Donato—’

‘And your own bedroom, of course,’ he continued smoothly, his face expressionless. ‘I moved out of our bedroom shortly after it became apparent you did not intend to return immediately.’

‘Shortly after...’ Her voice trailed away as she stared at him in utter amazement. Her letter had been nothing if not succinct; she couldn’t have been more explicit about her non-return.

‘So you are quite safe, you understand?’ His eyes were mocking now, scornful of her unease. ‘I have not yet become so desperate for a woman that I have taken one against her will.’

‘I didn’t imagine you would do that,’ she snapped back quickly, angry that he had sensed her apprehension and wishing she hadn’t started the conversation. She couldn’t quite explain her reluctance to stay in their old quarters; it wasn’t that she imagined he would force himself on her—the mere thought of Donato Vittoria behaving in such an ill-bred way was absurd. It was more...more herself she feared.

The thought was shocking and brought her head bolt upright as she faced him, her deep blue eyes dark with confusion and her red-gold hair a blaze of silky fire. She didn’t want to feel attracted to him, to acknowledge that dangerous magnetism he exuded as naturally as breathing, not after the way he had betrayed her with Maria, but...

But nothing, she told herself with bitter self-contempt at her weakness. He was a man possessed of great charisma and power—from the first time she had met him she had seen women go down before that fascinating and indefinable charm like ninepins—but she wasn’t the kind of wife to tolerate liaisons and affairs and what he had done once he could do again. Why was she even thinking like this? she asked herself with very real amazement. There was no question that she would ever put herself in the position where he could betray her again—none.

‘So...’ He had been watching the play of emotions over her face with piercing interest although the ebony eyes were hooded and veiled. ‘There is no logical reason for you to refuse the privacy and comfort of Bambina Pontina, is there? And it will be reassuring for Lorenzo for life to resume some normality, if only for a short time,’ he finished smoothly.

‘I...’

She stared at him as her mind raced. She didn’t want to stay in their old home, not for an hour, a minute, but to admit she feared even the slightest intimacy with him would give that over-sized ego a massive boost. She needed to convince him, and herself, that she was immune to his charm and she would, even if it killed her, she told herself with gritted teeth before nodding tightly.

‘I suppose so. I’ve only brought a few clothes with me so it will be convenient to use the ones I left. I presume they are still in the wardrobe?’ she asked quietly, forcing herself to show no reaction to his touch when he took her arm and walked her over to the door leading to the wing.

‘Of course.’ He sounded almost shocked, she thought grimly. It was clearly all right to cheat on your wife but not to dispose of her belongings. ‘Nothing has been touched.’

Her heart began to thump as Donato opened the door and she stepped into the wide, cream-painted hall she had never expected to see again, the beautiful mosaic tiles beneath her feet and the collection of unglazed, lacy-patterned pottery plates on one wall achingly familiar.

‘Welcome home, Grace.’ His voice was soft and husky and his lips had brushed hers before she could protest, their touch igniting a small flame she strove to hide with harshness.

‘I told you not to do that.’ She glared at him, her cheeks fiery and her breathing shallow. ‘I told you.’

‘So you did.’ He straightened, smiling derisively. ‘But I prefer to give orders, not to take them. Besides—’ he stopped what was clearly going to be a blazing retort on her part with an uplifted hand ‘—it is the Italian way to be hospitable.’

‘That’s not hospitality, it’s...it’s...’

‘When you find an adequate adjective let me know, but, in the meantime, shall we...?’ He indicated the beautifully worked wrought-iron staircase with a nod. ‘I understand your suitcase is already in your room,’ he added smoothly.

‘I see.’ So he’d had this all worked out from the word go, had he? she thought balefully. ‘You’re so very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Donato?’ she said tightly as she shook his hand from her arm. ‘So sure you’ll always get what you want.’

‘Thank you, I like to think so.’ It was meant to annoy and it did, unbearably, but she strove not to let it show as she marched across to the staircase with her head held high. He was impossible—this whole thing was impossible. She should never have come—Liliana wouldn’t, couldn’t have expected her to... But she would have. The knowledge drummed in her head as she walked carefully up the stairs, painfully conscious of Donato watching her ascent from the hall below, his big, dark frame perfectly still.

Duty, respect, responsibility, sacrifice—Liliana had been of the old school and had lived her whole life by such standards. She would certainly have expected the woman she looked on as a second daughter to attend her formal departure from this world; her non-attendance would have been unthinkable.

White sunlight was slanting through the huge arched windows of the landing as Grace reached the top of the stairs and fairly flew along the polished wooden boards without looking to left or right, almost falling into the room they had designated as the master bedroom and then standing with her back pressed hard against the closed door, her eyes tightly shut.

That dream she had had, the night before the telegram had arrived... Liliana had told her then to come home; she could still hear the urgency in the older woman’s voice and see the way her arms had been stretched out towards her. ‘He needs you, Grace, more than you could ever imagine. It is only when you come home that the healing can begin. Come home, Grace, come home.’

She had woken from the dream in the middle of the night, shaking and wet with perspiration, her heart pounding and her mouth dry. Had Liliana really called her? she asked herself now, still with her eyes closed. And if so, if the woman she had loved as a mother had reached out from another world for her help, what would be expected of her?

The dream had confused her at the time; she had lain awake the rest of the night until dawn had broken, trying to convince herself it meant nothing, but since her arrival back in Italy she could see it was perhaps Lorenzo Liliana had been calling her for. That, at least, would make some sense, because her first supposition—that Donato’s mother had been referring to her eldest son—was too ridiculous to entertain, and she had known it immediately she had brought logic and reason to bear.

She slowly opened her eyes, forcing herself to look round the large, bright, sunlit room that had been her marital bedroom for three years. It was here that Paolo had been conceived after long, lazy hours of sweet lovemaking just three months after they had been married, hours when she had moaned under the exquisite sensations Donato had produced so effortlessly in her soft flesh, when the sexual feeling that had flowed in and around and through her had been so unbearably wonderful that she had thought she’d die from it...

Was that how he made Maria feel? She forced the name into her consciousness as a talisman against the weakness that was threatening to overwhelm her. Probably, she thought grimly as her eyes began to focus. Very probably. He was an accomplished lover.

And then she saw them, the carefully arranged display of wild flowers. Michaelmas daisies, blood-red poppies, ragged robin with its delicate pink petals, white and blue forget-me-nots, the deep green leaves and sky-blue petals of germander speedwell, coltsfoot, orange hawkweed, lady’s-smock, scarlet pimpernel...

‘Oh!’ Her hand went to her throat as she gasped out loud. Her wedding bouquet, and only Donato knew its significance. She walked across to the flowers slowly and stood looking at them for long moments before tentatively touching the tall spikes of purple loosestrife and pale blue buddleia, the tiny white flowers of shepherd’s purse splaying out beneath them.

All through the long years in the children’s home she had picked small posies of wild flowers, gathered from the hedgerows and lanes close by, to brighten her windowsill in the dormitory. The delicate beauty of the flowers had been something pure and lovely in the stark, regimented existence within the building where practicality had been the order of the day. They had been a comfort she couldn’t explain to anyone, a hope, a promise that life would get better, and when she had nervously tried to explain her feelings to Donato when the expensive hothouse blooms for the wedding were being discussed she hadn’t thought he’d listened.

And then, on her wedding day, the most exquisite bouquet had been delivered, tied and threaded through with white silk ribbons and lace, the marvellous array of wild flowers cascading almost to the floor in a declaration to their future.

She had cried then and she knew she was going to cry now. She threw herself onto the scented linen covers of the big double bed, curling into a tight little ball of misery and grief.

How could he? How could he have slept with Maria Fasola, held her, loved her, smiled at her, after all they had meant to each other? Their marriage, the moments they had shared, Paolo’s birth, his death—oh...oh, his death...

Her sobs were wrenched from the depths of her, harsh, angry, desperate sounds that reached the tall, dark man standing outside the room, freezing his fingers on the handle of the door and turning his face into a mask of stone before he turned savagely, striding away down the passageway with violent steps.

CHAPTER THREE

BY THE time Anna arrived with her lunch tray some fifteen minutes later Grace had washed her face and appeared calm, on the surface at least, but once the small maid had left she gazed down at the cannelloni ripieni—pasta rolls with a filling of meat and tomato sauce—on a bed of fresh green salad and sighed wearily.

She had thought she was past the tears, the pain, the sheer rage, but since her first step on Italian soil the past had closed round her like a dark veil. She placed the tray on a small table before lifting the large crystal wineglass and walking across to the full-length windows, opening them and stepping onto the balcony beyond, where she stood in the warm sunshine sipping the cool, fruity red wine. She was still there some twenty minutes later when Donato stepped through the billowing lace curtains.

‘You haven’t eaten a bite, have you?’ He inclined his head backwards towards the bedroom.

‘I’m not hungry.’ As she spoke she raised her chin at the condemning note in his voice and for a moment blue eyes clashed with coal-black in a battle of wills.

‘It will be of no help to anyone if you become ill.’