The Proud Wife (6 page)

The look she flung him was dark with bitterness, empty of all warmth. Did he really have to ask? those expressive eyes said. Wasn't it so blatantly obvious?

Of course she'd got tired of things—of him. It was what she'd said in the letter she'd finally sent him two weeks after she'd walked out—that she was tired of the whole thing and wanted her freedom back. That she had already been regretting their rush to marriage before the loss of their baby.

When she had lost the baby early into that marriage, he had been devastated at the loss of the future he had thought was ahead of him. Unable to hide that feeling, and concerned that showing it would make Marina feel that he was disappointed in her, he had buried himself in work. Work that had turned out to be his salvation when, with every day that passed, she had withdrawn from him further, eventually shutting him out altogether. He had moved out of their bedroom on the doctor's advice to give her space during her recovery time. She had never shown any sign of wanting him to move back.

He'd tried to talk her round—or rather, he'd kissed her round. Seduced all the fight out of her and transferred all
that fire and energy to their bed. In spite of himself, he couldn't hold back a smile at the memory. She hadn't—she couldn't have been faking that.

It had just been a temporary truce in the slow disintegration of their relationship. He'd thought they were on their way to a similar ceasefire a few moments before. She'd melted when he'd kissed her, softening in his arms and kissing him right back. And just for a few seconds it had been as if the break-up had never happened. If only Matteo hadn't decided to come knocking at the damn door…

‘You didn't give me time to think then,' Marina persisted. ‘But I really don't need time to think now. Or, rather, I've done all the thinking I want to do about this—about you, about our marriage. I want out once and for all, and nothing you can do is going to make me change my mind.'

‘Maybe you should wait until you know what's on offer before you start saying you don't want anything.'

‘I told you I don't want anything. Nothing that's over there…'

A rather wild, dramatic gesture—by the hand with her wedding ring on—indicated the scattered documents on the table.

‘And that goes for your money—and your damn kisses.'

One lousy kiss…

She even wiped the back of her hand across her mouth as if she wanted to erase the feel of his kiss, the taste of his mouth. She must still be able to taste him because he could still sense the traces of her kisses on his own lips. Hell, if he slicked his tongue across his bottom lip it would feel as if she had kissed him all over again.

And she had responded, damn her. She hadn't—she couldn't have—been faking that.

One lousy kiss…

If Matteo hadn't interrupted things, she could have been his by now. Right here, right now on the thick red carpet—or up against that wall if need be. It had been all there between them once again: the fire, the heat, the hunger. She had wanted him and he had craved her so much that he was still aching for her. His body was still in a tumult of need, one that he had barely managed to get under control.

No matter what had happened between them, he still wanted her as much as the day he had first taken her to bed. More so because of the almost two years of separation—twenty long, empty months without her in his bed had been like starving in the desert with no food to eat, no water to slake his thirst.

He still wanted this woman more than any other woman in the world and he was damned if he was going to let her go without having her at least one more time. Without working out this hunger that she awoke in him simply by existing, driving him to distraction. He wanted her to the point of madness and somehow, come hell or high water—and probably hell—he was going to have her again before he let her walk out of his life.

But that meant somehow he had to persuade her to stay and, knowing Marina, that wasn't going to be easy. If he said push, he knew very well that she would pull—right in the opposite direction.

But he was not going to let her get away from him. He'd work with opposites if he had to.

‘Fine. You've made your point.'

Marina stared at Pietro in blank confusion as he shrugged his shoulders and turned away from her. Had he really just conceded, even as she was nerving herself and strengthening her spine to face further attacks? It seemed that he had as he turned away, strolled—
strolled!
—to the other side of the room.

‘Have you read all of these?'

As he spoke he was picking up the sheaf of papers she had flung at him in a fury of rejection, smoothing, straightening, arranging them in the right order. With the documents in his hands, he turned slightly, looking her straight in the eye.

‘No.'

What was this, some sort of test? Was he holding out temptation to her, waiting to see if she wavered, if she hesitated at all? If she thought again about the divorce, or about the settlement she could get from it? A cruel knife seemed to slash across her soul at his apparent conviction that money was what mattered here. That money would be what motivated her, nothing else.

‘There was no point in doing that, was there? There's nothing you could offer me to make me want to stay.'

Pietro had collected up all the papers and returned them to the file, tapping it against the edge of the table in order to make everything neat, tidy, perfect. And that brutal knife twisted in the wound it had inflicted on her as he did so. What was the point in having everything neat and tidy, carefully aligned, when it was recording the death of something that had once been so wonderful? Or at least that she had thought had been so special. Her disillusionment had been bitter when she had realised that Pietro had never felt the same.

When he had learned she was pregnant he hadn't hesitated. No D'Inzeo child was going to be born illegitimate, he'd declared and at the time she'd simply been so grateful that he wasn't furious with her for the mistake she'd made, that he wasn't going to walk out on her, that she hadn't cared that his proposal hadn't come with ardent declarations of love and happy ever afters. He wanted to marry her and that was enough. The rest would come in time. Or
so she'd told herself. She had enough love for both of them and the baby would bring them even closer together.

She hadn't reckoned on the tragedy that had overtaken her. The way that the wedding flowers had barely had time to fade and wilt before she had woken in the night with terrifying cramps tearing at her body. By the time the next day had dawned, she had lost her baby. Miscarried his precious heir.

‘You can destroy them completely as far as I'm concerned. Toss them into Mount Etna or throw them out into the sea. Anything. Get rid of them once and for all.'

If only she could do the same with her memories. Wipe from her mind the very different way that Pietro had reacted to the loss of their child.

Where she had been devastated, shattered, lost in mourning, he had been calm, distant, controlled to the point of coldness. And his attitude had driven home to her the way that she had failed.

She had failed him by being unable to deliver the one thing he had married her for, and nothing had been the same after that. Not even the desire that had once blazed so hotly could bridge the chasm that the loss of their baby had opened up between them.

Unable to bear it any longer, wanting things over and done with, she marched across the room and flung open the door, revealing the lawyer who was still standing there waiting for his client's next command.

‘Come in Mr—Signor Rinaldi. I think it's time we really got down to business.'

‘And by
business
you mean—ending our marriage?'

Was she hearing things or had there been some sort of a hitch in Pietro's voice as he asked the question? With her back to him she couldn't see his face, but really she knew it
wasn't possible. It would be like seeing a tear in the eye of a tiger just before it pounced on some defenceless prey.

‘Of course. What else could I possibly mean?'

Slowly he turned to face her, his expression closed off, frozen into the blank mask of some carved marble statue.

‘Fine. But if you don't want all this…'

The pale-eyed glance took in the room, the offices, those documents once more, before he tossed the file into the nearest wastepaper bin.

‘Then we don't need lawyers or courts to wrap things up. We can handle this on our own. Matteo, consider yourself dismissed from this case.'

‘Principe…'
the lawyer began in protest, but Pietro held up a hand to silence him.

‘My wife and I will talk this over in private, then we will call you back to make the legal arrangements. Is that not right, Marina?'

‘I— It—'

Marina didn't know how to answer him. It sounded as if she was finally getting exactly what she wanted. At least, that was how Pietro made it seem. But she hadn't anticipated the ‘private' discussions her husband had decided they needed.

‘Yes,' was all she could manage, even as her mind was still processing what Pietro had said.

Being ‘private' with Pietro was exactly what she had hoped to avoid at all costs. Yet, if she didn't agree to it, what hope did she have of ever leaving Sicily with the divorce and the freedom that she had told herself she wanted so desperately?

Her resolve might have been shaken for a moment when Pietro had taken her in his arms and kissed her, but if anything that had only shown her just how much she needed
to do this. She had to get away, out from under his malign influence and into the hope of a new life, before he gained control of her again. Before the dark, erotic spell that he wove around her simply by existing closed over her head again and dragged her down into the sensual mindlessness in which she had existed when she had first met him.

If a short time talking things over was what was needed in order to ensure that happened, then surely she could cope with it? Forewarned was forearmed, and she was already well armoured against Pietro's seductive techniques. That near-miss earlier had reminded her of just how much she needed to be on her guard.

So, ‘Yes, if that's what's needed,' she managed.

‘Buono…'

Pietro's nod was a gesture of dark triumph. He reached for the raincoat she had discarded on a chair on her arrival, shook the creases out of it and held it up, ready for her to put on.

‘Where are we going?'

‘First I will drive you back to your hotel.'

‘There's no need.'

Just meeting his eyes made her want to take a step backwards—more than a step. But that would be to give away what she was feeling and she was determined not to do that.

‘There is every need. You will drown if you go out in this.' A flick of his head towards the window indicated the rain that was still lashing down. ‘It is hardly the act of a gentleman to allow his wife to go out in a thunderstorm when he can provide transport.'

Did he know how that word ‘allow' infuriated her? Very probably he did, and that was exactly why he had used it. There was a challenge in Pietro's brilliant eyes as he spoke.
One that heightened as he saw, and clearly understood, the struggle she was having with herself.

‘What are you afraid of,
cara
?' he murmured softly, the question meant for her ears only. But the challenge was there in his tone as well, and in the way that he raised her coat very slightly, holding it ready for her.

‘Nothing!'

Pure exasperation drove her forward, and she turned to push her arms into the sleeves of the coat he held out, letting him lift it up and on to her shoulders—which was exactly what he had planned all along, she knew. It left her feeling like some puppet, very much at the mercy of the man who held all the strings in his hand and used them to direct her as he wanted.

‘Does this look like fear?'

‘Of course not.'

His smile said that he had read her face perfectly, that he knew of every second of her battle with herself and, worse, that it was just what he had aimed at. As he adjusted her coat around her, lifting her hair out from where the collar had trapped it, smoothing it over her shoulders, she had to bite down hard on her tongue to keep from betraying herself and letting him see just how badly he had got to her.

He'd challenged her to do exactly as he wanted, knowing only too well that she would rather die than to show him she was afraid. And now she was trapped into following his lead, at least until they had had that ‘private' conversation.

But how difficult could he make it when the only place they were likely to have this conversation was in some public spot—the bar at the hotel, or some other restaurant? She would actually be much safer there than anywhere else. Safe from this man, at least.

Her thoughts and tangled feelings were quite a different matter.

Just his closeness was already affecting her again. The scent of his skin, the soft touch of his hands, the brush of his fingertips over her hair and down over her shoulders as he adjusted the fit of her jacket, all awoke memories she had fought long and hard to bury out of sight. Under her clothes her skin remembered the caress of those bronzed fingers, the trails of fire they had traced all over her body.

Clenching her jaw tightly against the feelings, Marina turned her attention instead to Matteo and his secretary, making a performance out of saying goodbye and thanking them, until she felt that Pietro must surely be fit to burst with impatience as he waited for her.

‘I appreciate your help and concern in this,' she said, shaking the lawyer by the hand.

‘My pleasure…'

Surely even the lawyer must sense the atmosphere, the swirling undercurrents of tension and distrust that eddied about them, clogging the air with antagonism and suspicion? But infuriatingly, when Marina turned back to where Pietro was waiting by the door, it was to see that he was still leaning against the wall, shoulders relaxed, arms loose, looking as if he had all the time in the world. Once again he had checkmated her, and not until she actually stepped towards the open door did he make a move to straighten up.