The Proud Wife (2 page)

Beep. Another message; longer this time.

He hadn't given up. Of course he hadn't.

So he was actually prepared to send his private jet to get her there. That was something she hadn't expected.

She could be as ruthlessly monosyllabic as he was—at least by text.

This time the reply came back almost before she'd managed the second word. And when her phone beeped again a brief time later she knew what she would see. She was right:

She knew she was losing the battle but that didn't stop her fighting. She wasn't just some puppet ready to dance to Pietro's tune while he had total control of the strings. The phone flashed back:

Did she? Right now it was the thing she most wanted in all the world. Just five brief minutes of letting Pietro
D'Inzeo back into her life, and she wanted out of things as fast as possible. She'd needed the reminder of just how autocratic, how domineering, he could be. The way he wanted everything just the way he liked it and to hell with anyone else's needs.

What was she arguing for? He was right, after all. It was time that the whole sorry mess that had been her marriage was sorted out. Ended. Done and dusted—and filled away under ‘Big Mistakes'.

55 minutes
, she sent back and could almost sense his reaction of surprise in Sicily or wherever he was as he received the positive response. It shut him up for a while anyway, long enough for her to get upstairs and pull a weekend case out from under the bed.

But as she grabbed her wash bag and dropped it into the open case her phone beeped again and the message she saw on it made her frown apprehensively.

Bring your lawyer
, it declared ominously.

He had to be joking. Men like Pietro D'Inzeo might have their legal team at their beck and call, ready to head off anywhere at a moment's notice. But ordinary human beings like her…

All the same, the single taut sentence sent a shiver down her spine just to read it. The note of command was right there in those three words so that she could almost hear Pietro's beautifully accented voice flinging them right in her face.

The thought that he was warning her she would need legal representation made the blood run cold in her veins.

Pietro was obviously anticipating a battle over the
divorce. Probably he thought that she would fight him for every penny she could get. Well, he was going to be disappointed there. All she wanted was for her foolish, youthful marriage to be over and declared null and void. Then she would be able to get on with her own life in peace. She didn't even want any of Pietro's millions, though he was obviously convinced that she would aim for half his huge fortune because she had never signed any pre-nuptial agreement before they had wed.

Well, then, she was looking forward to seeing his face when he realised the truth. Even if that was the only thing she was anticipating with any sort of pleasure about the coming meeting.

But if it was the only way of getting free, which it seemed to be, then she was going to go ahead with it, no matter what it cost her. And, if the arrogant string of commands that had issued from Pietro's phone was anything to go by, her freedom couldn't come soon enough.

With a faint smile she picked up the phone again and pressed ‘reply'.

50 minutes
, she keyed in, punched ‘send' and then switched it off completely.

Let him talk to himself after that, she thought sharply, forcing her mind onto practical matters. She had plenty to do if she was going to get ready and she had had more than enough of Pietro for one day. Even very small doses of him were more than she could take.

So, while she hated having to jump when he called and head for Sicily—hated the thought of coming face to face with the man she had loved so much and who had broken her heart into pieces—it meant that at last she would be free of him.

New year, new start
, she told herself.
Think of it that way
.

And, judging by the gloom and swirling snow that was now outside her bedroom window, she would at least be escaping some of the worst of the winter weather. She needed to hold on to the positives when the thought of having to face Pietro again hung over her head like the dark, threatening clouds in the sky.

Just another couple of days and it would all be behind her.

A new year and a new start: at least, that was what she was hoping for.

But first she had to go through the ordeal of seeing her estranged husband once again. Just the thought of that was enough to send a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold winds and gloomy skies outside.

P
IETRO
stood by the windows of his lawyer's office and stared out at the driving rain that was lashing against the glass. His shoulders were hunched, hands pushed deep into the trouser pockets of a sleek silk suit that was the same steely grey as the water-laden clouds above. Impatience made him tap one highly polished black leather shoe against the floor, over and over again.

She was late. They had been waiting far too long. The meeting had been arranged for ten-thirty and it was now almost a quarter to eleven. She was almost fifteen minutes late—if she was even coming, that was.

Expressing his exasperation in a sigh, he raked one hand through the smooth darkness of his hair, narrowing his eyes against the downpour beyond the window. She was in Sicily, at least. Frederico, his driver, had delivered her to the hotel yesterday after picking her up from the airport. He had given her the package of documents that Matteo Rinaldi, his legal advisor, had drawn up for this meeting so that she could have her lawyer go through them and be prepared.

He had told her the precise time of the meeting, so there was no excuse for her lateness. Where the…?

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt in the same moment that down below in the street a taxi pulled up opposite the
lawyer's office, stopping in a splash of puddles and a spray of rain. The woman in the back was just a blur through the rain-dashed windows, only the glorious burn of her auburn hair giving any sign that it was indeed his ex-wife.

But that glow of red, hazy though it was, was enough to give him a sharp kick in his guts with the reminder of how it had once looked spread out on his pillows as she lay beneath him, her soft body melded to his. Heat flooded his veins and had him gritting his teeth against the impact of the memory.

‘She's here at last,' he said to Matteo, meaning to turn away from the window and step back into the room. But as he spoke the back door of the taxi opened and the woman stepped out on to the pavement.

‘She's here,' he said again on a very different note. As he spoke, the woman—Marina—suddenly looked up as if she had caught the words from across the street, staring straight at him; their focused gazes locked and held.

Even from this distance he could see how her vivid green gaze widened and fixed on him. There was no mistaking the way her back stiffened, her head coming up, her chin lifting. There was defiance in every voluptuous inch of her and she held a document case against her body like some powerful shield used to deflect the power of any opposing force.

It was the first time in two years that he had seen her and it hit him with a sense of shock that she was so much the same, totally unchanged—yet somehow totally different, alien and distant from him. And not just because of the barrier of the glass between them.

Another second passed, two, the space of a single heavy heartbeat; their eyes held. It seemed that his breath had died, freezing in his lungs so that he was completely still, not even blinking once. But then another car roared past,
spraying puddles everywhere. Marina stepped back hastily and the spell was broken.

A moment later she was hurrying across the road, head down, long legs covering the space quickly, feet in neat black-patent shoes dancing between the puddles. He expected that she would put up the document case to protect her hair but instead she still held it close to her side. But then Marina had always loved the rain.

A sudden vivid image flashed into his head—that of Marina dancing in the rain, her wild hair hanging loose over her shoulders, spinning round her face as she turned. She had been so alive, so full of fun. So beautiful. She had laughed in his face when he had told her to come indoors because she was getting a soaking.

‘It's warm rain compared to the stuff in England,' she had declared. ‘And I'm not going to melt because of a few drops of water!'

When he had ventured out into the downpour to bring her back inside, she had caught hold of his hands and held him there, forcing him to dance with her too until they had both been soaked to the skin. Only then had she let him sweep her off her feet and up into his arms. He had carried her into the
palazzo
and up to their bedroom, where he had taken his revenge for his drenching in the most satisfying and sensual way possible.

‘Dannazione!'
Pietro muttered under his breath, cursing himself and his memories as he took a grip on his thoughts and got them back under his control. With a rough movement, he turned away from the window, focusing his attention back into the room and onto the battle that was to come.

Now was not the time for sentimental memories, for recalling flashes of time when he had deluded himself that he was happy. When he had thought that the white-hot
burn of passion he felt for Marina was actually love and not something far more basic, far more unmanageable.

Passion had tumbled him into bed with Marina without thought, and the result of that passion had pushed him into a premature proposal of marriage in order to keep her there. To have and to hold. He hadn't been able to bear the thought of her being with any other man, and had seen her unexpected pregnancy as an excuse for putting a ring on her finger to ensure she stayed with him.

Then he hadn't been able to anticipate that there might be a day when he would decide that it was time to let her go. That he would see they no longer had a future together and that the fragile foundations on which their marriage had been built had crumbled to pieces under their feet. He would have laughed in the face of anyone who had told him that such a day would come. Yet now here he was, just waiting for her to sign the papers so that they could draw a line under the mess they had made of things.

The sound of the lift coming to a halt, its metal doors sliding open, alerted him to the fact that she was here. Any moment now his estranged wife was going to walk through that door and…

‘Marina…!'

With a struggle he caught back the exclamation, the way that her name almost escaped him. Even though he'd prepared himself for it, the moment she actually appeared in the room still managed to take his breath away. It was as if some force of nature, a blaze of sunlight or a wild whirling wind, had come in through the doorway, freshening and changing the atmosphere in the office.

She looked sensational. The metallic-toned trenchcoat she wore was belted tightly at her waist, emphasising the slenderness there in contrast to the curves of her hips, the full breasts that pushed against the dampened fabric.
Whatever she had on underneath had some sort of V-neck so that nothing hid the fine lines of her throat, the shadowy valley that drew his gaze inexorably downwards until he wrenched it away with a cruel effort. Her glorious hair was darkened by the rain; strands of it tugged free from the confining ponytail in which she wore it. And the weather—or perhaps the dash across the road—had whipped up the colour in her normally delicate, porcelain skin so that her cheeks glowed with colour. Above the slanting cheekbones, her green eyes were strangely dark, the colour of moss rather than the vivid emerald he remembered.

The look she turned on him was blank and distant, totally closed off, as if she had never seen him in her life before. He knew that look; it was the one she had used so often in the last days of their marriage before she had walked out. When he had seen her, that is. Which hadn't been often.

‘Signora D'Inzeo…'

Matteo, ever the smooth professional, was moving forward, hand outstretched to greet her.

‘Good morning.'

Her smile was brief, controlled, flashing on and off in a second. But it was more than she afforded her husband. The swift there-and-away-again flick of her eyes, the barest lifting of those long, lush eyelashes, granted him minimal acknowledgement as she curled her mouth around his name.

‘Pietro.'

It was as if the word had a sour, unpleasant taste on her tongue.

‘Marina.'

His own greeting echoed hers, with added ice, if that were possible. He inclined his head the slightest amount possible, then clamped ruthless control over every facial
muscle, until even he felt the invisible barriers they had erected between them, the force field of distance and distrust which separated them.

‘May I take your coat?'

Matteo was really trying to improve the atmosphere, or at least warm it up by a few vital degrees. But then he was a specialised divorce lawyer who handled cases like this all the time; he must be used to the mood of barely sheathed tension between his conflicted clients.

‘Thank you.'

Did she know just how sensual that movement was? Pietro wondered—the tiny shrug that eased the garment from her, thrusting the rich softness of her breasts forward as she put her shoulders back to loosen the fit around them. She probably did, damn her, he admitted, his teeth clenching together in an unconscious response that tightened the muscles in his jaw against the need to make any response. So many times in the past he had performed just that small service for her, had felt the soft skin of her neck and shoulders under the back of his fingers, the silky slide of her hair over his hands as he'd freed her from the garment…

She would turn to smile at him, rub her cheek against his hands, perhaps twist her head to press a kiss on his fingers…

Hell and damnation, no!

Fiercely Pietro dragged his primitive thoughts under control and made himself take a step forward, if only to break the spell that Marina seemed to have cast over him from the moment she'd walked into the room.

‘Can I get you something to drink?' Matteo was saying. ‘A coffee, perhaps?'

‘Some water will be fine, thanks.'

The removal of the coat revealed a crisp, white V-necked
blouse and narrow black skirt: very understated, very controlled, very businesslike.

Very unlike Marina.

Obviously she had chosen the clothes deliberately to convey just the right sort of image. And what image was that? That she was cool and organised and totally in control? In that case, even less like Marina.

The understated look suited her, though. It was undeniably sexy in a very different way. The white top provided a sharp contrast with the rich tones of her hair and the mossy-green glow of her eyes. The slim-fitting skirt flattered her curvy hips and thighs, its shorter length revealing the long lines of her slim legs.

Those hips—and the rest of her body—had more of a curve to them than he remembered from the last time he had seen her, Pietro realised with a sense of shock. In contrast to the glowing woman she was now, then she had looked pale and thin—too thin. Life apart from him obviously suited her, he acknowledged. The thought stabbed him.

The only things about her that were the Marina he remembered were the long, sparkling earrings that dangled close to her neck, gold and multicoloured crystals of different sizes and shapes. They were clearly costume jewellery and a long way from the emerald and diamond creations he had once given her.

‘Shall we all sit down?' Pietro asked as his lawyer opened and poured sparkling water into a glass. It was time he took charge.

Once more those green eyes flicked in his direction and, although he had his hand on the back of a chair ready to pull it out, Marina deliberately chose one on the opposite side of the big mahogany table, sinking into it in a graceful movement. She placed the document case on the polished
surface in front of her, lining it up carefully and folding her hands on top of the brown leather. Seen like this, she had an almost nun-like composure and restraint. Again, so totally unlike the real Marina that it almost made him laugh. He caught back his amusement with effort. Marina, restrained and composed? The words just didn't go together at all.

He found he rather liked this new image she had assumed. It made him think of the contrast between the outward impression she gave and the person he knew was hidden beneath the conformist clothing. Made him imagine the challenge of getting her out of the subdued garments and freeing the real woman inside. That thought blazed an image into his mind that had him suddenly pulling out his own chair and dropping into it swiftly, so that the barrier of the polished table-top hid the betraying force of his heated response.

As he took his own seat on the other side of the table, Marina accepted the glass that Matteo passed to her and sipped from it carefully. She was still wearing her wedding ring, Pietro noticed, seeing the glint of gold on the fingers wrapped around the glass. It was the last thing he had expected, and he was surprised by the force of his reaction to seeing his ring. It was the ring he had put on her finger after making their wedding vows, still there on the hand of the woman who hadn't even pretended to play the role of his wife for over two years.

‘Pietro…'

The sound of his name on his estranged wife's lips jolted him back to the present. He had heard her use his name so many times, but this was like no other time before. This time the single word was both a question and a reproach for the fact that she had said something and, lost in a dangerous blend of angry and erotic thoughts, he had not heard her.

‘Cara?'
he responded, deliberately lacing the endearment with cynicism and knowing he had hit home when he saw her reaction.

Her spine stiffened, her jaw tightened and the soft rose-tinted mouth clamped into a thin, rigid line. Green eyes flashed an uncontrolled response. Now she was letting the real Marina show, he thought with a sense of grim satisfaction. Just for a moment the controlled mask had slipped and she had let him have a glimpse of the woman underneath. This was the Marina he knew of old.

‘What exactly are you doing here?' she asked now, her tone making it clear that she wished he was a million miles away.

He dealt her a smile across the table and felt a flare of dark satisfaction when he saw her eyes widen even more.

‘We arranged to meet to discuss the terms of the divorce,' he reminded her, calm and reasonable.