The Proud Wife (9 page)

‘What?'

If she had to explain, she knew it would finish her. The darkness was there in her mind, reaching out to enclose her, but if she put it into words it would take a whole new form—one that had almost destroyed her once before. But, even as she struggled with the pain of her thoughts, she saw colour leach from Pietro's face, saw the shock of realisation darken his eyes.

‘Cruel,' he muttered again but with a totally different intonation. ‘Oh hell, Marina, I'm sorry.'

‘Sorry?' She couldn't believe she had heard right.

‘I never thought—
dannazione
—I should have thought! I should never have brought you here when it was obvious that you… That the whole place would be filled with memories of the baby.'

Of the baby…

It was something but it wasn't enough. And the fact that he only saw one reason for caring, for feeling that he had made a mistake in bringing her here when everything else was so much more complicated, seemed to force a cruel hand into her chest, grab hold of her heart and twist it cruelly, squeezing until all the life was crushed out of it.

‘You weren't so damn concerned when it happened.'

The words weren't truly accurate, and the unfairness was bound to hurt. But right now she wasn't thinking about being fair, only about lancing the viciously throbbing sore where all her memories lay just below the surface, covered over but not healed. Opening it meant letting out the poison of her thoughts that had been festering in the years since she had walked out on her marriage. The anguish of release had something of the same effect as a rush of powerful spirit straight to her head, making it spin wildly.

‘Of course I was concerned…'

She heard Pietro's voice as if it came from a long way away, muffled and blurred by the dark, throbbing clouds inside her head.

‘Oh yes, you were disappointed.'

‘You bet I was disappointed—I wanted that baby every bit as much—'

‘No!'

It was a painful gasp that she could barely get out, feeling it strangled deep inside her throat, knotted tight on its way into the open.

‘No, don't say that!' She shook her head violently, feeling strands of her hair lash her face as they whirled around her head. ‘Don't say that you did.'

How could he tell her he had wanted the baby every bit as much as she had, when she had loved the child because it was
his
as well as for itself. Because it was a part of the
man she had come to adore so fervently, so fast. When she had lost the baby she had lost Pietro as well.

Acid tears burned in her eyes, blinding her, making it impossible to see him as anything other than a black, looming shape somewhere in front of her. But was he close or far away? She had no way of knowing until she felt the touch of something on her hand. Something warm and soft, barely there, but a gentle contact that shattered what was left of the barriers she had built up around her, taking with them what little was left of her self-control.

‘Marina…'

‘No!'

She was whirling, spinning on her heel, seeking sightlessly for the door to leave the cottage. To get out, and away from her memories, away from her feelings. But even as she tried to take a step forward, to take flight, the gentle touch on her hand moved to her wrist, tightened, became stronger and held her back. The pressure caught her up and swung her back, so that she came up hard against the warm, strong shape, the solidity of ribcage, the heat of skin and muscle that was all Pietro.

‘No,' he said, his tone harsh and rasping, cutting through the fog that swirled inside her head. ‘No, you cannot hide behind locked doors this time. Or run away from me. You walked out on me once before and never came back. I have no intention of letting that happen again.'

‘You can't stop me. I won't let you stop me. You have no right.'

‘I have every right.' It was obdurate, unyielding, and it felt like a blow to her bruised and aching head. ‘You gave me that right on our wedding day and you have never taken it away. I am still your husband.'

‘In name only.'

‘And the father of our child.'

But that was a step too far, one wound too many on her already bleeding soul.

‘Don't say that! Don't say it! I lost my baby. You lost the heir you wanted!'

‘And that meant that I couldn't love him or her?' Pietro's voice was filled with dark challenge, one that was mirrored in his eyes.

A challenge that she knew she couldn't meet.

‘I know for sure that you never loved
me
. Never!'

Finding a strength she hadn't known she possessed, she wrenched her hand from Pietro's grip and launched herself at him blindly, arms flailing, fingers clenched. She sensed rather than saw the one jerky movement with which Pietro took his head back and out of range, but after that he simply stood there and let her react. He let her pound her fists against the hardness of his chest, thudding them wildly, furiously, desperately on to the powerful bone, strong muscles and warm skin.

‘You only loved what I could give you!'

For the space of a few lost seconds she was out of control, lashing at him, at herself, at her memories. Losing herself and finding release in the same wild heartbeats. But then at last the blind despair finally burned itself out. Something broke inside her and, as if a wire that had held her upright suddenly snapped, she collapsed against him, abandoning herself to the gasping, choking sobs that would not could not be held back.

Pietro simply let her cry. At first he held himself tight and stiff, totally unconnected. But then, as the storm of her tears took the strength from her body, his arms came round her and held her in a way that was both comforting and supportive. And, inside the cocoon of their warmth, in an instinctive movement of a small creature seeking
the protection of its home, Marina turned her face into his shoulder and wept.

She had no idea how long they stayed like that, Pietro silent, still, herself a molten wreck. But at long last the sobs slowed, eased, ceased. The last one fell into the silent room on a final sigh and, sniffing inelegantly, she dashed a hand to her cheeks, wiping away the tears, not daring to look up into Pietro's face. Just for a second she felt something brush her hair. She didn't know if it was his fingers or his cheek resting against her head. And then, still without a word, he moved, easing her from him and across to the red settee, settling her down on the cushions before he reached for a box of tissues on the dresser nearby.

Carefully he wiped the moisture from her skin, repairing the damage that the storm of weeping had inflicted. Her mascara had run, streaking her skin, and some of the tissues that he tossed into the bin were black with it. All the time he never said a word until at last, eyes narrowed in careful assessment, he looked into her face, checking out his handiwork, perhaps searching for something else as well. Something that had her dodging away, dropping her own gaze in discomfort to stare at the polished wooden floor.

As if the movement had freed something in him, Pietro pushed himself to his feet, swinging away and crossing the room. He walked to the window, then back again, coming to stand beside the sofa. He towered over her, feet in the polished hand-made shoes planted firmly, wide apart, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his trousers. Glancing up between eyelashes still spiked with tears, she could see how the fabric bunched over his tight fists, revealing the control he was imposing on himself, the effort he was putting into it.

‘You can say…' He spoke at last, his voice rough edged
and harsh. ‘You can accuse me of not having loved you enough. You can tell me that I never loved you at all. But you will never,
never
, accuse me of not wanting, not loving, my child.'

It was a statement, not a question. He didn't seem to need an answer but there was such intensity in his voice, such total conviction, that she could make no response. She managed a silent, blurry-eyed nod, not knowing whether he actually saw it or not.

‘The day you lost the baby,' Pietro went on above her head, ‘was one of the worst days of my life.'

Same here
… And so much more. But a disturbing thickness in Pietro's voice—the words sounding as if they were coming unravelled at the edges—struck home like the stinging flick of a whip. Lost in her own misery, trapped by the terrible sense of desolation, had she spared a thought for what Pietro had been feeling too? He had wanted an heir but he had also lost a child.

‘I'm sorry I f-failed you…'

‘Failed?'

Another different tone, a bewildering one this time. Her mind was too numbed, too bruised, to catch up with the swift changes of mood that seemed to happen as often as she blinked.

‘Failed.'

Hard hands came down to clamp around her arms, hauling her up out of her seat until she was face to face with him, green eyes locking with pale blue in a face that suddenly seemed to have lost the glow from its natural tan and was all planes and angles, the skin appearing drawn tight over his cheekbones.

‘And how the hell did you fail me?'

‘I lost…'

But Pietro wouldn't let her finish.

‘
You
are not the only person involved here. We made that baby together. The only failure here is that we did not lose it together.'

‘No, we were already coming apart at the seams before then.'

The bitterness of her memories made her say it, but even as she felt the words leave her lips she knew that in spite of everything her heart had lifted irresistibly at the thought that at least he didn't blame her for the loss of the baby. She had blamed herself enough at the time. She had felt useless and a failure for not being able to give him the heir he wanted so much.

‘You didn't even want me any more.'

‘You were pregnant!'

And swollen. And tired. And there had been no such thing as morning sickness—all-day sickness, every day… She should have seen that as a warning sign, but she had been struggling to keep her head above water as it was.

‘Not exactly the perfect
principessa
you were looking for.'

‘I knew you were pregnant when I married you. I was proud to see how you changed—to know that my child was growing within you. Nothing else mattered.'

‘And was that why you moved into another room—for the baby's sake?'

Something had changed again. The mood that had pushed him to reassure her that she hadn't failed had darkened, bringing his black brows together in a frown.

‘I would have done anything that meant our child stayed healthy. You were uncomfortable, nauseous, not sleeping well.'

She would have slept better if she had had his arms around her, with his body curved protectively around hers.

From the moment she had set foot in the grand
palazzo
and seen the reality of the huge estate, the power and wealth that her baby would be heir to, she had felt out of her depth and totally lost. The fact that Pietro had immediately seemed to be swallowed up in the details of running that estate had left her feeling even more vulnerable and inadequate. Even his mother had been totally absent.

But she hadn't been able to admit to that then, and here and now it was an admission too far, especially to a man who had just acknowledged that his concern had been for his unborn child.

The fact that that still burned so cruelly warned her that it was no longer the past she should be worrying about. The real cause for concern was the way the past had leached into the present, finding the small but dangerously vulnerable chink in the armour she had tried to build around herself. It had weaselled its way inside, opening that armour up and leaving her more dangerously exposed than ever before.

There is nothing I could want from you
, she had told him.
Nothing at all
.

Even as the words had left her lips she should have known them for the lie they were.

She had once wanted so much—wanted his love, his devotion, his heart. And, when she had learned that he didn't have any such thing to give her, something had shrivelled in her own heart, splitting it apart until she had thought that she would die from the pain of it. That was when she had known that she had to get out. Get away and never ever look back. Looking back was fatal—even more so was
coming
back. Setting foot on Sicily again was like stepping right into the lion's den.

And the worrying thing was that she knew that in the last few minutes she had been unable to hide it. She had given him an insight into the fact that she was not armoured enough against him and the memories he awoke in her.

She had let him see deeper into her heart than was safe. Deeper even than she had understood herself. And she had no idea how he might use the knowledge she had given him.

‘T
HIS
talking thing…'

Marina forced her voice into as casual a tone as she could manage and made herself stroll over to the window as she spoke, praying that her unsteady legs would hold her. Once safely across the room, she could at least rest a hand against the wall for support and focus her eyes on the view outside, the wider terrace and the valley beyond, and avoid having to look into Pietro's watching face and see the sharp observation in his eyes.

She needed to get the conversation onto safer ground. Ground that would mean she could stick to her original plan of getting out of here and home again as fast as she could. With every second that passed she was letting him more and more into the heart that she had vowed would be armoured against him this time. With every beat of that heart he was breaching her defences, finding chinks in that armour. And that was far, far too dangerous to be allowed to continue.

‘Discussing terms. Don't you think we'd better get on with it? After all, I do have a plane to catch if I'm to get home. And I wouldn't want to miss my flight.'

‘You don't have a flight to miss,' Pietro reminded her dryly from behind her in the room. ‘The jet is mine and you can travel whenever you want.'

Whenever
he
wanted was the truth, Marina reflected bitterly. He gave the orders and the pilot would obey them. Which meant that she was practically a prisoner until Pietro decided she could go.

‘All the same, I don't think there's really anything to discuss.'

‘Not about the divorce, perhaps, but our marriage is a very different matter. But I think that perhaps it is time that we ate.'

‘Ate?' Marina knew that her disbelief rang in her voice. They were talking about the break-up of their marriage and he wanted to think about
food
?

‘It is well after one.' Pietro had come to stand behind her. She could almost feel the heat of his body reaching out to enclose her, the scent of his skin setting sensitive nerves jangling in uncontrolled response. ‘And I for one am ravenous. I am sure that you must be too.'

‘I…' Marina began, but even as she spoke her stomach growled sharply, revealing the denial she had been about to make as a lie. The soft sound of Pietro's laughter behind her had her whirling round to face him, regretting it as soon as she saw the way amusement softened his hard face, putting a new light in the pale depths of his eyes.

‘Have you eaten at all today?' he asked, jolting her with the revelation as to how well he knew the way her appetite deserted her when she was apprehensive. ‘How about it, hmm, Marina?' he went on, not needing her answer. ‘Some time out—no talk of divorce. I reckon you need it.'

The way he touched one finger to her cheek, smoothing the traces left by the storm of weeping, told her without words just what she looked like and why he had come to this decision. And she couldn't but be grateful to him for it.

‘We both do. And the little
trattoria
down by the shore is still there…' he added enticingly.

She wanted to meet him halfway. Wanted the truce he seemed to be calling—the chance for time out. The truth was that she felt battered and emotionally bruised and would be grateful for a chance to recover and recoup.

‘The one that makes the wonderful
pasta con le sarde
?' Memory had her mouth watering at just the name of the famous Palermitan dish of pasta with fresh sardines.

‘The same.'

‘But won't the paparazzi…?'

‘They will still be hanging around the hotel, waiting for you. We could walk down now that the weather is improving…' As if to confirm his words, the last of the drizzle faded away and the sun came out from behind a cloud.

‘I'm not exactly dressed.'

She knew she was prevaricating and Pietro didn't even trouble to answer. Heading into the bedroom, he opened up a wardrobe and the next moment a bundle of clothing was tossed onto the bed.

‘There should be something here that would do.'

‘My old clothes…'

The ones she had left here, when they had honeymooned in the cottage, and then abandoned when she had fled to England.

‘Mine too.' Pietro pulled tee-shirt and jeans from the other side of the cupboard.

‘But why have you kept them?'

He had already tossed aside the formal jacket he had worn to the lawyer's office, hands stilling on his shirt as he looked up and straight at her.

‘I have not been here at all since you left.'

‘Never?'

‘Never.'

Which opened up as many questions as it answered—but clearly Pietro was not prepared to take things any further as he peeled off his shirt, dropping it on the bed too. The sight of the lean expanse of bronzed skin, the soft, dark hair hazing his chest, was enough to drive away all other thoughts from Marina's mind, freezing her where she stood. Memory brought back the feel of that golden skin under her fingertips, the brush of the black hairs against her breasts, making her heart clench and her mouth dry in remembered sensuality. It was only when his hands dropped to the leather belt around his waist, flicking the buckle undone, that she jolted herself into action, heading for the bathroom and the chance to change in privacy herself.

Removing the formal suit and blouse seemed disturbingly like emerging from the protective armour she had carefully put on to come to Sicily. And the loose turquoise shirt and white cotton cropped trousers Pietro handed her were the sort of casual wear she had never had the time or inclination to wear in her new life in England. They had belonged to a younger, more naive Marina.

A happier Marina.

That thought had her eyes opening wide, flying to the reflection of her face in the mirror over the basin. Her make-up was a mess, her face still bearing the marks of the tear storm, mascara smudges around her eyes and on her cheeks. But all the same—impossibly—she looked better than she had done for ages. There was a light in her eyes, and a wash of colour on her cheeks.

Was it possible that just the thought of time out spent with Pietro had put it there? The idea brought her hands to her cheeks, covering the revealing glow. But that only made the brightness of her eyes stand out more. Shockingly so.

‘Be careful!' Marina told her reflection sternly. ‘Be very, very careful.'

Even though her rational self spoke the warning words aloud, something inside her, something totally irrational, seemed to refuse to take them in. And when she turned towards the door to go back into the living room, having washed away the mascara smudges and the tearstains, the sudden skip of her heart warned her that she was risking heading into deep, deep waters.

But the really dangerous thing was that she just couldn't bring herself to care.

 

The sun was sinking down behind the far horizon by the time they returned to the cottage, bathing the tiny house in a burning glow, turning its pink walls crimson and gold. Seen like this it was a magical place, a dream, a place out of time. In just the same way, the afternoon she had spent with Pietro had truly been a time out away from the tension of the divorce negotiations, the pain of memories of the past. They had walked, talked—of safe, every-day topics—and they had shared a wonderful meal and a bottle of wine. She had enjoyed every minute of it. If there had been any moment, any small thing that had marred the peace now between them, it was the way that as they'd walked sometimes their hands would bump, touch, come so close. She had had to fight hard with herself to stop the instinctive movement to reach out and take hold of his hand, fold her fingers round his and walk together hand in hand. That freedom was not hers any more. And Pietro showed no sign at all of wanting to revive the once-familiar closeness.

Now as they walked back into the cottage she felt the shadows start to close around her once more—the shadows of reality rather than the gathering shadows of the evening that darkened the small rooms. The time out was over, the tiny idyll in the private battle they had been fighting was
gone, and now she knew it would be back to skirmishing and duelling with words.

There was little point in delaying the inevitable any longer, so she pushed herself to be the first to broach the subject as soon as they were back inside the cottage.

‘So what do we still need to sort out?'

The beauty of the trees and the landscape beyond the window started to blur as Marina forced herself to stare straight ahead and not risk turning to look at Pietro's face. She knew that the memory of his smile, his laughter, the way it had fizzed its way along every one of her nerves as he had sat opposite her in the small white-painted
trattoria
, would destroy her if she let herself dwell on it. Outside everything was still and silent apart from the swift, jerky movement of a bright green lizard that ran across the wall to the left and then disappeared into the worn stone.

‘Because I really had hoped that I would be back home today with everything signed and sealed.'

The need to keep her defences up made her voice spiky and sharp. Behind her she heard Pietro's indrawn breath and the soft, slow sound of his footsteps on the polished wooden floor as he moved towards her. The subtle scent of that lime shampoo tantalised her nostrils, the undertones of clean, male skin sending pulses of heated response through her veins.

‘And as there's nothing that I want from you…'

‘Perhaps there was something I wanted you to give me.'

Pietro's response had a sting like the flick of a whip, making Marina spin round to face him. He was closer than she had anticipated—unnervingly so—and she found herself staring straight at a wide expanse of chest under the close-fitting black tee-shirt, the muscular length of arms
exposed by the short sleeves tightening disturbingly as if working hard for restraint.

‘To give
you
?'

Her instant response dried her throat so that to her fury her voice croaked betrayingly.

‘Or perhaps I should say give
back
.'

‘I have nothing of yours to give back.'

She brought her hands up in front of her to emphasise the words and it was the direction of his eyes towards the glint of gold on the left hand that gave her a much-needed clue.

‘Oh—of course.' It was all she could manage as she fought against the pain that slashed through her.

How could she have been so stupid, so slow on the uptake? There was one obvious thing that Pietro would want back—two, if she counted the beautiful emerald and diamond engagement ring he had given her when she had accepted his proposal.

Refusing to allow herself to think about that for fear the memories of her happiness that day would destroy her, Marina tugged at her wedding ring with shaking fingers. It didn't want to move. Some appalling conspiracy between her body and her subconscious mind had made her finger swell so that the ring stuck right where it was.

‘I'm sorry, it won't…'

Tears blurred her eyes so that she could barely see what she was doing. Nervous perspiration beaded her forehead, making her breathing uneven. She knew that hot colour had flooded her cheeks—she could feel the glow of it in her skin—and that only made everything so much worse. She could sense the burn of his eyes on her too, flaying off a vital protective layer, leaving her painfully vulnerable and exposed.

‘I can't…' Fighting a sense of ridiculous panic, she tugged harder, twisting the ring, pulling…

‘Oh, damn it—I can't—'

She broke off in shock and confusion as Pietro suddenly put out a hand, closing cool fingers over her own hot flustered ones.

‘Marina, it's OK.'

His voice was calm, the tone as controlled as his touch, and she stilled underneath it, her blood seeming to freeze in shock.

‘It
is
OK, Marina,' Pietro repeated, his voice deepening on the words. ‘That isn't what I want.'

‘But…'

She didn't dare to look up, to look into his face. There was something new in his mood; she could tell that from his tone, from the notes in it that resonated through her head, making her thoughts spin, her pulse thud.

And suddenly it was as if heat had raced through his veins so that his touch on her hand was no longer cool, no longer controlled. She felt the heat of his skin over hers, the hard strength of his fingers, muscle and bone. His touch had altered, the pressure of it no longer calming or soothing. Instead it had a sensual pressure, a hint of demand.

‘Marina,' he said, softly, roughly; his thumb moved, stroking a sensual path over the back of her hand, one caressing sweep over her skin, then a pause and back again. Slow, enticing, seductive. Making her heart pound, her breath catch.

‘Pietro…'

Hearing her own voice told her just what was happening to her. And it sent a shiver down her spine, one that she was unable to recognise. It was either fear or a quiver of excited anticipation and even she had no way of knowing which.

‘Pietro, don't,'
was what she had planned to say, what she thought she would say. But somehow the second word faded from her thoughts even as she tried to say it. Another stroke of that broad thumb, the pad slightly roughened by some physical work, had her heart kicking hard. The heat of his body seemed to surround her. She was so close she could see him draw in each breath, the movement of his chest not quite as steady as it had been just moments before.

Could it be that he was feeling every bit as shaken as she was?

When she nerved herself to lift her eyes to his, it was to discover that he was even closer than before. That his head was bent, his face inclined towards hers, so that all she had to do was lift her chin and their mouths would meet.

So close and then—nothing. So close and then he was waiting—for her to make the first move?

Her breath sighed from her throat, and she slicked her tongue nervously over desperately dry lips. The movement did very little to ease the tension she felt. If anything, it made it so much worse as she saw Pietro's darkened gaze drop to follow its nervous path. She saw his tanned throat move in a swift, convulsive swallow and knew there was no need for words to communicate how they were feeling. It was all there in the silence, in the heat that had nothing to do with the sunlight outside but was purely the result of the burning chemical reaction between them.