The Unwanted Wife (12 page)

“I’m
not
on a diet!” She snapped. “Just, please, stop trying to manipulate every single aspect of my life!” His jaw clenched and his lips thinned in obvious anger but surprisingly enough he let it go before proceeding to order a staggering amount of food from the waiter. Once they were alone, he leaned back in his chair and stared at her thoughtfully.

“Seriously,” he began after a long silence, which she had stubbornly refused to break. “What’s going on with you?” She gaped at him, unable to believe the stupidity of that question and he lowered his eyes, apparently realising that himself.

“Aside from the obvious,” he qualified. “And try to keep the sarcasm down to a minimum.”

“Well
aside
from the obvious fact that I’m unhappy with my life as it is right now,” she shrugged. “I can’t say that there’s much going on with me.”

“You’re lying to me,” he sounded so incredulous at that fact that she actually laughed in genuine amusement. “Are you having an affair?”

“Back to that are we?” She was laughing even harder now. “Sandro, not everybody stoops to infidelity when things aren’t going right in their lives.”

“What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?” He sounded outrageously offended and leaned toward her, all affronted, bristling male.

“Oh come on, Sandro, you
know
what it means!”

“No I don’t, do enlighten me,” he invited sarcastically.

“It means,” she spoke with exaggerated and offensive slowness. “That
I’m
not the one who has been having the affairs. It means that
I
had the misguided notion that the sacred marriage vows we took were just that, sacred vows. It means that
I’m
not the one who deliberately set out to hurt and humiliate my spouse as publicly and as painfully as possible.”

“I admit that I did some things to deliberately hurt you… in a misguided attempt to punish you for a situation that wasn’t your fault,” he began carefully.

“How magnanimous of you to admit that,” she interrupted sarcastically.

“You were misled into believing that I… loved you,” he ignored her interruption. “I was misled into believing you were…”

“Your drinks,” the waiter’s smooth voice interrupted the first really meaningful exchange they’d had on the subject and Sandro slanted him an annoyed look before gritting his teeth and waiting in fulminating silence for the man to finish. When the waiter finally left, Sandro turned his gaze back on her.

“I thought you knew about your father’s scheme, I thought you were fully on board with it,” he admitted softly.

“What exactly
is
my father’s ‘scheme’?” She asked carefully, wary of being shot down again.

“He owned something that I desperately wanted and the only way he would let me have it was if I paid a huge amount of money for it and then married you.”

“I see,” she dropped her gaze to the intricately folded napkin on the table in front of her and traced her fingers lightly over the folds. “So, in essence, you paid an exorbitant sum for this mysterious something
you so desperately wanted, with me
tossed in as your unwanted free gift?”

“I had no choice, to get what I wanted; I had to accept you as part of the deal... I thought…” his voice tapered off and he shrugged miserably.

“You flattered yourself into thinking that I was fully cognisant of this scheme and that I was
so
desperate to have you, I would have my daddy blackmail you into marrying me?” He nodded reluctantly. “Well you got what you wanted and since it’s obvious that we’re both miserable in this sham of a marriage why won’t you give me that divorce?” She continued to probe, desperately hoping that he couldn’t tell how much actually
hearing
this confession hurt her.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. I think your father knew that we would both eventually want out of this ‘sham’,” he spat out the word almost distastefully. “So he added a little clause into the contract.”

This was it
... Theresa braced herself for what she knew was coming.

“Clause
?” She repeated the word faintly and Sandro cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Your father...” the waiter swooped in with great flair and began to offload a tray of food onto their table. Sandro muffled a curse beneath his breath, while he waited with barely concealed impatience for the younger man to finish.

“Will there be anything else?”

“
No
!” he barked, keeping his voice low and menacing. The poor man gulped and beat a hasty retreat. Theresa barely registered the interaction between the two men, her horrified gaze pinned onto the gastronomical feast Sandro had ordered. Pastas, pies, fish, meat, vegetables all laid out in front of her revolting senses.

“Theresa?” Sandro’s voice seemed to come from miles away. “What’s wrong?”

“So much food,” she said sickly, feeling in danger of losing the precious little she already had in her stomach.

“I thought we could share,” he admitted.

“I
told
you I wasn’t hungry,” she flared weakly, angry that he expected her to fall victim to yet another one of his manipulations.

“It doesn’t tempt you? Not even a little?” he lifted his fork and stuck it into the closest dish, some kind of cheese bake and lifted it toward her lips. Theresa could feel her gorge rise and jerked her head back abruptly.

“
No
!” He lowered the fork and glared at her in outraged bewilderment.

“What the hell is going on with you? Are you on some insane hunger strike?” She laughed unsteadily.

“That’s what prisoners do, isn’t it? When they want to make a statement about the unjustness of their imprisonment, they go on a hunger strike,” she laughed again, immediately aware of the edge of hysteria in her voice.

“You’re not serious?” He seemed to think she was though and for some reason that both saddened and amused her.

“I’m not hungry,” she maintained wearily. “It’s
really
as simple as that… please finish what you were saying about that clause.” He looked frustrated but seemed to recognise that she would not budge on the issue.

“Basically, we have an out…” he began slowly. “We give him a grandson and we can divorce without any repercussions.” She’d thought she was ready for it but hearing him put it so bluntly took the wind clear out of her sails and it took her a couple of moments to recover from it.

“
An out
,” she repeated hoarsely. “Every single time you touched me,
every time
that’s all you ever thought about, wasn’t it? Getting out?” She laughed bitterly. “And how diligently you worked towards your goal… so often and
so
very thoroughly.”

“Theresa,” he whispered his voice alive with misery. Nothing more, just that, just her name. It was as if he recognised that nothing he could possibly say at that moment would make any difference to the pain she was feeling.

“My God,” she swiped at a few errant tears, furious with herself for allowing him to see them. “Every time you came you practically
prayed
for me to give you a son. That was the only thought in your mind, every
single
time… escape! At a time when most people can’t even remember their own names, you were begging me to give you a son because life with me was so incredibly unbearable for you.”

“It wasn’t
you
,” he interrupted lamely. “It was the situation.”

“So this son you so desperately wanted,” tried to keep her voice level, even while it cracked with strain. “You don’t
really
want him, I take it? He’s just a means to an end?”

“I’ve never thought about it,” he admitted uncomfortably.

“I mean,
surely
you wouldn’t want anything to do with a child spawned with a woman you despise and carrying the blood of a man you consider your enemy?”

“The child has never seemed real to me,” he murmured with brutal honesty. “I had some vague idea that you would have him and I’d move back to Italy afterwards. I never thought beyond that.”

“With a father who felt nothing for him, a mother who didn’t want to get pregnant and a megalomaniacal grandfather waiting in the wings, it’s probably best that the last one didn’t make it,” she concluded heartbrokenly.

“Don’t you
ever
say that,” Sandro suddenly snapped, one of his hands reaching out to enfold her tightly furled fists on the tabletop. “He would have been loved.”

“What makes you so sure of that? When you
admit
that you don’t know how you would have felt about him?”

“I know
you
,” he murmured huskily. “And you have a capacity for love that boggles the mind. Of
course
you would have loved that baby; it’s the only way you know how to be.”

“How am I supposed to keep living with you now, Sandro?” She asked him helplessly. “It was bad enough before but the thought of going home with you now is almost completely unbearable.” His hand loosened its grip around hers and he reached up to stroke the side of her cheek tenderly.

“We’ll get through this,” he whispered and she flinched away from his touch. His eyes flickered with some strange emotion before his hand dropped back down to the table.

“I’m tired,” she said quietly. “Take me back to the house.” He nodded and summoned the waiter over to ask for the check. Theresa’s eyes dropped to the full table regretfully.

“Such a waste,” she whispered half to herself but she was surprised when Sandro overheard her and asked the waiter to deliver the food to the nearest homeless shelter.

Nothing much else was said between them until they got home, where Theresa excused herself under the pretext of being tired and closeted herself in her room for the rest of the afternoon.

“Sandro,” Theresa cautiously breached the sanctity of his study later that night. In all the time they had been living in the house, it was the first time Theresa had ever set foot in the study while he was in it. He looked up to see her hovering uncertainly in the doorway and stood up abruptly, nearly sending his chair toppling. She jumped backward at the sudden violent movement but he was around his desk in an instant and approaching her with one hand outstretched.

“Theresa,” he intoned huskily. “Please come in.” He seemed almost eager to have her there. Not exactly the reception she was expecting. He steered her towards the huge, leather easy chair in one corner of the large study, seating her before taking the chair opposite hers, leaning towards her, with his hands loosely clasped together and hanging down between his spread thighs.

“I want to know why,” she finally whispered, after a lengthy silence. “I want to know what commodity you so casually traded my happiness for. What meant so
much
to you that you were willing to give up your precious freedom for it?” He was quiet for so long that she wondered if he would bother to respond.

“My father is old and sick,” he finally said in a low voice, keeping his head down and his eyes fixed on his hands. “He grew up on a wine farm. Not a very profitable vineyard but it had been in our family for generations and it meant a lot to him. It was the land he was born on, the land he imagined retiring to and eventually dying on… but before he made his fortune; he ran into some bad luck and made some terrible financial decisions that resulted in the loss of that vineyard. He soon found his footing and got stinking rich but that vineyard had been purchased by your father who quite stubbornly, despite anything my father offered him, refused to sell it. The place is pretty worthless to a man of his fortune, so I can only conclude that he enjoyed having that kind of leverage over my father,” he shrugged helplessly. “All of my life I remember my father waxing lyrical about that place. He always regretted the fact that none of his children had been born on that land, the guilt at losing a huge chunk of family history ate at him and in the last few years, his quest to get it back became an obsession.

“His health started to deteriorate really badly. He was diagnosed with cancer and the doctors aren’t optimistic. Naturally his impending death has made the loss of that land even more unbearable for him and it was killing us to watch him suffer emotionally, physically and mentally. I
wanted
to give him his pride and dignity back. I want him to find peace and die happy. So I approached your father, who, having seen your
reaction to me after our first meeting, finally relented and came up with the terms of sale as you now know them.” Theresa flushed miserably when she remembered how obviously infatuated she had been the first time she had seen Sandro and recognised her own, unwitting role, in this façade.

“How’s your father?” She asked tightly and he nodded slightly, his face betraying the first hint of emotion since he had started telling the sorry tale.

“Content, now that he’s home,” his voice was absolutely racked with the pain he was trying so desperately to disguise.

“And your family knows about this ‘deal’ you made for the land?” She asked her own voice high with tension.