Exotic Affairs: The Mistress BrideThe Spanish HusbandThe Bellini Bride

by Michelle Reid

  What was he up to? Why was he piling on the tension like this?

  People began filtering off into the adjoining rooms. With the smoothness of a man in no kind of hurry, Marco manoeuvred them into doing the same.

  Antonia held her breath, Marco’s hand pressed her just the bit closer to his side as they stepped through to the main gallery. Together they paused, together they took stock of what was presented—and together they began to frown.

  For there was nothing on these walls that could warrant the challenge with which Stefan had lured them here—if you didn’t count the evidence that Stefan had seemingly found himself a new subject to occupy his genius.

  She was tall, she was dark, she was exquisitely different, and her rich African beauty could not have been further removed from what had gone before her. The long slender line of her body laid bare a sensuality that curled around the senses, the silken quality of her skin set fingers twitching with a need to reach out and touch. But, as usual, with Stefan, it was her eyes that drew you.

  No hint of mirrors or ghosts anywhere, but a luxurious darkness that seemed to hold all the secrets of the universe.

  Understanding came, trailing gentle fingertips over her emotions in the heart-rippling realisation that here, in these frames, was Stefan’s salvation.

  He had set himself free.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Marco asked gruffly.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. But he knew that she wasn’t. He could feel her fighting a battle with tears as they walked from frame to frame. ‘She’s incredible, don’t you think?’

  ‘Bellisima,’ Marco quietly agreed. And he knew he should be pleased by what he was seeing, but in truth he wanted to wring Kranst’s selfish neck for choosing this way to tell her he had finally found someone else who drew this depth of emotion from him.

  ‘I presume by your response that you knew nothing about her?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ she replied, having to swallow the tears again.

  ‘Maybe you should ask him,’ he suggested, and drew her attention to where Stefan Kranst was standing, not far away, watching her responses with an intensity that made Marco’s blood boil.

  Her head twisted round, her breath caught for a second, then her slender waist was sliding away from his hand. Without another word to him, she crossed the room towards a man who had always held too much power over her for Marco’s peace of mind. Grimly he watched her pause a step away, watched her head tilt to one side as it tended to do when she asked a question. He saw Stefan Kranst’s handsome face break into a rakish grin, and wanted to hit the self-obsessed bastard!

  ‘Who is she?’ was the question Antonia had put to Stefan.

  ‘My saviour,’ Stefan had grinned.

  ‘Her name?’ she demanded.

  ‘Tanya,’ he provided.

  ‘Tanya…’ Antonia repeated, and let her gaze drift to the nearest painting, where Tanya’s smile held the rich knowledge of all men’s needs. ‘It suits her,’ she murmured, then on a burst of soft laughter she went into his arms. ‘Oh, I’m so happy for you!’ she cried.

  Across the room, Marco turned away from that embrace to continue to view the painting in front of him as if he had no problem at all with his woman falling into her ex-lover’s arms once again. Someone sidled up beside him.

  Of course it had to be Louisa. ‘I do admire your confidence in those two, Marco,’ she drawled lightly. ‘Now, if, for argument’s sake, he belonged to me, I would be over there scratching her eyes out by now.’

  ‘But he doesn’t belong to you—he belongs to her,’ he said, indicating the beautiful black woman whose naked form exuded sexual contentment from every gifted brushstroke. ‘And Antonia,’ he then added very softly, ‘belongs to me.’

  With that he walked away, in no mood to play tit-for-tat word games tonight. He wanted his woman back, and he wanted her now!

  ‘When do I meet her? Where is she?’ Antonia was demanding of Stefan.

  ‘Back in London, hiding away from you,’ he drawled lazily. ‘Just in case I was wrong about you, and you are secretly in love with me.’

  Catching her soft burst of laughter as he approached, Marco also heard Antonia’s amused reply. ‘Of course you told her that I will always love you?’

  ‘Hello, Marco,’ Stefan greeted, a trifle drily. ‘Come to claim Antonia?’

  The man could read minds.

  ‘We have to be leaving soon,’ Marco answered smoothly. ‘Another engagement, I’m afraid,’ he invented with bland ease.

  The moment he began speaking Antonia moved to his side and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. She was making a point here, Marco recognised. And it should feel good.

  So why did he feel as if she was taking second best by coming to him like this?

  Irritation flicked to life. What the hell was he talking about? He scorned his own crazy imagination. He had never played second best to anyone in his life!

  ‘Dare I ask the expert for an opinion?’ Kranst reclaimed his attention. His expression was slightly wry, slightly challenging Marco to do his worst.

  But Marco found he no longer wanted to play tit-for-tat games with Kranst, either. He just wanted to get Antonia somewhere private so he could make her forget Stefan Kranst’s name!

  So, ‘You must know you’ve done it again,’ he said easily. ‘Have you sold the reproduction rights yet?’

  ‘Still negotiating.’ Stefan smiled. Then, ‘Thank you, Marco,’ he added seriously. ‘Your opinion means a lot to me.’

  And to your reputation, Marco added silently. Though anyone with eyes should be able to see that the man was about to make his second killing here.

  Glancing down, he found Antonia was smiling up at him as if he had just bestowed the greatest accolade he possibly could. It made him want to shake her for still caring so much about Kranst’s precious ego when it was clear the man didn’t give a damn about hers!

  ‘It’s time we were leaving,’ he told her, wishing they hadn’t bothered to come here at all. The man was a menace—to him and to Antonia!

  ‘Before you do that,’ Stefan Kranst inserted, looking at Antonia, ‘I have something for you, my darling, if you remember…’

  Beside him, Marco felt her stiffen. ‘You mean this isn’t surprise enough?’ she laughed, in a voice strapped by strain.

  ‘No.’ The artist’s smile was rueful. ‘Special gifts come in solid form.’

  Marco frowned at the answer, because it wasn’t true. Not where Antonia was concerned. It was a lesson he had learned himself only last week via the red Lotus. Then he remembered Kranst’s remark about the Mirror Woman, felt his own tension rise up to meet Antonia’s, and realised that she had remembered a whole lot sooner than he had done.

  ‘I have it waiting in Rosetta’s office,’ Stefan Kranst said smoothly, and turned away to stride purposefully towards Rosetta Romano’s private office.

  It really left them with no choice but to follow. ‘This had better be worth the build-up,’ Marco muttered, unable to stop himself.

  ‘I hope not,’ Antonia mumbled in reply, which just about said it all for both of them.

  Rosetta Romano’s office was a large white space of modern stylism. The only thing, therefore, that stood out in the room, was the giant black easel holding a large frame covered by a piece of fine black muslin.

  The moment she saw it Antonia released a gasp of recognition, ‘Stefan… no!’ she shot out.

  But Stefan was not willing to listen. He was already standing beside the easel and, with an agonising smoothness he trailed away the fine sheet covering.

  Total silence arrived in starbursts of pain-bright recognition. Antonia began to tremble. Marco simply left her standing there and moved on legs suddenly in danger of collapsing to stand right in front of the painting.

  It could have been a copy of the Mirror Woman. Certainly it was the same balcony, the same morning half-light touching that same sensual hint of gold to her silk-smooth skin. And it was certainly Antonia
standing there naked, looking back over her shoulder in much the same way as the Mirror Woman did.

  But it wasn’t the same painting. For this was no mirror reflection, there was no emptiness in her beautiful eyes. Instead they were filled with the truth.

  Antonia was held paralysed by exposure, static eyes fixed on Marco’s hardening profile, static heart threatening to burst in her breast. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t. She wanted to say something in her defence, but she couldn’t do that because the evidence was so terribly damning.

  Stefan came to stand beside her. His hand took hold of her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. But she didn’t feel comforted. Standing here watching the man she loved grimly coming to terms with the knowledge that she had been deceiving him filled her with the kind of dread that made every nerve-end she possessed scream in agony.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this without my approval,’ she managed to breathe out frailly.

  ‘If I had asked, you wouldn’t have given it,’ Stefan gently replied.

  ‘But why have you done it?’ It seemed such a betrayal from the one person in this world she trusted completely.

  ‘It was time he knew,’ he said simply. ‘You’ve let it go on too long. You must know that by now, my darling.’

  Knowing it and wanting this were two separate issues! ‘You should not have done it,’ she whispered, and felt her eyes start to burn as Marco reached out to touch the painting. A long finger gently grazed across a perfectly formed, blemish-free shoulder. Antonia felt that graze as if he’d reached out and touched her. Response shuddered through her on an electric spasm.

  ‘I’ll never forgive you,’ she told Stefan, and stepped away from him with the intention of going to this other man who was so very important to her—

  Only to freeze yet again, when Marco chose the same moment to turn.

  His face looked as if it had been chiselled out of marble. ‘You didn’t paint this.’ He honed his cold eyes directly on Stefan.

  It was a clearly defined accusation. ‘There speaks the voice of an expert,’ Stefan smiled. Then, ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘This was—’

  ‘Mine,’ Antonia put in unequivocally. ‘It belongs to me!’ She looked at Marco for understanding. ‘It isn’t even Stefan’s to give to me! I own it! No one is supposed to—’

  Marco’s hard-eyed narrowed look silenced her. ‘Who painted it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Does it matter?’ she begged. ‘It has never been put on public display and it never will be, Marco! I never—’

  ‘I didn’t ask if it had been shown,’ he cut in. ‘I asked you who the hell painted it!’

  His fury was spectacular. Antonia drew back a step in dismay. ‘I think you’re missing the point, Marco,’ Stefan put in quickly. ‘I didn’t show you this to—’

  It happened so quickly that Stefan had no time to react to it. With a smoothness of movement that gave no indication whatsoever of what he was intending to do, Marco took two strides and, with a lightning move of his long lean body, he floored Stefan with a punch to his jaw.

  With a grunt, Stefan landed in a sprawl in front of him. Antonia’s cry as she lurched towards them filled his ears. ‘Why did you do that!’ she choked as she bent down beside Stefan.

  ‘For messing with your life. For messing with my life!’ he ground out violently, then just turned and strode out of the door.

  Antonia watched him go with her heart in her eyes. On a groan, Stefan sat up and put a hand to his jaw. He was shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe he had allowed that to happen.

  ‘What have you done to me?’ Antonia sobbed out.

  ‘Fulfilled one of your dearest wishes and got him to punch my lights out,’ Stefan very drily replied.

  Not the least bit in the mood for his kind of dry humour, she came upright then bent to help him get up. ‘Has he hurt you?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t sound so sympathetic.’ He mocked her frosty enquiry. ‘Split my lip, that’s all,’ he then answered, only to really infuriate her by suddenly beginning to laugh!

  ‘Stop it!’ she choked. ‘How dare you laugh at a time like this? What have you done to me, Stefan? Why have you done it?’ The tears began to swim as she stared at the closed office door. ‘He’s never going to forgive me for this. You do know that,’ she told him thickly. ‘He’s even left without me!’

  ‘Not that man,’ Stefan stated confidently. ‘Give me a minute to put some ice on this, and we’ll go out there and find him. I promise you,’ he assured her pained white expression, ‘he’s going to be there…’

  But Marco didn’t want to be found for, having walked out on one ugly scene, he now found himself standing outside Rosetta Romano’s door, flexing his abused fist and staring directly at the looming threat of yet another scene.

  His mother had arrived. God alone knew where she had come from—and God alone knew why, when he’d believed her safely ensconced in Tuscany. But there she was, holding court in the middle of the ante-room surrounded by a host of delighted old friends and acquaintances.

  In the black mood he was in, he actually contemplated pretending he hadn’t seen her and getting the hell out of there before she saw him!

  Only he was not leaving without Antonia, he determined, with a grimness that promised a glimpse at hell for someone. And it took only a thin sliver of common sense to get through his anger, to tell him that he couldn’t avoid speaking to his own mother, for goodness’ sake!

  But a meeting between her and Antonia? His blood ran cold at the very idea of it. It was a sensation that forced him to work hard at pulling a smooth mask down on his bubbling anger and then striking out towards his mother with the grim intention of getting the mother-son reunion out of the way before Antonia decided to put in an appearance with her famous ex-lover in tow!

  But lady luck was not working in Marco’s favour tonight. The room was pretty crowded with Milan’s best. People who more or less knew each other on firstname terms. Isabella Bellini was known and liked by many. Her son even found an amused smile as he approached and saw just how many people were gathered around her slender form.

  She saw him coming, and her lovely face broke into a welcoming smile. His smile became a rakish grin as he took this beautiful, delicate creature he adored into his arms and let her shower kisses all over his face.

  Hands replaced kisses, followed by remarks to the crowd on how handsome he was, how cruel he was to his mother for not returning her calls. It was the Italian way. He accepted it and even enjoyed it. His apologies were profuse, his enquiries about his father sincere.

  ‘He is having a good week,’ his mother informed him—and the smiling circle. ‘So he threw me out and told me not to come back for at least two days. He says I fuss too much, but in truth,’ she confided, ‘he plans to play cards, drink wine and gamble with his friends without me around to disapprove.’

  The laughter was warm and appreciative. From the corner of his eye Marco saw the door to Rosetta Romano’s office open; his skin began to prickle.

  Isabella looked back at her son. ‘And this one,’ she announced, ‘cannot even find the time in his busy life to answer his mother when she calls to him! I get his housekeeper,’ she informed her audience.

  Antonia was approaching him from his right. She looked pale, she looked anxious. She had no idea what she was going to walk into.

  ‘I get the message service,’ his mother was continuing. ‘I have to ring his friends to discover where he might be this evening!’ Marco smiled the expected rueful smile, and wondered which friend it was who had dropped him in this mess.

  Antonia had now come to within a few paces of his right. Beside her was Stefan Kranst, wearing a bruise on his lip and a crooked smile. It was decision time, Marco accepted heavily. He either drew Antonia towards him, introduced her to his mother and risked offending his mother’s outdated ideas on what was acceptable in polite society, or he ignored Antonia standing there and offended her. It was a lousy choice to ha
ve to decide.

  Someone arrived at his left side, diverting his mother’s attention. Her face broke into a beatific smile. ‘Ah, Louisa,’ she greeted. ‘There you are! And looking so beautiful, as always. I was just telling everyone how I had to call you up to discover where my own son would be tonight…’

  Louisa. It had to be Louisa, Marco noted grimly. The knowledge tipped the balance of his decision away from his mother. For no one had the right to try manipulating either him or his life, and maybe it was about time that his mother and Louisa realised that!

  Louisa was being welcomed with the usual kisses from his mother when Marco turned the half-inch it required to catch Antonia’s gaze. He saw the uncertainty there, the knowledge that she had recognised whom it was holding centre stage. His heart turned over. She was so beautiful. So much his woman, no matter what secrets she had been keeping from him, that it was suddenly no decision at all to smile and hold out his arm in invitation for her to come to him.

  Her relief shone like the diamond at her lovely throat as she took the final irrevocable step which brought her beneath the protection of his arm and into the smiling circle.

  Slender-boned, exquisitely turned out in matt-black crêpe, her satin-black hair sleek to her beautiful head, Isabella Bellini was just emerging from her embrace with Louisa when she observed this little interplay—and her eyes began to cool.

  ‘Mother,’ Marco said formally. ‘I would like you to meet—’

  As if he hadn’t spoken, and Antonia wasn’t there, Isabella Bellini simply turned her back on them. The deadening silence that followed was profound.

  It was such a blatantly deliberate act, that it was all Antonia could do to remain standing there, with her stinging eyes lowered, hiding the deep gouge of humiliation that was tearing into the very fabric her pride was made of.

  While Marco emulated a pillar of stone.

  How many people actually witnessed what had just happened, Antonia didn’t know. But it really didn’t take an audience for her to understand that the cuckoo had just been devastatingly exposed.