by Lynne Graham
‘All right...all right!’ Darcy groaned in interruption as she collapsed down into the seat opposite.
‘Let me tell you, it is no trivial matter to have to trail a child screaming that I am a bad man through a crowded airport!’ Luca slammed back at her in wrathful recollection. ‘And whose fault was that? Who allowed that phrase to implant in the poor child’s head? What I have suffered this evening would have taxed the compassion of a saint!’
Darcy closed her aching eyes. A policeman, clearly alerted by a concerned member of the public, had intervened to request that Luca identify himself. Then a man with a camera and a nasty raucous laugh had taken a photo of them.
The flash of the powerful camera had scared Zia. Darcy had been shaken, it not having previously occurred to her that Luca might be a target for such intrusive press attention. Bereft even of the slight protection that might have been offered by Benito, who had left the Folly in the limousine, Luca had seethed in controlled silence. A saint he was not, but he had made a sustained effort to assist her in comforting and calming Zia.
Luca released his breath in a stark hiss. ‘However, the original fault was of my own making. When I demanded an immediate departure from your home, I took no account of the needs of so young a child. It was too late in the day to embark on such a journey.’
Kicking off her shoes, Darcy curled her legs wearily beneath her. Such a concession was of little comfort to her now. She was wrung out.
‘But this is our wedding night,’ Luca reminded her, as if that was some kind of excuse.
Darcy didn’t even have enough energy left to expel a grizzly laugh at that announcement. She sagged into the luxurious comfort of the seat and rested her head back to survey him with shadowed green eyes.
The sight of Zia asleep and the sound of silence appeared to have revived Luca. His dark eyes glittered with restive energy. He looked neither tired nor under strain, but he was no longer quite so immaculate, she noted, desperate to find comfort in that minor show of human fallibility. He now had a definable five o’clock shadow on his hard jawline. He had also loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt to reveal the strong brown column of his throat. And, if anything, he looked even more devastatingly attractive than he had looked at the altar, she acknowledged, and instantly despised herself for noticing.
With great effort, Darcy mustered her thoughts and breathed in deep. ‘I have the right to know why you’re doing this to me, Luca,’ she told him yet again.
‘But what have I done?’ An ebony brow elevated. ‘I agreed to marry you and have I not done so?’
Darcy groaned in unconcealed despair. ‘Luca ...please! I hate games. If I’d had the time and the peace at the Folly...if I hadn’t been in so much shock at your threats...I I wouldn’t have allowed you to browbeat and panic me into this trip at such short notice.’
‘I planned it that way,’ Luca admitted, with the kind of immovable calm that made her want to tear him to pieces.
As her temper flared, colour burnished her cheeks and her eyes sparked with the fire of her frustration. ‘You still have to tell me why you’re doing this to me!’ Darcy reminded him with fierce emphasis. ‘And if you don’t, I will—’
‘Yes... what will you do?’ Luca interposed deflatingly. ‘Fly back to the UK alone and accept the loss of that house on which you place such value?’
It was the same threat which had intimidated Darcy into acquiescence that afternoon. But she was now beyond being silenced. ‘You insinuated that I had done something dishonest that night in Venice...and that is an outrageous untruth.’
‘Theft is a crime. It is never acceptable. But when theft is linked to deliberate deception, it is doubly abhorrent and offensive.’ Luca delivered that condemnation with unblemished gravity.
Darcy’s temples were beginning to pound with tension again. Her strained eyes locked to his cold, dark gaze. ‘Let me get this s-straight,’ she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. ‘You are actually accusing me of having stolen something from you that night?’
‘My overnight guests don’t as a rule use a small rear window as an exit,’ Luca responded very drily. ‘I was downstairs within minutes of the alarm going off!’
Darcy’s face flamed with chagrin at the reminder of the manner in which she had been forced to leave his apartment. She had crept out of his bed while he was still asleep. When that horrible shrieking alarm had sounded as she’d climbed out of the window, she had panicked. Dying a thousand deaths in her embarrassment, she had raced down the narrow alley beyond at supersonic speed. ‘For heaven’s sake, I just wanted to leave quietly...but I couldn’t get your blasted front door open!’
‘Not without the security code,’ Luca conceded. ‘It would only have opened without the code if there had been a fire or if I had shut down the system. I was surprised that a thief ingenious enough to beat every other security device in that apartment and break into my safe should make such a very clumsy departure.’
‘Break into your safe,’ Darcy repeated, wide-eyed, weakened further by the revelation that this insane man she had married believed she was not only guilty of having stolen from him but also equal to the challenge of cracking open a safe.
‘As a morning-after-the-night-before experience, it was unparalleled,’ Luca informed her sardonically.
‘I’ve never stolen anything in my life... I wouldn’t!’ It was a strangled plea of innocence, powered by strong distaste. ‘As for breaking into a safe, I wouldn’t even know where to begin!’ Darcy emphasised, eyes dark with disbelief that he could credit otherwise.
Luca searched her shaken face with shrewd intensity and slowly moved his arrogant dark head in reluctant admiration. ‘You’re even more convincing than I expected you to be.’
In an abrupt movement, Darcy uncoiled her legs and sprang upright to stare down at him. ‘You’ve got to believe me...for heaven’s sake...if someone broke into that apartment and stole from you as that day was dawning, it certainly wasn’t me!’
‘No, I made the very great misjudgement of taking the thief home with me so that she could do an easier inside job,’ Luca commented with icy exactitude, his strong jaw clenching. ‘And in a sense you’re right; it wasn’t you. You wore a disguise—’
‘Disguise?’ Darcy broke in weakly.
‘You made the effort to look like a million dollars that night. You had to look the part.’
‘Luca—’
‘You gatecrashed an elite social function attended by some very wealthy people and were careful not to draw too much attention to yourself,’ Luca continued grimly, his expressive mouth hard as iron. ‘You refused to identify yourself in any way and you ensured that I brought you home with me...after all, with the number of staff around your chances of contriving to steal anything from the Palazzo d’Oro were extremely slim.’
‘I didn’t do it...do you hear me?’ Darcy almost shrieked at him. ‘I didn’t do it!’
Luca dealt her a withering glance of savage amusement. ‘But you’ve already confessed that you did steal and sell the ring. Or had you forgotten that reality?’
Darcy’s lashes fluttered in bewilderment. Left bereft of breath by that staggering assurance, she pressed a weak hand to her damp brow and tottered backwards into her seat again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘DON’T you recall that sleepy and foolish little confession at the inn?’ Luca prompted with a scathing look of derision. ‘You admitted that the sale of an antique ring financed roof repairs for your family home and indeed may well have staved off the enforced sale of that home.’
‘It was a ring which was stolen from your safe?’ Darcy breathed shakily, belatedly making that connection. ‘But that’s just a stupid coincidence. The ring that my father sold belonged to my family!’
‘The Adorata ring is stolen and only a few months later the Fieldings contrive to rescue their dwindling fortunes by the judicious discovery and sale of another ring?’ Luca jibed, unimpressed by her explanati
on. ‘There was no other ring! And, since your family estate is still in financial hot water, you must’ve sold the Adorata for a tithe of its true worth!’
‘I’ve never heard of this Ador-whatever ring that you’re talking about, nor have I been involved in any way in either stealing or selling it!’ Darcy’s taut voice shook, her growing exhaustion biting deep.
‘You were wise enough to wait a while before selling it and you ensured that it was a private sale. Now I hope you also have sufficient wit to know when your back is up against a brick wall,’ Luca spelt out icily. ‘I want the name of the buyer. And you had better hope and pray for your own sake that I am able to reclaim the Adorata without resorting to legal intervention!’
‘It wasn’t your wretched ring. I swear it wasn’t!’ Darcy protested sharply, appalled by his refusal even to stop and take proper account of her arguments in her own defence. ‘I don’t know who bought it because my father insisted on dealing with the sale. He was a very proud man. He didn’t want anybody to know that he was so short of money that he had to sell an heirloom—’
‘Why waste my time with these stupid stories?’ Luca subjected her to a hard scrutiny, his contempt and his impatience with her protests palpable. ‘I despise liars. Before I put you back out of my life, you will tell me where that ring is...or you will lose by it.’
It occurred to Darcy then that no matter what she did with Luca, he intended her to lose by it. He had hemmed her in with so many threats she felt trapped. And the shattering revelation that he believed her to be a thief equal to safe-cracking just seemed to stop her weary brain functioning altogether.
Only two thoughts stayed in her mind. Luca might still be walking around as if he was sane, but he couldn’t be. And possibly he had been watching too many movies in which incredibly immoral calculating women seduced the hero and then turned on him with evil intent. Safe-cracking? A glazed look in her eyes, Darcy contemplated the fact that she couldn’t even operate a washing machine without going step by painful step through the instructions...
‘Do you still find it magical?’ Luca demanded, above the roar of the motorboat which had collected them from Marco Polo Airport to waft them across the lagoon into the city.
A woman in a waking dream, Darcy gazed out on the Grand Canal. The darkness was dispelled by the lights in the beautiful medieval buildings and on the other craft around them. The grand, sweeping waterway throbbed with life. It was like travelling inside a magnificent painting, she thought privately. She assumed that they were heading to his apartment, but as far as she was concerned they could happily spend the rest of the night getting there.
When the boatman chugged into a mooring at the Palazzo d‘Oro, with its splendid Renaissance facade, Darcy was astonished. ‘Why are we stopping here?’
‘This is my home,’ Luca informed her.
‘But it c-can’t be...’ Darcy stammered.
Deftly detaching Zia’s solid little body from her arms, Luca stepped out onto the covered walkway semi-screened from the canal by an elaborate run of pillars and arches. At the entrance to the palazzo, an older woman in an apron stood in readiness. She made clucking sounds and extended sturdy arms to receive the sleeping child.
Darcy snatched at Luca’s hand and stepped out onto the walkway. ‘Who’s that?’
‘My sister Ilaria’s old nursemaid. She will put Zia to bed and stay with her.’
‘But I—’
As Luca urged her into the spectacular entrance hall, with its glorious domed ceiling frescoes far above, Darcy stilled. ‘You can’t live here—’
‘My ancestors built the Palazzo d’Oro.’
Just as Luca finished speaking, a startling interruption occurred. Two enormous shaggy dogs loped noisily down the fantastic gilded staircase pursued by a shouting middle-aged manservant.
‘Santo cieo!’ Luca rapped out a sharp command that forestalled the threatening surge of boisterous animal greeting. The deerhounds fell back, tails drooping between their impossibly long legs, great narrow heads lowered, doggy brown eyes pathetic in their disappointment.
The manservant broke into a flood of anxious explanation. Luca turned back to Darcy, exasperation etched in his lean, strong features.
‘What are they called?’ Darcy prompted eagerly.
‘Aristide and Zou Zou,’ Luca divulged reluctantly, his nostrils flaring. ‘They belong to my sister.’
‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ Darcy began to move forward to pet the two dogs.
As a pair of very long tails began to rise in response to that soft, encouraging intonation, Luca closed an arm round his bride to restrain her enthusiasm. ‘No, they are not,’ he stressed meaningfully. ‘They are undisciplined, unbelievably stupid and wholly unsuited to city life. But every time Ilaria goes away, she dumps them here.’
As Luca’s manservant gripped their jewel-studded collars to lead them away, the two dogs twisted their heads back to focus on Darcy with pleading eyes. She was touched to the heart.
‘Are you hungry?’ Luca asked then.
‘I couldn’t eat to save my life.’
‘Then I will show you upstairs.’
‘If this is really your home,’ Darcy whispered numbly about halfway up the second flight. ‘That means...that means that you were the host at the masked ball.’
‘You wouldn’t let me tell you who I was. And since the ball invariably lasts until dawn, I could scarcely bring you back here for the remainder of the night. At the time, I had been using the apartment regularly while renovations were being carried out here.’
‘There’s so much I don’t know about you—’
‘And now you have all the time in the world to discover everything you ever wanted to know,’ Luca pointed out in a tone of bracing consolation.
‘I don’t think I want to find out any more.’
‘This has not been the most propitious of wedding days,’ Luca conceded smoothly. ‘But I’m certain you have the resilience to rise above a somewhat difficult beginning. After all, cara mia...I’m prepared to be very generous.’
Darcy gawped at him. ‘Generous?’
‘If you satisfy my demands, I will allow you to inherit that one million. I’m not a complete bastard. There are those who say that I am,’ Luca admitted reflectively, ‘and I would concede that I am no bleeding heart, but I am always scrupulously fair in my dealings.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Darcy passed no opinion because she didn’t have the energy to argue with him.
Passing down a corridor lined with fine oil paintings, Luca flung open the door of a superb bedroom full of ornate gilded furniture. One stunned glance was sufficient to tell Darcy that in comparison Fielding’s Folly offered all the comfort of a medieval barn in an advanced state of decay.
‘Your luggage will be brought up.’
‘I want to see Zia. Where is she?’
‘In the nursery suite on the floor above. Most mothers would be grateful for a break from childcare on their wedding night.’
‘What is with this “wedding night” bit you keep on mentioning?’ Darcy enquired with stilted reluctance.
Luca treated her to a slow, sensual smile. Dark golden eyes of intent gleamed below luxuriant black lashes. ‘You are not that naive. Whatever else you may be, you are still a Raffacani bride, and tonight in the time-honoured tradition of my ancestors we will share that bed together.’
Darcy thought about this nightmare day she had enjoyed at Luca’s merciless hands. She studied him in honest disbelief.
‘You should congratulate yourself.’ His exquisitely expressive mouth quirked. ‘Only the memory of that incredibly passionate night we once shared persuaded me to go to the extremity of marrying you. The prospect of six sexually self-indulgent months played a major part in that decision.’
‘I can imagine,’ Darcy mumbled weakly, and she could.
Luca saw life’s every event in terms of profit and loss. Almost three years ago he had suffered a loss for which he had falsely blamed her.
Now he planned to turn loss into vengeful profit between the bedsheets. It was novel, she conceded. But for a rogue male to whom everything probably came far too easily, anything that supplied a challenge would always be what he wanted most.
Dear heaven, had she been that exciting in bed? She had been imaginative, she was prepared to admit, but that night had been a one-off. Heady romance, bitter rebellion and fiery desire had combined with champagne to send her off the rails. She had lived out a never to be repeated kind of fantasy and lived on to regret every single second of her reckless misbehaviour.
‘I’ll give you an hour to rediscover your energies and ponder the reality that a marriage that is not consummated is worthless in the eyes of the law.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Aren’t you aware that sex is an integral part of the marriage contract? And the lack of it grounds for annulment?’
Darcy’s jaw dropped.
‘You see, I’m not a complete bastard,’ Luca contended, smooth as glass. ‘A complete bastard would have left you to sleep in ignorance and gone for non-consummation at the end of the six months.’
Leaving her to reflect on that revelation of astounding generosity, Luca strolled back out of the room.
That is one happy man, Darcy thought helplessly. An utterly ruthless male with the persistence of a juggernaut, punch-drunk on the belief that he had her exactly where he wanted her. He was destined to discover that he had a prolonged battle ahead of him. Although she was currently at a very low ebb, Darcy was by nature a fighter.
A thief. He thought she was a thief. He genuinely believed that she had stolen that wretched ring with the stupid name. And, truth to tell, if it had been stolen the same night, he had some grounds for that suspicion. Indeed, when that theft was combined with her flight at dawn, her status as a gatecrasher and her flat refusal to tell him who she was throughout the evening, she had to concede that his conviction that she was the guilty party was based on some pretty solid-looking facts.