by Julia James
Long lashes dipped over his lidded, expressionless eyes—eyes that slayed her like a basilisk’s lethal glance.
‘I must go,’ he said.
And he went.
Walked through the door. Leaving her. Closing the door behind him.
The noise seemed to echo in the silence. A silence that spread like toxic waste after the deadly poison of his words to her. That lasted until, timeless moments later, a strange, unearthly keening started in her throat...
* * *
‘Carla! Open the door!’
Her mother’s voice came on her voicemail. Continued loudly.
‘I am not leaving here until you do. Just open it!’
Carla heard her, heard the sharp, demanding rap come again on her front door. Her mother would not go—she knew she wouldn’t. Her mother’s will was unbreakable.
She walked to the door, opened it, and her mother surged in.
Then stopped.
‘Oh, dear God,’ Marlene said, her voice hoarse.
She stared, horrified, at Carla, and Carla knew why. Her hair was unbrushed, she was wearing a tracksuit, not a trace of make-up. Her eyes were red, cheeks blotched. There were runnels running down from her eyelashes to her chin, where tears had been shed and had dried, shed and dried.
For two whole days.
Her mother’s hand had gone to her mouth in disbelief, but now she lowered it.
‘So, it’s true, then?’
Carla looked at her. ‘I take it the gossip has started already?’
Marlene drew in a breath sharply. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘And several of my acquaintances have made absolutely sure I knew about it!’
Carla turned away. Tears had started again—but to what purpose? To what purpose was anything at all?
Her mother was speaking, her voice harsh, vicious, but she paid no attention.
She warned me, and I didn’t listen. ‘No happy ending,’ she told me—but I thought I knew better.
She felt her face convulse, her throat constrict as if a snake were strangling her, its coils thrown around her body, tighter and tighter, crushing the life out of her, the breath.
She felt her mother’s arms come around her, but what comfort could they bring? What reassurance? What help?
None. None, none, none.
Bitterness filled her, and self-hatred.
No happy ending...
She shut her eyes, resting her head against her mother’s shoulder as her mother went on speaking, saying things she might say to a child, patting her back, rubbing it as if she could make her better. But there was no ‘better’, no happiness, no nothing. Only memories stabbing into her, over and over again, each one eviscerating her, taking out a little more of what she was made of.
Dear God, I thought—I really, really thought—that he was being different that night in the restaurant because he was starting to feel something for me! I thought that there might be possibilities of his returning what I’d just discovered I felt. I actually started to hope...to believe in a future for us...to believe in love between us...
Anguish clutched at her, its icy hand around her heart. Her stupid, stupid heart.
Why did I have to go and realise what had happened to me? Why did I have to discover what I’d come to feel for him? If I hadn’t—if I’d still thought it was only an affair and nothing more than that—I wouldn’t be here like this now...destroyed...just destroyed.
‘You told me...you told me—no happy ending.’
She must have spoken. Words must have scraped past her lips. Her voice seemed to come from very far away, from polar regions where icy winds blasted her to pieces.
No happy ending.
She felt her shoulders taken, saw her mother step back from her, still holding her. Carla looked at her face, and what she saw made her stare.
‘But what there could be,’ Marlene said, biting out each word, her eyes suddenly as bright and hard as diamonds, ‘is a better ending.’
She dropped her hands. The diamond brightness in her eyes was glittering now, her face as hard as crystal.
‘There’s only one way to do this, my darling girl. Only one! When a man does to you what that...that swine...has done to you, there is only one thing to do!’
She sat down on the sofa, patted the seat next to her.
‘Sit down, Carla, and let me put something to you.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
CESARE’S VOICE WAS warm as he greeted the guests being ushered into the drawing room at the castello—the Marchese and the Marchesa and their three adult children—Francesca and her younger brother and sister.
Francesca he’d already met up with, as she’d requested, on her own, when she’d arrived back in Italy. They’d talked, long and in detail, feeling their way forward, reaching a mutual understanding. Now she was here at the castello with her family to formalise that understanding.
Their greetings were cordial and affectionate. He’d known her family all his life, just as he’d known Francesca—though he’d seen little of her since she’d gone to the States to do her post-graduate studies four years ago. Only occasional meetings when he’d been out there on business and taken the opportunity to look her up, or when she was visiting Italy from time to time.
There had been no rush—no need to meet up more.
He’d hoped that he could go on like that for a while longer still.
Into his head stabbed an image—he thrust it from him. He’d been thrusting it from him for days now. It was essential to do so. Absolutely essential.
Carla is in the past. I have made my decision. I will not rescind it. I cannot—
Because it would be impossible to do so. Impossible now that Francesca was here, with her family, for the intimate gathering that would result in their formal engagement. The engagement he was entering into entirely of his own volition. His own preference. The engagement that had always been waiting for him. That would now be fulfilled.
Putting Carla behind him for ever.
Greetings over, he signalled that the champagne should be served. His staff were excited, he could see, for this was to be their new chatelaine—the new Contessa. They approved of his choice—and what was there not to approve of? Francesca had visited here often—with her parents, as a child, as a teenager and as an adult.
Now, as she sipped the vintage champagne, Francesca looked tall and serene in a Grecian style off-white gown that matched her ash-blonde hair, her pale, slender beauty—very different from Carla’s full-figured, vivid looks.
Carla...whom he would now never see again—except perhaps on rare social occasions if their paths should cross in Rome. But never again would she be what once she had been to him.
I wanted longer with her.
The guillotine sliced down again. Sliced through the thought and the image that formed in his head of Carla at her most alluring. He must not think of her—must not. Francesca was saying something to him and he must pay attention to her, ask a question in return. Something about her work that he hoped was not too unintelligent. But her field of research was so rarefied he knew he could only stumble at its edges.
She smiled, giving him an explanation he could understand. Behind her, her father beamed proudly, and her mother bestowed a doting look upon her.
‘A doctor of science!’ her father said, with pride openly in his eyes. ‘And achieved two years before it was expected!’
‘Astrophysics!’ breathed her mother.
Cesare shook his head ruefully. ‘I’m humbled even by the thought of it!’ he exclaimed lightly.
Francesca gave a laugh. ‘Oh, Ces—you? Humble? You’ve never been humble in your life!’
‘Before your intellect, how can I be otherwise?’ he rejoined promptly.
His eyes
rested on her. She truly was a remarkable woman—extreme intellect, glowing beauty and an ancestry that wound throughout the annals of Italy’s history.
She will make an exceptional contessa!
His father had been right—irrefutably right—in his judgement of Francesca delle Ristori. Only one aspect had he neglected—and that was what Francesca had needed to discuss with him so deeply.
Cesare had heard her out, given her all the assurances she required, let her choose entirely by herself whether she was going to do as she had now chosen—be his wife. He had assured her that of course there would be no question—none at all—of her having to focus solely on her role as his contessa as his mother had. She would join whatever research facility suited her field here in Italy, for as long as she wanted to, and find fulfilment both as his contessa and as a research scientist.
Francesca would not be the kind of wife his own mother had had to be—of that he was completely sure. He didn’t want that—and nor would Francesca have contemplated marriage to him on any other basis.
He drew her out a little over dinner, and she smiled and mentioned some possibilities of where she might work in Italy.
‘I need to see how my doctoral research paper is received,’ she said. ‘Its reception may determine what offers I’m made, and by whom.’
‘I’m sure they will be clamouring for you from all quarters!’ he said gallantly.
Francesca laughed, and so did her parents and siblings.
The meal passed in similar convivial fashion. Everyone was pleased. Her parents were highly satisfied—for them, their daughter’s marriage to him would ensure she stayed in Italy, and that was their preference. Francesca seemed pleased too, and he was glad of it. Her choice had not been made without inner conflict, but she had made it all the same. And in his favour.
And as for him—well, of course he was pleased. How could he not be? How could anyone not wish for Francesca as his bride, his wife, his contessa, the mother of his children, the companion of his life, his entire future...
Just as he’d anticipated, all his adult life...
The image he had banished earlier came into his head again, like a spectre haunting him.
Carla...
He sliced it off at source. Asked another question about astrophysics.
The evening ended.
Francesca and her family repaired to the guest quarters.
He would woo her later—do all that was necessary between them to make her comfortable with him in that respect. Their respective pasts were irrelevant. With the decision made between them, all prior involvements would be severed. Terminated.
That guillotine sliced again.
Ruthless. Lethal. Permanent.
Because it had to be.
* * *
Carla stood, her back stiff, her face stiff, talking, sipping mineral water, refusing canapés, posing for photos. Her mother was entertaining—fare uno mostro—putting on a show, as she so loved to do.
This time it was for the director of a museum to which some of the choicest pieces of Guido’s extensive collection were being donated. Her mother was in her element, Carla could see, being very much the gracious hostess, the generous patroness of the arts.
Across the large salon in her stepfather’s opulent villa Carla could see her step-cousin, Vito, only that day arrived back in Rome from his tour of the European hotels, with his mother, Lucia. The latter looked icily furious, the former was visibly ‘on duty’.
Carla had said very little to him during the evening. She was not in a talkative mood.
The reception went on and on. There were speeches—her mother’s, in careful, laboured Italian, and then Vito stepping forward, clearly intent on representing the official side of the Viscari family. And there was posing for more photos, herself included, standing right next to Vito. The only saving grace was that she would not be writing this up—that would be too nepotistic.
Anyway, she hadn’t been to work for days now. Citing a bug...a touch of flu.
Whether anyone believed her or not, she didn’t care. She doubted the gossips did. They knew exactly why she was out of circulation.
Her mouth tightened.
Francesca delle Ristori—that was what Cesare’s bride-to-be was called. The gossip columns were already full of open speculation. And after all, why not? What was there not to speculate about?
A vicious light glared in Carla’s eyes.
She’s the granddaughter of a duke, the daughter of a marchese, a family friend from for ever—she has long fair hair down to her waist and she has a PhD in astrophysics! Dear God, is there anything she hasn’t got?
But there was only one thing she wanted Francesca delle Ristori not to be—only one.
Cesare’s fiancée.
The knife thrust again into her guts. Eviscerating her. Her hands clenched at her sides.
People were leaving—finally. From her immobile position she saw her mother and Lucia go through a poisonous little ritual of one up-manship about the evening’s success, then her mother was graciously inviting her sister-in-law and Vito to stay and take coffee with her, to hear all about Vito’s recent travels. Adding, portentously, that they really must settle the business of Guido’s shares...
Immediately, Vito tensed, Carla could see, and exchanged looks with his mother. Then promptly offered to escort his mother to her car, while he returned for coffee. The mention of Guido’s shares—half the family shareholding—was a bait Vito would not be able to refuse. How could he? His determination to acquire the shares, giving him total control of the hotel chain as the sole Viscari left, was paramount. The shares her mother had adamantly refused to sell.
Now, walking with punishing stiffness, Carla followed her mother into the drawing room, taking up a stance behind her mother’s chair. Vito strolled in, having said farewell to his mother—doubtless sympathising with her for the ordeal they’d both endured, with Marlene queening it over them as Guido’s widow.
Well, she didn’t care. Didn’t care about Lucia’s irritation, or Vito’s frustration over the shares, or her mother’s endless manoeuvrings. She cared only about one thing.
It burned inside her like hell’s furnace. Her hand tightened, spasmed over the back of her mother’s chair. Her mother was talking, but Carla wasn’t listening. Vito was answering, but she wasn’t listening to him either. The barbed exchange went on, but she paid it no attention.
Not until the moment came. The moment her mother had planned for, schemed for, hoped for, for so long now. The moment Carla had never in a thousand years thought she would collude with.
As she did now.
She heard her mother talking to Vito, her tone saccharine. ‘What could be better than uniting the two Viscari shareholdings by uniting the two halves of our family? You two young people together!’
Silently, she watched Vito’s reaction. Saw angry disbelief lash across his face. Didn’t care. Didn’t care at all. Saw his furious gaze snap to her, demand she answer—demand she shoot down immediately what her mother had just said. Refuse, outright, the preposterous notion Marlene had put forward.
She refused to think of the devastating, demolishing impact on her step-cousin.
The agonising pain of Cesare’s brutal rejection had caused a consuming need to hit back at him, to claw around her raw and ravaged heart the tattered, ragged shreds of her own pathetic pride any way she could—no matter who paid the price for it, no matter how vilely it made her behave.
‘I think,’ she heard herself say, from somewhere very far away, where icy winds scoured all emotion from her, ‘that’s an excellent idea.’
* * *
The next days passed in a choking blur. Carla blanked everything and everyone. Refused to talk, refused to face what she was doing. She was like one possessed by an evil spi
rit, with the devil driving her.
Vito, getting her away from Marlene, had railed at her disbelievingly. Then he’d done worse than rail. He had realised why she was playing to her mother’s obsession. His expression had said it all as the reason for her collusion with her mother dawned on him.
‘So that’s it—he’s finished with you, hasn’t he?’
Vito’s pity had lacerated her, like thorns scraping her flesh. Then he’d poured acid on the wound.
‘To speak frankly, it was always going to end that way. The Conte di Mantegna can trace his bloodline back to the ancient Romans! He’s going to marry a woman who can do the same! He might have affairs beforehand, but he’ll never marry a woman who—’
‘A woman, Vito, who is about to announce her engagement to another man!’ The words shot from her as from a gun.
Because that—that—was the truth of it! That was the poisonous salvation that her mother had put to her that unbearable morning in her apartment. That was how she was going to survive what Cesare had done to her—what she had done to herself. Falling in love with a man who was marrying another woman. A woman so much more suitable to be his wife than she was! A woman, so the gossip columns were already saying, who was utterly perfect to be the next Contessa di Mantegna.
As she herself had not been.
Worse than the words in the fawning articles had been the photos of Cesare and Francesca delle Ristori—smiling, elegant, aristocratic, such a perfectly matched couple!
Worse again than that were the photographs of herself and Cesare—taken, so she supposed in her embittered misery, at any time during the last six months at restaurants and art galleries—or of herself alone, the photos that accompanied her articles.
And the prurient, goading words that went with them, contrasting her with Cesare’s noble-born fiancée.
One-time constant companion...
Another shapely beauty to adorn the arm of our dashing, illustrious Conte di Mantegna...