by Sara Craven
Her voice shook slightly. ‘It’s—beautiful.’
At the same time its dazzling brilliance seemed almost alien on her workaday hand, she thought, making her feel like some latter-day Cinderella.
But Sandro was no Prince Charming, she reminded herself soberly. And his diamond was altogether too magnificent a symbol of the cold, sterile bargain they had made with each other.
As if Sandro had read her thoughts, he said quietly, ‘You will soon accustom yourself to wearing it.’
She bent her head. ‘Along with everything else, it seems.’
‘There will be compensations,’ he told her. ‘Tomorrow I shall open a bank account for you.’
She shook her head almost violently. ‘I don’t want that.’
‘Dio mio.’ His voice was weary. ‘Paola, do you have to fight me each step of the way? Do you wish our child to be brought up in a battlefield?’
She looked away. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Then please try and accept the arrangements that must be made.’
‘I can—try,’ she said unsteadily. ‘But it’s not easy when your whole world has suddenly been—turned upside down.’
‘You think you are alone in that?’ There was a note of harsh derision in his voice. ‘I too am obliged to make—adjustments.’
‘But you don’t have to.’ She faced him with new determination, hands clenched at her sides. ‘I—I understand that you need to see Charlie, to spend time with him, and I swear I’ll co-operate in any way over this. But why tie yourself to an unwanted marriage when you could meet someone to love—someone who knows how to be a marchesa?’ She paused. ‘Someone the contessa might even approve of.’
‘You think that is an essential quality in my bride?’ His mouth twisted.
‘I think that, otherwise, there’ll be problems,’ Polly said flatly. ‘You must see that. After all, she runs your home—and she’ll see me as an interloper. A poor substitute for the girl she loved.’
‘Then she too will have to adjust.’ His voice hardened. ‘Believe this, Paola. My son will grow up in my home with the knowledge that his mother is my wife. Nothing else will do—either for him, or for the world at large.’
He walked to the door, and held it open. ‘Now begin to play your part. My friends expect to meet a girl happily reunited with her lover—so pretend,’ he added flatly. ‘Avanti.’
The serial killer was on the move, and the heroine was alone in her apartment, with a thunderstorm growling overhead. Any minute now she was going to run herself a bath or take a shower, Polly thought wearily, because that was what always happened.
I need, she thought, blanking out the television screen with one terse click of the remote control, to be distracted, not irritated.
She also wanted to relax—but her inner tensions were not so easily dispelled.
Besides, she could do without artificial horrors. Her mind was full enough already of disturbing sounds and images—bleached rock in the blazing sun, the squeal of tyres, the screech of brakes and wrenched metal. A girl screaming in fright, and then an even more terrifying silence, with Sandro lying unconscious and bleeding under a pitiless sky.
Perhaps this was why she was still up and restless, when common sense suggested she should be in bed, with Charlie fast asleep in his cot near by. She’d wondered if he would react badly to his new surroundings, but he’d settled with little more than a token protest.
Perhaps I should be more like him, Polly thought with a grimace. Learn to deal with six impossible things before breakfast.
However, liking Teresa and Ernesto had not proved impossible at all. She was tall, and slim as a wand, with long dark hair and laughing eyes. And although she was the epitome of chic, that did not stop her indulging in a rough-and-tumble on the floor with Charlie and the twins.
Ernesto was quieter, with a plain, kind face, observing his wife and children with doting fondness through his silver-rimmed glasses.
In other circumstances, Polly would have loved to have them as friends. As it was, she felt a total fraud. And sitting next to Sandro on one of the deeply cushioned sofas in their drawing room, with his arm draped casually round her shoulders, had proved unnervingly difficult.
Blissfully married herself, Teresa, left alone with Polly, had made it clear that she thought Sandro was glamorous and sexy beyond belief, in spite of his scarred face, and that she was assisting at the romance of the century.
And even if I told her that marrying Sandro was simply a rubber stamp on a legal arrangement I want no part of, Polly thought sadly, she wouldn’t believe me.
‘Ah, but shopping will be such fun, cara,’ Teresa had told her buoyantly. ‘Particularly as Alessandro has put no limit on our spending,’ she added with glee.
And although she must have been brimming with curiosity about Sandro and Polly’s former relationship, she nobly refrained from asking questions that her guest might find difficult to answer.
There had been only one awkward moment, when Teresa had been admiring Polly’s engagement ring. ‘A diamond?’ she exclaimed. ‘But I thought …’ She encountered a swift glance from Ernesto, and hastily went on, ‘I thought, as your bride has green eyes, you would have chosen an emerald for her. Or do you believe they are unlucky? Some people do, I think. And a diamond is forever, no?’
Sandro had smiled lazily. ‘Forever,’ he agreed.
But Polly found herself wondering what Teresa had meant to say.
‘So, was that such a hardship?’ he’d asked as their chauffeur-driven car took them back to the hotel, with Charlie bouncing between them.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘They were lovely. I hate making fools of them like this.’
He gave her a dry look. ‘Do not underestimate Teresa, cara. She is a shrewd lady.’
Is she? Polly thought. Yet she clearly thinks Sandro and I will be having an intimate dinner for two in our suite, followed by a rapturous night in each other’s arms. How wrong can anyone be?
‘Then I’ll take care to be extra-careful,’ she said. She paused. ‘Why did she query my engagement ring being a diamond?’
‘You noticed,’ Sandro gave a shrug. ‘She would expect you to wear the Valessi ruby, which is traditionally passed to each bride.’
‘But not to me.’
‘No,’ he said, his mouth hardening. ‘It was found in the wreckage of the car. My father had it buried with Bianca.’
‘I see.’ She swallowed. ‘Well, that’s—understandable.’ She paused, desperate for a change of subject. ‘I—I wonder if the box containing my life has been delivered yet?’
He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘That has made you angry,’ he said. ‘Which was not my intention. I thought I had simply relieved you of a tedious job.’
‘It would have been,’ she admitted. She forced a smile. ‘I’m just accustomed to my independence.’
‘Then it may please you to know that you will not be burdened with my presence at dinner tonight,’ he told her drily. ‘I am going out. Would you prefer to dine in the suite, or go down to the restaurant?’
‘I’ll stay in the suite. It will be better for Charlie.’
‘As you wish. I will arrange for Room Service to bring you a menu.’
Polly wondered where he was planning to spend the evening, but knew she could never ask. Because she did not have the right. This was the life she had agreed to for Charlie’s sake. A life of silences. No questions asked, or information volunteered. A life where to be blind and deaf might be a positive advantage.
‘I shall come to say goodnight to Carlino before I leave,’ he added. ‘If you permit, of course.’
‘I can hardly prevent you.’
‘You have a key to your room,’ he reminded her. ‘There could be a locked door between us.’
Yes, Polly had thought, her mouth drying. But would that really keep you out, if you wanted to come in?
Remembering that now, she got up with a shiver, and, walking over to the long glass doors which o
pened on to the balcony, she pushed them open and stepped out into the sultry night, tightening the sash on the towelling robe as she did so.
Her elderly, much-loved cotton dressing gown had not survived the Great Pack, so she’d had to use the one hanging on the bathroom door in its plastic cover. She missed her old robe badly. She’d had it for years—even taken it to Italy with her, when she worked for the travel company, and now it was gone. Like a symbol of her old life, she thought sadly.
But at least they’d brought Charlie’s blue blanket—and the brown teddy bear, both of them now adorning his cot. She would have to find something else to comfort herself with.
How peaceful everything looked in the moonlight, she thought, leaning on the stone balustrade. How normal. And how deceptive appearances could be.
She would not be welcome at Comadora, and she knew it. The contessa would be bound to resent her savagely, but at least she knew she had not imagined the older woman’s hostility to her.
It was probable that Bianca had confided her hurt over Sandro’s affair to her aunt. And now the contessa had to watch the hated mistress elevated to wife.
I’d hate me too, she thought soberly. But it’s still going to be a problem.
She turned restlessly to go back inside, and cannoned into Sandro, who had come, silent and completely unsuspected, to stand behind her.
She recoiled with a little cry, and immediately his hands gripped her arms to steady her.
‘Forgive me,’ he said quietly. ‘I did not mean to startle you.’
She freed herself, her heart thudding. ‘I—I didn’t expect to see you.’
His brows lifted. ‘You thought I would celebrate our fidanzamento by staying out all night,’ he asked ironically.
Polly lifted her chin. ‘Even if you did,’ she said, ‘it would be no concern of mine. Do whatever you want.’
‘You are giving me permission to stray, cara mia?’ Sandro drawled. ‘How enlightened of you, but totally unnecessary. Because I shall, indeed, do as I please.’ He paused. ‘I thought you would be in bed.’
‘I’m just going,’ she said hastily.
She wanted to escape. With his arrival, the night was suddenly too warm and the balcony too enclosed as if the balustrade and surrounding walls had shrunk inwards.
And Sandro was too close to her, almost but not quite touching. She felt a bead of sweat trickle between her breasts, and dug her nails into the palms of her hands.
‘Then before you do, perhaps you will allow me to steal another look at my son.’
‘Of course,’ Polly said, edging past him into the living room. ‘And he’s my son too,’ she added over her shoulder.
‘I have not forgotten,’ he said. ‘What were you doing out there, Paola? Gazing at the moon?’
‘Just—thinking.’ She paused, looking down at the floor. ‘Will—will the contessa be returning for the wedding?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘She will remain at the palazzo to make sure everything is ready for our arrival.’
‘And afterwards?’
He paused. ‘She will stay, at least until you are ready to take over the running of the household.’
‘Or even longer?’ She still did not look at him.
‘Perhaps.’ He sighed. ‘Paola, my father promised her a home. Out of respect for his memory, I cannot honourably deprive her of it, unless she wishes to go, no matter what has happened.’ He paused. ‘I hope you can accept that.’
‘It seems I shall have to.’ And more easily than she will ever accept me …
She turned and walked into her dimly lit bedroom. Sandro followed, and stood by the cot, an expression of such tenderness on his face that her heart turned over.
She thought, Once he looked at me like that, and winced at the wave of desolation that swept over her. Ridiculous reaction, she told herself fiercely. Unforgivable, too.
She went back to the door and waited, her arms hugged defensively round her body.
Sandro looked at her meditatively on his way past to the living room.
‘Yes?’ She felt suddenly nervous, and her voice was more challenging than she intended. ‘You have something to say?’
‘Our son,’ he said quietly. ‘How curious to think we should have made a child between us, when, now, you cannot even bear to stand next to me.’ His voice changed suddenly—became low, almost urgent. ‘How can this have happened, Paola mia? Why are you so scared to be alone with me? So frightened that I may touch you?’
‘I’m not scared,’ Polly began, but he cut across her.
‘Do not lie to me.’ There was a hard intensity in his tone. ‘You were a virgin when you came to me, yet, even then, you never held back. From that first moment, you were so warm—so willing in my arms that I thought my heart would burst with the joy of you.’
Oh, God, she thought wildly. Oh, dear God …
She could feel the slow burn of heat rising within her at his words, at the memories they engendered, and had to fight to keep her voice deliberately cool and clear.
‘But that,’ she said, ‘was when I was in love with you. It—makes—quite a difference.’
Her words seemed to drop like stones into the sudden well of silence between them. The air seemed full of a terrible stillness that reached out into a bleak eternity.
Polly felt her body quiver with tension. She had provided the lightning flash, and now she was waiting for the anger of the storm to break.
But when he spoke, his voice was calm. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You are right. It—changes everything. I am obliged to you for the reminder. Grazie and goodnight.’
She was aware of him moving, turning away. Then, a moment later, she heard his own door open and close, and knew she was alone. And safe again.
Her held breath escaped her on a long, trembling sigh.
She’d had a lucky escape and she knew it. Now all she had to deal with was the deep ache of traitorous longing that throbbed inside her.
But she could cope, she told herself, shivering. She had things to do. Clothes to buy. Italian lessons to learn. Long days with Charlie to enjoy for the first time since he was a baby.
So much to keep her busy and banish all those long-forbidden thoughts, and desires. And, for her own sake, she should make a start at once. Telephone Teresa in the morning. Make a list of all the books she’d not had time to read. She could even have parcels of them, she thought, sent to her in Italy. She might even book for a theatre matinée, now that she had a nanny. Go to the cinema. Something. Anything.
While, at the same time, she underwent the painful process of turning herself into some stranger—the Marchesa Valessi. The wife that no one wanted—least of all Sandro himself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘SO,’ TERESA said, ‘in two days you will be married. It is exciting, no?’
‘Wonderful,’ Polly agreed in a hollow voice.
She didn’t feel like a bride, she thought, staring at herself in the mirror, although the hugely expensive cream linen dress which Teresa had persuaded her to buy, and which would take her on to the airport and her new life after the ceremony, was beautifully cut and clung to her slenderness as if it adored her, managing to be stunning and practical at the same time. While her high-heeled strappy shoes were to die for.
It wasn’t just the usual trappings of tulle and chiffon that were missing, she thought. It was radiance she lacked.
And at any moment, Teresa would be ordering her to relax, because otherwise the tension in her body would spoil the perfect line of her dress. But the other girl would never understand in a million years that this was not merely bridal nerves, but sheer, blind panic.
Since their confrontation on her first night in the hotel Sandro had taken her at her word and left her strictly to her own devices, except when they were with Teresa and Ernesto, when he continued to play the part of the charming, attentive bridegroom.
On the other occasions when they encountered each other, he was polite but aloof. But these were r
are. Except for the sacrosanct hours he devoted to Charlie, he spent very little time at the hotel.
Well, she could not fault him for obeying her wishes, she thought. But she alone knew that she was lonely, and that her sense of isolation would only increase once she reached Comadora.
‘Now take the dress off and hang it away,’ Teresa cautioned. ‘Sandro must not see you in it before the wedding.’ She paused. ‘Is all well with you, Paola? You are quiet today.’
Polly stepped out of the dress, and slipped it onto a padded hanger. ‘Well, for one thing, there’s Julie.’
‘Oh?’ Teresa’s eyes twinkled. ‘Has she fallen in love with Alessandro?’
‘No, of course not,’ Polly said. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’
Teresa giggled. ‘They all do. I had a nanny from Australia when the twins were born, and each time Alessandro came into the house she would go pink—like a carnation—and refuse to speak for hours.’
Polly’s brows lifted. ‘And how did he react?’
‘Ahime, he did not even notice.’ Teresa shrugged. ‘It is endearing how little vanity he has in such matters.’
‘Well, his arrogance in other ways more than compensates for that,’ Polly said crisply, zipping herself into a pretty blue shift dress.
‘You would not think so if you had known his father, the Marchese Domenico,’ said Teresa. ‘Now, there was a supreme autocrat. And of course that old witch he brought to the house after his wife died encouraged him to think he could do no wrong. She and Bianca, her secret weapon.’
Polly put her wedding dress away in the wardrobe. She said, ‘What was she like—Bianca? Was she beautiful?’
‘An angel.’ Teresa waved a languid hand. ‘A dove. Submissive and so sweet. I longed to bite her and see if there was honey in her veins instead of blood. And taught by nuns,’ she added darkly. ‘She wore her purity like a sword—every inch of her being saved for the marriage bed.’
She sighed. ‘No wonder Alessandro looked for amusement elsewhere.’ She stopped dead, clapping a hand over her mouth, looking at Polly in round-eyed horror. ‘Dio, Paola. My mouth will be my death. Forgive me—please.’