Roccanti's Marriage Revenge

by Lynne Graham

  A surge of horror swiftly followed by tears of sympathy flooded Zara’s eyes. She lowered her lashes before he could see and when he tried to pull away from her, she held on tight to him. ‘I thought I’d bottomed out in the parenting stakes,’ she remarked tightly. ‘But obviously you did a lot worse.’

  Vitale realised that it would be more dignified to stop fighting the comforting hug being forced on him. There was a ghastly moment when he just didn’t know how to respond and he froze in her arms. She was always petting the rabbit, he reminded himself grimly; affectionate gestures were second nature to the woman he had married. He would have to learn how to handle them. He dropped a brief and awkward kiss on her brow, watching in dismay as a single tear inched down her flushed cheek on his behalf. ‘We may not have done well in the parent lottery but that won’t stop us being amazing parents,’ he stated with powerful conviction. ‘I’m sure we both know what not to do with our child.’

  Zara thought of the mess that had been made of his back, the pain he must have endured and the despair he must have felt until he was removed from that cruelly abusive environment and she wanted to weep, but she had to confine herself to a subtle sniff or two and a comparatively modest hug. He saw hope in the future and refused to dwell on past suffering, she recognised with respect. Their marriage truly did have all the potential it needed to survive.

  ‘My mother, Paola, married a wealthy businessman when she was eighteen. His name was Carlo Barigo and he was twenty years older,’ Vitale said in a charged undertone, finally caving in and telling Zara the story that she had longed to hear since the day of her arrival as a bride at the palazzo.

  Unfortunately prising that tale out of a male as reserved as Vitale was had taken determination and spot-on timing even from a wife of almost eight weeks’ standing. At that instant, Vitale was at his most relaxed in a post-sex sprawl in the tangled sheets of their bed and her fingers were gently engaged in smoothing through his black hair.

  ‘Go on,’ she encouraged, quick to react to a hint of hesitation.

  ‘Loredana was born within the first year of the marriage and within five years Paola was taking advantage of the fact that her husband was often away on business. She made friends with the wrong people, got into drink and drugs and started an affair. The marriage broke down. Carlo threw her out and her parents turned their back on her. She had never worked in her life and she was pregnant so she moved in with her lover—’

  ‘The guy who beat you?’ Zara cut in with a frown.

  ‘Sì … he was a drug dealer to the rich. He married her because he assumed the divorce settlement would be huge—it was not. He also assumed that the child she was expecting was his.’

  ‘That was you,’ she guessed.

  ‘I was Carlo Barigo’s legitimate son but Paola lied and said I wasn’t because my father had already deprived her of her daughter and she didn’t want to lose me as well,’ Vitale explained curtly. ‘That was also my stepfather’s excuse for beating me—that I wasn’t his kid—but the truth was he got off on brutality.’

  ‘Didn’t your mother try to stop him?’

  ‘By that stage all she cared about was her next fix.’

  ‘There must have been someone who cared,’ Zara said painfully.

  ‘Not until Loredana decided that she wanted to meet her mother after Carlo Barigo died. But when my sister visited us Paola was out of her head on drugs and Loredana got to know me instead. When she saw my bruises she notified the authorities of her suspicions. I went into the foster system and my stepfather eventually went to prison. I owe my life to Loredana’s intervention,’ he breathed heavily. ‘I was eleven when she became my guardian. I went to boarding school while she worked as a model.’

  For the first time she understood the foundation of his deep attachment to his late sister and her memory. Although his mother had failed him Loredana had saved him from a life of abuse.

  Zara gazed down at his strong profile, so beautiful, so strong and yet so damaged, she conceded painfully. ‘So how did you manage to visit this house as a teenager?’

  ‘Loredana was an heiress, gioia mia. My uncle encouraged her to continue treating the palazzo like her home because he hoped that she would marry one of his sons and bring her money back into the family. That’s why she was allowed to bring me here. It was that or leave me at school all the year round,’ he proffered with a rueful sigh. ‘My sister accepted me just as I was and I was rough round the edges. It never occurred to her that her snobbish cousins would be outraged to have a drug dealer and a junkie’s son forced on them as a guest.’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘But that’s not who you were.’ ‘It’s what they believed. My cousins used to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night and thump and kick me and, thanks to their desire to ensure that I didn’t get too big for my boots, I learned that my mother was selling her body to survive.’

  Zara was pale. ‘I bet you didn’t even tell your sister what was happening.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. I idolised her. She thought I was being treated to a slice of the family life she couldn’t give me.’ His mouth quirked. ‘She was very trusting that way, always thought the best of everyone—’

  ‘What age were you when she died?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘And how did you find out who your father really was?’

  Vitale grimaced. ‘The DNA testing that had to be done to identify Loredana’s body revealed that we were full siblings. I chose to keep that news to myself. She hadn’t changed her will to include me but a portion of her estate was set aside by the courts to cover my educational and living costs. My uncle got the rest and, being conscious of what people might think, he insisted that I continue to spend my term breaks at the palazzo.’

  ‘Your sister was part of your life for such a short time.’ Zara could only imagine how painful that loss must have been for a boy who had never known love and caring from any other source. It was even sadder that their true relationship had only been discovered after his sister had drowned.

  ‘She first met your father here at the palazzo,’ Vitale volunteered abruptly, his tone harsh. ‘The grounds were being used for a fashion shoot and your aunt, Edith, was still working on her design. Loredana was modelling and your father flew in to see your aunt and he was invited to stay to dinner.’

  ‘Oh,’ Zara pronounced, it being her turn to pull a face, for she did not wish to tackle that controversial issue again at that moment for she was too well aware that, had her father been a braver man, Loredana might have survived the sinking of the yacht. ‘Let’s not discuss that now. Give me one positive thought about the palazzo, Vitale.’

  ‘That is so childish, cara mia,’ he groaned, looking at her in reproach.

  ‘It’s not … you can be very prone to taking a negative stance.’

  A rueful smile chased the tension from his well-shaped mouth and he threw his untidy dark head back on the pillow. As dark, bronzed and glossy as a tiger at rest, he looked incredibly handsome. ‘I commissioned the temple above the lake as a tribute to Loredana. The top of that hill was her favourite place—’

  ‘That was a cheat thought … a sort of positive and negative together,’ Zara censured.

  ‘I won’t need to commission anything to remember you,’ Vitale teased with sudden amusement. ‘Everywhere I look you’ve made your mark on this household.’

  The huge pieces of gilded furniture had already gone into storage in favour of contemporary pieces in oak, which looked surprisingly well against the silk-panelled walls. Welcoming seating had arrived along with cushions, throws, unusual pieces of pottery and flower arrangements to illuminate dark corners and add comfort and character. Edmondo, who thoroughly approved of such nest-building instincts, had cheerfully described the new mistress of the palazzo to her husband as a ‘force of nature’.

  ‘You don’t need to remember me,’ Zara countered. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  His attention suddenly fell on the little
jewelled enamel clock by her side of the bed and he stiffened and sat up in an abrupt movement. ‘I didn’t realise it was almost six! ‘

  Within ten seconds of that exclamation, Vitale had vacated the bed and the shower was running in the adjoining bathroom. Zara lay on in the bed as stiff as a wooden plank while her mind whirled off on a wheel of frantic resentful activity. Sadly, she knew exactly why Vitale was in such a hurry. Well, at least she knew and she didn’t know …

  Once again, after all, it was a Friday night and every Friday night for the past five weeks Vitale had religiously gone out alone and not returned home until around two in the morning. He would only say that he visited a longstanding female ‘friend’, who lived near Florence, for dinner and if Zara tried to extract any more details from him he became irritable and broodingly silent. She suspected and had asked if that female friend was living in the villa for which she had done the garden plan but, rather tellingly, he had ignored the question.

  ‘You must learn to trust me. You may be my wife but that doesn’t mean I have to tell you everything!’ he had argued without hesitation the previous week.

  But Zara thought marriage should mean exactly that even though she had backed off from the looming threat of a row for the sake of peace. When Vitale returned to the palazzo tomorrow, however, she already knew that he would be grim and distant and that it would probably be at least forty-eight hours before he so much as touched her again. His Friday nights away from her, it seemed, did not put him in a good mood.

  Was he spending that time placating another woman who mattered to him? A woman he had reluctantly set aside so that he could marry Zara because she had fallen pregnant? It was Zara’s worst fear but what else could explain his tense, troubled attitude in the aftermath of those evenings? Vitale was betraying every sign of a man being torn between opposing loyalties.

  It had to be admitted, though, that his mysterious Friday outings were the one and only storm cloud in Zara’s blue sky and at first she had not been at all concerned when he left her to her own company one evening during the week. Her concern had grown only in proportion to his reticence. She did not like secrets and did not feel she could sit back and quietly allow him to maintain his secrecy.

  Yet at the same time she had lived in Tuscany with Vitale for eight long weeks and had during that period discovered a happiness and a sense of security that was wonderfully new and precious to her. He had devoted the first three weeks of their marriage entirely to her, but after that point had had to return to the bank and his travels abroad. While he was away she had flown back to London on several occasions to catch up with business at Blooming Perfect and see clients.

  Round her neck she wore a teardrop diamond pendant on a chain that Vitale hated her to take off. He had said the flash of the diamond in sunlight reminded him of her hair and her luminous smile. He had said loads and loads of romantic flattering stuff like that, words that she cherished, compliments that she took out and analysed whenever she was on her own or worried about the depth of his commitment to her and their marriage. He was very generous, had bought her innumerable gifts, everything from jewellery to flowers and artworks to pieces of furniture he thought she might like. Even more impressive he had also quietly engaged a speech-language specialist to visit weekly and help Zara overcome the problems caused by her dyslexia. She was already able to read more easily. Even Fluffy had benefited from Zara’s move to Italy, having acquired more toys than even the most spoilt bunny could play with.

  Vitale had become Zara’s whole world without her even noticing it until she began to panic on Friday nights, worry about where he was and who he was with, and it made her realise her heart was more vulnerable than she had ever really appreciated. She was hopelessly in love with the guy she had married and to whom she had foolishly suggested a three-month-long trial marriage. Three months? Seriously, what sort of a stupid idea had that been? She already knew that she would not willingly give Vitale up after even a thousand months. What would she say at the end of the trial period if he was the one who turned round and jumped through that escape hatch she had handily provided to ask for his freedom back? It was a prospect that made her blood run cold.

  She didn’t know when she had fallen for Vitale or when she had first overcome that bad beginning when he had set her up for the paparazzi. But she was crazy about him and she really did understand that she had landed herself an extremely passionate, ‘all or nothing’ guy, who had switched his original allegiance to his sister’s memory to their child instead. At heart she really did grasp what motivated Vitale more strongly than any other factor.

  And what did inspire him was his movingly strong concept of what a man owed to his family. Her pregnancy had shot her right up the pecking order in his mind and brought her out at the top of the pile. She was carrying his baby, she was his wife and he really did treat her as though she was something incredibly precious. It touched her to the heart that even after the horrific experiences he had endured as a child he could still set such a very high value on the importance of family.

  His cell phone rang and he emerged from the bathroom, a towel anchored precariously round his lean hips, to answer it. He frowned, thrust long impatient fingers through his damp black hair, spiking it up, and spoke in fluid Italian for several minutes, clearly issuing instructions. Setting the phone down again, he glanced at her. ‘I’m afraid I have to fly to Bahrain this evening to meet a major investor. I won’t be home until late tomorrow.’

  As he broke the news Zara found herself smiling. If he had to be in Bahrain he couldn’t also be dining somewhere near Florence with his unknown female friend. But if he didn’t make it there this week he would presumably make it there at a later date. He walked over to the window and made another call, his attractive accented drawl apologetic, gentle in tone. Zara knew in her bones that he was talking to another woman and it wounded her, plunging her straight back into her uneasy thoughts.

  Exactly what did Vitale get up to on Friday nights? He was risking their relationship by maintaining such secrecy. Didn’t that bother him? Did he think this woman was worth that risk? Was he keeping a mistress in that luxury villa? A mistress he needed more than he needed his pregnant wife? She had to know. Who was he protecting her from? Or was it that he was protecting another woman from her?

  Suddenly, Zara was determined to satisfy some of the questions that Vitale had refused to answer. Once he had left for the airport, she would drive over to the villa, make the excuse that she had come to check on the garden and discover who lived there. She had to know, she needed to know, and tough if he didn’t like it when he found out that she’d gone behind his back to satisfy her curiosity …

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE local landscaping firm hired by Vitale to bring Zara’s plan for the villa grounds to fruition had done an excellent job. A wide terrace girded by graceful trees and elegant shrubs had removed the old-fashioned formal aspect from the original frontage. Her heart beating very fast, Zara parked the car and approached the front door.

  Whatever she discovered she would deal with it quietly and calmly, she reminded herself bracingly. She was ready to handle any eventuality. There would be no distasteful scene, no tears, certainly no recriminations. Hadn’t she promised Vitale that before she married him? She was engaged in a trial marriage, which either one of them could walk away from without a guilt trip. If he was keeping another woman at the villa, if he was maintaining an extra-marital relationship, she had to set him free and get on with her life. Those far-reaching reflections were all very well, she reasoned in sudden dismay, as long as she didn’t acknowledge that the very thought of having to live without Vitale, or raise her child without him, was terrifying.

  It was a shock, therefore, while she hovered apprehensively on the doorstep, when without her even knocking to announce her presence the front door suddenly shot open and framed Giuseppina. Zara frowned when she recognised the housekeeper, who had looked after her and Vitale at the farmhouse wher
e she had stayed several months earlier.

  ‘Buona sera, Signora Roccanti,’ Giuseppina greeted her with a welcoming smile and a further flood of Italian, which Zara did not understand.

  With a display of enthusiasm that suggested that it was very unlikely that Vitale could be engaged in an improper extra-marital relationship with the villa occupant, Giuseppina ushered Zara into the hall. Quick light steps echoed across a tiled floor somewhere nearby and a woman appeared in the doorway.

  She was an older woman, trim and not particularly tall with short silvery grey hair, anxious dark eyes and a heavily lined face. When she saw Zara she came to a sudden halt while Zara continued to stare, ensnared by a fleeting physical resemblance that took her very much by surprise.

  ‘You must be Zara,’ the woman breathed in accented English, her discomfiture unhidden. ‘Did Vitale tell you about me? I made him promise that he would keep me a secret but I knew it would be difficult for him—’

  ‘He didn’t break his promise,’ Zara admitted tautly, suddenly wishing she had stayed home, suddenly wishing she did not still suffer from that impulsive streak that invariably got her into trouble. ‘I must apologise for dropping in without an invitation. I’m afraid I couldn’t rest until I knew who was living here, who Vitale was seeing every Friday night …’

  In the face of that explanation, the anxious expression on the other woman’s face eased somewhat.

  ‘Naturalmente … of course. Come in—Giuseppina will make us English tea.’ She spoke to the housekeeper in her own language before extending a hesitant hand. ‘I am Paola Roccanti.’

  ‘I thought you might be,’ Zara almost whispered, shock still winging through her in embarrassing waves as she lightly touched that uncertain hand. ‘Vitale has your eyes.’

  Smiling as though that comment was a compliment, Paola took her into the lounge, smartly furnished now in contemporary style. ‘I should have allowed Vitale to tell you I was here. I can see now that I put him in a difficult position. That was not my intention. I simply didn’t want to embarrass you or him. I didn’t want you to feel that you had to acknowledge me—’