The Reluctant Husband

by Lynne Graham

  ‘You’ve been had,’ Santino drawled with lazy amusement.

  An angry flush washed over her cheeks. His persistence infuriated her. ‘When I get home, I’ll ensure that you’re sent confirmation of the fact. I can assure you that we are no longer married.’

  ‘But then we never were...in the adult sense,’ Santino conceded.

  Attacked without warning by a cruel Technicolor replay of her last sight of Santino, Frankie paled, her stomach giving a violent lurch. Santino with another woman, locked together in the throes of a very adult passion. A beautiful blonde, her peach-tinted nails spearing into his luxuriant black hair as he kissed her, melding every line of her curvaceous body to the lean, muscular strength of his. Frankie had been ripped apart by that glimpse of Santino as she herself had never seen him, and in that same instant she had been forced to see that they had never had a future together. In leaving, she had set them both free.

  Dark golden eyes rested intently on her. ‘I deeply regret the manner of our parting. You were very distressed.’

  Shattered that he should have guessed what was on her mind, Frankie went rigid. In self-defence, she focused on the table. She couldn’t think straight. Her emotions, usually so wonderfully well-disciplined, were in wild turmoil. She could barely accept that she was actually with Santino again, but even that bewildering awareness was pounded out of existence by the tremendous pain he had cruelly dredged back up out of her subconscious. With fierce determination, she blocked those memories out.

  ‘Perhaps it was a mistake to mention that so soon but I can feel it standing between us like a wall,’ Santino incised very quietly.

  The assurance sent Frankie’s head flying up again, a fixed smile of derision pasted to her lips. ‘And I think you’re imagining things. So I discovered that my saint had feet of clay.’ She shifted a slim shoulder dismissively. ‘All part of growing up, and irrelevant after this length of time. Now, if those villas really are yours, can we get down to business?’

  ‘You have indeed been away a long while.’ Santino signalled to the proprietor with a fluid gesture. ‘That’s not how we do business here. We share a drink, we talk, maybe I invite you to my home for dinner and then, possibly after dinner, we get down to business.’

  Frankie’s expressive eyes flashed. ‘I won’t be coming to your home for dinner, I assure you—’

  ‘Strive to wait until you’re invited,’ Santino traded gently.

  Her cheeks reddened, her teeth gritting as wine arrived. ‘I find this whole stupid charade juvenile!’

  ‘As I remember it, you love the unexpected.’ Santino lounged back indolently in his seat, unconcerned by her growing anger and frustration.

  ‘I was a child then—’

  ‘Yet at the time you kept on telling me that you were all woman,’ Santino reminded her in a black velvet purr of wry amusement.

  The worst tide of colour yet crimsoned Frankie’s throat. ‘So tell me,’ she said sharply, absolutely desperate for a change of subject, ‘are you in the tourist trade now?’

  ‘This and that.’ Hooded night-dark eyes resting on her, Santino lifted a broad shoulder in an infinitesimal shrug and a half-smile played maddeningly about his mobile mouth.

  It was ridiculous that she shouldn’t know what business he was in, ridiculous that she should know so very little about this male to whom she had once been married! But years ago all she had known about Santino was that the elderly village priest was his great-uncle and that during the week he worked in a bank in Cagliari, where he also had the use of an apartment.

  But, whatever Santino was doing now, he appeared to be doing very well. That magnificent suit simply shrieked expensive tailoring. But then he was a Latin male, and the Latin male liked to look good and was quite capable of spending a disproportionate amount of his income on his wardrobe. Even so, Frankie wasn’t used to seeing Santino in such formal attire. When he had come home to her at weekends, he had worn jeans and casual shirts. He looked so different now, like some big city business tycoon, stunningly sophisticated and smooth. The acknowledgement sharply disconcerted her.

  Santino was surveying her with veiled eyes. ‘I had a good reason for arranging this discreet meeting.’

  ‘April Fool off-season?’ Frankie derided brittly.

  ‘I understand that you’re on vacation and I would like to offer you the hospitality of my home,’ Santino contradicted her evenly.

  Frankie stared back at him wide-eyed and then a choked laugh escaped her. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

  Santino pressed her untouched glass of wine towards her. ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘I’m leaving for Italy immediately,’ she told him, incredulous that he should advance such an invitation. ‘So I’m afraid we do business now or not at all.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about the villas,’ Santino countered very drily.

  ‘It’s my job to give a damn.’ Her sense of unreality was spreading by the minute. Santino here...with her. It felt so fantastically unreal. Why should Santino want to see her again after so long? Simple curiosity? Clearly he had found out where she worked in London. Was that why the villas had been offered to Finlay Travel? But how had Santino discovered where she worked?

  From below her lashes she watched him as she drank, easing her parched vocal cords. He was so cool, so controlled... so calculating? Her spine tingled, some sixth sense spooking her. She scanned his gypsy-dark features, absorbing the stunning symmetry of each. The wide forehead, the thin, arrogant blade of a nose, the blunt high cheekbones and the chiselled curve of his sensual mouth. Her attention roved to his thick black hair, the curls ruthlessly suppressed by an expert cut, and the lustrous, very dark eyes which flared gold in emotion, and yet still a nagging sense of disorientation plagued her.

  Santino both looked and felt like a stranger, she acknowledged dazedly, more than that even...a disturbingly intimidating stranger, who wore a cloak of natural authority and command as though he had been born to it. He was not Santino Vitale as she remembered him. Or was it that she now saw more clearly without adoration blinding her perception? Adoration? Inwardly she shrank, but there was no denying that that single word most accurately described the emotions which Santino had once inspired in her.

  ‘Francesca...’

  ‘Nobody calls me that any more,’ Frankie muttered waspishly, striving to rise above an ever-increasing sense of crawling mortification.

  This encounter was a nightmare, she conceded, stricken. At sixteen, she had been so agonisingly, desperately in love with Santino. She had thrown herself at his head and done and said things that no woman in her right mind would want to recall once she reached the age of maturity! She must have seemed pathetic in his eyes, forever swearing undying love and resisting his every move to sidestep the intimacy which she had craved and which he had never wanted. It hadn’t been Frankie who had locked her bedroom door at night... it had been Santino who’d locked his. That particular recollection made her feel seriously unwell.

  ‘Look at me...’ A lean brown forefinger skated a teasing path across her clenched knuckles. ‘Please, Francesca...’ he urged gently.

  It was like being prodded by a hot wire. Her sensitive flesh scorched and she yanked her hand back out of reach, shaken by a sudden excruciating awareness of every skin-cell in her humming body. Oh, dear heaven, no, she thought as she recognised the wanton source of that overpowering physical response. In horror, she lifted her lashes to collide with glittering gold eyes. Her breath tripped in her throat. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded starkly.

  ‘Three weeks out of time,’ Santino admitted softly. ‘I want us to spend that time together.’

  ‘I’m not spending any time with you!’ Frankie jerked upright, wide green eyes alight with disbelief.

  Santino rose at his leisure, grim amusement curling his eloquent mouth. In a single fluid step he reached her. Lean hands confidently tugged her out from behin
d the table into the circle of his arms. Frankie was so taken aback she just stood there and looked up at him in open bewilderment. She could not credit that Santino would make any form of sexual advance towards her and uneasily assumed that he was trying to be fraternally reassuring.

  ‘Relax,’ Santino urged lazily, brushing a straying strand of bright hair back from her indented brow.

  At that careless touch her heartbeat lurched violently, her throat tightening. Suddenly she was struggling to get air into her lungs. He angled his dark head down and she came in conflict with shimmering dark golden eyes. Another wanton frisson of raw excitement arrowed through her. Her head swam. Her knees wobbled. And then, before she could catch her breath again, Santino brought his mouth down on hers with ruthless precision, expertly parting her soft lips to let his tongue hungrily probe the moist, tender interior within.

  That single kiss was the most electrifyingly erotic experience Frankie had ever had. Heat flared between her thighs, making her quiver and moan in shattered response. Instinctively she pushed into the hard heat of his abrasively masculine body. He crushed her to him with satisfying strength. Then he lifted his arrogant dark head and gazed down at her, his brilliant gaze raking over her stunned face as he slowly, calmly set her back from him again. ‘All this time I wondered...now I know,’ he stressed with husky satisfaction.

  Frankie turned scarlet. Appalled green eyes fixed to him, she backed away fast. ‘You know nothing about me!’ she gasped, stricken.

  In a tempest of angry distress, her only desire to escape from the scene of her own humiliation, Frankie stalked out into the fading daylight. There she blinked in bemusement before she raced across the square. It was empty...empty of her car!

  ‘And now, thanks to you, my car’s been stolen!’ Frankie shrilled back at Santino where he now lounged with infuriating indolence in the doorway of the bar.

  He straightened fluidly and strolled towards her. ‘I stole it,’ he informed her, seemingly becoming cooler and ever more dauntingly assured with every second that made her angrier.

  ‘You did what?’ Frankie enunciated with extreme difficulty.

  ‘I am responsible for the disappearance of your car.’

  The sort of blinding rage Frankie had honestly believed she had left behind in her teens swept over her. That cool, utterly self-possessed tone affected her like paraffin thrown on a bonfire. ‘Well, you just bloody well get it back, then!’ She launched at him, both of her hands closing into fists of fury. ‘I don’t know what kind of a game you think you’re playing here—’

  ‘I don’t feel remotely playful,’ Santino slotted in smoothly.

  Frankie took a seething stride forward and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. ‘I want my car back now!’

  ‘The Caparelli Curse,’ Santino remarked softly, reflectively, quite unmoved by the spitting frenzy of her fury. ‘To think I thought rumour exaggerated. No longer does it surprise me that your grandfather was so desperate to marry you off.’

  And that was it. At the mention of the hated nickname she had acquired in her grandfather’s village Frankie shuddered, and when Santino went on to remind her that he had been virtually forced into marrying her her last shred of control went. ‘You swine!’ she hissed, and drew back a step the better to take a swing at him.

  But Santino was faster on his feet than she had anticipated, and as he sidestepped her the heel of her shoe caught on the lining of the long raincoat still hanging from her shoulders. She lost her balance and went down with a cry of alarm, striking her head. There was pain...then darkness, then nothing as she slid into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FRANKIE had a headache when she drifted back to wakefulness with a frown. But worse was to come. She lifted her heavy eyelids and focused not on her familiar bedroom but on a completely strange room. It was the most disorientating experience of her life.

  Stone walls...stone walls? Massive antique furniture with more than an air of gothic splendour. Her mouth fell wide as she took in the narrow casement windows, for all the world like the windows of a castle. It was a vast room and the bed was of equally heroic proportions.

  And only then did splinters of disconnected imagery return to her. She recalled a nun... nun? She remembered feeling horribly sick, and being so. She remembered being told firmly that she had to stay awake when all that she wanted to do was sleep because her head ached unbearably. All the pieces were confused but one particular image, which had strayed in and out of her hazy impressions, struck her afresh with stunning effect... Santino!

  A flicker of movement at the corner of her vision jerked her head around. A lithe, dark male figure stepped out of the shadows into the soft pool of light by the bed. Everything came back at once in a rush. Planting two hands on the mattress beneath her, Frankie reeled up into a sitting position, a tangle of multicoloured hair flying round her flushed and taut face. ‘You!’ she exclaimed accusingly.

  ‘I’ll call the doctor,’ Santino responded, reaching forward to tug the tapestry bell-rope hanging beside the bed.

  ‘Don’t bother!’ Frankie asserted between clenched teeth, throwing back the sheet with the intention of getting up and then swaying as a sick wave of dizziness assailed her.

  As she pressed her fingers to her swimming head, a pair of strong arms enclosed her and she was pushed firmly back down again on the pillows.

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ Frankie bit out, refusing to surrender to her own bodily weakness.

  ‘Shut up,’ Santino said succinctly, bending over her with a shockingly menacing expression stamped on his vibrantly handsome features. ‘Bad temper put you in that bed and it might have killed you!’

  Frozen by outrage, Frankie gaped at him, emeraldgreen eyes almost out on shocked stalks that he should dare to speak to her like that ‘Your crazy games put me in this bed!’

  ‘Your injuries could have been far more serious,’ Santino told her with a most offensive edge of condemnation. ‘Had I not managed to break your fall, you might have suffered more than a sore head and concussion. You were unconscious for many hours!’

  ‘It’s your fault that I got hurt!’

  ‘My fault?’ Santino repeated incredulously. ‘You took a swing at me!’

  “The next time, I won’t miss! Where the heck am I?’ Frankie flared back furiously. ‘I want to go home!’

  ‘But you are home. You are with me,’ Santino drawled in a soft tone of finality.

  ‘You’re nuts...you are absolutely stark, staring mad!’ Frankie exclaimed helplessly, huge, bewildered eyes pinned to him. ‘What did you do with my car?’

  ‘As you were no longer in need of it, I had it returned to the hire firm.’

  The door opened, breaking the thrumming silence. A tall, distinguished man in his fifties entered the room. ‘I am Dr Orsini, Signora Vitale.’ He set a medical bag on the cabinet by the bed. ‘How are you feeling now that you have had some sleep?’

  ‘I am not Signora Vitale,’ Frankie said shakily, beginning to feel like somebody playing a leading role in a farce.

  The doctor looked at Santino. Santino smiled, raised his lustrous dark eyes heavenward and shifted a broad shoulder in a small shrug.

  ‘What are you looking at him like that—for?’ Frankie launched suspiciously. ‘I am not this man’s wife, Dr Orsini. In fact I have never seen him before in my life!’ she concluded with impressive conviction.

  The doctor studied her with narrowed eyes and a frown. Frankie looked with expectant triumph at Santino, but Santino was already lifting something off the enormous dressing table and extending it to the older man.

  ‘What’s that? What are you showing him?’ Frankie demanded jerkily, falling fast into the grip of nervous paranoia.

  ‘One of our wedding photographs, cara mia.’ Santino shot her rigid stillness a gleaming glance from beneath luxuriant black lashes and tossed the silver-framed photo onto the bed for her perusal.

  Without reaching for it—indeed her finger
s chose to clutch defensively into the bedspread instead—Frankie stared down fulminatingly at that photograph. Her throat closed over, the strangest lump forming round her vocal cords. There she was in all her old-fashioned wedding finery, sweet sixteen and so sickeningly infatuated that she glowed like a torch for all to see, her face turned up to Santino’s adoringly. Shame she hadn’t had the wit to notice that Santino’s smile had more than a suggestion of stoically gritted teeth about it than a similiar romantic fervour!

  Quite irrationally, her eyes smarted with tears. Suddenly she appreciated that whether it was fair or not she really did hate Santino! He hadn’t had to go through with the wedding. When he had realised the gravity of the situation they were in, surely he could have smuggled her back out of the village again and sent her home to her mother in London? She refused to believe that he could not have found some other way out of their predicament, rather than simply knuckling down to her grandfather’s outrageous demand that he marry her!

  The doctor was opening his bag when she lifted her head again. Throwing Santino an embittered glance, Frankie cleared her throat. ‘This man may once have been my husband but he is not any more. In fact—’

  ‘Cara...’ Santino chided in a hideously indulgent tone.

  ‘He stole my car!’ Frankie completed fiercely.

  Carefully not looking at her, Dr Orsini said something in a low, concerned undertone to Santino. Santino sighed, contriving to appear more long-suffering than ever.

  ‘Did you hear what I said?’ Frankie’s voice shook.

  The older man was too busy shaking his head in wonderment.

  Santino strolled to the foot of the bed. ‘Francesca...’ he murmured. ‘I know I am not your favourite person right now, but these wild stories are beginning to sound a little weird.’

  Her jaw dropped. She flushed scarlet and experienced such a spasm of frustrated fury that she was dimly surprised that she did not levitate off the bed. She slung Santino a blazing look that would have felled a charging rhino. It washed over him. For the very first time she recalled Santino’s wicked sense of humour. His sensual mouth spread into a teeth-clenchingly forgiving smile, white teeth flashing against his sun-bronzed skin. ‘Grazie, cara...’