The Italian's Revenge

by Michelle Reid

  Two weeks, Catherine pondered. Can I live through two whole weeks of Marietta?

  Do you really have a choice here? she then asked herself bleakly. For she could spout out threats about leaving until she was blue in the face, but she knew—probably as well as Vito knew—that she was trapped here no matter what the circumstances, so long as this was where Santo wanted to be.

  ‘All right, you have your two weeks,’ she agreed. ‘But in the interim you keep her well away from both me and Santo,’ she warned him. And with that she straightened away from the balcony, then turned to make her way back inside.

  ‘I did not sleep with Marietta the day you lost our baby.’ His deep voice followed her.

  ‘‘‘Sleep’’ being the operative word there, I suppose,’ she derided.

  The harsh hiss of air leaving his lungs had him spinning angrily round to glare at her. ‘Did I ever call out Marietta’s name in my sleep while you were lying beside me?’ he rasped out bitterly.

  About to open the French doors, Catherine went perfectly still, understanding exactly where he was going with this. ‘No,’ she admitted.

  She heard him shift his tense stance a little, as if maybe relief had riddled through him.

  ‘Unlike you and your Marcus. At least you were saved that bloody indignity.’

  ‘I never slept with Marcus,’ Catherine countered stiffly.

  On the next balcony Marietta sat forward, the new name being inserted into the conversation sparking her back to life when only a moment before she had been almost defeated.

  ‘Funny, that,’ Vito drawled. ‘But I don’t believe you. So now what is left of trust?’

  ‘We never really had any to begin with,’ Catherine denounced. ‘You married me because you had to. I accepted that because I felt I had to. You don’t build trust on foundations like those.’

  It seemed he didn’t have an answer to that one, because the silence behind her deepened again. So, opening the French door, she stepped back into the bedroom. Vito didn’t follow her. In fact he remained outside, leaning against the balcony for ages afterwards, thinking—she knew not what. But when he did eventually reappear, one brief glimpse of his closed, very grim expression was enough to tell her that his thoughts had not been pleasant ones.

  And what bit of closeness they had managed to find in their bed that afternoon had now been well and truly obliterated.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SO DINNER that evening was a strained affair. Luisa clearly had not yet recovered from the angry scene with her grandson in her drawing room earlier. And the way she kept on looking anxiously from Vito to Catherine said she too was acutely aware that the fine peace they had all been enjoying since Catherine had come back here to live had been completely shattered.

  Did she ever bother to ask herself why that was? Catherine wondered, and decided not, because to do so would mean Luisa seeing the faults in her wonderful family.

  Even Marietta was unusually quiet for her. She spent most of the wretched meal seemingly lost in her own deep train of thought.

  Jet-lag, she called it when Luisa anxiously asked her if anything was the matter. But she did briefly raise herself to attempt polite conversation with Catherine. ‘I believe you have been working for Templeton and Lang while living in London,’ she remarked.

  Go to hell, Catherine wanted to snap. But she smiled a civilised smile and answered cordially enough. ‘Yes. I originally trained as a legal secretary, so it was nice to get back to it.’

  ‘And your gift for languages must have been very useful to a firm which specialises in European law.’ Marietta nodded in understanding. ‘Have we ever used them, Vito?’ she asked.

  Busy glowering into his wine glass, Vito seemed to stiffen infinitesimally, though why he did Catherine had no idea. ‘Not that I recall,’ he answered briefly.

  ‘That is very odd.’ Marietta frowned. ‘For I am sure I know them. Marcus Lang is one of the senior partners, is he not?’ she enquired of Catherine.

  ‘No. Robert Lang and Marcus Templeton,’ she corrected, feeling Vito’s tension like a sting in her throat as she said Marcus’s name.

  ‘Ah. My mistake,’ Marietta replied. ‘Still...you are going to miss the stimulation, no doubt,’ she murmured sympathetically. ‘I know I would not like to go back to doing nothing again.’

  ‘I have some work to do.’ Vito rose so abruptly that everyone was taken aback. ‘Marietta, I could do with going over a few things with you before you retire, if you are not too tired.’

  ‘Of course,’ Marietta agreed, but she was already talking to Vito’s back, because he was striding from the dining room.

  She followed very soon after him, which left Catherine to smooth out poor Luisa’s ruffled feathers before she too could escape to the relative sanctuary of the bedroom. And by the time she had undressed and crawled into bed, she was ready—more than ready—to switch today off by dropping herself into the oblivion of sleep.

  So having Vito arrive only minutes later was the last thing she needed.

  Presuming he was coming to bed, she lay curled on her side with her eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. So when his finger gently touched her cheek only seconds later, her eyes flicked open in surprise to find him squatting down by the bed beside her.

  ‘Something has come up,’ he told her quietly. ‘I need to go into Naples to my office for a while.’

  ‘Alone?’ The question shot from her lips without her expecting it, never mind Vito. And instantly she wanted to kick herself as she watched his expression harden.

  ‘Yes, alone,’ he gritted. ‘And if you don’t watch out, Catherine, your mistrust is going to eat you alive!’

  With that, he levered himself upright, turned and walked out of the room.

  She didn’t blame him. And he was right about her lack of trust eating her alive. Because it was already doing it.

  ‘Oh damn,’ she breathed, rolling onto her back to stare at the ceiling. ‘What am I doing to myself?’

  You know what you’re doing, she immediately answered her own question. You are tearing yourself apart over the same man you have been tearing yourself apart over for the last six years.

  Hearing the sound of a car engine firing into life, she got up and walked out onto the balcony to watch Vito leave. She arrived at the balcony rail just in time to see his red tail-lights gliding down the driveway.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered after him. ‘Even though I don’t want to.’

  And miserably she watched those tail-lights snake their way down the hillside until they became nothing but red dots among a million other red dots. She was about to go back inside when the sound of yet another car engine firing caught her attention. Turning back to the rail, she watched a black BMW come around from the back of the house where the garages were situated.

  It was Marietta.

  Even though it was too dark to see from up here who was driving, she just knew it was Marietta, and that she had to be following Vito to wherever they had arranged to meet.

  So much for my paranoid delusions, she thought, and oddly didn’t feel angry, or hurt, or even bitter any more. But then she had a feeling that she had no more hurt left to feel about what Vito and Marietta did together.

  She didn’t sleep much that night. And was still awake when one car came back up the driveway at around four-thirty. The other she didn’t hear, because she had eventually fallen into a heavy pre-dawn slumber.

  Sounds in the bedroom eventually awoke her, and, opening her eyes, she found Vito quietly readying himself for the day. But a swift glance at his side of the bed told her it had not been slept in. On that observation alone, she shut her eyes again and pretended that she didn’t know he was there.

  An hour later she came downstairs in an outfit she’d had for years. The classic cut of the calf-length pin-straight cream skirt was timeless, the crocheted silk sleeveless top a soft coffee shade that went well with her warm autumn colouring.

  Walking into the sunny br
eakfast room, she found Vito and Marietta there sharing a working breakfast. There was a scatter of paperwork lying on the table between them, and Marietta was busily scribbling notes across one of them while Vito sat scanning the contents of another.

  All very businesslike, Catherine dryly observed, very high-executive, with Marietta wearing her habitual black and Vito in tungsten-steel-grey. And, considering he was supposed to have been up working all night, he looked disgustingly well on it, she mocked as she watched his dark head come up at the sound of her step and his eyes narrow as they took in her own coolly composed demeanour today.

  He knew the look. He knew the outfit. He even knew the neat way she had loosely tied back her hair with a large tortoiseshell clip at her nape that gave the red-gold threads chic without being too formal.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ he questioned, not pleased, by the sound of it.

  Catherine smiled a bland smile. ‘To re-establish links with some old contacts,’ she replied, and walked towards one of the vacant chairs at the table as Marietta’s dark head lifted and her eyes drifted over her.

  ‘Buon giorno,’ she greeted. ‘So you mean to go back to work,’ she observed, like Vito, recognising the outfit.

  ‘Better than ‘‘doing nothing again’’, don’t you think?’ she answered sweetly as she sat herself down, then reached for the coffee pot.

  ‘Did I draw blood when I said that?’ the dark beauty said. ‘I’m sorry, Catherine, it was not intentional.’

  Of course it was, Catherine silently countered, while Marietta turned her attention back to the business presently in hand across the breakfast table and began discussing figures with Vito.

  He, on the other hand, wasn’t listening. His whole attention was arrowed on his wife, who was now calmly pouring herself a cup of coffee as if this was just any ordinary day. But there was nothing ordinary about it. He knew it—she knew it. Catherine was angry and she was in rebellion.

  ‘Santino is with his grandmother,’ he said, over the top of what Marietta was saying. ‘They are spending the day at the beach again.’

  ‘I know. I waved them off.’ Catherine smiled serenely and reached for a slice of toast from the rack, then the bowl of thick, home-made orange marmalade.

  ‘Vito, if you—’

  ‘Shut up, Marietta,’ he interrupted.

  Her lovely eyes widened. ‘Am I interrupting something?’ she drawled.

  ‘Not at all,’ Catherine assured her, spreading marmalade on her toast.

  ‘Yes!’ Vito countered. ‘Please leave us.’

  Marietta’s expression revealed no answering irritation as, on her feet in an instant, she obediently gathered up her papers and left them alone.

  Biting neatly into her slice of toast, Catherine watched her go. But Vito pushed back his chair and got to his feet. A few strides had him rounding the table, then he was lowering himself into the chair next to Catherine’s.

  ‘I don’t want you to go out to work,’ he said curtly.

  ‘I wasn’t aware that I was giving you a choice,’ she replied.

  His lean face snapped into irritation at her very dry tone. ‘Rushing out there and taking the first job that is offered to you just because you are angry with me is childish,’ he clipped.

  ‘But I’m not angry with you,’ she denied, taking another bite at her toast.

  ‘Then for what reason are you doing this?’ he demanded. ‘You have not once mentioned going to work since you came back here!’

  ‘Myself,’ she explained. ‘I am doing it for myself.’

  It was a decision she had come to at some very low point during the night. That there was very little she could do to change the status quo, so she might as well just get on with it.

  Which was the reason why she was dressed for the city this morning. Getting on with it meant getting a life. A life outside the suffocating confines of this house, anyway.

  ‘What about Santino?’ Vito tried another tack.

  Catherine smile a rueful smile. ‘Santino has more people eager to amuse him here in this house than a whole school of normal children have.’

  ‘He prefers to have his mamma at home with him. I prefer to have his mamma at home with him. What is the use of my providing all of this,’ he said, with a wave of a hand meant to encompass their luxury surroundings, ‘if you will not let yourself appreciate its advantages?’

  ‘That is a terribly arrogant thing to say,’ Catherine replied.

  ‘I don’t feel arrogant,’ he confessed. ‘I feel damned annoyed that you did not discuss this with me before making your decision. It is so typical of you, Catherine,’ he censured, unaware that her face had quite suddenly gone very pale. ‘You are so stubbornly independent that you just go ahead and do whatever it is you want to do and to hell with what anyone else may think!’

  ‘I’m sorry you think that,’ she murmured, but her tone said she was not going to change her mind.

  Vito released a driven sigh. ‘Listen to me...’ he urged, curling his fingers tensely around her fingers. ‘I don’t want to wage war with you every time that we speak. I want you to be happy here. I want us to be happy here!’

  ‘With you as the family provider and me as the trophy you keep dusted in the corner?’ she mocked. ‘No, thank you, Vito. I’m not made of the right kind of stuff to play that particular role.’

  ‘That woman should learn to curb her stupid tongue!’ he muttered.

  A criticism of Marietta? Catherine almost gasped at the shock of it—albeit sarcastically. ‘Don’t you have some work to do?’ she prompted him.

  As if on cue, the door suddenly opened. ‘Have you two finished?’ a cool voice questioned. ‘Only we have a lot to get through, Vito, if we are to catch that noon flight to Paris today.’

  The air in the sunny breakfast room suddenly began to crackle. Catherine glared at Vito. ‘You’re going to Paris today—with her?’ she demanded.

  He looked fit to wreak bloody murder. ‘I—’

  ‘Oh—didn’t you know, Catherine?’ Marietta inserted. ‘I assumed Vito would have told you.’

  ‘I was about to,’ he gritted—at Catherine, not Marietta.

  ‘No need now, though,’ Catherine pointed out, raking her fingers from beneath his as she shot stiffly to her feet. ‘Since your ever-efficient compatriot has done the job for you.’

  ‘Catherine—’ Vito’s voice was harsh on a mixture of fury and frustration.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she spoke icily over him, ‘I have some calls to make.’ And she walked towards the door. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ she asked sweetly of Marietta as she passed by her.

  The other girl’s eyes widened in mock bewilderment. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she lied.

  Catherine just laughed—a hard, scoffing sound that jarred on the eardrums—and left the two of them to it, with Marietta’s voice trailing after her. ‘Vito, I am so sorry. I just thought...’

  Vito followed her. Catherine would have been more surprised if he hadn’t. He found her standing in their bedroom grimly pulling on the jacket to match her cream skirt.

  ‘Don’t you have a plane to catch?’ she questioned sarcastically.

  His angry face hardened. ‘Don’t do this, Catherine,’ he warned. ‘Don’t rile me today when I’ve worked right through the night and am low on sleep and on patience.’

  ‘And where were you working last night?’ she challenged.

  ‘You know where. The office,’ he said heavily. ‘I told you.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes—alone!’ he snapped.

  ‘What time did you come home?’

  ‘Around five—why the inquisition?’ he asked dazedly.

  ‘Marietta left here straight after you last night and arrived back half an hour before you say you got back,’ she informed him. ‘Is that the standard time-lapse for secret trysts these days? Only it’s best to know the form when I start some trysts of my own.’

  ‘You think I was with Marietta.’ He began to catch on
at last. ‘Madre di Dio,’ he sighed. ‘When are you going to try trusting me?’

  Not in this lifetime, Catherine thought bitterly. ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘About a week—’ He went to say more, but Catherine beat him to it.

  ‘Staying where?’

  ‘The company apartment—where else?’ he sighed out heavily. ‘Catherine, it was you who told me to keep her out of the way,’ he tagged on impatiently. ‘And that is exactly what I am trying to do!’

  ‘Enjoy yourself, then.’

  Wrong thing to say, she realised as he suddenly leapt at her. She was trapped in his arms before she could gasp. And his mouth, when it found hers, was intent on taking no prisoners.

  Yet—what did she do? She surrendered was what she did. Without a fight and without dignity she let her head tilt backwards, parted her lips—and let him do whatever it was that he wanted to do.

  The slave for her master, she likened, not even bothering to be disgusted with herself as her fingers turned into claws that took a grip on his head and she let the power of his hungry, angry passion completely overwhelm her.

  And his hands were everywhere, yanking off her little jacket, raking up her top, and the flimsy lace bra she was wearing beneath it, was no barrier at all against those magic fingers. She started whimpering with pleasure. He laughed into her mouth, then reached up to grab hold of one her hands and dragged it down to press it hard against his rising sex.

  ‘Now this is what I call enjoying myself,’ he muttered, as he transferred his mouth to one of the breasts he had prepared for himself.

  As he sucked, and sensation went rampaging through her, the telephone by the bed began to ring. His dark head came up. It would be Marietta, telling him to get a move on.

  ‘Answer that and you’re dead,’ Catherine told him, and to state her point her fingers closed more tightly around him.

  On a growl of sheer sensual torment he caught her mouth again, sent her mind spinning, drove her straight back out to where they’d both briefly emerged from, while the ring of the telephone acted like a spur to every single sense they possessed as she slowly eased her grip to begin sliding her palm along the full throbbing length of him with the intention of finding the tab to his trouser zip—