The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener. Sara Craven
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to tell her the whole truth—that he’d been on the brink of spending an enjoyable afternoon in bed with a beautiful girl he’d met at a dinner party two nights earlier, but had suddenly changed his mind for reasons he could not explain even to himself.
That he’d decided to return home on another apparent whim, but that the incident on the road which could so easily have left him seriously injured or dead had turned an impulse into resolution.
Which now prompted him to offer her honesty along with the new beginning which had now crystallised in his mind.
Starting with the moment he had seen her standing naked in the shower, the tendrils of soaked hair hanging round her face, the droplets of water running down over the pale skin of her breasts to her midriff and the slight concavity of her belly, and glistening on her slender thighs.
Recalling too how his body had stirred under his sudden sharp desire to lick each tiny trickle from her flesh and watch her rosy nipples lift and firm to hard peaks under the glide of his tongue.
Had he forgotten, he wondered in astonishment, or had he simply not noticed on that far off night just how lovely she looked without clothing?
Then paused, just in time as he realised the exact nature of his prospective confession.
‘Sciocco,’ he apostrophised himself silently. ‘Idiota.’
Dio mio, his near-miss must have affected his brain if he imagined for one moment that might be what she wanted to hear from him.
No, he thought, it would be far better—wiser to use the opportunity she had given him, and, leaving all other issues aside, start by answering the question she had asked.
‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘That is not why I am here. Al contrario.’
She looked up at that, her eyes widening, but, he thought, in apprehension more than pleasure, and took a swift mental step backwards.
He went on, ‘I regret if my displeasure at your cousin’s visit caused me to speak roughly to you.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ The grey-green eyes slid past him as if she was looking at the bed. ‘Although you couldn’t possibly imagine I would actually invite her here.’
‘Perhaps, mia bella, I was not thinking too clearly. But I am a little more lucid now, and I have a proposition to put to you.’
He paused. ‘Elena, I would like you to reconsider the terms of our marriage.’
She repeated ‘Reconsider?’ as if she had never heard the word before. Then: ‘In what way—reconsider?’
‘You said earlier that the other Contessas knew what was expected of them, and that is true. They were aware, per esempio, that a priority in their lives was to provide an heir for the Manzini dynasty, to ensure our ancient name did not die.’
She did not move. It was as if, he thought, she’d been turned to stone inside the towel that swathed her.
‘And I have the same wish—the same dream of a son to follow me. I am asking you, therefore, to make our marriage a real one. To live with me as my wife, and become, in time, the mother of my child.’
She stared at him, lips parted, her gaze almost blank and he continued hurriedly, ‘I do not require you to answer me now, Elena. I realise you need time to think.’ He paused. ‘I hope we can discuss the matter later—over dinner forse.’
He smiled at her swiftly and, he hoped, reassuringly, then turned and walked to the door.
Ellie watched him go, with a sense of total unreality, as Silvia’s mocking words buzzed in her head. ‘His duty to his family to have a son,’ her cousin had said. And ‘You can be of use for that, if nothing else …’
This is crazy, she thought. It cannot be happening to me. I must be having a bad dream while I’m sleeping off my headache.
And even if it was all true—if he’d really been here asking her to change her entire life, her hopes for the future—her answer, now and for all time, was ‘No.’
What else could it possibly be? she asked herself. And felt tears, harsh and wholly unexpected, burn suddenly in her throat and blur her startled eyes.
WHEN SHE WAS calm again, Ellie washed the tearstains from her face, dried her hair, placed her discarded clothing in the linen basket, and put on her robe.
As she tied its sash, her attention was attracted by the noise of some heavy vehicle in the courtyard below. When she went to the window, she was surprised to see Angelo’s car being loaded on the back of a transporter. As the truck departed with its load, there was a rap on the door, and Assunta entered carrying a pile of clean towels.
Ellie turned. ‘Is there something wrong with the signore‘s car, Assunta?’
The older woman stared at her, astonished. ‘But it was damaged in the accident, Contessa. You must know that.’
‘Accident?’ Ellie queried, startled. ‘I—I don’t think I understand.’
Assunta shook her head. ‘There was nearly a collision with another car overtaking when it should not have done so.’ She crossed herself. ‘The signore escaped without injury, may God be praised, through his own swift action. Otherwise he might have been killed.’ She paused. ‘Did he not tell you this?’
‘No,’ Ellie said slowly. ‘He—didn’t mention it.’
‘Perhaps he did not wish to cause you concern.’ Assunta’s warm, inquisitive gaze scanned Ellie’s slim figure, as if seeking for a reason for the Count to show such consideration to his young wife.
‘Yes,’ Ellie agreed quietly. ‘Perhaps.’
‘The Count wishes me to say that dinner will be served at eight o’clock this evening,’ Assunta continued. ‘After his ordeal, he will need an early night, senza dubbio.’
‘Sì,’ Ellie said after a pause. ‘No doubt he will.’
When Assunta had delivered her towels to the bathroom and left, Ellie wandered back to the chaise longue and sat down, staring into space.
He might have been killed …
An uncontrollable shiver ran through her. Yes, she’d have had the promised freedom but at what kind of terrible cost? Didn’t they say—Be careful what you wish for, because it could be granted?
She suddenly had an image of him standing in front of her, as he had been so short a time before. Could see the lean, long-legged body, his powerful shoulders undisguised by his elegant suit, the dark incisive face, the fathomless eyes and the swift, slanting smile as if they’d been etched on her brain.
Was aware of a tug of something which was almost like yearning, secret and unbidden, and which she had never experienced before. And could not afford to experience again.
A real marriage.
His words seemed to take on the impact of a siren song, with the power to beckon her to disaster, and she knew she could not allow that to happen.
He had married her from necessity not desire, and necessity was still driving him. It would be futile and dangerous to think otherwise.
At the same time, maybe she should re-think the bluntly negative response she’d been planning. Find some other way to tell him what he asked was impossible.
Silvia had said that she could not imagine her surrendering to Angelo on that bed. Well, she could not do so either. Could not, she told herself as her heart thundered against her ribcage. And would not.
Or not in the way he would undoubtedly have