Husband By Contract. HELEN BROOKS
derisively. ‘But I prefer to give orders, not to take them. Besides—’ he stopped what was clearly going to be a blazing retort on her part with an uplifted hand ‘—it is the Italian way to be hospitable.’
‘That’s not hospitality, it’s...it’s...’
‘When you find an adequate adjective let me know, but, in the meantime, shall we...?’ He indicated the beautifully worked wrought-iron staircase with a nod. ‘I understand your suitcase is already in your room,’ he added smoothly.
‘I see.’ So he’d had this all worked out from the word go, had he? she thought balefully. ‘You’re so very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Donato?’ she said tightly as she shook his hand from her arm. ‘So sure you’ll always get what you want.’
‘Thank you, I like to think so.’ It was meant to annoy and it did, unbearably, but she strove not to let it show as she marched across to the staircase with her head held high. He was impossible—this whole thing was impossible. She should never have come—Liliana wouldn’t, couldn’t have expected her to... But she would have. The knowledge drummed in her head as she walked carefully up the stairs, painfully conscious of Donato watching her ascent from the hall below, his big, dark frame perfectly still.
Duty, respect, responsibility, sacrifice—Liliana had been of the old school and had lived her whole life by such standards. She would certainly have expected the woman she looked on as a second daughter to attend her formal departure from this world; her non-attendance would have been unthinkable.
White sunlight was slanting through the huge arched windows of the landing as Grace reached the top of the stairs and fairly flew along the polished wooden boards without looking to left or right, almost falling into the room they had designated as the master bedroom and then standing with her back pressed hard against the closed door, her eyes tightly shut.
That dream she had had, the night before the telegram had arrived... Liliana had told her then to come home; she could still hear the urgency in the older woman’s voice and see the way her arms had been stretched out towards her. ‘He needs you, Grace, more than you could ever imagine. It is only when you come home that the healing can begin. Come home, Grace, come home.’
She had woken from the dream in the middle of the night, shaking and wet with perspiration, her heart pounding and her mouth dry. Had Liliana really called her? she asked herself now, still with her eyes closed. And if so, if the woman she had loved as a mother had reached out from another world for her help, what would be expected of her?
The dream had confused her at the time; she had lain awake the rest of the night until dawn had broken, trying to convince herself it meant nothing, but since her arrival back in Italy she could see it was perhaps Lorenzo Liliana had been calling her for. That, at least, would make some sense, because her first supposition—that Donato’s mother had been referring to her eldest son—was too ridiculous to entertain, and she had known it immediately she had brought logic and reason to bear.
She slowly opened her eyes, forcing herself to look round the large, bright, sunlit room that had been her marital bedroom for three years. It was here that Paolo had been conceived after long, lazy hours of sweet lovemaking just three months after they had been married, hours when she had moaned under the exquisite sensations Donato had produced so effortlessly in her soft flesh, when the sexual feeling that had flowed in and around and through her had been so unbearably wonderful that she had thought she’d die from it...
Was that how he made Maria feel? She forced the name into her consciousness as a talisman against the weakness that was threatening to overwhelm her. Probably, she thought grimly as her eyes began to focus. Very probably. He was an accomplished lover.
And then she saw them, the carefully arranged display of wild flowers. Michaelmas daisies, blood-red poppies, ragged robin with its delicate pink petals, white and blue forget-me-nots, the deep green leaves and sky-blue petals of germander speedwell, coltsfoot, orange hawkweed, lady’s-smock, scarlet pimpernel...
‘Oh!’ Her hand went to her throat as she gasped out loud. Her wedding bouquet, and only Donato knew its significance. She walked across to the flowers slowly and stood looking at them for long moments before tentatively touching the tall spikes of purple loosestrife and pale blue buddleia, the tiny white flowers of shepherd’s purse splaying out beneath them.
All through the long years in the children’s home she had picked small posies of wild flowers, gathered from the hedgerows and lanes close by, to brighten her windowsill in the dormitory. The delicate beauty of the flowers had been something pure and lovely in the stark, regimented existence within the building where practicality had been the order of the day. They had been a comfort she couldn’t explain to anyone, a hope, a promise that life would get better, and when she had nervously tried to explain her feelings to Donato when the expensive hothouse blooms for the wedding were being discussed she hadn’t thought he’d listened.
And then, on her wedding day, the most exquisite bouquet had been delivered, tied and threaded through with white silk ribbons and lace, the marvellous array of wild flowers cascading almost to the floor in a declaration to their future.
She had cried then and she knew she was going to cry now. She threw herself onto the scented linen covers of the big double bed, curling into a tight little ball of misery and grief.
How could he? How could he have slept with Maria Fasola, held her, loved her, smiled at her, after all they had meant to each other? Their marriage, the moments they had shared, Paolo’s birth, his death—oh...oh, his death...
Her sobs were wrenched from the depths of her, harsh, angry, desperate sounds that reached the tall, dark man standing outside the room, freezing his fingers on the handle of the door and turning his face into a mask of stone before he turned savagely, striding away down the passageway with violent steps.
CHAPTER THREE
BY THE time Anna arrived with her lunch tray some fifteen minutes later Grace had washed her face and appeared calm, on the surface at least, but once the small maid had left she gazed down at the cannelloni ripieni—pasta rolls with a filling of meat and tomato sauce—on a bed of fresh green salad and sighed wearily.
She had thought she was past the tears, the pain, the sheer rage, but since her first step on Italian soil the past had closed round her like a dark veil. She placed the tray on a small table before lifting the large crystal wineglass and walking across to the full-length windows, opening them and stepping onto the balcony beyond, where she stood in the warm sunshine sipping the cool, fruity red wine. She was still there some twenty minutes later when Donato stepped through the billowing lace curtains.
‘You haven’t eaten a bite, have you?’ He inclined his head backwards towards the bedroom.
‘I’m not hungry.’ As she spoke she raised her chin at the condemning note in his voice and for a moment blue eyes clashed with coal-black in a battle of wills.
‘It will be of no help to anyone if you become ill.’
She didn’t know if it was the large glass of rich, potent wine on an empty stomach, the tension of the last day or two since she had received the telegram, the lack of sleep, the memories that had assailed her constantly all day, or just Donato himself in all his arrogance, but suddenly it was all she could do to hold onto her temper.
‘No, of course not; that would put a spanner in the works, wouldn’t it?’ she agreed tightly, her voice lethal. ‘My usefulness to the Vittoria empire would be severely affected if I couldn’t fulfil my role as companion to Lorenzo—’
‘Stop it!’ He took a step forward and gripped her arms with a strength that told her he was angry—very angry. ‘That was not what I meant and you know it.’
‘I know nothing of the kind, Donato.’ She didn’t flinch from his wrath, standing straight and still in front of him, her delicate, slender body held taut and her eyes blazing. ‘And please let go of me,’ she said icily. ‘I’ve told you, I won’t be mauled.’
He