The Santangeli Marriage. Sara Craven
deliberately distancing herself and hoping he’d take the hint.
But as she turned the key in the lock he was standing so close behind her that his breath was stirring her hair, and she flung the door open, almost jumping across the narrow hallway into the living room.
Where, she realised with shock, the light was on.
Also—the room was occupied.
She stopped so abruptly that Alan nearly cannoned into her as she saw with horror exactly who was waiting for her.
Lorenzo Santangeli was lounging full-length on the sofa, totally at ease, jacket and tie removed, with his white shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist, its sleeves turned back over his bronze forearms.
An opened bottle of red wine and two glasses, one half-filled, stood on the low table in front of the sofa.
As she stood, gaping at him, he smiled at her, tossed aside the book he was reading and swung his legs to the floor.
‘Maria Lisa,’ he said softly. ‘Carissima. You have returned at last. I was becoming worried about you.’
Throat dry with disbelief, she found a voice from somewhere. ‘Renzo—I—I…’ She gulped a breath, and formed words that made sense. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wished to surprise you, my sweet.’ His voice was silky. ‘And I see that I have done so.’ He walked to her on bare feet, took her nerveless hand, and raised it briefly and formally to his lips before looking past her. With a feeling of total unreality she saw that he needed a shave.
He went on, ‘Will you not introduce me to your escort, and allow me to thank him for bringing you safely to your door?’
In the ensuing silence she heard Alan swallow—deafeningly. Got herself somehow under control.
She said quietly, ‘Of course. This is Alan Denison, an old friend, home on leave from Hong Kong.’ And he seems to have turned the most odd shade of green. I didn’t know people really did that.
For a moment she thought she saw a swift flicker of surprise in Renzo’s astonishing golden eyes. Then he said smoothly, ‘Ah, yes—I recall.’
‘We just—happened to run into each other.’ Alan spoke hoarsely. ‘In the street. This morning. And I asked your—Signora Santangeli—to have dinner with me.’
‘A kind thought,’ Renzo returned. He was still, Marisa realised, holding her hand. And instinct warned her not to pull away. Not this time.
All the same, he was far too close for comfort. She was even aware of the faint, beguiling scent of the cologne he used, and her throat tightened at the unwanted memories it evoked.
Alan began to back towards the door. If she hadn’t been in such turmoil, Marisa could almost have found it funny. As it was, she wanted to scream, Don’t go.
He babbled on, ‘But now I can safely leave her in your…’ He paused.
Oh, God, Marisa thought hysterically, please don’t say capable hands.
But to her relief, Alan only added lamely, ‘In your care.’
Which was quite bad enough, given the circumstances.
‘You are all consideration, signore. Permit me to wish you goodnight—on my wife’s behalf as well as my own.’ Keeping Marisa firmly at his side, Renzo watched expressionlessly as the younger man muttered something incomprehensible in reply, then fumbled his way out of the flat, closing the door behind him.
Once they were alone, she wrenched herself free and stepped back, distancing herself deliberately, her heart hammering against her ribcage.
As she made herself meet Renzo’s enigmatic gaze, she said defensively, ‘It’s not what you think.’
The dark brows lifted. ‘You have become a mind-reader during our separation, mia cara?’
‘No.’ It was her turn to swallow. ‘But—but I know how it must look.’
‘I know that he looked disappointed,’ Renzo returned pleasantly. ‘That told me all that was necessary. And you are far too young to claim a man as an old friend,’ he added, clicking his tongue reprovingly. ‘It lacks—credibility.’
She drew a deep breath. ‘When I want your advice I’ll ask for it. And Alan and I were friends—until you stepped in. Also,’ she went on, defiantly bending the truth, ‘he came back here this evening at my invitation—for coffee. That’s all. So please don’t judge other people by your own dubious standards.’
He looked at her with amusement. ‘I see that absence has not sweetened your tongue, mia bella.’
‘Well, you’re not obliged to listen to it,’ she said raggedly. ‘And what the hell are you doing here, anyway? How dare you walk in and—make yourself at home like this?’
Renzo casually resumed his seat on the sofa, leaning back against its cushions as if he belonged there. He said gently, ‘Not the warmest of welcomes, mia cara. And we are husband and wife, so your home is also mine. Where else should I be?’
Marisa lifted her chin. ‘I’d say that was an open question.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘And how did you get in, may I ask?’
Renzo shrugged. ‘The apartment is leased in my name, so naturally I have a key.’
There was a silence, then she said jerkily, ‘I—I see. I suppose I should have realised that.’
He watched her, standing near the door, her white cotton jacket still draped across her shoulders. His mouth twisted. ‘You look poised for flight, Maria Lisa,’ he commented. ‘Where are you planning to go?’
Her glance was mutinous. ‘Somewhere that you won’t find me.’
‘You think there is such a place?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I, on the other hand, think it is time for us to sit down and talk together like civilised people.’
‘Hardly an accurate description of our relationship to date,’ she said. ‘And I’d actually prefer you to be the one to leave.’ She marched to the door and flung it wide. ‘You got rid of Alan, signore. I suggest you follow him.’
‘A telling gesture,’ he murmured. ‘But sadly wasted. Because I am going nowhere. I came here because there are things to be said. So why don’t you sit down and drink some wine with me?’
‘Because I don’t want any wine,’ she said mutinously. ‘And if there’s any talking to be done it should be through lawyers. They can make all the necessary arrangements.’
He stretched indolently, making her tinglingly and indignantly aware of every lean inch of him. ‘What arrangements are those?’
‘Please don’t play games,’ she said shortly. ‘Our divorce, naturally.’
‘There has never been a divorce in the Santangeli family,’ Renzo said quietly. ‘And mine will not be the first. We are married, Maria Lisa, and that is how I intend us to remain.’
He paused, observing the angry colour draining from her face, then added, ‘You surely cannot have believed that I intended this period of separation to be permanent?’
She looked at him defiantly. ‘I certainly hoped so.’
‘Then you will have to preserve your optimism until death parts us, carissima.’ His tone held finality. ‘This was a breathing space, no more than that.’ He paused. ‘As I made clear, though you may have chosen to think otherwise. But it makes no difference. You are still my wife, and you always will be.’
Her hands were clenched at her sides, the folds of her skirt concealing the fact that they were trembling.
‘Is that what you’ve come here to tell me—that I can never be free of you, signore?