“You are my wife, Grace” Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

“You are my wife, Grace”

Donato continued. “There has been no divorce, the marriage contract still stands.”

“Not in my eyes.” She was panting hard, her slim fairness overshadowed by his dark maleness as he held her fast. “You might be my husband by contract, but that is all, and without love our marriage certificate becomes just a piece of paper....”

Sometimes the perfect marriage is worth waiting for!

Look out next month for the follow-up story, SECOND MARRIAGE.

Dear Reader,

Wedding bells, orange blossom, blushing brides and dashing grooms...and happy ever after? As we all know, the path of true love often doesn’t run smoothly—both before and after the knot is tied. So what makes two people’s love for each other special? And why can love survive everything that is thrown at it?

In these two linked books I’ve explored that very thing—how one couple copes with a tragedy that has the potential to destroy their marriage; and, in the second book, how that same disaster sends out ripples of bitterness and disillusionment toward their friend, tarnishing his view of love until...

Well, read the books and all will be revealed! I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing them, and do hope you enjoy reading them.

Love,

Helen Brooks

Husband By Contract

Helen Brooks

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘EXCUSE me, but are you feeling all right?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Grace felt as though she had just returned from a dark, cold place as she focused her deep blue eyes on the concerned face of the stewardess bending over her, the gentle murmur of conversation from the other passengers on the plane penetrating the horror that had held her in its grip. ‘Oh, yes, yes, thank you, I’m fine.’ The pretty young face watching her didn’t look convinced and she added quickly, ‘A headache. I’ve had a headache all day, that’s all.’

‘Oh, you should have said.’ The tall, slim stewardess smiled her professional smile of sympathy as she straightened. ‘I’ll get you a couple of aspirin, shall I?’

‘Thank you.’ Grace nodded her appreciation. ‘If it’s no trouble,’ she added quietly, forcing a smile from somewhere.

A headache. If only this fear and panic that had made eating and sleeping impossible since she had received the telegram could be dealt with as easily as a headache. The flat formality of the printed words swam into her mind again as her stomach churned.

I have been instructed by Donato Vittoria to inform you of the sudden death of his mother, and to request your presence at the funeral on 23rd April. The service will be held at the Church of the Madonna di Mezz’ Loreto at midday.

That had been all. No explanation, no suggestion that she call or contact the family in any way, just a cold, terse announcement from the Vittorias’ solicitor, Signor Fellini.

But it hadn’t really been an announcement, had it? she thought sickly. It was a demand, a decree, by the autocratic head of the Vittoria clan, whose word was law and power absolute. Donato. Oh, God, I shan’t be able to stand it, she prayed desperately; help me get through the next few days...

‘Here we are.’ Again the smooth, pleasant voice of the stewardess brought her back from the edge of despair and into the real world as she handed Grace a glass of water and the aspirin. ‘Not long now and we’ll be landing; you’ll feel better then,’ she added brightly, the tone faintly patronising.

‘Thank you.’ Grace obediently swallowed both the aspirin and the water and settled back in her seat as she closed her eyes. She knew what the stewardess was thinking; it had been transparently obvious. Poor little thing, she’s frightened of flying. Well, she was frightened all right, absolutely terrified, but not of flying.

Oh, she had to pull herself together, she told herself angrily. She was a grown woman of twenty-three, not some nervous, over-excited schoolgirl who couldn’t say boo to a goose. If only she looked her twenty-three years, that would give her a little more confidence for the days ahead, but her petite five feet four inches added to red-gold curls that defied all efforts at smoothness and a naturally elfin face took at least five years off her age despite her careful choice of clothes.

But she was old inside. She shuddered, her hands clenching on her lap. Ancient, antediluvian inside. More than old enough to cope with Donato and the rest of the Vittoria family.

That thought carried her through the rest of the journey and the arrival at Naples airport, and once through Customs she collected the one suitcase she had brought with her and prepared to find a taxi, her face white and strained and her small, slim body held erect amidst all the bustle and chaos around her.

‘Grace.’ She froze for an infinitesimal moment, mind and body registering the shock of hearing that deep, cool voice with its heavy Italian accent speaking her name, and then forced herself to turn slowly as she took a long, steadying breath.

‘Donato.’ A smile was beyond her as she took in the tall, dark man watching her so closely, his black eyes narrowed in the tanned hardness of his face and his firm, sensual mouth unsmiling like hers. He was still the same! She felt her heart begin to slam against her ribcage with the force of a sledge-hammer and willed the panic to cease. She had to be in control, give the impression of calm and cold restraint; anything else would be seized upon as weakness and used against her. ‘I’m very sony about your mother,’ she said quietly, hoping the slight quiver in her voice would pass unnoticed. ‘She was a truly great lady.’

‘Yes, she was.’ He was standing very still, his loose-fitting trousers and dark blue cotton shirt immaculate as always and sitting on the big, lithe body in a way guaranteed to make any female heart beat a little faster.

But not hers. Grace took another hidden breath before she spoke. Definitely not hers, never again. ‘The telegram said it was sudden?’ she asked carefully, keeping her voice neutral. His had been quite expressionless, cold and flat.

‘A haemorrhage, in the brain.’ He touched his forehead as he spoke, the movement emphasising the heavy gold watch on his wrist and the thick gold band on the third finger of his left hand. ‘She knew nothing about it. Now...’ He turned slightly, gesturing to someone behind him. ‘Antonio will take your bags—’

‘I’m not staying at Casa Pontina!’ She had spoken too sharply and too quickly but it was too late to try and moderate her tone as the handsome male face in front of her darkened. ‘I... I’ve made arrangements,’ she said hastily. ‘It’s all taken care of.’ How had he known of her arrival? Why was he here? What was all this in aid of? As the numbing shock of the sudden encounter began to fade Grace found a barrage of questions attacking her mind.

‘Where else would you stay but at Casa Pontina?’ The arrogance was pure Vittoria and as such hit her on the raw, causing her soft mouth to tighten in response to the challenge.

‘I’m booked in at the Hotel La Pergola,’ she said coldly, ‘for three nights.’

‘I think not.’ He smiled now, but it didn’t touch the glittering blackness of his eyes. ‘It would not be fitting in the circumstances and this you know. It will be expected that you stay at Casa Pontina.’

He spoke as if the matter were settled, and as the uniformed chauffeur reached for her case again at Donato’s tight nod she found herself whisking it behind her and stepping back a pace. ‘I don’t have to do what is expected of me, not any more,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’m answerable to myself and no one else. You can’t order me about like you do everyone else.’

‘Everyone, Grace?’ The dark voice was quiet and silky now, with a thread of steel that she knew was meant to intimidate. ‘I had forgotten how you like to exaggerate.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ she tossed back bitterly. ‘I’m only surprised you remember my name.’

‘Oh, I remember your name, mia piccola.’ The soft endearment hit her like a punch in the chest and it took all of her will-power not to let it show. ‘I remember everything about you. Now, you will let Antonio take your luggage,’ he continued in a smooth, conversational tone of voice that was belied by the glittering intensity in his eyes, ‘and you will stay at Casa Pontina.’

‘Why should I?’ she asked hotly, her blue eyes stormy.

‘Because it is what my mother would have wanted.’

She stared at him, the anger and bitter resentment draining away as the truth in his words left her pale and shaking. Liliana would have wanted her to stay at the family home, she acknowledged painfully. In fact the matriarch of the Vittoria clan would have been horrified at anything else.

This was one last thing she could do for Liliana, she thought sadly, for the tall, proud, aristocratic Italian woman who had wielded such power and influence within her own family and shown Grace nothing but love and kindness from their first meeting. Yes, she would do this for Liliana; for Liliana she would even endure living under the same roof as Donato for three days and nights.

‘Very well.’ She saw the flash of triumph in the jet-black eyes and had to bite her lip to prevent more hot words. Liliana was dead, the last tentative link with Italy was broken by her demise, and she would endeavour to see out this final travesty with the sort of dignity and aplomb that the genteel Italian woman would have expected from her. ‘I shall have to cancel my reservation at La Pergola on the way to Casa Pontina.’

‘Sì, of course; this will be no problem.’ The words were smooth and self-satisfied and caused her stomach muscles to tighten.

Donato nodded in a sharp little bow, clicking his fingers at Antonio, who reached behind her for the case, his pock-marked face beneath its chauffeur’s cap of blue and gold apologetic. ‘Scusi, signora.’ The voice was humble, the appearance of the big, beefy individual anything but.

Antonio might not know any English, Grace reflected with a touch of wryness, but he had certainly had no trouble in following the general theme of the conversation.

She had always thought Donato’s chauffeur resembled a member of the Sicilian mafia rather than a household servant, and this idea was reinforced now as she followed the swarthy, dark figure out to the Vittoria Mercedes, Donato’s hand at her elbow, feeling for all the world as though she was being led to her execution.

The fifty-or-so-mile drive to Donato’s magnificent villa in Sorrento would be no problem—the Mercedes’ excellent air conditioning added to the fact that the late-April temperature was only just touching seventy degrees made travelling at midday still a pleasure, unlike in high summer—but sitting in close proximity to Donato for well over an hour was a different matter.

Grace had planned to stay overnight in Naples and travel down to Sorrento early the next morning by hire car in time for the funeral, returning the same day. That would have meant she could have paid her last respects to Liliana while retaining some degree of independence, but...she might have known Donato would overrule any arrangements she had made.

Donato opened the car door for her but she paused before sliding in, looking up into his cold, handsome face as she asked, ‘How did you know I was coming today, and on that flight?’

‘Does it matter?’ His voice was cool and dismissive, his manner remote. It was an attitude she had seen him adopt many times in the past and it usually had the desired effect of forestalling further conversation, but not so with her, and not today.

‘Yes, it does, to me.’ She continued to hold his glance, her vivid blue eyes with their thick, curling lashes dark with determination. ‘I wasn’t aware I told anyone of my plans.’

‘Possibly not,’ he said.

‘Well, then?’ Her gaze was becoming a glare but she couldn’t do anything about it; his arrogance was bringing up a strong feeling of rebellion. ‘How did you know?’ she asked again.

‘I know most things about you, Grace.’ The way he said her name still had the power to make her weak but she would rather have walked through coals of fire than admit it, even to herself.

‘Meaning?’ she snapped tightly, her eyes hot.

‘You want me to list all the things I know about you?’ he asked smoothly, with simulated surprise. ‘Here? Where we could so easily be overheard?’

‘Stop playing games, Donato.’ She said it with a touch of weariness that narrowed his eyes on the whiteness of her face, in which exhaustion was suddenly all too evident

‘Is that what you think I am doing, mia piccola?’ he said softly. ‘Playing the game? Nothing could be further from the truth.’ For a moment something fierce and hot blazed in the heavily lashed black eyes but then his lids shuttered the fire as he half turned from her, gesturing into the car. ‘Get in and I will tell you what you wish to know.’

She got in—there was really little else she could do after all, she told herself flatly—and when he joined her a moment later on the spacious back seat, and her senses caught a whiff of the familiar aftershave he had specially made for him, the wickedly blended allure of spices and lemon and something indefinable made her nerve-ends jump. How many nights had she spent locked in his arms, she asked herself tremulously, breathing in that heady fragrance after hours of mad, passionate love? Hours that had sent her up to the heights, hours that had had her begging, pleading for sweet relief and then barely able to stand the ecstasy when he had obliged.

She had thought then that they would be together for the rest of their lives, that nothing in this world or the one beyond could possibly separate them, that they were two halves of one glorious whole. But she had learnt... Her mouth tightened and she breathed deeply through her nostrils. Oh, how she had learnt.

‘Well?’ She forced her face to remain blank as she turned slightly, although his nearness sent her heart flickering into her throat. ‘How did you know I was arriving today?’

‘I have been aware of all your movements in the last year, Grace,’ he said calmly. ‘You surely did not think it could be otherwise?’

‘All of my movements?’ she echoed, puzzled. ‘I really don’t see...’ And then it dawned. ‘You don’t mean... You haven’t had me watched?’ she asked angrily, her voice and colour rising in unison. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Of course.’ He eyed her coldly, the straight line of his mouth expressing distaste at her lack of control.

‘Of course?’ Her cry of outrage made him wince slightly, but she had given up trying to maintain the new cool image; she had never been so furious in all her life. ‘You dare to sit there and tell me you’ve been spying on me,’ she hissed heatedly, ‘without the slightest shred of guilt or embarrassment? How dared you do that, Donato? I can’t believe even you would sink so low.’

‘Careful, Grace.’ He leant towards her now, his face stony and his eyes dark, glittering chips of black ice. ‘I will only permit so much.’

‘You will only permit so much?’ She was quite oblivious to the big car negotiating its way out of the airport surroundings or of Antonio sitting stoically in the driving seat. The glass partition made their conversation inaudible but no one could have doubted the tenor of their exchange. ‘And what about me? What about what I will permit? You tell me you’ve invaded my privacy, reduced me to a goldfish in a glass bowl—’

He swore, softly and vehemently in swift Italian, before growling, ‘This is a ridiculous conversation and one which I have no inclination to continue. There is no question that you are the fish in the bowl.’

‘But you paid someone to spy on me!’ she spat shrilly. ‘What gives you the right to think you can act like that? It’s...it’s immoral.’

‘I will not discuss this with you until you can control yourself,’ he said icily, ‘and I have no wish to argue with you at this time, Grace. It is not fitting.’

His words brought the image of Liliana’s proud, beautiful face onto the screen of her mind, and she clenched her teeth in an effort to prevent more hot accusations spilling out. She was here for his mother’s funeral—she had to remember that, she told herself painfully, and if there was one thing she was sure of it was that Donato had loved Liliana dearly. But once she was back in England...

She bit her lip as she forced the rage to subside. There was no way she was going to let such a situation continue. For twelve months she had hesitated to proceed along the road she had chosen but now the way was clear and free of obstacles. There was no reason to vacillate any longer—she knew it in her heart—but still, still it hurt, and she was angry, furious with herself because of it. But this last outrage had confirmed everything. Her mouth tightened and she took a long, silent breath to ease the churning in her stomach. The die was cast.

When they arrived at the Hotel La Pergola Donato leant forward and slid the glass partition aside as Antonio brought the car to a standstill on the pebbled sweep of drive in front of the gracious building. ‘Antonio will see to the cancellation,’ he said over his shoulder to Grace as the powerful engine died.

‘I would prefer to do it myself,’ she said quickly. She had conceded to his insistence that she stay at Casa Pontina for Liliana’s sake, but he might as well learn right now that she was capable of running her own life without his assistance.

‘As you wish.’ The voice was lazy, the expression in his eyes anything but as she climbed out of the car before Antonio could open her door and marched stiffly up the wide, curving steps and into the hotel interior without glancing back.

Once inside she paused for a moment before continuing to the massive semicircular reception desk, aware that her legs were shaking and her stomach trembling at the shock of seeing him again. ‘Control, control, Grace,’ she murmured quietly to herself, earning a sidelong glance from an old Italian couple who were passing. Their relationship was over, irrevocably over, he knew that as well as she did. All she had to do was get through the next day or two as best she could until she could fly home to her tiny flat and job as receptionist at the local doctors’ surgery in a quiet part of Kent.

The hotel accepted her explanation that friends had picked her up from the airport and were insisting she stay with them with customary Italian good humour, and within a few minutes they were on their way again, driving deeper into the countryside where the magic of Italy reached out to touch her. She had always loved the country, from the first moment she had set foot in it five years before, as an eager eighteen-year-old desperate to prove herself in her new position as nanny to a wealthy Italian couple with two children, until the agonising parting a year ago.

She was particularly receptive to beauty, and the winding streets of terracotta-roofed stone houses, ancient gothic cathedrals and medieval fountains, poplar-shaded farmsteads surrounded by vineyards and olive groves, and the unspoilt tranquillity of the real Italy, had moved her to tears in the early days.

Sorrento, the family home of the Vittorias for centuries, was quaint, colourful and romantic, and their magnificent seventeenth-century villa, situated high above the blue waters of the Bay of Naples, had panoramic views from its wonderful old balconies bright with trailing bougainvillea. The whole area around Sorrento was a treasure trove of mythology, history and scenic splendour, and Grace had fallen deeply and hopelessly in love with it and...Donato.

He was a friend of the young couple whose children she had come out to nanny, and almost from their first meeting, when she had been in Italy all of two weeks, she had known she loved him. He was wildly handsome, an experienced and worldly-wise twenty-five to her innocent eighteen, and he’d swept her off her feet, utterly and completely.

How was she going to get through the next three days staying at Casa Pontina? Grace asked herself now, aware that the powerful memories the grand old house—named after the southern wind of Sorrento—was capable of evoking would not be conducive to her peace of mind.

As the oldest son Donato had inherited the villa and the Vittoria estate and businesses on his father’s death just months before Grace had first come to Italy, and he ran his small empire with the help of a management team of trusted employees who were completely committed to both Donato and the Vittoria name.

Bianca, Donato’s adopted sister, had married his best friend at seventeen and lived some miles away in the Sant’Agnello district of Sorrento where her husband cultivated his large crop of orange groves, although it was the Bellini business interests in Naples that had provided her husband with his vast wealth.

Although Bianca was only a month or two younger than Grace the two girls had never become friends, Bianca’s jealousy and bitterness at Grace’s popularity within the family remaining despite all Grace’s efforts to win the beautiful Italian girl over. Bianca had particularly resented Grace’s closeness to little Lorenzo, the youngest member of the Vittoria family, who had been something of a miracle baby, his parents having been told at Donato’s birth that no more children were possible. He had adored Grace with the devotion of a small puppy and she had loved him right back.

‘There was no problem at your hasty departure?’ Donato’s cool, deep voice broke into her thoughts of Lorenzo and brought her eyes to his dark profile. For a moment she thought he was referring to that other soul-searing time, so firmly had her mind retreated into the past, but then realisation dawned.

‘No.’ She quickly lowered her gaze; the hard-boned male face with its strong classical features and firm, sensual mouth still possessed a magnetism that was unnerving. ‘Everyone was very understanding,’ she said quietly.

‘And Dr Penn? He too was...very understanding?’ Donato asked expressionlessly without turning to glance her way.

‘Jim? Yes, of course; I’ve said, haven’t I? Everyone was very sympathetic...’ Her voice trailed away and she raised her eyes to his face again but the cold façade was blank, no emotion in the stony features as he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

She didn’t ask how he knew the individual doctors’ names; no doubt his source had been very thorough, she thought tightly, but why pick Jim Penn out for special mention above the other three doctors at the busy surgery?

‘This is good.’ Donato’s voice was smooth, too smooth, and now he turned to her slowly, his dark eyes flashing over her pale face and his mouth twisting in a smile that was no smile at all. ‘I’m sure you will be greatly missed.’

‘I doubt it, not in a week.’ There was something here she didn’t understand, another undercurrent flowing into the dark, turbulent river that made up her relationship with the Vittorias—and one Vittoria in particular. ‘There’s another girl, Claire, a friend of mine, and she is very efficient.’

‘I was not talking about efficiency,’ he said softly, ‘but being missed.’

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes wary, before saying, ‘Now look, Donato, I told you I’m not into playing games—’

‘And I am not into the game-playing either,’ he bit out savagely, all pretence at coolness gone. ‘Have you forgotten Lorenzo, Grace—have you? Because I can assure you the child has not forgotten you! Since my mother’s death it is your name that is constantly on his lips, your love that he is crying for as he refuses all comfort and solace. He was devastated when you left a year ago—’

‘Don’t you dare blame that on me,’ she spat angrily. ‘You know why I left; you made it impossible for me to stay.’

‘You did what you wanted to do.’ He had immediately regained control of himself, his voice icy and his face cold and blank. ‘You did not think it fitting to discuss your departure with me first; you simply walked away, did you not?’

‘You could have followed me,’ she said tightly, and it wasn’t until she said the words, voicing them aloud for the first time, that she realised she had never expected that he would do anything else but come after her, not in her heart of hearts. But he hadn’t. And the days had turned into weeks and the weeks into months and she had slowly died inside, the bitterness of his betrayal on top of everything else she had endured turning her love to ashes.

‘To do what?’ he asked flatly. ‘To begin once again the endless quarrels, the pain, the suffering? I thought you had suffered enough, that you wanted peace.’

‘I did; I do.’ He had cared so little that he had just let her go. The knowledge beat against her brain, making her voice die and her body go limp. And even now the telegram, the request that she attend Liliana’s funeral, had not been sent to her because he wanted to see her, because there was any faint spark of the love they had once shared left in that cold, cold heart. Lorenzo was upset and Donato had thought the boy would be comforted by her presence. It was as simple as that. Oh, she hated him—she did; she loathed, detested, hated him...

The rest of the journey—along winding roads which passed small villages spangled and pretty in the afternoon sun—was completed without further conversation, the atmosphere in the car thick and heavy and taut with a thousand words best left unsaid.

Grace felt ill with the raw emotion that had taken hold of her and was shocked beyond measure to find that Donato could still affect her so violently. She had hoped, wanted, needed to find herself immune to him, to have the assurance that that stage of her life—the Donato stage—was over and done with, that the post-mortems were finally completed. Indifference...that was what she had prayed for; she had wanted to be dispassionate and distant, unmoved by hatred and resentment and bitterness, at long last able to put the past to rest.

But now the instigator of all her pain was getting in the way... But no, that wasn’t quite fair, she corrected herself silently. They had been happy once, before—

Her mind slammed to a halt, recognising its own frailty. She couldn’t think of it now; she would break down in front of him and that would be the final humiliation. One minute, one hour, one day at a time; that was what she had told herself all those many, many months ago, and when she managed to keep to that she got through—just.

Nevertheless, as the powerful car ate up the miles and they entered the narrow streets of Sorrento she knew where her first visit had to be; she was being pulled there by something stronger than herself. The scent of lemon groves hung heavy in the air as they climbed into the hills towards Casa Pontina, and when they passed through the large wrought-iron gates into the Vittoria estate she found she was on the edge of her seat.

‘Can...can we go to the walled garden?’ Her voice was the merest whisper but he heard it, his head shooting round and his piercing black eyes fastening on her face.

‘I do not think this would be a good idea,’ he said quietly. ‘You are tired from the journey and Lorenzo is waiting—’

‘I don’t care.’ She glanced at him once before staring fixedly ahead again, but such was the look on her face that he said no more to her, leaning forward and sliding the glass partition aside before giving an order in swift Italian to Antonio.

The Vittoria gardens were huge, bursting with tropical trees and shrubs, cascade upon cascade of sweet-smelling flowers, smooth green lawns, hidden bowers and a fine orchard where orange, apricot, olive, almond, fig and banana trees all lived in harmony, but it was to the tiny, shadow-blotched walled garden that Antonio drove, its ancient walls mellow and sun-soaked and protected by a huge evergreen oak that provided welcome shade in the height of summer.

‘Grace?’ Donato caught her arm as she went to move past him after leaving the car, turning her to face him. ‘Would this not be better tomorrow?’ he asked softly, his eyes intent on hers.

‘Lorenzo won’t mind waiting a few minutes more—’

‘I was not thinking of Lorenzo.’ His voice had been too harsh and he took a deep breath before he spoke again. ‘I was thinking of you,’ he said flatly.

But she didn’t hear him, her eyes, mind and soul fixed on the high wooden gate at the top of the long slope that led from the drive, remembering how it had been that day in June, nearly two years ago, when she had been demented with grief.

Donato took her hand as they walked up the stone path and she let her fingers rest in his—she really couldn’t find the strength to fight him at that moment—and then he was opening the gate and she stepped into the sheltered confines of the walled garden, her stomach jumping into her throat.

‘It looks just the same,’ she said softly, and Donato nodded at her side.

‘Of course, nothing will be changed here.’

The ancient walls were brilliant in places with trailing purple, red and white bougainvillea, lemon-scented verbenas perfuming the air along with pink begonia and a whole host of other flowers. A small patch of lawn in the middle of the garden had a tinkling fountain at its centre, and several seats were dotted round the small enclosure alongside sweet-smelling shrubs and bushes specially chosen for their fragrance.

It was tranquil, peaceful, a sheltered oasis amidst the bustle of life that surrounded the Vittoria empire, and once Grace had been used to spending lazy hours in the ancient retreat—lazy and exquisitely happy hours.

They walked to the end of the garden now, where a little foot-high wall enclosed a slightly raised small rectangle of ground that was ablaze with tiny flowers, a headstone cut in the shape of a teddy bear bearing the inscription, ‘Precious memories of Paolo Donato Vittoria, aged six months, baby son of Donato and Grace. You have taken our hearts with you.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘GRACE! Grace!’ Lorenzo’s welcome was as ecstatic as his face as he caught sight of her, but in the next moment, as she gathered the thin ten-year-old child into her arms, he burst into a storm of weeping, stringy arms tight round her neck.

‘Hush, now, hush,’ she soothed softly, sitting down on one of the massive stone steps that led up to the studded front door and holding Lorenzo close against her, until the sobs racking the small frame lessened. ‘It’s all right, darling.’ What stupid things we say in moments like these, she thought silently as she nuzzled her chin into the small black head beneath hers. Lorenzo had just lost his beloved mother to whom he had been exceptionally close; of course it wasn’t all right. Nothing was all right in his small world.

‘I did not know if you would come.’ Lorenzo raised dark, tear-smudged eyes to her gentle gaze. ‘You have been away so long.’

‘I told you Grace would come, did I not?’ Donato asked over their heads, his voice soft. ‘And now here she is, just as I promised, but she does not want to be drowned before she has set foot inside the house,’ he added warningly. ‘Benito is waiting to see her too, you know, and he has a few more words in his vocabulary to show her, not all of them good,’ he finished darkly.

Lorenzo gave a weak smile and now his voice held a touch of its normal sparkle as he whispered, ‘One of the new gardeners taught him some bad words.’

‘Did he?’ Grace smiled, hugging him close once more before rising. ‘And knowing Benito I’m sure he repeats them with great relish?’ Benito was Lorenzo’s parrot, a huge bird whose big, compact body, strong, rounded wings and short, stout hooked bill were as formidable as his nature. He either loved or hated, there was no halfway house with Benito, and he could use his lethal bill and clawed feet to painful effect on occasion. However, the irascible bird adored his small master, who could do anything with him, and had never suffered so much as a small peck.

Lorenzo took her hand and they moved towards the open front door, and although the small, warm fingers clutching hers were wonderfully comforting, Grace was vitally aware of that tall, dark figure just behind her as they stepped across the threshold of Casa Pontina.

The light, cool hall, with its beautifully polished wooden floor and white walls hung with exquisitely framed paintings, was quiet and still, the air scented with a large bowl of freshly cut flowers, and for a moment Grace couldn’t believe that Liliana’s tall, gracious figure wouldn’t sweep out of the imposing drawing room to greet her, her lined but still beautiful face wreathed in smiles of welcome.

Liliana had lived for her family, loving all three of her children with an intensity that was very Italian, and Grace knew for a fact that Bianca’s being adopted had made her even more precious to her mother; that was the way Liliana was. Once Grace had married Donato she had become a second daughter in her mother-in-law’s eyes.

Lorenzo pulled her along the hall before she had time to reflect further, past the formal drawing room, ornate dining room and Donato’s massive study, and down the two steps that led to the back of the house where the breakfast room, kitchens and two large family rooms were situated. It was through one of the latter, specially designated to Lorenzo and filled with his toys and computer equipment, that they walked, and out onto a small covered patio that overlooked green lawns and trees, and in the far distance the vivid blue of an olympic-size swimming pool.

Benito was sitting on his perch, grumbling to himself as he watched one of the gardeners weeding a patch of salvias some fifty yards away, but at the sound of Grace’s voice he showed his pleasure by dancing clumsily and screaming a welcome in his harsh voice, ruffling his brightly coloured plumage and lowering his short neck for her to tickle his head, his bright, beady eyes half closed in delight.

‘He remembers me.’ Grace was almost reduced to tears by the bird’s faithfulness. ‘I thought he would have forgotten me by now,’ she said thickly, fighting back the weakening emotion as she stroked the beautiful silky feathers.

‘You are not easily forgotten.’ Donato’s voice was low and pitched only for her ears but the hypocrisy hit her as though he had shouted the words, and when she spun round to glare at him hot colour stained her cheeks scarlet. He had been silent for twelve months, not a phone call, a letter, not even a brief postcard, and now he dared to say she was not easily forgotten?

‘How is Maria these days?’ she asked tightly, as though the question was a natural follow-on to his comment—which to her it was. Maria Fasola: young, beautiful, family friend...and Donato’s mistress. ‘Well, I hope?’ she added grimly before he could speak.

‘As far as I know.’ He looked at her expressionlessly, his eyes veiled and dark. ‘Is there any reason why she shouldn’t be?’

‘None at all.’ Her voice was cold and she was about to say more when she noticed Lorenzo’s puzzled gaze as he glanced towards them, obviously unsure of what exactly was being said. ‘And I need not ask if Benito is well, need I?’ she asked the small boy, forcing a playful note into her voice. ‘He looks enormous, Lorenzo; I’m sure he has grown several inches since I saw him last.’

‘It is because he is fluffing out his feathers, Grace.’ The young voice was very earnest; Benito was his pride and joy and could do no wrong. ‘He is not fat.’

‘Grace! Grace!’ The irrepressible bird screeched her name noisily. ‘Donato and Grace!’

‘All right—That is enough!’ Donato waved a finger at the parrot who stared back at him cheekily, head on one side as he considered how far he dared go.

‘Enough! Enough!’ he mimicked wickedly. ‘Naughty Benito! Bad bird! Scusi, scusi.’

Grace saw Donato close his eyes for one infinitesimal moment and turned away to hide a smile. The autocratic head of the Vittoria empire might control his family and those about him with a rod of iron, his power and influence absolute and unquestioned, but in a battle of wills with Benito the parrot won every time. He was a definite thorn in Donato’s flesh and she couldn’t help admiring the bird’s intrepid spirit.

‘Come, you must refresh yourself and then Anna will serve lunch.’ Donato took her arm as he spoke, but before she allowed him to lead her back into the house she promised Lorenzo she would be back shortly as the small boy raised an anxious face to hers.

‘Grace?’ he called after her, his thin voice high. ‘You are not leaving again? You are staying at Casa Pontina now?’

She felt Donato stiffen at her side and turned slowly, not knowing how to reply, but then the little white face in front of her caught at her heartstrings and her well-laid plan of escape after three days blurred and softened. She knew how it felt when everything that was normal was whipped out from under your feet, and Lorenzo was a sensitive child, very loving and given to deep emotion. Although he was as close to Donato as the difference in their ages allowed, he needed the warmth and understanding of a motherly heart at this time, she thought rapidly.

Admittedly there were the female servants—Cecilia, the elderly cook, and Anna and Gina, the two young maids—and also the capable tutor Donato employed for his brother’s education, who came to the villa for several hours each day Monday to Friday, but Lorenzo was not close to them and, being a Vittoria, had been taught to maintain a stiff upper lip at all times.

The small boy’s love and devotion at the time of Paolo’s death had been an enormous comfort to her, and now she could do something for him when he needed her most, she reasoned painfully. All she wanted to do was to leave Casa Pontina and the memories of this past life and return to England as fast as she could, but she couldn’t abandon Lorenzo now.

In a few weeks, less even, the harsh shock of his mother’s death would begin to fade and the mercurial resilience of all children would come into play. This was the important time, the crucial time that might shape his personality for good or ill; she could spare him a few weeks of her life, surely? But could she stand being so close to Donato? She took a deep breath and smiled at the little face watching her so closely. She had no choice, as Donato had known all along.

‘I have a home in England now, Lorenzo, but I am going to stay with you until you are feeling better and don’t need me any more. Is that all right?’ she asked softly, knowing she had done the only thing possible when the small face relaxed and the look of panic and dumb confusion left the big dark eyes.

‘Sì.’ He nodded slowly before suddenly running to her, flinging his arms round her middle and hugging her tight, only to leave the room in a mad scamper, head downwards, to hide his tears of relief.

‘So...’ Donato stood with her, looking after the small figure as it disappeared. ‘This is not what you envisaged.’

‘No, no, it isn’t.’ His cool, controlled voice grated on her nerve-endings like barbed wire and she raised shadowed eyes to his. He had known what he was doing when he had sent that telegram, she thought bitterly, known her love and respect for his mother would force her to make the journey to Italy in spite of their failed marriage, and that once here she wouldn’t turn her back on Lorenzo’s plight.

He hadn’t bothered about her for months, had continued quite happily with his life here and all it held—an image of Maria’s lithe, sleek figure flashed into her mind and she dismissed it abruptly—and then when he needed to use her, and ‘use’ was the right word, she told herself with acid resentment, had had no compunction about turning her life upside down for a second time.

She saw that the dark gaze had seen into her mind and now Donato shrugged slowly, his voice low. ‘I cannot help the love he has for you, Grace; it has always been so.’

And you? You once loved me too, she thought with a pain that shocked her. Before it all went wrong, before the death of our child drove me nearly insane and you into the arms of another woman.

Oh, she shouldn’t have come. She turned from him, tears pricking at the back of her eyes with burning ferocity. She should have forgotten Liliana, Lorenzo, all of them, should have stayed in England where the nights were cool and the days humdrum and nothing disturbed her peace of mind.

‘Grace, I know this is hard for you—’

‘Don’t touch me!’ As he reached out to her she sprang back with a suddenness that surprised them both, her voice shrill and defensive. ‘Don’t you dare touch me, Donato. I’ve said I’ll stay for a few weeks until Lorenzo is feeling better but that doesn’t give you the right to maul me about.’

‘Maul you?’ He was utterly outraged, his big, muscular body taut and rigid and his handsome face black with fury. ‘I have never mauled a woman in my life,’ he said grimly.

‘Of course not,’ she agreed with icy sarcasm. ‘They just fall at your feet all by themselves.’ Like Maria. She didn’t want to feel such anger; she’d thought she had come through the fire of desolation and betrayal and had finally put it behind her, but since the first moment she had seen him again her vulnerability where this man was concerned had hit her as strongly as ever and it frightened her—frightened her more than she could say. ‘It amazes you, does it, that any woman could resist your fatal charm?’ It was a cheap jibe but she couldn’t help it; any defence was better than none.

His eyes continued to hold hers for one more long moment and then she saw him take a deep pull of air as he shook his head slowly. ‘You used to conduct yourself with refinement and charm,’ he said tightly. ‘What has happened to you that you have become so uncivilised?’

She heard the words as though in a vacuum, the sheer audacity of them failing to register for a few seconds, but when they did her hand shot out to connect with the hard, tanned skin of his face in a resounding slap that actually echoed in the room. ‘You can ask me that?’ she hissed furiously, her hand drawing back to strike again, but this time his fingers shot out to entrap her wrist in a steel hold that was bruising.

‘Yes, I can ask you that,’ he rasped, his eyes dangerous and the imprint of her hand beginning to stain the brown skin red. ‘I have every right to ask you to explain yourself; I am your husband.’

‘Not any more—’

‘The courts would disagree with you,’ he said harshly. ‘You are my wife, Grace, legally and before God. There has been no divorce; the marriage contract still stands.’

‘Not in my eyes.’ She was panting hard, her slim fairness overshadowed by his dark maleness as he held her fast. ‘You might be my husband by contract but that is all, and without love our marriage certificate becomes just a piece of paper.’

‘That is a very convenient line of thought but one that is totally without foundation,’ he said icily, ‘as you well know. Legally—’

‘I don’t care about “legally”, Donato,’ she ground out slowly, punctuating each word with a significant pause. ‘Do you understand that? I don’t care—about our marriage, you, all of this.’

‘No?’ Now he drew her closer, his hold on her intimidating rather than restraining. ‘But I think this is not altogether the truth, mia piccola,’ he said with a dangerous softness, ‘and I also think you are trying to convince yourself rather than me.’

‘Let go of me!’ He had both her wrists in his hand now, holding them against the hard-muscled wall of his chest as he fitted her against him, his other hand in the small of her back. She had always been tiny against the hard male breadth and height of him and she knew it was useless to struggle; nevertheless that was exactly what she did do as his dark head lowered to take her lips.

He growled softly, the sound impatient as she postponed the inevitable, and then his mouth covered hers, plundering the sweetness within as he urged her even closer against the hard frame of his body. She fought—for long seconds she fought, even more so when the realisation that his familiar touch and smell were evoking feelings she could well have done without dawned on her consciousness, but eventually she became still, knowing that she couldn’t win. She would never win against Donato.

When she had left the Vittoria mansion twelve months ago the same knowledge had had her pale-faced and shaking as Liliana had clung to her, the older woman’s normally proud and composed face awash with tears as she had begged her daughter-in-law to wait before asking Donato for the divorce Grace had said was inevitable.

‘Why? Why now, Grace?’ Liliana had wept, holding the younger woman close to her as they had waited for the taxi Grace had ordered. ‘He loves you—I know this, I know it. Please, for my sake, do not be hasty. Give yourself some time apart but do not be hasty.’

But as much as she loved Liliana Grace couldn’t tell her what she had learnt only that morning—of Donato’s affair with Maria; she had felt too raw, too humiliated at the time. Later she had regretted it, knowing that Donato would have covered his tracks well and that his mother would have been forced to think that she had ended the marriage on a whim, but by then she had made a new life in England and had believed there was always the chance, some time in the future, to put the record straight with Liliana. But ‘some time’ had never come.

She remembered Liliana’s last words to her before the taxi had taken her away. ‘This is all a mistake, my dear, and one day you will see it. You have suffered, I know how you have suffered, but Paolo was part of both of you; let your grieving pull you closer together. I shall say to Donato you want time to heal; that is all.’

But it hadn’t been her anguish over the death of her child that had driven her from her home and there had been a mistake all right—a great colossal giant of a mistake—and Donato had made it—with Maria. She had crept away that morning a year ago like a small, beaten animal seeking solace in a hole, unable to face another confrontation with Donato and leaving a letter to explain that she had discovered his affair with Maria.

But that had been then. Now she was a year older and a year wiser and more importantly she had survived a year without him; she had become autonomous—something she had thought impossible only months before.

The knowledge brought her senses fully alert, jerking her away from the edge of pleasure his lovemaking had taken her to, and now he let her move from him, his eyes narrowed as she faced him like a small, spitting tabby cat preparing to do battle with a vastly superior wild black panther.

‘If you try that again, or anything like it, I’m leaving here regardless of Lorenzo or anyone else. Is that clear?’ she spat with all the fury in her heart. ‘I came back for Liliana’s funeral, and only that, and if your ego can’t cope with that truth then I’ll get on the next plane home.’

“Oh, I think my ego can survive—just,’ he drawled grimly, ‘in spite of being pierced through.’

For a strange moment she thought there was an inflexion in his voice that spoke of pain, misery even, but the hard, handsome face was as implacable as always when her eyes searched the sculptured features. Nevertheless the brief second of uncertainty was enough to drain her rage and leave her pale and shaking as she fought for control, her red-gold curls throwing her pallor into even more stark relief.

How could people end up like this? How could they, she asked herself tensely, when they had shared the intimacies of marriage, the birth of a child? Oh, Paolo, Paolo.

‘I loved him too; you know.’ It was as though she had spoken her thoughts out loud and she started violently as Donato’s deep voice cut into her pain, but she could read nothing from his dark face. What was he thinking—really thinking? she asked herself wildly as she stared into the beautiful dark eyes that were like liquid onyx.

Once she had been able to tell, even teasing him on occasion that he could fool everyone else but her with his cold ice-man image, but now? Now she didn’t know—didn’t want to know, she qualified fiercely. If she didn’t let him get near her again he couldn’t hurt her again. Simple. What wasn’t so simple was the seductive need his touch had induced, the sweet, potent ache between her legs and the ripening of her breasts from their contact against his hard chest. But that was physical, just an instinctive response of her body to his as it had recognised the feel and taste of him, and as such it could be controlled. It could.

‘I know you loved Paolo, Donato.’ She didn’t try to prevaricate but it was only as she spoke her son’s name that she realised she had come a long way from the first devastating weeks of grief. Then the sound of his name had been like a sword piercing her through; now it produced a sad, tender yearning but without the raw, blinding pain. ‘We both did; we always will.’

‘Then for his sake could we not try to make the next few weeks as easy as possible?’ Donato asked quietly. ‘You have seen how things are with Lorenzo, you acknowledge he needs you here?’ She nodded silently. Yes, she could see the heartbroken little boy needed unconditional love and companionship in the immediate future. ‘Bianca has offered to take him into her home for the time being but he does not want that and I agree it would not be good for him. He needs to be in his own home, with things familiar. Benito for one,’ he added wryly.

She nodded again, guessing rightly that Bianca had refused to take the parrot; the two had always loathed each other but Benito’s dislike took the form of a verbal assault whenever Bianca was present, and although it was impossible it always seemed that Benito had planned exactly what he was going to say for maximum effect, proving himself a worthy adversary against Bianca’s caustic tongue. Perversely, the parrot adored Romano, Bianca’s husband, screeching with delight whenever he saw him and nuzzling his hand when Romano stroked him.

‘I shall need to let the surgery know as soon as possible,’ she said stiffly. ‘They may need to find a replacement.’

‘Oh, I’m sure they will keep the position open for you.’ His tone was smooth, but with that edge running underneath which she had recognised before. She ignored it; her nerves were shot to pieces as it was and she really couldn’t take much more. ‘Would you like to telephone now?’ he asked with suspect helpfulness.

‘I... Yes, I suppose I could.’ She stared at him warily. ‘Or after lunch; there’s no rush.’

‘There is also no time like the present; is that not what you English say?’ He smiled, but it didn’t reach the ebony eyes. ‘Use the phone in my study; you will not be interrupted there.’

He took her arm as he spoke, moving her out of the room and into the lower hall before she could reply, and although she wanted to speak the touch of his fingers was burning her through her thin cotton blouse and the delicious smell of him was sending all lucid thought from her head.

Why, oh, why did he have to affect her like this? she asked herself angrily as she trotted along at his side into the main part of the house. She didn’t want it—in the circumstances nothing could be more humiliating—so why did her senses go into overdrive at no more than a lift of those sardonic black eyebrows? It was over, finished. Her brain knew that, so why wasn’t it sending the message to her hormones? she thought testily.

‘Here we are.’ He opened the door to his study, standing aside for her to enter first with his normal courtesy and then following her into the room, shutting the door carefully behind him.

‘Would you like me to get the number for you?’ he asked silkily, walking across the beautifully furnished room to his large, gleaming walnut desk and picking up the phone before she could demur, his face impassive.

She stared at him, a little taken back without knowing why, but feeling even more certain that there was something running under the cool, controlled façade that was anything but cool and controlled. Following her into the room for what was obviously a private phone call was not Donato’s style; his manners were always impeccable, his good breeding absolute.

But perhaps he was merely trying to be helpful? she thought quickly. Especially after their conversation about compromise? ‘Thank you.’ She gave the number and then took the phone a few moments later when he spoke her name, his voice flat. After settling herself in the chair opposite his desk she hesitated, expecting he would now leave, but instead he strolled lazily to his own chair, seating himself without a word.

She was now positioned so that he was directly facing her across the polished expanse of wood, and he was making no effort to glance at any of the papers on his desk, his eyes tight on her flushed face as she began to speak.

‘Hello, Claire, is that you?’ she began hesitantly, annoyed to find he was making her nervous. ‘It’s Grace.’

‘Grace?’ Claire’s voice mirrored her concern and Grace felt warmed by her friend’s solicitude. They had only known each other for the last four months, Claire having come to work at the surgery following a long spell in hospital after a severe road accident, but the two of them had immediately hit it off. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day. How’s it going?’

‘OK.’ She took a deep breath and tried to clear her thoughts, which were gluing together under the rapier-sharp gaze across the desk. ‘But I’m going to need to stay in Italy longer than I thought,’ she said carefully.

‘You are?’ Now the anxiety was transparent. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you? I mean, I know it must be terribly difficult with the funeral and Donato and everything, but there’s nothing more?’

‘Don’t worry, Claire, I’m fine.’ She would have loved to unburden herself to this friend whom she had only known a short time but to whom she had been able to confide all the pain of the past and fears of the future, but with the dark presence across the desk freezing the air all around her it was most definitely not the time. ‘I’ll give you a ring once the funeral is over and we can talk properly, but I just thought I ought to let everyone know I shall be away a few weeks.’

‘I see. Hang on a mo and I’ll put you through to Jim; he left a message that he wanted to speak to you if you rang at any time.’ Claire paused before adding, ‘Take care, Grace, and don’t forget I’m here for you.’

‘I won’t; thank you, Claire.’ As the phone clicked she felt a moment’s surprise at Jim asking for her, and then told herself she should have expected it. Jim had joined the team of doctors at the same time that she had returned to England, and the fact that they were two newcomers had produced a certain affinity between them.

Jim was a mild-mannered, patient kind of individual, well suited to his chosen profession, and with her emotions still raw from Donato’s betrayal, coming as it had so swiftly after the horror of Paolo’s death, she had been grateful for his calm, placid friendship as she had struggled to take up the reins of her new life.

Grace had no immediate relations in England, having been brought up in a children’s home from the age of five, when her parents had been killed in a car accident, and all Jim’s family were in Scotland, so the two of them had got into the habit of eating together most evenings before they went home to their respective flats.

When Claire had joined the surgery she had accompanied them on occasion, as well as introducing Grace to her parents and friends, but Jim had still maintained a watchful, fatherly attitude towards her which she had thought rather touching considering he was only a few years older than her.

‘There is a problem?’ She looked up to find the brilliant dark eyes hard on hers.

‘No.’ She forced a smile. ‘I’m just waiting to be put through; I suppose there is someone with him at the moment.’

‘Him?’ Donato questioned softly.

‘Jim Penn.’ She flushed as she said the name although she wasn’t at all sure why, but there was something at the back of Donato’s glittering gaze that was unnerving. ‘He had left a message that he wanted to speak to me if I rang.’

‘How...thoughtful.’

The tone of his voice brought her eyes sharply to his but then Jim’s Scottish burr sounded down the line and she forced herself to concentrate on the disembodied voice.

‘Grace? What’s happening, girl?’ he asked loudly, concern in every syllable. She had confided the bare facts of her abrupt arrival back in England to Jim, and when the telegram had arrived he had been dead set against her returning to Italy for the funeral.

‘I’m at the Vittoria villa, Jim.’ She paused, vitally aware of the big body opposite her which dominated the masculine room. ‘And I shan’t be returning as quickly as planned so I thought I’d better let you know. I shall be staying in Italy for a few weeks.’

‘Why?’ The word was harsh and immediate and so unlike Jim’s normal mode of speech that she blinked before replying.

‘I...It’s Lorenzo—you know, the little boy?’ she said carefully. ‘He’s very upset and he needs me. It’ll be for a while, Jim, so if you and the others think it would be better to find someone else to take my place—’

‘There is no question of that.’ He sounded very definite and again she blinked, wondering if it was indeed sedate, unemotional Jim at the other end of the phone or if an alien had taken his place while she had been away. ‘Your job will be kept open for you as long as it’s necessary,’ he added in a softer tone.

‘That’s very good of you.’ She wondered if she should ask him to confirm such a statement with the other doctors but decided against it; this new Jim was less approachable than the old one and she wasn’t sure how he would take such a request.

‘No, it isn’t,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s the least we can do. I... We miss you, Grace. The surgery isn’t the same without your fairy footsteps bobbing about.’

There was an urgency in his tone that threw her for a moment and her laugh was forced before she said lightly, ‘They aren’t very fairy-like at the moment; I’m exhausted.’

‘How are things?’ he asked immediately, and again that throb in the Scottish burr made her flush.

‘Everyone is holding up very well.’ There was no movement from Donato, not a whisper of sound, but she could almost taste the dark waves flowing from his hard frame. ‘I’d better go, Jim; this call must be costing a fortune. I just wanted to let you all know as soon as I could. You couldn’t ask Claire to go and see my landlady and explain everything, could you?’ she asked carefully. ‘I wouldn’t like her to think I’m not coming back.’

‘Don’t worry about that side of things; I’ll sort it out,’ Jim said quickly. ‘I’ll go and see her and arrange to let her have a cheque at the end of the month.’

‘Oh, there’s no need for that; I can send her a cheque from here—’ Grace began, but he interrupted her, his voice brisk.

‘I’ll see to it, Grace; I’d like to. You can settle up with me when you’re home.’ There was a faint emphasis on the last word and again she flushed; the note of possessiveness in his voice had never been there before and she was sure she wasn’t imagining it.

‘All right, thank you.’ She hesitated a moment and then said, ‘Goodbye, then.’

‘Goodbye, Grace. Take care, won’t you? And...and don’t stand any nonsense,’ he said thickly and surprisingly.

‘I... No. Right, then, I’d better go...’ She was flustered now and it showed, and there was a moment of heavy brittle silence when she replaced the receiver before she could nerve herself to raise her eyes to Donato. The black gaze was waiting for her as she had known it would be.

‘Your...friend did not want you to come here?’ The words were soft and silky and deadly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ She had heard him perfectly well but needed time to collect her thoughts after the amazing phone call, during which she had seen a side to Jim she had never seen before.

‘He thought you should stay tucked away in safe little England with the ram and the wind and the number ten bus?’ Donato asked cuttingly, his voice vitriolic and his face set in pure unyielding granite.

He was jealous. The knowledge brought her eyes wide open for a split second before a surge of anger tightened her lips and raised her small chin. He didn’t want her, he had made that patently clear by his silence over the last twelve months, but he didn’t want anyone else to have her either! The Vittoria ‘ownership’ trait in full sail. But to be jealous of Jim—Jim of all people.

And then she remembered the timbre of Jim’s voice during the call and found herself flushing with shock. But she had never indicated to Jim, by word or deed, that there was anything more between them than friendship—never; the mere thought of more made her cringe. Jim was like the big brother she’d never had, a steady, dependable rock; if she’d thought for a second he wanted more...

Donato’s hard gaze slashed over her hot face and his voice was even softer when he said, ‘So? You have not answered my question.’ He folded his arms across his broad chest as he spoke.

‘Because it’s irrelevant,’ she said tightly, with bitter resentment.

‘I think not.’ He smiled, but it was a mere twisting of his lips, his eyes icy. ‘I asked you if he advised you not to come. That is a simple enough question, is it not?’

‘It’s nothing to do with anyone else what I do or don’t do,’ she said fiercely. ‘I make up my own mind; I won’t have it made up for me. Is that a simple enough answer?’

‘It will do.’ He rose so suddenly that she flinched before she could control the gesture. ‘Come, I will take you to your room,’ he said arrogantly. ‘You would like your lunch there?’ he continued as he walked to the door. ‘In view of your...exhaustion?’

The brief pause before the last word was meant to intimidate but she ignored the allusion to her conversation with Jim and smiled coolly, willing herself to sound distant and aloof as she said, ‘Thank you, that would be nice.’

Nice? It would be heaven, she thought weakly, preceding Donato out of the room on legs that were distinctly shaky. An hour or two to compose herself before she faced him again seemed like an oasis in the desert right at this moment, and she still had the hurdle of Bianca to overcome as well as the numerous relatives who would be sure to attend the funeral.

When she had first come to Casa Pontina five years ago as a shy and nervous eighteen-year-old she had thought the beautiful old house stretched for miles, and something of that feeling returned now as they walked along the high, elegant hall to the wide, gracious staircase that curved to the upper floor.

Besides the servants’ ample quarters, which were situated beyond the kitchens on the ground floor, there were six massive bedrooms in all, complete with en suite bathrooms, but when Donato had asked her to marry him two months after their first meeting he had ordered the immediate construction of a new wing to the building. The extension comprised a huge fitted kitchen, high-ceilinged dining room and two reception rooms, and four large bedrooms with bathrooms en suite upstairs.

There was no doubt the resulting addition was both aesthetically pleasing and unashamedly luxurious, but it was the fact that it was exclusively theirs that Donato had revelled in, although she had felt apprehensive and worried that Liliana in particular would feel rebuffed by Donato’s move from the main house.

She had been at Casa Pontina one Sunday afternoon just a few weeks before the wedding day when furnishings for her new home were being discussed, and something in her face must have told Romano, who was sitting opposite her at the dining table, how she was feeling.

‘Grace?’ He had sought her out after tea, which was unusual, taking her to one side and speaking quietly as he had looked down at her from his considerable height. ‘You feel uncomfortable about your new home, sì?’

‘Oh, I love it, I do love it,’ she said hastily, ‘and I can’t wait to live there.’ She blushed furiously at this point but he pretended not to notice. ‘It’s just that I don’t want Liliana to think we don’t want to be with her. It’s not that, really.’

‘You have told Donato this?’ Romano asked gravely.

‘Yes, and he said not to worry, that Liliana is happy about the arrangement. The thing is...’ She hesitated, feeling a bit silly. ‘I don’t want Donato to think I don’t want to live there so I haven’t really said anything else.’

‘Grace, I have known Liliana all my life, Donato and I have been friends since we were babies, so perhaps you would not think me presumptuous if I spoke to you on this matter?’ Romano asked quietly, smiling his rare smile as she shook her head quickly.

‘She is very happy that Donato has found you, and even more so that you are everything she would have liked in a daughter-in-law; I know this. She understands her son perfectly and feels it is right and proper that he wishes to be alone with you in his own domain; she even suggested that it might be time for her to move elsewhere. She feels a young married couple need time alone and she is right. This arrangement, therefore, is one that she is in complete harmony with, be assured on that, and also that she cares a great deal for you.’

‘Does she?’ Grace had no idea how her face had lit up at his words.

‘Indeed she does,’ Romano said gently. ‘In Liliana’s eyes she is mostly definitely gaining a daughter rather than losing a son; on this have no doubt.’

‘Thank you, Romano.’ She had smiled at him as she had spoken and he bowed slightly in acknowledgement, the action very Latin. It wasn’t the first time she had wondered how someone like Romano had come to be married to a petulant, attention-seeking woman like Bianca, but as before she dismissed the thought quickly, feeling faintly guilty to be thinking about Donato’s sister along those lines.

Romano’s words that day were just the reassurance she needed, and she got even closer to Liliana in the next few weeks as a result of them, her mind having been put completely at rest as to what Donato’s mother thought of her.

She told Donato what his friend had said when he drove her home that same night, and he nodded in agreement. ‘Madre is thrilled you have consented to be my wife; they are all thrilled, but it would not have mattered if I had not had one other person who approved of our match, my love. From the first moment I set eyes on you I knew you would be mine, I knew it; nothing could have kept us apart. You are my destiny, as I am yours; I am going to love you as no other woman has ever been loved before.’

And he had—oh, he had... Her eyes flickered now as she remembered how wildly passionate he was—something she had only fully appreciated on their wedding night, which had also been her nineteenth birthday, when the restraint he had employed during their courtship had blazed into a raging fire that had both thrilled and frightened her with its intensity.

Nevertheless, in the taking of her virginity he had also taken her to the heights, into an experience where she was pure sensation, liquid and mindless and wholly his. He had been the perfect lover, her ecstasy his ecstasy, her pleasure his first concern, and there had been times when their union had left them both stunned and shaking as they had slowly returned from the world of colour and light and exquisite richness that their lovemaking had taken them into.

But that time was over, dead, finished, slashed into oblivion by his infidelity, and now, as Donato passed the staircase and walked to the heavy carved oak door that led to the separate wing of the house, Grace caught at his arm, her voice taut. ‘You don’t expect me to stay in Bambina Pontina?’ she asked sharply, unconsciously using the nickname they had christened their home with in the early days.

‘Of course.’ She could feel the muscled strength in his arm beneath her fingers but he was completely still as he glanced down at her small, dainty hand on his body before raising his eyes to her face. ‘It is your home,’ he said flatly.

‘It was.’ She could hear the panic in her voice and forced it back as she continued, ‘“Was” being the operative word. I’ve no intention of staying anywhere but in the main house.’

‘Grace...’ Her name was said with deep exasperation and he closed his eyes for a moment before shaking his head slowly. ‘Are you going to continue to defy me at every turn? Is this to be my punishment while you remain at Casa Pontina?’

‘I’m not defying you...well, I am, but not just for the sake of it,’ she amended quickly, agitation evident in every line of her slim body and stiffly held head. ‘I want to stay in the main house, that’s all,’ she said firmly, taking a step backwards away from him.

‘I see.’ He surveyed her for a moment from dark, hooded eyes before continuing, ‘And the fact that all your clothes and belongings are as you left them in Bambina Pontina—your books, your records and tapes and so on—this does not mean it makes sense that you should stay there? You have your own sitting room, your own quarters—’

‘Donato—’

‘And your own bedroom, of course,’ he continued smoothly, his face expressionless. ‘I moved out of our bedroom shortly after it became apparent you did not intend to return immediately.’

‘Shortly after...’ Her voice trailed away as she stared at him in utter amazement. Her letter had been nothing if not succinct; she couldn’t have been more explicit about her non-return.

‘So you are quite safe, you understand?’ His eyes were mocking now, scornful of her unease. ‘I have not yet become so desperate for a woman that I have taken one against her will.’

‘I didn’t imagine you would do that,’ she snapped back quickly, angry that he had sensed her apprehension and wishing she hadn’t started the conversation. She couldn’t quite explain her reluctance to stay in their old quarters; it wasn’t that she imagined he would force himself on her—the mere thought of Donato Vittoria behaving in such an ill-bred way was absurd. It was more...more herself she feared.

The thought was shocking and brought her head bolt upright as she faced him, her deep blue eyes dark with confusion and her red-gold hair a blaze of silky fire. She didn’t want to feel attracted to him, to acknowledge that dangerous magnetism he exuded as naturally as breathing, not after the way he had betrayed her with Maria, but...

But nothing, she told herself with bitter self-contempt at her weakness. He was a man possessed of great charisma and power—from the first time she had met him she had seen women go down before that fascinating and indefinable charm like ninepins—but she wasn’t the kind of wife to tolerate liaisons and affairs and what he had done once he could do again. Why was she even thinking like this? she asked herself with very real amazement. There was no question that she would ever put herself in the position where he could betray her again—none.

‘So...’ He had been watching the play of emotions over her face with piercing interest although the ebony eyes were hooded and veiled. ‘There is no logical reason for you to refuse the privacy and comfort of Bambina Pontina, is there? And it will be reassuring for Lorenzo for life to resume some normality, if only for a short time,’ he finished smoothly.

‘I...’

She stared at him as her mind raced. She didn’t want to stay in their old home, not for an hour, a minute, but to admit she feared even the slightest intimacy with him would give that over-sized ego a massive boost. She needed to convince him, and herself, that she was immune to his charm and she would, even if it killed her, she told herself with gritted teeth before nodding tightly.

‘I suppose so. I’ve only brought a few clothes with me so it will be convenient to use the ones I left. I presume they are still in the wardrobe?’ she asked quietly, forcing herself to show no reaction to his touch when he took her arm and walked her over to the door leading to the wing.

‘Of course.’ He sounded almost shocked, she thought grimly. It was clearly all right to cheat on your wife but not to dispose of her belongings. ‘Nothing has been touched.’

Her heart began to thump as Donato opened the door and she stepped into the wide, cream-painted hall she had never expected to see again, the beautiful mosaic tiles beneath her feet and the collection of unglazed, lacy-patterned pottery plates on one wall achingly familiar.

‘Welcome home, Grace.’ His voice was soft and husky and his lips had brushed hers before she could protest, their touch igniting a small flame she strove to hide with harshness.

‘I told you not to do that.’ She glared at him, her cheeks fiery and her breathing shallow. ‘I told you.’

‘So you did.’ He straightened, smiling 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 held her for one moment more, his face working with dark emotion, before turning abruptly aside and moving to stand with his hands resting on the thick stone wall of the balcony, his back bent and his arms outstretched. ‘Never, ever have I met such a perverse woman,’ he muttered furiously, his head bent downwards.

‘I find that hard to believe.’ Her voice wasn’t as tart as she would have liked it to be, those few seconds of being held close enough to breathe in the delicious smell of him and to feel that big, powerful body having started a reaction in her traitorous limbs she could well have done without.

She watched him take a long, hard pull of air before straightening slowly and turning to face her, his eyes hooded now and his face cold. ‘I will order another tray to be sent up and this time you will eat,’ he said slowly. ‘You understand? Dinner will not be until eight and I do not want you feeling faint; you are too thin as it is.’

‘Too thin?’ She bitterly resented the criticism and glared at him, her blue eyes sparking. He preferred Maria’s rounded curves, did he? Full-blown voluptuousness? Well, that was just too bad. ‘My weight is perfectly adequate for my height, actually,’ she said tightly, ‘and I haven’t had any complaints so far.’

Why she added that last bit she didn’t know but he certainly didn’t like it, she thought with great satisfaction as the ebony eyes iced over and his mouth thinned. How dared he? How dared he compare her with that woman?

‘Is that so?’ His voice was silky-soft but with a dangerous edge that warned her she had better say no more. ‘And what exactly does that mean, mia piccola?’ The old endearment was chilling. ‘Would you care to elaborate on that enigmatic statement?’

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