‘You are my wife …’ Pietro’s shadowed eyes met hers head-on, no trace of doubt or hesitation in his confident stare, though the heavy lids did droop down, hiding their expression behind long, thick lashes.

‘Soon to be ex,’ Marina reminded him, not allowing herself to be intimidated by his merciless scrutiny.

Oh, he hadn’t liked that. It was obvious from the sudden flare of something dangerous in the depths of his eyes. But he was no longer dealing with the amazed and overwhelmed girl he had married, the one who had been too naïve to see him for what he really was. She’d done a lot of growing up in the past couple of years.

‘You are my wife,’ he repeated. ‘And as such you will be given what is due to you.’

Well, that was a double-edged comment if ever there was one. But which way was she supposed to take it? Marina wondered. As a promise of fair play or a threat of retribution?

‘But first there are a couple of conditions.’

About the Author

KATE WALKER was born in Nottinghamshire, but as she grew up in Yorkshire she has always felt that her roots are there. She met her husband at university, and originally worked as a children’s librarian, but after the birth of her son she returned to her old childhood love of writing. When she’s not working, she divides her time between her family, their three cats, and her interests of embroidery, antiques, film and theatre, and, of course, reading.

You can visit Kate at www.kate-walker.com:

THE PROUD WIFE

KATE WALKER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE letter lay exactly where he had left it last night, right in the centre of his desk. The single sheet of paper was aligned carefully square in the centre of the piece of polished oak, straight in front of his chair where it could not possibly be missed. All it needed was his signature and it would be folded neatly, placed in the already-addressed envelope and sent on its way.

After that there would be no turning back.

But until he made the final move, added the swift, determined scrawl of his signature—the work of just a couple of seconds—nothing at all would happen. It would just lie there, untouched, until he was ready.

Of course it would, Pietro told himself, his mouth twisting wryly at the corners. He hadn’t spent almost half his lifetime building up the sort of retinue of employees that any man would envy not to have things that way: staff who would not only obey his every command but anticipate it perfectly, knowing exactly what he wanted and when. They would remain poised, waiting, until he gave the word to act. Then—and only then—would they carry out his instructions to the peak of perfection. It was something he had come to expect so much that he no longer even noticed it, only coming up against the system that created it when something went wrong—which happened so rarely that he couldn’t actually recall the last time it had ever ruffled the controlled surface of his world.

He would never allow it to happen: lack of control, wildness of emotion, brought confusion and chaos with it. Confusion and chaos of the sort that he never, ever wanted to experience again.

‘Dannazione!’

The curse was torn from him, the flat of his hand slamming down on the polished surface of his desk so that the letter lifted slightly in the air current it created, fluttered, shifted and landed back down again an inch or two to the left before lying still again.

He had known the sort of chaos that could be created by lack of control. Once, just once, he had been fool enough to let that sort of wildness invade his life and take with it the organisation and rule of rational thought he valued so deeply. He had loosened his grip on the reins and lost control. And he had hated the results.

Just once had been enough.

Just once—never again—and it had all been because of this woman.

His dark, brooding look fixed on the letter-heading once again and his fingers clenched, itching to grab the sheet of paper and crush it in his grip, giving in to the heavy pounding of dark anger through the blood in his veins.

Dear Ms Emerson …

That wasn’t her true name, of course, but he’d be damned if he’d let his secretary put ‘Dear Principessa D’Inzeo’, or worse, ‘Dear Marina’. Never mind the fact that she was entitled to both names, or that they would stick in his throat if he tried to say them. He hated the thought that his family name was attached to a woman who had given up on their marriage after less than a year and walked out without so much as a backward glance.

Just the thought of her name triggered a rush of images of the voluptuous, red-headed spitfire he’d met when her car had dealt his a glancing blow on an icy London street. The impact of her curvaceous body, green, slightly slanting cat-like eyes and that glorious mane of hair had been immediate. He’d lingered over exchanging insurance details until she had agreed to have a drink with him to finalise things. The drink had turned into dinner and she had never moved out of his life again.

Until after they were married.

Their short-lived marriage had been a total, wretched failure, an ugly spot on his conscience for too long. The searing heat of their hunger for each other had had to burn itself out, but he had never expected it to crash and burn quite so badly—or that the new life he had thought he was going to welcome into the world would in fact be the death of everything he had imagined would be in his future.

It was also appallingly messy, some unfinished business that needed sorting out with everything signed, sealed and made official. Which was the point of the letter.

Pietro paused, raking both hands through his black hair as his blue eyes stared down at the neatly typed letter on the desk surface so intently that the words blurred, becoming totally indistinct. This was what he wanted: freedom from the woman who had turned his life upside down but had never loved him. The chance to slam the door closed on a bitter part of his past, to turn his back on it and walk firmly away, heading out into the future. So what the hell was he doing hesitating, considering … even debating? Why didn’t he just sign and send the letter on its way?

He didn’t even give himself time to consider the thought. He wanted this over. Done. Finished with, once and for all.

Reaching out, he snatched up the silver pen that had been lying beside the paper ready for this moment and clicked it open with a firm, decisive movement. This ended now; he was taking his freedom back.

It was the work of just a few seconds to scrawl his signature at the bottom of the page, underlining it with a fierce, hard slash that almost ripped through the page.

It was done—and not before time.

Then in an abrupt change of mood he picked up the letter and folded it carefully, matching the corners with cool precision before sliding it into the envelope that his PA had prepared. The ordinary post wouldn’t do.

‘Maria!’ He lifted his voice so that it carried into the other room, the clear tones strong with conviction. ‘Arrange to have this couriered to the address on the envelope, please. I want to make sure it gets there as quickly as possible.’

He wanted to make sure it was put right into Marina’s hands so that there was no mistake. He would know that she had received it and that he could finally start to move forward with his life.

His soon-to-be ex-wife would have the freedom to get on with hers too—something he was sure that she wanted every bit as much as he did.

The letter lay exactly where she had left it last night, right in the centre of the kitchen table. The single sheet of paper was aligned carefully square, in the centre of the scarred and worn pine, straight in front of her chair where it could not possibly be missed.

Marina knew that she should read it again, read and absorb it this time. Not skim through the neatly typed paragraphs in a shaken rush, unable to take in exactly what it actually said, only getting a rough and very shocked impression of just what Pietro had written.

When the courier had brought the letter to her door last night, she had been so stunned to see her estranged husband’s name on any communication that she had found it impossible to actually focus on the letter. The words had danced before her eyes, blurring into one dark shadow as she struggled to take in their meaning. And it had been little better when she had gone back to try to re-read it later in the day. She had absorbed just what Pietro was demanding, but she hadn’t been able to work out how she felt about it. She had told herself that she would sleep on it and hope that the morning would bring clearer thoughts and guidance on a decision.

‘Sleep? Hah!’

Marina mocked her own thoughts as she reached for the kettle and filled it ready to make a much-needed cup of coffee. Sleep was the last thing she had managed; she had tossed and turned, trying to erase or at least ignore the images and memories that had flooded her mind, keeping her from the much-needed oblivion. But, just as during the time when she had been married to him, ignoring Pietro had proved impossible to do. And in the scenes that had played over and over in her head the contents of the letter seemed to grow with every repetition, getting worse and worse until she had finally tumbled into a restless, nightmare-ridden doze.

As a result she needed a large mug of coffee before she could even bring herself to read Pietro’s communication over again. She was nerving herself to reach for the letter when the telephone rang unexpectedly, making her start, so that some of the coffee slopped over the edge of the mug and splattered the elegant notepaper.

‘Hi, it’s me.’

‘Who?’

Her eyes were still fixed on the letter, as were her thoughts, so it took her a moment or two to register just whose voice was in her ear.

‘It’s Stuart.’

Indignation rang in his tone, and she was not surprised. She had met Stuart in the local library where he was Reference Librarian and he had made it plain that he was attracted to her. His voice should have been easily recognised but, with images of Pietro uppermost in her thoughts, she had been expecting another, very different, masculine response.

The contrast between her estranged husband’s sexy accent and Stuart’s flat Yorkshire tones couldn’t have been more pronounced but she still had to think twice before the truth registered.

‘Sorry, Stuart. I’m not fully awake yet. What was it you wanted?’

‘I was thinking that we could do something at the weekend?’

‘That would be …’

Another glance at the letter caught her up sharp. Stuart might be just what she needed: he was handsome, he was kind, he was nice … But she couldn’t accept any dates; she had no right to even show any interest in another man while she was still legally married to Pietro.

‘Oh, sorry—no. I—have to go away for a while.’

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘No—not really,’ Marina hedged.

How did you say, ‘actually I’m going to see my estranged husband’? She and Stuart might just be starting out on the road towards a potential relationship but she hadn’t yet managed to explain to him that Pietro was still in the picture—if only in the distant, soon-to-be ex picture.

Somehow she managed to ease herself away from Stuart’s questioning, giving only the vaguest possible answers, her mind only half on the task. The rest of her focus was on the letter that she hadn’t yet had a chance to take in.

At last Stuart put down the phone, though not without making it clear that he was annoyed. Thanks, Pietro, Marina silently addressed her absent husband. Not a trace of you in my life for almost two years, and now you make contact again immediately things start to go wrong.

Or was she exaggerating everything? Perhaps she had misread the letter.

But no; a second, more careful scrutiny of the typescript told her that, not only had she not been exaggerating, but every restless moment of her disturbed night had been fully justified—and then some.

Not only was Pietro suddenly back in her life after having completely ignored her and refused all contact for nearly two years, but he was also back taking control in the way that only he could. She had been summoned; there was no other word for it. Summoned to Palermo. At Pietro’s command.

Her husband had snapped his fingers and she was expected to jump. Once more her eyes dropped to the typed words:

We have been separated for almost two years. This situation has gone on quite long enough. It is time it was resolved.

‘You’d better believe it,’ Marina muttered. It was more than time that their separation was resolved.

Deep down she had known this was coming, that it was inevitable after her flight from her marriage, the way she had tried to conceal her real reasons for running, the misery of knowing that her husband had never loved her. Really, she was surprised that it hadn’t come sooner. But still she had held out a vain hope. A hope that this letter now dashed to pieces:

… imperative you come to Sicily to discuss the terms of our divorce.

It was so like the first letter he had sent her just after she had returned home following her flight from the misery of their marriage—only then he had been ordering her to come home to take her place once more as his wife. To forget whatever childish nonsense had sent her running in the first place and continue with their marriage as if nothing had happened.

Two years ago and it could still hurt—hurt so badly that just for a moment she doubled up with the pain of it, folding her arms tightly around herself to hold in the distress that almost spilled out of her. She had thought that she had everything she had ever wanted: marriage to a husband she adored, a baby on the way. Then in a terrible twist of fate it had all been taken away. She had lost the baby, her husband and eventually had been unable to stay in the loveless desolation her marriage had become. And now he expected that all he had to do was whistle and she would come obediently to heel like a well-trained dog and do whatever he wanted.

Oh no, Principe D’Inzeo. Not this time! Two long, hard-fought years away from him had given her a strength she hadn’t possessed when she had been Pietro’s wife.

Rebellion seared through her and she scrabbled in her handbag, looking for her mobile phone. She had no way of knowing whether the number she had was still the right one for Pietro, but quite frankly she didn’t care. Simply keying in the text as quickly as she could with swift, stabbing movements of her thumb was some sort of therapy, even if he would never realise the fury with which she’d formed the words.

Why Sicily? You want to talk, you come here.

There!

A final push of the button sent her message winging its way to him and she smiled her satisfaction at the phone as she tossed it down on the table and reached for her coffee once more.

She barely had time to take a sip before the beeping sound announced a response. It was short and to the point—just a single word.

No.

Damn the man. Marina reached for the phone again.

Why not?

Another beep. Another single word:

Busy.

Gritting her teeth, she pressed more buttons.

And I’m not?

Silence.

The screen of her phone remained blank and there was no further sound from it. Marina stared at it, pressed a button and frowned at the empty space that lit up. Surely Pietro hadn’t given up? It just wasn’t possible. Pietro never gave up.

Beep. Another message; longer this time.

He hadn’t given up. Of course he hadn’t.

Jet is ready.

So he was actually prepared to send his private jet to get her there. That was something she hadn’t expected.

Car for airport will pick you up in 1 hour.

No.

She could be as ruthlessly monosyllabic as he was—at least by text.

58 minutes …

No way.

This time the reply came back almost before she’d managed the second word. And when her phone beeped again a brief time later she knew what she would see. She was right:

57.

I said no!

She knew she was losing the battle but that didn’t stop her fighting. She wasn’t just some puppet ready to dance to Pietro’s tune while he had total control of the strings. The phone flashed back:

Do you want a divorce?

Did she? Right now it was the thing she most wanted in all the world. Just five brief minutes of letting Pietro D’Inzeo back into her life, and she wanted out of things as fast as possible. She’d needed the reminder of just how autocratic, how domineering, he could be. The way he wanted everything just the way he liked it and to hell with anyone else’s needs.

You bet!

Then get here. 55 minutes and counting …

What was she arguing for? He was right, after all. It was time that the whole sorry mess that had been her marriage was sorted out. Ended. Done and dusted—and filled away under ‘Big Mistakes’.

55 minutes, she sent back and could almost sense his reaction of surprise in Sicily or wherever he was as he received the positive response. It shut him up for a while anyway, long enough for her to get upstairs and pull a weekend case out from under the bed.

But as she grabbed her wash bag and dropped it into the open case her phone beeped again and the message she saw on it made her frown apprehensively.

Bring your lawyer, it declared ominously.

He had to be joking. Men like Pietro D’Inzeo might have their legal team at their beck and call, ready to head off anywhere at a moment’s notice. But ordinary human beings like her …

All the same, the single taut sentence sent a shiver down her spine just to read it. The note of command was right there in those three words so that she could almost hear Pietro’s beautifully accented voice flinging them right in her face.

The thought that he was warning her she would need legal representation made the blood run cold in her veins.

Pietro was obviously anticipating a battle over the divorce. Probably he thought that she would fight him for every penny she could get. Well, he was going to be disappointed there. All she wanted was for her foolish, youthful marriage to be over and declared null and void. Then she would be able to get on with her own life in peace. She didn’t even want any of Pietro’s millions, though he was obviously convinced that she would aim for half his huge fortune because she had never signed any pre-nuptial agreement before they had wed.

Well, then, she was looking forward to seeing his face when he realised the truth. Even if that was the only thing she was anticipating with any sort of pleasure about the coming meeting.

But if it was the only way of getting free, which it seemed to be, then she was going to go ahead with it, no matter what it cost her. And, if the arrogant string of commands that had issued from Pietro’s phone was anything to go by, her freedom couldn’t come soon enough.

With a faint smile she picked up the phone again and pressed ‘reply’.

50 minutes, she keyed in, punched ‘send’ and then switched it off completely.

Let him talk to himself after that, she thought sharply, forcing her mind onto practical matters. She had plenty to do if she was going to get ready and she had had more than enough of Pietro for one day. Even very small doses of him were more than she could take.

So, while she hated having to jump when he called and head for Sicily—hated the thought of coming face to face with the man she had loved so much and who had broken her heart into pieces—it meant that at last she would be free of him.

New year, new start, she told herself. Think of it that way.

And, judging by the gloom and swirling snow that was now outside her bedroom window, she would at least be escaping some of the worst of the winter weather. She needed to hold on to the positives when the thought of having to face Pietro again hung over her head like the dark, threatening clouds in the sky.

Just another couple of days and it would all be behind her.

A new year and a new start: at least, that was what she was hoping for.

But first she had to go through the ordeal of seeing her estranged husband once again. Just the thought of that was enough to send a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold winds and gloomy skies outside.

CHAPTER TWO

PIETRO stood by the windows of his lawyer’s office and stared out at the driving rain that was lashing against the glass. His shoulders were hunched, hands pushed deep into the trouser pockets of a sleek silk suit that was the same steely grey as the water-laden clouds above. Impatience made him tap one highly polished black leather shoe against the floor, over and over again.

She was late. They had been waiting far too long. The meeting had been arranged for ten-thirty and it was now almost a quarter to eleven. She was almost fifteen minutes late—if she was even coming, that was.

Expressing his exasperation in a sigh, he raked one hand through the smooth darkness of his hair, narrowing his eyes against the downpour beyond the window. She was in Sicily, at least. Frederico, his driver, had delivered her to the hotel yesterday after picking her up from the airport. He had given her the package of documents that Matteo Rinaldi, his legal advisor, had drawn up for this meeting so that she could have her lawyer go through them and be prepared.

He had told her the precise time of the meeting, so there was no excuse for her lateness. Where the …?

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt in the same moment that down below in the street a taxi pulled up opposite the lawyer’s office, stopping in a splash of puddles and a spray of rain. The woman in the back was just a blur through the rain-dashed windows, only the glorious burn of her auburn hair giving any sign that it was indeed his ex-wife.

But that glow of red, hazy though it was, was enough to give him a sharp kick in his guts with the reminder of how it had once looked spread out on his pillows as she lay beneath him, her soft body melded to his. Heat flooded his veins and had him gritting his teeth against the impact of the memory.

‘She’s here at last,’ he said to Matteo, meaning to turn away from the window and step back into the room. But as he spoke the back door of the taxi opened and the woman stepped out on to the pavement.

‘She’s here,’ he said again on a very different note. As he spoke, the woman—Marina—suddenly looked up as if she had caught the words from across the street, staring straight at him; their focused gazes locked and held.

Even from this distance he could see how her vivid green gaze widened and fixed on him. There was no mistaking the way her back stiffened, her head coming up, her chin lifting. There was defiance in every voluptuous inch of her and she held a document case against her body like some powerful shield used to deflect the power of any opposing force.

It was the first time in two years that he had seen her and it hit him with a sense of shock that she was so much the same, totally unchanged—yet somehow totally different, alien and distant from him. And not just because of the barrier of the glass between them.

Another second passed, two, the space of a single heavy heartbeat; their eyes held. It seemed that his breath had died, freezing in his lungs so that he was completely still, not even blinking once. But then another car roared past, spraying puddles everywhere. Marina stepped back hastily and the spell was broken.

A moment later she was hurrying across the road, head down, long legs covering the space quickly, feet in neat black-patent shoes dancing between the puddles. He expected that she would put up the document case to protect her hair but instead she still held it close to her side. But then Marina had always loved the rain.

A sudden vivid image flashed into his head—that of Marina dancing in the rain, her wild hair hanging loose over her shoulders, spinning round her face as she turned. She had been so alive, so full of fun. So beautiful. She had laughed in his face when he had told her to come indoors because she was getting a soaking.

‘It’s warm rain compared to the stuff in England,’ she had declared. ‘And I’m not going to melt because of a few drops of water!’

When he had ventured out into the downpour to bring her back inside, she had caught hold of his hands and held him there, forcing him to dance with her too until they had both been soaked to the skin. Only then had she let him sweep her off her feet and up into his arms. He had carried her into the palazzo and up to their bedroom, where he had taken his revenge for his drenching in the most satisfying and sensual way possible.

‘Dannazione!’ Pietro muttered under his breath, cursing himself and his memories as he took a grip on his thoughts and got them back under his control. With a rough movement, he turned away from the window, focusing his attention back into the room and onto the battle that was to come.

Now was not the time for sentimental memories, for recalling flashes of time when he had deluded himself that he was happy. When he had thought that the white-hot burn of passion he felt for Marina was actually love and not something far more basic, far more unmanageable.

Passion had tumbled him into bed with Marina without thought, and the result of that passion had pushed him into a premature proposal of marriage in order to keep her there. To have and to hold. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of her being with any other man, and had seen her unexpected pregnancy as an excuse for putting a ring on her finger to ensure she stayed with him.

Then he hadn’t been able to anticipate that there might be a day when he would decide that it was time to let her go. That he would see they no longer had a future together and that the fragile foundations on which their marriage had been built had crumbled to pieces under their feet. He would have laughed in the face of anyone who had told him that such a day would come. Yet now here he was, just waiting for her to sign the papers so that they could draw a line under the mess they had made of things.

The sound of the lift coming to a halt, its metal doors sliding open, alerted him to the fact that she was here. Any moment now his estranged wife was going to walk through that door and …

‘Marina …!’

With a struggle he caught back the exclamation, the way that her name almost escaped him. Even though he’d prepared himself for it, the moment she actually appeared in the room still managed to take his breath away. It was as if some force of nature, a blaze of sunlight or a wild whirling wind, had come in through the doorway, freshening and changing the atmosphere in the office.

She looked sensational. The metallic-toned trenchcoat she wore was belted tightly at her waist, emphasising the slenderness there in contrast to the curves of her hips, the full breasts that pushed against the dampened fabric. Whatever she had on underneath had some sort of V-neck so that nothing hid the fine lines of her throat, the shadowy valley that drew his gaze inexorably downwards until he wrenched it away with a cruel effort. Her glorious hair was darkened by the rain; strands of it tugged free from the confining ponytail in which she wore it. And the weather—or perhaps the dash across the road—had whipped up the colour in her normally delicate, porcelain skin so that her cheeks glowed with colour. Above the slanting cheekbones, her green eyes were strangely dark, the colour of moss rather than the vivid emerald he remembered.

The look she turned on him was blank and distant, totally closed off, as if she had never seen him in her life before. He knew that look; it was the one she had used so often in the last days of their marriage before she had walked out. When he had seen her, that is. Which hadn’t been often.

‘Signora D’Inzeo …’

Matteo, ever the smooth professional, was moving forward, hand outstretched to greet her.

‘Good morning.’

Her smile was brief, controlled, flashing on and off in a second. But it was more than she afforded her husband. The swift there-and-away-again flick of her eyes, the barest lifting of those long, lush eyelashes, granted him minimal acknowledgement as she curled her mouth around his name.

‘Pietro.’

It was as if the word had a sour, unpleasant taste on her tongue.

‘Marina.’

His own greeting echoed hers, with added ice, if that were possible. He inclined his head the slightest amount possible, then clamped ruthless control over every facial muscle, until even he felt the invisible barriers they had erected between them, the force field of distance and distrust which separated them.

‘May I take your coat?’

Matteo was really trying to improve the atmosphere, or at least warm it up by a few vital degrees. But then he was a specialised divorce lawyer who handled cases like this all the time; he must be used to the mood of barely sheathed tension between his conflicted clients.

‘Thank you.’

Did she know just how sensual that movement was? Pietro wondered—the tiny shrug that eased the garment from her, thrusting the rich softness of her breasts forward as she put her shoulders back to loosen the fit around them. She probably did, damn her, he admitted, his teeth clenching together in an unconscious response that tightened the muscles in his jaw against the need to make any response. So many times in the past he had performed just that small service for her, had felt the soft skin of her neck and shoulders under the back of his fingers, the silky slide of her hair over his hands as he’d freed her from the garment …

She would turn to smile at him, rub her cheek against his hands, perhaps twist her head to press a kiss on his fingers …

Hell and damnation, no!

Fiercely Pietro dragged his primitive thoughts under control and made himself take a step forward, if only to break the spell that Marina seemed to have cast over him from the moment she’d walked into the room.

‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Matteo was saying. ‘A coffee, perhaps?’

‘Some water will be fine, thanks.’

The removal of the coat revealed a crisp, white V-necked blouse and narrow black skirt: very understated, very controlled, very businesslike.

Very unlike Marina.

Obviously she had chosen the clothes deliberately to convey just the right sort of image. And what image was that? That she was cool and organised and totally in control? In that case, even less like Marina.

The understated look suited her, though. It was undeniably sexy in a very different way. The white top provided a sharp contrast with the rich tones of her hair and the mossy-green glow of her eyes. The slim-fitting skirt flattered her curvy hips and thighs, its shorter length revealing the long lines of her slim legs.

Those hips—and the rest of her body—had more of a curve to them than he remembered from the last time he had seen her, Pietro realised with a sense of shock. In contrast to the glowing woman she was now, then she had looked pale and thin—too thin. Life apart from him obviously suited her, he acknowledged. The thought stabbed him.

The only things about her that were the Marina he remembered were the long, sparkling earrings that dangled close to her neck, gold and multicoloured crystals of different sizes and shapes. They were clearly costume jewellery and a long way from the emerald and diamond creations he had once given her.

‘Shall we all sit down?’ Pietro asked as his lawyer opened and poured sparkling water into a glass. It was time he took charge.

Once more those green eyes flicked in his direction and, although he had his hand on the back of a chair ready to pull it out, Marina deliberately chose one on the opposite side of the big mahogany table, sinking into it in a graceful movement. She placed the document case on the polished surface in front of her, lining it up carefully and folding her hands on top of the brown leather. Seen like this, she had an almost nun-like composure and restraint. Again, so totally unlike the real Marina that it almost made him laugh. He caught back his amusement with effort. Marina, restrained and composed? The words just didn’t go together at all.

He found he rather liked this new image she had assumed. It made him think of the contrast between the outward impression she gave and the person he knew was hidden beneath the conformist clothing. Made him imagine the challenge of getting her out of the subdued garments and freeing the real woman inside. That thought blazed an image into his mind that had him suddenly pulling out his own chair and dropping into it swiftly, so that the barrier of the polished table-top hid the betraying force of his heated response.

As he took his own seat on the other side of the table, Marina accepted the glass that Matteo passed to her and sipped from it carefully. She was still wearing her wedding ring, Pietro noticed, seeing the glint of gold on the fingers wrapped around the glass. It was the last thing he had expected, and he was surprised by the force of his reaction to seeing his ring. It was the ring he had put on her finger after making their wedding vows, still there on the hand of the woman who hadn’t even pretended to play the role of his wife for over two years.

‘Pietro …’

The sound of his name on his estranged wife’s lips jolted him back to the present. He had heard her use his name so many times, but this was like no other time before. This time the single word was both a question and a reproach for the fact that she had said something and, lost in a dangerous blend of angry and erotic thoughts, he had not heard her.

‘Cara?’ he responded, deliberately lacing the endearment with cynicism and knowing he had hit home when he saw her reaction.

Her spine stiffened, her jaw tightened and the soft rosetinted mouth clamped into a thin, rigid line. Green eyes flashed an uncontrolled response. Now she was letting the real Marina show, he thought with a sense of grim satisfaction. Just for a moment the controlled mask had slipped and she had let him have a glimpse of the woman underneath. This was the Marina he knew of old.

‘What exactly are you doing here?’ she asked now, her tone making it clear that she wished he was a million miles away.

He dealt her a smile across the table and felt a flare of dark satisfaction when he saw her eyes widen even more.

‘We arranged to meet to discuss the terms of the divorce,’ he reminded her, calm and reasonable.

Marina took another sip of water and put down her glass with the sort of careful precision that he knew only came when she was really trying to keep a grip on her volatile nature. She wasn’t as much in control as she wanted to appear. That made him want to watch her more closely, to see what he could read in her face, in her eyes.

‘No, you summoned—ordered—me to Sicily so that I could meet with your lawyer to discuss the terms of the divorce. I did not agree to speak to you.’

Oh, he recognised this mood. It was the one where she took everything he said, chewed it up and flung it back at him turned inside out so that it meant the opposite of what he had actually said. It was a mood he knew well. Strangely, it was also a mood that he had missed when she had left him—and before she had left him, his memory warned him, giving a nasty, uncomfortable little poke. Just how long was it since he had seen this Marina in his life at all?

‘We arranged that our lawyers would discuss the terms, yes,’ he pointed out smoothly. ‘We will leave everything to them, if that is how your prefer it. But for that we need your legal representative to be here. Where is your solicitor? He is coming later? Soon?’

‘He’s not coming at all.’

The spark in her eyes, the touch of colour in those alabaster cheeks, the way her head was tilted slightly to one side, her neat chin lifted defiantly, told him he could make what he liked of that.

‘For your information, Pietro, not everyone has a lawyer at their beck and call—a man so ridiculously overpaid that he is obliged to jump and come running whenever you snap your fingers.’

From under her lashes those green eyes went towards Matteo just once, briefly, and then came back to fix on his face again. She didn’t need to use words to tell him exactly what she thought.

‘You gave me precisely one hour to pack and come to Sicily. I had no choice. But I can just imagine what my lawyer would have said if I had even tried to suggest that he do the same.’

Let him make what he wanted of that, Marina told herself. He didn’t like it, that much was plain from the way his whole body stilled and tightened in his seat, his head coming up so that his blue eyes blazed into hers. They were like shards of ice, so cold and clear. And she almost felt that the laser-like burn from them might actually mark her cheek where it rested.

When he sat opposite her like this with his back to the windows, he was little more than a dark silhouette, black against the gloomy sky outside. The surprisingly pale eyes in his carved face were all she could really make out—not that it mattered. The truth was that every stunning feature, from the broad, high forehead down to the surprisingly full and sensual mouth, was seared into her memory, impossible to erase. And, if she let them, those memories would destroy her hard-won composure, take her back to the time when she had worshipped the ground this man walked on. To the time that had almost totally broken her.

Just in the moment that she had looked up across the narrow road, and had seen him standing at the rain-dashed window, it had been like the first time she had met him. Then she had seen him through rain-spattered glass too, through the windscreen of her elderly Mini in the middle of an ice storm in a London street. She had been so stunned by the shocking sensuality of the tall, dark stranger’s beauty that she had lost control of the wheel just for a second—and had been horrified by the appalling crunch and screeching sound as her car had scraped against the side of his luxurious vehicle.

The world had seemed to spin round her, her breath stilling in her lungs, and she had hardly been able to remember who she was or think to give him her insurance details. In the end she hadn’t needed them because he had assured her that the damage was slight and that he would cover the cost of repairs to both cars if she would promise to have dinner with him that night.

She had been totally off-balance where this man was concerned ever since. Just being with him was like being in the eye of some wild, tropical storm every day. She had been swept off her feet, out of reality and into a world of such total delight, wealth and glamour that it had seemed impossible such a fantasy could actually exist.

She had been right about that, of course. She’d had a few short months of perfect delight, total joy—but in the end the fantasy had crashed in flames, burning up all her dreams and illusions as it flared out of control. The passion they had once shared had turned in on itself and destroyed them. Or, rather, it had destroyed Marina, driving her away in misery and pain while Pietro had simply picked up his life and gone on with it as before. He hadn’t even troubled to contact her, never mind come after her when she had fled the marriage that had turned into a nightmare. He had sent that one cold command that she return, and when she had refused he had turned his back on her as if she had never existed.

Until now. Until that cold, brutal summons to come to Sicily to discuss the ending of the marriage that had never really been.

When she had walked into the room and seen him standing to one side of the room, dark and inscrutable, watching every move she made, it was as if the past years had evaporated in a second. Every memory, every sensation she had ever experienced, had returned in the space of a heartbeat. All the defences, the armour she had built around herself in order to be able to get on with her life, had disintegrated, crumbling at her feet, leaving her shaken and defenceless when she most needed to be strong.

She had told herself that she would be completely in control for this meeting. That she would be cool, calm and collected when she and Pietro came face to face again. She had done all her crying for the loss of her marriage, the destruction of her illusions in the past, and now she was going to put them all behind her. She had thought that she was prepared because, no matter what she had just said, she had known full well that she would have to come face to face with her estranged husband at some point during her return to Sicily. Pietro wouldn’t have ordered her back to the island if he hadn’t intended that to happen. He would have to oversee her final dismissal from his life in person, if only to make sure that he was rid of her once and for all. There would have been no point in the summons otherwise. So she had slapped her emotional armour into place, knowing that it made her look hard and distant as a result.

Deep inside, hard and distant was the very last thing she was feeling.

‘You don’t have a lawyer? You didn’t think that you would need someone to protect your interests?’

‘And will I?’

Marina made her words a deliberate challenge. She knew her own private reasons why she hadn’t felt the need to bring along any legal support, but suddenly she wasn’t prepared to reveal those right away.

‘You are my wife.’ Pietro’s shadowed eyes met hers head-on, no trace of doubt or hesitation in his confident stare, though the heavy lids did droop down, hiding their expression behind the long, thick lashes.

‘Soon to be ex,’ Marina reminded him, not allowing herself to be intimidated by his merciless scrutiny.

Oh, he hadn’t liked that; it was obvious from the sudden flare of something dangerous in the depths of his eyes. But he was no longer dealing with the amazed and overwhelmed girl he had married, the one who had been too naive to see him for what he really was. She’d done a lot of growing up in the past couple of years.

‘You are my wife,’ he repeated. ‘And as such you will be given what is due to you.’

Well, that was a double-edged comment, if ever there was one. But which way was she supposed to take it? Marina wondered. As a promise of fair play or a threat of retribution?

‘But first there are a couple of conditions.’

‘Of course.’

She should have expected that. She had expected it. From the moment the letter had arrived summoning her here to this office—Pietro’s lawyer’s office, on this island, Pietro’s home territory—she had known that he intended to show that he had the upper hand. And that he very definitely intended to use it. The sting she felt at the thought of that cold-blooded, ruthless determination turned on her made her flinch inwardly, cursing herself for still being weak enough to let him get under her guard at all. She knew what Pietro was like, didn’t she? She should do. She’d spent almost six months as his wife, had seen every side to his character. She knew how cold, hard, how totally pitiless he could be when he was crossed. The lines etched into his face, the burn of ice in those strangely pale eyes, told her that nothing had softened him in the time they had been apart. And the clipped, controlled tone of his voice warned her that he intended to make no compromises, would give no quarter.

‘Of course?’ Pietro questioned sharply.

‘I expected conditions, yes,’ Marina returned. ‘I’d be a fool not to. You aren’t going to just roll over and give in, are you? That’s hardly your way. Hardly the behaviour of Il Principe Pietro D’Inzeo.’

‘And yet you still came here without a lawyer?’

Just the tone of voice in which the question was asked made her stomach lurch uncomfortably, nerves tying themselves into knots deep inside. It didn’t matter that she told herself there was nothing he could do to harm her; somehow there was a tiny little seed of doubt that left her unable to convince her uncomfortable, jittery mind that it was actually true. She might have a secret card up her sleeve, but suddenly she was plagued by a nervous sense of apprehension at the thought of actually playing it.

Pietro D’Inzeo was a powerful man: a Sicilian prince. Head of the D’Inzeo Bank and all the other companies he’d bought since taking charge of the D’Inzeo business empire. A man with huge riches and influence. She knew from having seen him in action that he never suffered fools gladly, that he was a cold-blooded predator in the business world and that, when crossed, he made a very dangerous enemy. And she was planning to thwart whatever plans he had made for the way this meeting was to go. She was—hopefully—going to checkmate him here in front of his lawyer. A proud Sicilian like Pietro wouldn’t take that lying down.

But, even as the question slid into her thoughts, she instinctively pushed it right out again. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that Pietro’s sense of honour, his proud Sicilian character, would always ensure he played fair. It had never been the thought of the financial implications of this meeting that had worried her.

The emotional repercussions were a very different matter.

‘I didn’t think I’d need one. After all, there are laws about this sort of thing.’

Seeing the way Pietro’s dark brows snapped together on hearing that, her nerves twisted once more deep in the pit of her stomach. For one desperate moment her heart ached with the memory of the way that hard, carved face used to change when he’d been with her. How those icy eyes had softened, the beautiful mouth curved into a smile. How she had once been able to kiss away that frown between his brows.

‘And besides,’ she added hastily, ‘you said I’d get what was due to me.’

‘I did say that,’ Pietro acceded, his tone not helping things very much.

‘So perhaps you should let me know about these conditions.’

‘Of course.’

It was Matteo, Pietro’s lawyer, who spoke. After a swift glance at his employer’s stony face, earning himself a brief nod of agreement, he now came to sit down opposite Marina, opening a file of papers he had placed on the table between them.

‘It is time we got down to business.’

Marina tried to turn her attention to the lawyer and what he was saying, but it was difficult when the stinging awareness of Pietro and everything he did, every movement he made, was rushing through her like a charge of burning electricity. She was conscious of the way he seemed to have backed down, conceding the central role to his lawyer, but she knew that any such concession was deceptive, totally misleading. He poured himself a drink of water and curled long, tanned fingers around the glass but never lifted it to his lips. He even leaned back in his chair, apparently at his ease—but out of the corner of her eye she could sense the tension that held his long body stiff, watchful and alert.

He was observing everything that was happening, watching her so closely that she almost felt her skin singe under the heat of his gaze. She knew that, although Matteo was speaking, it was Pietro who was in control, his lawyer only the mouthpiece for what he wanted to say.

‘The conditions …?’ she prompted hoarsely, wincing at the way her voice cracked on the words. Struggling for control, she focused every last bit of her attention on the older man opposite her, trying to blot out the fact that Pietro was even there.

‘I don’t think that you will find them too difficult,’ Matteo assured her, tapping the sheaf of documents with an elegant silver pen. It was the same file that had been delivered to her on the plane, the one she hadn’t even opened, never mind read. Because the one thing she had ever wanted from this man was his love and, when she’d realised he had none to give her, there was nothing else that could fill its place.

‘Firstly,’ Matteo said, drawing her attention away from that thought, ‘you must agree to give up the name D’Inzeo and revert to your maiden name.’

‘Willingly.’

The condition had been one she was expecting so she felt a rush of relief that this was all it was.

She meant it, she tried to tell herself. She really did. Bitter memories of the past put a depth of feeling into her response that must surely convince Pietro, even if she couldn’t convince herself. Once she had been so very happy to have Pietro’s name as her own. It was a name with a long-lived Sicilian history, the name of centuries of princes and princesses, hugely wealthy bankers who had a much more prestigious place in the world than her own ordinary middle-class family. She had been proud to have it as her surname, amazed at the deference and response that it brought with it, the speedy effect just mentioning it would create—an effect that Pietro treated with casual disdain.

But most important to her had been that it was the name of the man she adored. And it should have been the name of her baby too. The cruel slash of pain that thought brought with it pushed her into unguarded speech.

‘Why would I want to keep the name of the man whose marriage to me meant nothing to him?’

To his lawyer’s right, she heard Pietro snatch in a sharp, angry-sounding breath from between clenched teeth. Her throat tightened, knotting itself against the lurching beat of her heart as she tensed, waiting for his furious response. But it never came. The look that Matteo flashed towards Pietro silenced whatever outburst had been about to escape his ruthless control and he subsided into silence again, merely indicating with a swift, impatient flick of his free hand that the lawyer should continue.

But Marina couldn’t be unaware of the way that the other hand, the one still wrapped around his water glass, tightened against the hard surface until his knuckles showed white, revealing the fierce struggle he was having with himself to hold back the angry words that had almost escaped him.

‘I will have no trouble with that particular condition,’ she managed stiffly, still keeping her eyes on Matteo’s calm, controlled face.

‘Buon.’

The silver pen made a small check-mark against the relevant paragraph in the document.

‘Next, you will sign a confidentiality agreement, promising never to speak of your marriage, never to reveal anything of your life with Principe D’Inzeo, either during the time you were together or of the reasons why you split up.’

‘I … What?’

Now she had to turn to Pietro; she couldn’t stop herself. She knew that her eyes were wide with anger and disbelief—and, yes, a savage degree of pain—when she turned them on the man who sat silent and immobile as a rock.

‘You want me to sign …?’ she managed, but then the hurt got the better of her.

How could he think that she would ever want the world to know the truth about their life together? That would mean letting everyone know about the way she had been so bitterly disillusioned. The baby …

From nowhere came the thought that, if their baby had been born, it might have had the same pale, devastating eyes as its father and suddenly it felt as if the sides of the room were closing in on her, taking all the daylight with them, making it difficult to breathe.

‘How dare you?’

If she had thrown the words at the wall opposite, it could hardly have responded less. Pietro’s reaction was to narrow his eyes until they barely gleamed from behind the darkness of his lashes as he sat back in his chair, watching and waiting.

‘I have my name to protect.’

‘But you can’t really think that I would do anything to damage it?’

When Pietro blinked slowly and eased his position in the chair, he looked like nothing so much as an indolent lion, lazily considering the question of whether it was worth the trouble of pouncing. There was enough controlled menace in his stare to make her reach for her water glass and snatch at a quick gulp of the drink so as to ease the uncomfortable dryness of her throat.

‘And can you say the same for your boyfriend?’

‘What boyfriend?’

She didn’t give Pietro the chance to answer that, rushing on instead in her determination to refute his implied accusations.

‘Just who do you think I am? I have had nearly two years apart from you. Two years! And in all that time did I so much as give an interview or get my picture in a magazine?’

‘You didn’t have your freedom then,’ he drawled coolly. ‘And you had a comfortable allowance that meant you needed to keep me sweet.’

‘No, I didn’t. Do you ever check your bank statements?’ Marina challenged when one black eyebrow lifted in a cynical questioning of her assertion. ‘Or do you find it hard to notice when a paltry million is missing—or not—from the many hundreds of millions you have coming in and out each month?’

That had him finally sitting up straight. The flash of anger in the glare he turned on his lawyer was so sizzling that for a second Marina almost expected to see the elegant Matteo shrivel into a pile of smoking ash right where he sat.

‘I said …’ Pietro began, but a strong sense of fair play had Marina rushing to the other man’s defence.

‘Oh, I know—I can imagine what you said, or rather ordered, would be done. And I’m sure that poor Matteo did just as you commanded. But you can’t order me around. I’m not married to you now.’

Pietro’s beautifully sensual lips twitched into a wry smile that mocked her passionate outburst.

‘Are you implying that I was ever able to order you around?’ he enquired sardonically. ‘Because believe me, bella mia, that was never the case. In truth, I doubt that anyone has ever been able to order you to do anything. So are you claiming that you never used the allowance?’

‘No—I’m not claiming!’ Marina pushed back the annoying strand of hair that had worked loose from her ponytail with an impatient movement. ‘I’m telling you: I never used the allowance you sent. Not a penny.’

‘Why not? That money was for your keep.’

‘Why not? I would have thought that was obvious. I don’t need to be kept. I have a job—I went back to the library. I earn my own living. I don’t want anything from you. I never did and, now that we’re not married, I never will.’

‘Might I remind you that we are at present only separated?’ There was an odd edge to Pietro’s voice, one that roughened it shockingly at the edges. ‘We are not yet divorced.’

‘Not yet,’ Marina admitted. ‘But it can’t come soon enough for me. I just want it over and done with—signed and sealed so that I can get out of here with my freedom and never look back.’

‘In that case,’ Pietro returned imperturbably, ‘perhaps you will let “poor Matteo”—’ he echoed her words mockingly ‘—get on with things.’

But Marina had had enough.

‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think we will “get on with things”.’

She pushed back her chair, thought about getting to her feet and then hesitated. A few moments more and it would have had much more effect. She was actually quite enjoying seeing Pietro off-balance for once. He didn’t quite know how to take her—and for now that was exactly how Marina wanted it.

‘What things, Pietro?’

She directed the question straight into his watchful face, seeing the faint scowl that drew his dark brows together, frowning over narrowed eyes.

‘What things—more terms? More conditions? More dictates from the great lord and master, Il Principe D’Inzeo?’

‘Marina …’ Pietro’s use of her name was low-toned, deep, a strong note of reproof on the single word.

‘More “thou shalt do this” and “thou shalt not do that”? “Thou shalt not speak to the press”? Do you really think I’d want to let the scandal mags know the truth about our marriage?’

She was letting her tongue run away with her but somehow she couldn’t even bring herself to care. This was why she had come here, why she’d felt she had to put herself through the ordeal of seeing Pietro one last time. She had wanted to try to voice—partly, at least—the things she had never been able to say when they had been married. To try to provoke him into reacting, into something other than the carefully measured, icy distance that was all that he had showed her in the end. All that the once heady, burning passion had burned down into, cold and ashy.

‘Do you think I’d want the whole nasty, miserable mess spread out in the tabloids—our dirty washing hung out to dry in full view of the public?’

‘Marina …’

It was definitely dangerous now, definitely a warning. His eyes were blazing cold fury, and the hand that had held the water glass now drummed a warning tattoo on the polished table-top. But it was a warning Marina was well past heeding. She had the bit between her teeth, and she wasn’t going to be called to order by anyone.

‘You think you can toss me some instructions and if I want your money I’ll do as I’m told, will follow your conditions to the letter?’

‘I think you’d better listen to what those conditions are.’

‘No.’

Marina shook her head firmly, sending her auburn ponytail flying with the deliberate emphasis she put on the movement.

‘I don’t need to hear them.’

She heard Pietro’s breath hiss in sharply, watched his sharp, white teeth snap together and the muscles in his jaw tighten ominously.

‘Marina—you came here so that we could discuss the terms of our divorce in a civilised manner.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

That really shocked him and the flood of triumph she felt as a result had a devastatingly intoxicating result, rushing through every nerve and vein like the powerful effect of some richly potent brandy.

‘No—that’s not what I came here for. In fact these “discussions” are nothing to me. Because, you see …’

Now was the time for her to get to her feet, and she pushed back her chair so that it almost overbalanced with the force of her action. Now was the time for her to stand upright so that Pietro had to look up to her as she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and looked straight down her nose at him.

‘I only have to follow your instructions, agree to your conditions, if I want anything from you. That was the bargaining card you thought you held—the one that gave you some sort of power over me. But you were wrong.’

Stooping to pick up the document case she had brought in with her, she turned it in her hands until it was just in exactly the right position. Her defiant green eyes met his coldly assessing blue ones with as much determination and strength as she could muster.

‘You only hold those bargaining cards if I take anything at all from you—that’s what you counted on, and that was where you went wrong. Because you see, Your High and Mightiness, Principe Pietro Raymundo Marcello D’Inzeo, I want nothing at all from you—nothing.’

She had to pause for breath there, and when she did she expected that he would break in on her, that he had to say something. But still Pietro sat immobile, still as a sphinx. He barely even seemed to be breathing, he was so motionless, so ruthlessly in control. Only his eyes burned with something so fierce, so dangerous, that just for a moment Marina’s heart lurched, her nerves stuttering. Then she pulled herself together, drew a deep, unsteady breath and rushed on.

‘I came here today not to discuss terms but to give you them.’

Zipping open the leather case, she pulled out a sheaf of papers that exactly matched the ones in front of both Pietro and Matteo, the ones from which the lawyer had been reading the list of conditions.

‘I’ve seen your offer of a divorce settlement and I’ve decided to reject it—totally and completely.’

At last Pietro moved, even if it was only his mouth that opened to speak in a voice that was deadly and low.

‘Then you’ll get …

‘Then I’ll get exactly what I want, husband dear—exactly what I came here to tell you I’ll take from you—and the answer is nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because I came into this marriage with nothing and I’m going out of it with exactly the same. So you can take your divorce settlement and put it—put it wherever you like. Because I want none of it!’

As she finished speaking, she tossed the documents down onto the table in front of Pietro where they landed with a heavy thud, the impact throwing up the loosened pages and sending them flying up into the air—straight into her husband’s icily controlled and rigid face.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I WANT none of it!’

The sound of Marina’s voice died away, to be replaced by the fluttering of the papers still settling down on the desk in front of him. Then the room was filled with silence, a silence so taut and intense that you could have cut it with a knife.

At Pietro’s side, Matteo had dropped his pen from his grasp and seemed to have frozen into statue form. The young secretary who had been sitting at the far end of the table, keeping tactfully quiet and trying to look inconspicuous as she took notes, was staring, goggle-eyed, with her mouth wide open.

All this Pietro took in with a single swift glance before turning his attention back to Marina. To his wife. The wife he had thought would soon be his ex.

All she had had to do was to accept the terms of the divorce he had offered and sign on the dotted line.

Instead of which …

She was still not fully back under control after her outburst of just moments before. Her chest was heaving as if she had run a marathon, the generous curves of her breasts lifting and falling with each irregular, snatched gasp of air. And the effect of her loss of temper, together with the effort of getting her breathing under control, had sent a rush of colour into those normally pale cheeks, so that now they were delightfully flushed with pink in a way that no clever make-up, no matter how subtly used, could ever achieve.

Above that wash of rose, the green eyes were bright with emotion, sparkling wildly under the thick, black lashes. Her hair had escaped from its fastening and was now starting to tumble down around her shoulders in casual disarray.

This was the woman he had first met. The woman who had knocked him off-balance so that he couldn’t think straight. She looked wild. She looked defiant. She looked magnificent. If truth be told, she had never looked so damn good—not even on their wedding day, when she had been as stunningly beautiful as he had ever imagined it was possible for a woman to be.

Perhaps later, on their wedding night—lying in their bed with that glorious hair spread out around her, bright against the creamy colour of the pillows; her mouth swollen with kisses and her green eyes deep and dark with the pleasure that came from sexual satiation?

No!

Furiously Pietro clamped down on the erotic thoughts that threatened to escape his control and forced himself to focus back on the situation in hand. He’d let them take charge once before, and look where that had got him.

The silence had stretched out now almost to breaking point, neither the secretary, nor indeed Matteo, daring to make a move to break it. Marina’s still slightly ragged breathing was the only sound in the room other than the sudden lash of rain against the windows as the rainstorm outside started up again.

It was as Marina’s wide green eyes met his, clashing sharply, that Pietro launched into action. Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet, one hand shooting out in a commanding gesture.

‘Everyone—out!’

His pointing finger indicated the door, but there was no need. Already Matteo and the secretary were heading in that direction.

So too was Marina. She had swung round on her heel and was marching out.

‘Not you!’

In a swift, pouncing movement, Pietro was round the table and at her side in a couple of determined strides. Reaching out, he caught hold of her arm, his fingers clamping tightly around her wrist when she would have ignored him and moved on.

‘I said, not you.’

The look she turned on him was mutinous, defiant, and he felt the muscles under his grasp tighten in instinctive rejection. But to his surprise she didn’t put up the struggle he anticipated, the resistance she clearly wanted to use. Perhaps it was the fact that they were in his lawyer’s office. Perhaps she realised that she couldn’t just fling that challenge—and the papers—right in his face and walk out. She must have known he would only come after her. That they would have this out sooner or later. ‘Sooner’ seemed to suit her.

And sooner definitely suited him.

‘Just what is going on?’ he flung at her as soon as the door had closed behind the other two. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

Marina’s face was a mask of pure rebellion and her eyes flashed rejection of his closeness, his words. But she answered him at least.

‘I’m not playing at anything. I meant every word I said.’

‘But you can’t. I mean, why the hell would you?’

‘Why the hell would I what, Pietro?’ she flung back at him. ‘Turn down your offer of a divorce settlement? Reject the money you would be prepared to give me if I would only accept your small, petty conditions?’

Of course, by ‘petty’ she didn’t mean small and insignificant; Pietro felt his jaw tighten against the furious response that almost escaped him.

‘I was offering you a generous—’

‘I’m sure you were,’ Marina cut in sharply. ‘After all, you are a very wealthy man and, as I said, there are laws about these things.’

This time he couldn’t hold back on his anger, outraged by the fact that she would consider that was all that mattered.

‘You think I was only offering you a settlement because of what the law says?’

Just for a moment their eyes locked together, clashing sharply so that he saw the moment her expression changed, saw the defiance and provocation leach from her gaze, leaving it darker and more subdued—a mossy green flecked with gold, rather than the sparkling, flashing emerald of just moments before.

‘No,’ she conceded, glancing down and away as her sharp white teeth worried at the soft flesh of her bottom lip. ‘No, of course I don’t think that.’

‘Then why …?’

His question brought her head up sharply. The look in those wide eyes twisted something deep in his gut that had him fighting against responding, against showing the burning rush of reaction that seared through him.

Hell, no! Frustration, anger, shock and disbelief were already a volatile and treacherous mixture, one that had him disturbingly off-balance when he wanted to be fully and tightly in control. Add in sexual desire to that potent blend, and it was even more dangerous. All it needed was a single spark and the resulting explosion would take his head off.

Sex was what had brought him and Marina together. Sex was what had kept them together, even when things were falling apart. Sex was the one thing that had never died between them, at least for him. And sex, damn it to hell, was what was still there.

With the width of the table between him and Marina, it had been bad enough. She had still been able to get to him—physically, at least—just as she always had. But he had been able to tamp it down, put a lid on it, keep it under control.

But now, with her eyes burning into his and her curvaceous body up close, it was so much harder to impose restraint. The scent of her skin was in his nostrils, sweet as a rose, mixed with some faintly herbal tang from the shampoo in her hair. He could feel the warm softness of her flesh and the delicacy of bone under his fingers, the contact sending electrical pulses of heat along every inch of nerve. It was all he could do not to give in to the demands of his senses.

‘Why?’ Marina echoed now, her tone subtly different. ‘Why did I turn you down? Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Not to me.’

Then, when she lifted a russet eyebrow to question his response, and those green-and-gold eyes flashed another challenge straight at him, he gave her the real truth.

‘All right, I will admit that I am torn between two possible explanations.’

‘Two?’ She hadn’t expected that. ‘What two?’

‘One—’ Pietro lifted the first finger of his free hand to mark the point ‘—you think that if you play hard to get with this then I will increase the settlement—give you more to keep you in—what is it you say?—the manner to which you have become accustomed.’

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