The Italian's Passionate Revenge

The woman Elise had noticed ate and drank with gusto. Like the man, she seemed to be waiting for something.

At last the goodbyes were said and Elise turned with a fixed smile to address her unknown guest.

‘I’m so sorry, we haven’t been introduced,’ she said politely. ‘It was so kind of you to—’

‘Don’t waste time with that stuff,’ the woman interrupted rudely. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t. Were you a friend of my husband?’

‘Friend? Hah! You could put it like that.’

‘I see.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Perhaps you were with him when he had his heart attack?’

The woman gave a squeal of laughter, full of wine.

‘No, I heard about that, but it wasn’t me. I must say I’ve got to hand it to you, cool as a cucumber in front of all these people, when you must have known what everyone was thinking.’

‘What matters is that none of them knew what I was thinking,’ Elise said.

‘Oh, good for you! You’re diamond-hard, aren’t you?’

‘When I have to be,’ Elise said quietly. ‘Perhaps you should be careful.’

The waiters were clearing away. Elise stood back to let them depart, then returned to what was clearly going to be a battle. Fine. She was just in the mood.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘Mary Connish-Fontain,’ said the other woman deliberately, stressing the double barrel.

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’

‘It will, when I’m finished. I came here to demand justice for my son. Ben’s son!’

Out of the corner of her eye Elise was aware that Vincente Farnese had become mysteriously alert, although he never moved.

‘You had a son by my husband?’ Elise asked slowly.

‘His name’s Jerry. He’s six.’

Six. Elise had been Ben’s wife for eight years. But it wasn’t a surprise.

‘Are you saying that Ben was supporting you?’ Elise asked. ‘I don’t believe it. I’ve been through his financial affairs and there’s nothing about you or a child.’

‘There wouldn’t be. We broke up before Jerry’s birth. He—he didn’t want to hurt you.’

If Elise had believed her before, she didn’t now. Ben had never cared about hurting her.

‘I married someone else,’ Mary went on. ‘But now we’ve split up.’

‘What’s his name?’ Signor Farnese asked suddenly.

‘Alaric Connish-Fontain,’ Mary said, puzzled. ‘Why?’

‘It’s an unusual name. I recognised it at once. Your husband’s crash into bankruptcy was really spectacular. No wonder you’re looking for new fish to fry.’

‘How dare you?’ Mary snapped.

‘Forgive me. Your motives are, of course, as pure as the driven snow.’

‘How did he feel about Ben’s son?’ Elise intervened.

Mary shrugged. ‘He thought Jerry was his.’

‘But when he lost all his money Jerry suddenly became Ben’s,’ Elise said scornfully. ‘Don’t take me for a fool.’

‘No, don’t do that,’ agreed Signor Farnese.

‘You can say what you like,’ Mary snapped. ‘I want what’s right for my son. He should be Ben’s heir and I’m going to see that he is. You’ve got a posh house, so sell it, and I want half. What are you smiling for?’

The last words came out as a scream, for Elise had started to laugh. She shook with mirth until she felt she might choke, while her enemy regarded her in frustration.

‘I’m telling you, sell your house,’ she repeated furiously.

‘There is no house,’ Elise said, calming herself. ‘That’s why I’m living in a hotel. Ben already sold our house. It was his way of forcing me to go to Italy with him.’

‘Then you’ve got the money. I know all about property laws—’

‘Somehow that comes as no surprise,’ the dark Italian murmured. ‘If there’s one woman I feel I could rely on to know about property laws, it’s you.’

‘So I’ve protected myself, so what? Husband and wife own the marital home jointly—’

‘True,’ Elise agreed. ‘That’s why Ben went about it in a twisty way. First he took out a huge mortgage on our London home, forging my signature when necessary. Then he bought a place in Italy. By the time I found out, it was too late. The money was already out of this country.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ Mary sneered. ‘You married Ben for his money and you’ve had eight years to put aside a nest egg for yourself.’

Sick loathing rose in Elise and for a blinding moment she nearly blurted out the truth—that she’d cared nothing for Ben’s money, had married him only to head off a threat to her beloved father, who could have gone to gaol with the evidence in Ben’s possession.

But she forced herself to stay silent. The years of her dreadful marriage had taught her self-control.

‘There’s no nest egg,’ she said. ‘You can believe that or not, as you like.’

‘And yet you’ve got enough to live here.’ Mary’s gesture took in their luxurious surroundings.

‘No, I haven’t. I’m moving out to somewhere cheaper as soon as possible.’