It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge

‘Do you know what you’re saying?’ she whispered. ‘You’re telling me that the man I love only wanted me because I’m my father’s heiress.’

‘Yes, Emilia, I am telling you exactly that.’

‘And what about me?’ she asked, dry-mouthed. ‘Have I been—watched too—in your absence?’

‘Si, naturalmente.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything natural about it,’ she said furiously. ‘How dared you spy on me?’

‘I am a rich man, Emilia, and you are my wife. In some circles this would make you a target.’ He shrugged. ‘I knew you would not accept a bodyguard at the Manor, so I chose the only alternative.’

‘And all from the most altruistic motives, of course.’ She radiated scorn. ‘But who watches you, pray?’

‘I can look after myself,’ he said. ‘You, I wished to keep safe in accordance with my promise to your father.’ He paused. ‘Also, I needed to prevent you from making a fool of yourself over Simon Aubrey.’

There was a taut silence, then he added curtly, ‘I regret that I have had to distress you. But it is time you knew the whole truth.’

‘I don’t—I won’t believe you.’ She snatched up her shoulder bag, extracting her mobile phone. ‘I’m going to call Simon right now. Prove you a liar.’

‘Then do so,’ Raf said and picked up his bag. ‘But first tell me where I will be sleeping.’

‘You’re not staying here.’ She looked up, white-faced, her eyes blazing. ‘Do you think I’d have you under the same roof?’

His voice was level. ‘It is not the first time. And I fail to see how you can stop me.’ He paused. ‘Fiona told me there are two bedrooms. Do I turn left or right at the top of the stairs?’

Their glances met—clashed, and it was Emily who looked away first, realising he was totally determined.

‘To the right,’ she said icily. ‘I suppose. As, sadly, I’m not physically capable of throwing you out. But Simon can, and he will, when he finds out what you’ve been saying. He’ll be here tomorrow.’

‘Your faith is admirable,’ he said quietly, ‘but misplaced. However, make your call if you must. But first ask yourself this. If I am a liar, how is it that I have found you so easily?’

Emily watched him walk up the stairs, her mind whirling in circles.

She could hardly comprehend what he’d said. It was too monstrous to be true. She couldn’t give it credence.

Simon loves me, she thought, and Raf’s got a grudge against him because of those stupid things I said to the lawyers about getting married again. That’s all it is. It has to be.

And yet she couldn’t escape the memory of Simon’s odd behaviour the other day—the edgy, reluctant way he’d offered his assistance. As if he felt guilty—or ashamed…

When Raf returned ten minutes later she was still sitting in the same place, the phone dangling from her fingers.

‘Well?’ he enquired curtly.

She shook her head. ‘I can’t get through. There’s no network available. It must be the mountains.’ She looked around. ‘There has to be another phone somewhere.’

‘Only in the village.’ He shrugged. ‘Marcello and Fiona prefer to be here alone—without interruptions.’

The word ‘alone’ seemed to sound in her mind like a knell. It suddenly occurred to her that whenever she and Raf had been together in the past there’d been other people around. Quite apart from acquaintances and guests, everywhere she’d stayed with him had resident staff of some kind.

Now, for the first time, it was—just the two of them, occupying a relatively small space. ‘Without interruptions’ he’d said. And the realisation sent chills through her.

Raf was prowling the room, inspecting everything, glancing at the books and ornaments on the shelves that flanked the fireplace. He picked up the mug of cold soup and regarded it with disfavour. ‘Is this supposed to be supper?’

‘Mine, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m not very hungry.’

‘But I am. So—what else is there to eat?’

Emily gasped. ‘You really think I’m going to get you a meal?’

He said softly, ‘You’re still my wife, mia cara, and, until now, your duties have not been too onerous. Besides, most wives cook for their husbands—or hadn’t you heard?’ He paused. ‘But maybe you are devoid of culinary skills.’

She said indignantly, ‘Everyone at my school learned to cook. The nuns insisted.’

‘Ah, the nuns,’ Raf said reflectively. ‘That explains a great deal. But at least some aspects of your education have received attention, if not all.’

Emily lifted her chin. ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

‘It is not important. Are there eggs? You could prepare a simple omelette, perhaps?’

‘I could,’ she said. ‘But why should I?’

‘Because a man needs to conduct negotiations on a full stomach,’ Raf said smoothly. ‘And we are here to negotiate, are we not?’

She took the untouched soup from him with a mutinous look, then stalked with it into the kitchen, pouring it away down the sink. Under the circumstances, she thought, the word ‘comfort’, even applied to food, was a sick joke.

She filled the kettle and set it to boil. Tea bags and a small jar of instant coffee had been included in the welcome pack, although she couldn’t imagine Raf relishing either. But then, he wasn’t a welcome guest, so why should she care?

She found a shallow frying pan, added a knob of butter and placed it on the stove to heat gently. She was breaking eggs into a bowl when Raf came in.

She didn’t look at him. ‘Do you mind? This is a very small kitchen.’

‘I came to bring you this.’ He put a package on the worktop beside her.

With chagrin, Emily recognised an expensive brand of freshly ground coffee. She said coolly, ‘You think of everything, signore.’

‘I need to, carissima, when I have you to deal with.’ He reached a long arm up to a top shelf and took down a box she hadn’t even noticed, extracting a cafetière. ‘There is no espresso machine, unfortunately, but this will do.’

He rinsed it out and began to spoon in the coffee.

‘Do you want two eggs or three?’ Emily asked, adding seasoning.

‘Four,’ he said. ‘I need to keep my strength up, don’t you agree, my lovely wife?’

Caught unawares, she turned her head sharply, staring at him. ‘What do you mean?’

His mouth twisted mockingly. ‘Merely, that if it continues to snow like this, I might have to dig us out—what else?’ He added laconically, ‘And your butter is about to burn,’ and went back into the living room.

Gritting her teeth, she moved the pan off the heat and slotted wholemeal bread into the toaster. She filled the cafetière and took china and cutlery through to the living room.