Hot Nights with...the Italian: The Santangeli Marriage / The Italian’s Ruthless Marriage Command / Veretti's Dark Vengeance

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘And what form would this gratitude take? Or is it indelicate to ask?’

It was her turn to flush. ‘I think it’s a little late for delicacy.’

‘Then tell me.’

She stared down fixedly at her empty plate. ‘I’ll go back to Italy with you—as your wife. And give you—whatever you want.’

‘However reluctantly,’ he said softly. ‘A new feast day should be proclaimed. The martyrdom of Santa Marisa.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘Is it?’ His mouth twisted. ‘As to that, we shall both have to wait and see.’ He paused. ‘But this is the price of your—willing return to me?’

She lifted her chin. Met his gaze unflinchingly. ‘Yes.’

‘And your uncomplaining presence in my bed when I require it?’

‘Yes.’ She forced herself to say it.

‘Incredibile,’ he said mockingly. ‘Then naturally I accept. If I can agree to terms with this Corin, who needs another man’s wife to fight his battles for him.’

She was about to protest that that was unfair too. That it was not just for Corin, but herself, and her life after marriage, but she realised it would be wiser to keep quiet. So she contented herself with a stilted, ‘Thank you.’

Renzo got to his feet, and she rose too. As she went past him to the door he took her arm, swinging her round to face him.

He said unsmilingly, ‘You set a high price on your favours, mia bella. So this is a bargain you will keep. Capisci?’

She nodded silently, and he released her with a swift, harsh sigh.

But as she followed him out of the room she realised that she was trembling inside, and she thought, What have I done? Oh, dear God, what have I done?

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘DEAR child.’ Guillermo Santangeli kissed Marisa on both cheeks, then stood back to regard her fondly. ‘You look beautiful, although a little thin. I hope you are not on some silly diet.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ she returned awkwardly, embarrassed by the open affection in his greeting. It was as if the last painful months had never happened, she thought, bewildered, and she was simply returning home, a radiant wife, from her honeymoon. ‘But Renzo told me what happened to you, and I was—worried.’

Her father-in-law shrugged expansively. ‘A small inconvenience, no more. But it made me feel my age, and that was not good.’ His arm round her shoulders, he took her into the salotto. Renzo followed, his face expressionless. ‘Now that you are here I shall recover completely, figlia mia.

‘You remember Signora Alesconi, I hope?’ he added, as a tall, beautiful woman rose from one of the deep armchairs.

‘That is hardly likely, Guillermo.’ The older woman’s handshake was as warm as her smile. ‘I attended your wedding, Signora Santangeli, but I do not expect you to recall one person among so many. So let us count this as our true meeting.’ She turned, her expression becoming more formal. ‘It is also a pleasure to see you again, Signor Lorenzo,’ she added, as he bowed over her hand.

‘And I, signora, am glad to have this opportunity to thank you for acting so quickly when my father became ill,’ Renzo returned. ‘Please believe that I shall always be grateful.’ He smiled at her. ‘And that it is good to see you here.’

‘We are indeed a family party,’ his father remarked, studying an apparent fleck on his fingernail. ‘Nonna Teresa arrived this afternoon. She is resting in her room at present, but will join us for dinner.’

There was a pause, then Renzo said expressionlessly, ‘Now, that is a joy I did not anticipate.’

‘Nor I,’ said Guillermo, and father and son exchanged level looks.

Marisa felt her heart plummet. Of all the Santangeli connections, Renzo’s grandmother had always been the least friendly, dismissing the proposed marriage as ‘insupportable sentiment’ and ‘dangerous nonsense’.

And although Marisa had privately agreed with her views, it had still not been pleasant hearing her total unsuitability voiced aloud—and with such venom.

And now the signora was here—apparently uninvited—on what promised to be the most difficult night of her entire life.

Following, as it did, one of the most difficult days.

But for the emotional turmoil that had had her in its grip, the events at the Estrello Gallery that morning might almost have been amusing, she thought, as she took a seat and accepted the cup of coffee that Signora Alesconi poured for her.

Corin’s face had been a study when she’d broken the news that she was leaving, and why. And when finally, with trepidation, she had introduced an unsmiling Renzo as her husband, explaining that the problem of the gallery’s future might have a solution, the whole encounter had almost tipped over into farce.

Almost, she thought, swallowing, but not quite.

She’d been thankful to leave the pair of them to talk business in Corin’s cubbyhole of an office while she cleared her few personal items from her desk.

But her feelings had been mixed when Corin had emerged, clearly pole-axed, to tell her the deal was done and it was now down to the lawyers.

Because it had not simply been a matter of legalities, and she had known that. And so had the man who’d stood behind Corin, watching her, his dark face uncompromising. The husband who would seek recompense by claiming his right to her body that night.