A Husband's Vendetta

And then Miss Right would gracefully take on the role of the second Mrs Luciano Maccari. Gemma would have a mother to tuck her up in bed and read stories… Hastily Ellen shut off that line of thought. It was an inevitable development but she wasn’t ready for it yet.

As for Luc—he was a hypocrite! He saw nothing wrong in letting women paw him in front of his daughter, she thought indignantly. One of them had been sitting on his lap, the other had flung her arms around his neck and was kissing him on the cheek while he grinned in smug delight.

Yet he was condemning her for entertaining nonexistent lovers! She steamed with the rank injustice of it. Justifiably aggrieved, hurting at the memory of those lovely women, she stood up for herself.

‘Let’s make a pact. You lead your own life,’ she told him tightly, ‘and I’ll do what I damn well like with mine!’

‘Not when my daughter’s around, you won’t!’ he countered.

‘She’s mine too!’

‘Barely!’ he shot back

Ellen sucked in a painful breath. He was determined to inflict wounds. The brute.

‘You hate not having control over everything that happens to her, don’t you? For heaven’s sake, Luc, don’t carp. She’s yours for most of the time. I only see her for one week, four times a year!’

‘Ye-e-e-s.’

There was a significance in his hesitation and she blanched, fearing what would follow from that ‘ye-e-e-s.’ Nervously she said, ‘Why did you ring?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve changed my mind.’

Her jaw tightened ominously. He’d ruined her evening for nothing! ‘Right,’ she said tersely. ‘Fascinating chat. Goodbye, Luc—’

‘Wait…’ There was a long and tense pause, as if he was trying to broach a difficult subject. And then he said in a tired voice, ‘We need to meet up, Ellen.’

‘No, we don’t. Anyway, what happened to your declaration when you threw me out that you never wanted to see me again?’

‘I said ‘‘need’’, not ‘‘want’’,’ he drawled sardonically.

‘It makes no difference. I’m not interested in seeing you.’ But she couldn’t stop her curiosity prompting her to add, ‘Why on earth should we need to meet?’

‘Things to talk about.’

‘Like…what?’ she asked guardedly, warning bells ringing in her head.

It could be about access. Or… She thought of the women in the photographs and the blonde one in particular, who’d been gazing adoringly at him as if he was the source of all life.

Perhaps he wanted a divorce. He wanted his freedom to remarry. Her heart swooped and dived as if she were inside an elevator.

‘I’m not discussing it on the phone,’ he replied stubbornly. ‘This is something we need to do face to face. What are you doing this evening?’

Her mouth dropped open in amazement. ‘This…! Oh, my God! You—you’re in England?’ she croaked, her throat as dry as dust.

No. She couldn’t see him. She was getting stage fright at the very thought. He’d talk about the woman he loved and his eyes would melt with love and she’d be dying inside.

‘Sudden business came up.’

‘Yes, well, I’m working, so put your comments in writing,’ she told him flatly.

‘Working…tonight?’

Stung by the wealth of suggestion in the way he’d said that, she primmed her mouth and then said with laboured patience, ‘Relax, Luc. I’m not patrolling the back alleys of Southwark in fishnet stockings and very little else!’

‘I’m relieved to hear it,’ he bit, and she wondered what had happened to his wonderful sense of humour. ‘Did Daddy find you a lucrative job?’ he murmured insolently.

She sniffed. As if she needed help from anyone! ‘I found my own. Your sidekick Donatello must have told you I don’t live with my parents any more.’

‘Got thrown out for impossible behaviour?’

‘Got sick and tired of being pushed around by yet another bossy man!’ she retorted hotly.

Luc grunted. ‘What are you doing to earn your living, then?’

‘I stack shelves in the local supermarket during the day and…’ She chickened out. She couldn’t tell him about her evening job! Being economical with the truth, she said, ‘Three times a week I work at the community centre in the evenings. That’s where I’m going tonight.’

There was a long pause. A hectic colour flushed her neck and face and she was glad he couldn’t see it. He wouldn’t think much of her progress since she’d left him. He wasn’t to know she’d been fighting depression for more than five years.

He’d never enquired after her welfare. The break had been brutally clean. She’d refused his offer of money and he’d washed his hands of her. Out of sight, out of mind.

‘A…supermarket.’ His disapproval was plain to hear.

‘I love it,’ she told him honestly, springing to her own defence. It was the first step of her career. One day she’d manage the store. Then—who knows?

‘Stacking…shelves?’

She permitted herself a smile at his amazement. ‘Oh, you know me,’ she said sarcastically. ‘All fun and no responsibility.’

‘Sounds about right,’ he agreed sourly, not recognising that he was being teased.

She raised her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation and gave up on him. ‘I enjoy it there. It’s like being part of a big family. We have a great time.’

In the pause which followed, Ellen thought sadly of her own dysfunctional family. And of Luc’s doting widowed mother, who’d believed no one, absolutely no one, short of a canonised female saint, would have made a suitable wife for her beloved only son. His mother was dead now. Gemma must be his only blood relative, she mused.

‘I’m glad you’ve found work that matches your skills,’ Luc said rudely. ‘Now. Tonight. What time do you start work?’

‘Seven-thirty.’ Her hand shook, and she glared at it for being so stupid. ‘But I’m not seeing you—’

‘You must. We’ll meet beforehand.’ He stated this in the confident, macho tone which had once made her feel cherished and protected. Now it irritated her beyond belief. ‘Where? Your house?’

She frowned, hating to be pushed around. Inviting Luc to her flat was the last thing she wanted. She’d always met Gemma and Luc’s PA, Donatello, at a local café to protect her privacy. She’d been afraid that Luc would stop Gemma visiting her if he knew how unsuitable her flat was.

‘Why can’t you get it into your head that I don’t want to see you at all?’ she complained crossly. ‘You’re a part of my past I’d rather stick in a sack and bury ten feet under.’

‘That goes for me too. Do you think I want to see you? You’re not exactly my favourite pin-up. But it’s important,’ he retorted. Ellen grumpily recognised that there must be a team of wild horses dragging him kicking and screaming in her direction. ‘This is about Gemma. About you.’

She went cold. That sounded ominous. Her knees seemed to be giving out and she leaned heavily against the peeling wall. ‘But can’t we—?’