and totally shell-shocked. ‘Nothing could have stopped me marrying him.’
The gypsy woman nodded, her eyes sad. ‘I know.’
He watched her sleep, her chestnut hair splayed across his pillow. He physically ached to join her, but he knew he could not. Not if he was ever to let her go.
And he must let her go. She was too precious, too beautiful. She deserved far more than he could ever give her. She deserved better. She deserved a man who might save her if she ever fell …
And yet here she was in his bed, curled up like a kitten, and here he was, rock hard with wanting her. He could take her right now. He could climb into bed, kiss her into wakefulness, caress her sweet curves and bury himself deep in her sweet depths.
He ground his teeth in frustration and growled low in his throat, forcing his feet to stay right where they were.
Why didn’t she give up? How many times did he have to reject her before she hated him enough to leave him alone?
He had never taken her for such a fighter.
And he had never taken himself for such a fool. He knew he was capable of being a fool; God, he’d more than proved that eleven years ago, marrying a woman at the end of her career who had wanted the safety blanket of a marriage, while refusing to be satisfied with being out of the limelight, still lusting after the adoration of everyone. The adoration of just one man had not been enough.
He thought he’d learned his lesson then.
But no. He had been a fool to agree to this. He had known it would come unstuck. He had known it could not work. There were other ways to get revenge against a family he hated with his soul without holding someone so precious and innocent hostage in the process.
It was so wrong to hold her hostage.
But he could not afford let her go yet. If he did, she would flee straight into the arms of Garbas and this would all have been for nothing; Umberto’s plans would backfire in spectacular fashion. He had not come this far to let a Garbas win now. So he needed to keep her here just a little while longer, just until Garbas was put away for good, and then he would let her go. There had to be someone decent out there for her—someone worthy of her love.
And in the meantime there would be no more picnics on the beach. No more occasions where they could be alone together, even if it meant no more smiles, no more laughter to add to his bank of memories. And, given what he was doing, the last thing he deserved were smiles and laughter.
‘I’m sorry, Bella,’ he whispered, aching for her, aching for what he had lost before he had ever known the full extent of her love. ‘So very sorry.’ And he left her sleeping and walked away.
‘We need to talk.’ It was after lunch and he’d been avoiding her all day, taking his meals alone and forcing her to do likewise, but finally she had managed to track him down to the library.
‘Bella,’ he said, rising to his feet to greet her with a kiss to her cheeks. ‘How lovely to see you. Did you sleep well?’
‘Forget it, Raoul. I’m not in the mood.’ She didn’t want empty platitudes. All morning a storm had been building outside, thick, dark clouds building on the horizon, sweeping in from the sea until they formed a heavy dark bank. All morning a storm had been building inside her, dark and brooding and increasing in intensity. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘You know it is. I want to know what’s going on.’ ‘I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.’ ‘I don’t think so. I think I’m the one at a disadvantage. I gave up on waiting for you to come to my bed, given that was apparently too onerous a task the night we were married, so I slept in your bed last night, hoping you would join me some time through the night.’
‘Bella, I am so sorry. I was held up …’
‘Doing what? I want to make love with my husband. What is wrong with that?’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘I do! I just don’t understand what you’re saying or why you’re saying it. I’m your wife, Raoul, and I am going mad here wondering what is wrong with me that you are so interested in doing something else—anything else! But there is nothing wrong with me, so it must be with you. You hide yourself away from me every night; I won’t let you do that again. Because I love you, and I want to make love to you. I want you in my bed. I want to be in yours. Why won’t you make love to me, now that we are married, when you found no such barrier before? Or is there something painfully wrong with me you haven’t told me about?’
‘There is nothing wrong with you.’
‘Then what the hell is wrong with you? We are married, Raoul. You took me for your wife. What is it you intend to do with me that you bring me to this godforsaken end of the earth and as good as hang me out to dry? What’s with that? This is supposed to be our honeymoon.’
He stiffened. ‘I did not realise you were so inconvenienced by being here.’
‘Inconvenienced? How ungrateful of me to imply such a thing, when clearly I’m having the time of my life! And when I try to seduce you—my own husband—you reject me. You turn me down. How do you think that makes me feel?’
‘Gabriella …’
‘Do you know how humiliating it is for everyone to know that your own husband will not make love to you?’
‘Nobody knows.’
‘Except for Natania and Marco. Or is that why you brought me here? To save me the humiliation and indignity of the entire world knowing? Should I thank you instead for your kind consideration?’
‘Gabriella, it’s not like that.’
‘Isn’t it? You know, I used to think you had bricked up your heart behind walls so high and thick that they could never be breached. But I thought there was hope for you when we spent those days in Venice. I thought there was hope when you asked me to marry you. But I was wrong.
‘Because you don’t have a heart at all. You’re empty inside. You’re not a man, you’re a shell. An empty, hollow shell of a man. Devoid of emotion. Devoid of feeling. And I wish to God I’d never met you.’
His jaw was set tight, the cords in his neck pulled taut, and when the words came they sounded like they were ground out. ‘You have no idea what I feel.’
‘No, I don’t. Because you won’t tell me. You won’t share the slightest thing with me. Me, the woman who is supposed to be your wife! And yet you give me nothing. When I tell you that I love you, I get nothing in return. I don’t even know if you love me. I thought you did. I believed you when once you told me that you do not have to hear the words to be true, but now I need to hear those words. Can you say them? Do you love me, Raoul?’
‘Bella …’
‘Don’t Bella me! Don’t pretend I mean something to you when clearly I mean nothing. Do you love me? It’s a simple enough question. Yes or no, Raoul; what’s it to be?’
He spun around, his hand raking through his hair. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Because I need to know. I
