her heart pounding and her mouth dry. Had Liliana really called her? she asked herself now, still with her eyes closed. And if so, if the woman she had loved as a mother had reached out from another world for her help, what would be expected of her?
The dream had confused her at the time; she had lain awake the rest of the night until dawn had broken, trying to convince herself it meant nothing, but since her arrival back in Italy she could see it was perhaps Lorenzo Liliana had been calling her for. That, at least, would make some sense, because her first supposition—that Donato’s mother had been referring to her eldest son—was too ridiculous to entertain, and she had known it immediately she had brought logic and reason to bear.
She slowly opened her eyes, forcing herself to look round the large, bright, sunlit room that had been her marital bedroom for three years. It was here that Paolo had been conceived after long, lazy hours of sweet lovemaking just three months after they had been married, hours when she had moaned under the exquisite sensations Donato had produced so effortlessly in her soft flesh, when the sexual feeling that had flowed in and around and through her had been so unbearably wonderful that she had thought she’d die from it...
Was that how he made Maria feel? She forced the name into her consciousness as a talisman against the weakness that was threatening to overwhelm her. Probably, she thought grimly as her eyes began to focus. Very probably. He was an accomplished lover.
And then she saw them, the carefully arranged display of wild flowers. Michaelmas daisies, blood-red poppies, ragged robin with its delicate pink petals, white and blue forget-me-nots, the deep green leaves and sky-blue petals of germander speedwell, coltsfoot, orange hawkweed, lady’s-smock, scarlet pimpernel...
‘Oh!’ Her hand went to her throat as she gasped out loud. Her wedding bouquet, and only Donato knew its significance. She walked across to the flowers slowly and stood looking at them for long moments before tentatively touching the tall spikes of purple loosestrife and pale blue buddleia, the tiny white flowers of shepherd’s purse splaying out beneath them.
All through the long years in the children’s home she had picked small posies of wild flowers, gathered from the hedgerows and lanes close by, to brighten her windowsill in the dormitory. The delicate beauty of the flowers had been something pure and lovely in the stark, regimented existence within the building where practicality had been the order of the day. They had been a comfort she couldn’t explain to anyone, a hope, a promise that life would get better, and when she had nervously tried to explain her feelings to Donato when the expensive hothouse blooms for the wedding were being discussed she hadn’t thought he’d listened.
And then, on her wedding day, the most exquisite bouquet had been delivered, tied and threaded through with white silk ribbons and lace, the marvellous array of wild flowers cascading almost to the floor in a declaration to their future.
She had cried then and she knew she was going to cry now. She threw herself onto the scented linen covers of the big double bed, curling into a tight little ball of misery and grief.
How could he? How could he have slept with Maria Fasola, held her, loved her, smiled at her, after all they had meant to each other? Their marriage, the moments they had shared, Paolo’s birth, his death—oh...oh, his death...
Her sobs were wrenched from the depths of her, harsh, angry, desperate sounds that reached the tall, dark man standing outside the room, freezing his fingers on the handle of the door and turning his face into a mask of stone before he turned savagely, striding away down the passageway with violent steps.
CHAPTER THREE
BY THE time Anna arrived with her lunch tray some fifteen minutes later Grace had washed her face and appeared calm, on the surface at least, but once the small maid had left she gazed down at the cannelloni ripieni—pasta rolls with a filling of meat and tomato sauce—on a bed of fresh green salad and sighed wearily.
She had thought she was past the tears, the pain, the sheer rage, but since her first step on Italian soil the past had closed round her like a dark veil. She placed the tray on a small table before lifting the large crystal wineglass and walking across to the full-length windows, opening them and stepping onto the balcony beyond, where she stood in the warm sunshine sipping the cool, fruity red wine. She was still there some twenty minutes later when Donato stepped through the billowing lace curtains.
‘You haven’t eaten a bite, have you?’ He inclined his head backwards towards the bedroom.
‘I’m not hungry.’ As she spoke she raised her chin at the condemning note in his voice and for a moment blue eyes clashed with coal-black in a battle of wills.
‘It will be of no help to anyone if you become ill.’
She didn’t know if it was the large glass of rich, potent wine on an empty stomach, the tension of the last day or two since she had received the telegram, the lack of sleep, the memories that had assailed her constantly all day, or just Donato himself in all his arrogance, but suddenly it was all she could do to hold onto her temper.
‘No, of course not; that would put a spanner in the works, wouldn’t it?’ she agreed tightly, her voice lethal. ‘My usefulness to the Vittoria empire would be severely affected if I couldn’t fulfil my role as companion to Lorenzo—’
‘Stop it!’ He took a step forward and gripped her arms with a strength that told her he was angry—very angry. ‘That was not what I meant and you know it.’
‘I know nothing of the kind, Donato.’ She didn’t flinch from his wrath, standing straight and still in front of him, her delicate, slender body held taut and her eyes blazing. ‘And please let go of me,’ she said icily. ‘I’ve told you, I won’t be mauled.’
He held her for one moment more, his face working with dark emotion, before turning abruptly aside and moving to stand with his hands resting on the thick stone wall of the balcony, his back bent and his arms outstretched. ‘Never, ever have I met such a perverse woman,’ he muttered furiously, his head bent downwards.
‘I find that hard to believe.’ Her voice wasn’t as tart as she would have liked it to be, those few seconds of being held close enough to breathe in the delicious smell of him and to feel that big, powerful body having started a reaction in her traitorous limbs she could well have done without.
She watched him take a long, hard pull of air before straightening slowly and turning to face her, his eyes hooded now and his face cold. ‘I will order another tray to be sent up and this time you will eat,’ he said slowly. ‘You understand? Dinner will not be until eight and I do not want you feeling faint; you are too thin as it is.’
‘Too thin?’ She bitterly resented the criticism and glared at him, her blue eyes sparking. He preferred Maria’s rounded curves, did he? Full-blown voluptuousness? Well, that was just too bad. ‘My weight is perfectly adequate for my height, actually,’ she said tightly, ‘and I haven’t had any complaints so far.’
Why she added that last bit she didn’t know but he certainly didn’t like it, she thought with great satisfaction as the ebony eyes iced over and his mouth thinned. How dared he? How dared he compare her with that woman?
‘Is that so?’ His voice was silky-soft but with a dangerous edge that warned her she had better say no more. ‘And what exactly does that mean, mia piccola?’ The old endearment was chilling. ‘Would you care to elaborate on that enigmatic statement?’
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