minutes later she was annoyed again because he hadn’t told her until just before they were leaving that they were going to stay over in Venice, so she hadn’t bothered to pack a bag.
‘Shop for what you need when we get there,’ said the man to whom money had a different meaning.
‘For want of a further five minutes it seems terribly extravagant,’ she complained.
‘Time is money to me, cara,’ he pointed out.
‘Then I’m sorry for costing you money while you waited,’ she said primly. ‘What a problem I am to you.’
Sarcasm or not, he slashed a grin at her. ‘My biggest problem is going to be keeping my mind on business when I know you’re within easy reach of me,’ he murmured lazily.
‘Then I hope you spend your meetings in a state of permanent distraction.’
‘While you do what?’
‘Spend your money as fast as I can produce the credit cards,’ she answered.
He laughed, and kissed her until the lift arrived. After that it didn’t really matter any more that he was only doing this to keep her and Stefan apart. The harmony was back, and she was happy to bask in it. Happy to bask beneath the amount of care and attention he paid her throughout their short flight to Venice and the ensuing journey along the canals until they came to their hotel.
Heads turned, people stared. She basked in that also. For being with a man like Marco Bellini was a bit like walking alongside royalty: paths were smoothed, people deferred. He was rich, he was known, he was handsome and single. Women envied her place in his life. Men envied all his many advantages.
Having safely delivered her to their hotel, he left her to her own devices while he went off to keep his appointments. She shopped till she’d dropped, and spent the rest of her time trailing around some of the tourist sites amongst the thick summer crowds and the heat that melted.
By the time she arrived back in their suite she was so exhausted it was all she could do to run a bath and sink into it. On the bed lay the smart designer bags to go with her new smart designer purchases. On the floor lay the scatter of her discarded clothes.
Letting himself in a few minutes later, Marco smiled at the evidence of her occupation. Antonia was untidy by nature, though she would make the effort to try not to be because she thought it must irritate him. Being brought up to strict rules set by a succession of nannies meant that regimental neatness had become second nature to him.
But it didn’t irritate him. In truth, he liked to walk into a room and see instant proof of her presence. The bathroom door stood ajar, and from behind it he could hear the lazy slap of water which told him what she was doing now.
It was the easiest thing in the world to strip off his clothes and go in there to join her. Up to her neck in bubbles, she smiled as he approached, lifted her knees to allow him room to sit down opposite her, then, on a contented sigh fed her feet up his chest as he stretched his long legs on either side of her.
‘Long day?’ he enquired.
‘Spent your money. Played tourist. Got too hot. Killed my feet. Came back here to die peacefully. And you?’ she returned the enquiry.
‘Made a few lira, invested a few lira.’ His accompanying shrug said it was par for the course. ‘Threw my impressive weight around a bit. Came back here to make love to this woman I know.’
Her eyes began to gleam. ‘Is she any good?’
So did his. ‘Molti bellisima,’ he softly confided, and picked up one of her feet to begin an expert massage to its slender sole. She liked that. Closing her eyes, she simply lay back and let him indulge her.
In fact Marco indulged her in many ways during the next few days. They dined in quiet out-of-the-way places where the tourists didn’t go, walked hand in hand through narrow streets like dark caverns, and made love for most of the night. When he had to leave her to attend his meetings he made it brief, and secondary to what was really going on here in Venice.
Which was the steadily strengthening realisation that she was becoming more and more important to his happiness than he had ever allowed himself to believe before.
By the time they caught the flight home to Milan, on Friday afternoon, he knew he was almost ready to make the ultimate commitment. Only—
He wanted to see what Kranst had planned before he laid himself open. Antonia hadn’t mentioned Kranst. He hadn’t mentioned him. But had she been in touch with him? Did she know what Kranst was up to? Did she know that Marco was worrying about it?
Did she care?
He needed to know the answers before he made any kind of commitment because, damn it, he had his pride to protect here!
It was a hesitation that was going to cost him, though Marco couldn’t have any way of knowing it then.
They arrived back at the apartment late on Friday afternoon, to find Carlotta back at her post and smiling her usual welcome. She thanked them for the postcards Antonia must have sent her, then went on to relay a series of messages, most of them business, but some from his mother wanting him to call her as soon as he got in.
‘My father?’ he questioned sharply.
But Carlotta shook her head. ‘I asked,’ she said. ‘Your mamma assured me he was pleasingly well.’
So he nodded, and decided to leave any calls home until after this evening was over.
That was another mistake.
There were also several calls for Antonia from Stefan Kranst which, from their content, told him that Antonia had held faith and not attempted to contact Kranst while they’d been away. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and kiss her for that, but good sense warned him not to make an issue of it—just as she was sensibly asking no questions about that other taboo subject, his parents.
Franco rang as they were sharing a pot of coffee while relaxing for an hour in front of the TV before they needed to start getting ready to go out. Marco felt fine, very at peace with himself and the beautiful creature curled up beside him. He and Franco chatted as best friends do. He was thanked for the painting they’d given the de Maggios as an anniversary present, and for the thought which had gone into it, and tried to pass the whole thing off as if he knew exactly what Franco meant. But he didn’t, and his gaze was sardonic when he remembered how easily he had let Antonia off without answering that little bone of contention between them. Then he suggested dinner somewhere after the Kranst showing.
It was at that moment that the tension began to creep in. Antonia sat up and away from him. Studying her profile, he heard Franco telling him that he and Nicola were not going tonight because they were spending the weekend up at Lake Como with her parents. Franco suggested Wednesday instead. Marco agreed, then hurriedly rang off.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked instantly.
‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘I think I’ll go and get my shower now—’
But he wasn’t so easily fooled. ‘Kranst can only hurt you if you let him,’ he said quietly.
‘It isn’t me Stefan hurts, Marco,’
