to him, of course, and it was a strange experience to acknowledge that she was right. Kranst did have the power to hurt him. He hurt Marco’s pride and his ego, because the artist had a part of Antonia he had never been able to touch. What part that was exactly he had not been able to work out, but it had something to do with the way she refused to accept any hint of criticism where Kranst was concerned, whereas Marco she could find fault with very easily.
CHAPTER SIX
THE Romano Gallery claimed prestige position in the famous Quadrilatero. It was double-fronted in plate glass, with black steel framework, and Rosetta Romano’s name made its point with eye-level modesty in black lettering on the door.
Class wasn’t in it. Only people of substance dared place their fingers on that door. A black-suited lackey did it for Marco and Antonia, pulling it inwards with panache and a crisp, ‘Buon giorno, Signor Bellini—signorina.’
The interior was an artistic exhibit in its own right—white walls, white floor and a white stairway leading up to the main gallery rooms. Its only decoration was a single black spot, strategically placed on one wall to offer perspective.
Marco’s hand at the base of her spine kept her moving towards the stairway. They took it together, climbing towards the two black-clothed waiters stationed at the top, holding trays loaded with glasses of champagne. Neither took a glass. To swallow right now would be an impossibility, with the tension rising steadily since they’d left the sitting room back at the apartment.
She had thought of ringing Stefan and insisting he explain about the painting so she could then decide whether to come or not. But two things had stopped her. One had something to do with a complicated thing called loyalty. To speak to Stefan just now seemed to be putting her loyalty to Marco into question. And the second was because she knew Marco would insist on coming here tonight no matter what she wanted to do. It was a male pride thing. Stefan had thrown him a challenge and Marco would rather slit his own throat than decline it.
But that didn’t mean she hadn’t spent time on her own, going over every painting from her days living with Stefan, looking for the one he had not shown in public before. As far as she could recall there wasn’t one—which worried her all the more, because he had to have something up his sleeve or he wouldn’t have thrown down that teasing gauntlet to Marco in the first place.
Dressed from neck to toe in black, at least she blended in with the status quo tonight, she then observed, as her gaze flicked around a semi-packed ante-room that fed into the main viewing rooms. Her hair was up, caught in a twist of black velvet, and her only adornment was a gold chain necklace with a single tear-drop diamond that Marco had placed around her throat just before they left the apartment. The diamond nestled against the black of her dress and sparkled as she moved.
‘Stunning,’ Marco had called her. ‘Too lovely to resist. Too perfect to touch.’
But she still didn’t deserve his surname, she mused, with a mockery that was a long way from humorous.
‘Ah, buona sera!’ Rosetta Romano came to greet them with all the extravagance of an Italian hostess. ‘Marco, mi amore…’ Both elegant hands touched his face, then were replaced with kisses to both cheeks. ‘Do you realise it must be over a year since you visited me here?’
It was a scold issued in the nicest possible way. While Marco said all the right things in reply Antonia studied Rosetta Romano, who had been a legend in her time for choosing husbands by the size of their wallets. Now that her beauty was fading she preferred to be known for her artistic eye. All the big names had exhibited here. Two years ago Stefan would not have stood a chance. Now—?
Rosetta turned her attention to Antonia. Her eyes sharpened, then narrowed searchingly. ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I see it. Stefan assured me I would. Buona sera, Signorina Carson,’ she greeted with a slightly wry smile. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you at last.’
Kisses on both cheeks were compulsory in Milan. The whisper Rosetta placed in her ear was most definitely not. ‘Stefan is such a wicked man. I do hope you are prepared for this.’
No, she wasn’t, and keeping that from showing on her face took a lot of self-control. But she wasn’t able to stop the small anxious shiver from chasing down her spine. Marco felt it, and his hand moved on her waist to draw her closer to his side.
‘What did she say to you?’ he questioned when Rosetta floated away to greet her next arriving guests.
Antonia didn’t even try to dress it up. ‘She wanted to know if I was ready for whatever is coming,’ she told him.
‘And are you?’ he asked curtly.
She flashed him a look. ‘The point is, are you?’ she coolly countered. ‘Since you seem to believe that anything to do with me and Stefan is deliberately engineered to reflect badly on you.’
She was right and he knew it. A muscle flexed in his jaw. Then he was forced to offer an amiable smile to some friends who immediately accosted them. After that it was other friends. Progress towards their main objective became a laboriously slow affair. With his hand never leaving contact with her, Marco conversed lightly with acquaintances while Antonia stood beside him, eyes constantly looking around the steadily thickening crowd in search of Stefan. But still he hadn’t put in an appearance.
What was he up to? Why was he piling on the tension like this?
People began filtering off into the adjoining rooms. With the smoothness of a man in no kind of hurry, Marco manoeuvred them into doing the same.
Antonia held her breath, Marco’s hand pressed her just the bit closer to his side as they stepped through to the main gallery. Together they paused, together they took stock of what was presented—and together they began to frown.
For there was nothing on these walls that could warrant the challenge with which Stefan had lured them here—if you didn’t count the evidence that Stefan had seemingly found himself a new subject to occupy his genius.
She was tall, she was dark, she was exquisitely different, and her rich African beauty could not have been further removed from what had gone before her. The long slender line of her body laid bare a sensuality that curled around the senses, the silken quality of her skin set fingers twitching with a need to reach out and touch. But, as usual, with Stefan, it was her eyes that drew you.
No hint of mirrors or ghosts anywhere, but a luxurious darkness that seemed to hold all the secrets of the universe.
Understanding came, trailing gentle fingertips over her emotions in the heart-rippling realisation that here, in these frames, was Stefan’s salvation.
He had set himself free. ‘Are you all right?’ Marco asked gruffly.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. But he knew that she wasn’t. He could feel her fighting a battle with tears as they walked from frame to frame. ‘She’s incredible, don’t you think?’
‘Bellisima,’ Marco quietly agreed. And he knew he should be pleased by what he was seeing, but in truth he wanted to wring Kranst’s selfish neck for choosing this way to tell her he had finally found someone else who drew this depth of emotion from him.
‘I presume by your response that you knew nothing about her?’
‘Not a thing,’ she replied, having to swallow the tears again.
‘Maybe
