In the past, his sexual partners had certainly not been chosen for their inexperience, but innocence was an essential quality for the girl who would one day bear the Santangeli heir. He had told himself the least he could do was offer her some reassurance about how their relationship would be conducted in its early days—and nights.
Therefore, he’d resolved to promise her that their honeymoon would be an opportunity for them to become properly reacquainted, even be friends, and that he would be prepared to wait patiently until she felt ready to take him as her husband in any true sense.
And he’d meant every word of it, he thought, remembering how she’d listened in silence, her head half-turned from him, her creamy skin tinged with colour as he spoke.
All the same, he knew he’d been hoping for some reaction—some slight encouragement for him to take her in his arms and kiss her gently to mark their engagement.
But there’d been nothing, then or later. She’d never signalled in any way that she wanted him to touch her, and by offering forbearance he’d fallen, he realised, annoyed, into a trap of his own making.
Because as time had passed, and their wedding day had approached, he’d found himself as awkward as a boy in her cool, unrevealing company, unable to make even the slightest approach to her—something which had never happened to him before.
But what he had not bargained for was losing his temper. And it was the guilt of that which still haunted him.
He sighed abruptly as he knotted a dry towel round his hips. Well, there was no point in torturing himself afresh over that. He ought to go to bed, he thought, and try to catch some sleep for what little remained of the night. But he knew he was far too restless to relax, and that the time could be used to better effect in planning the coming campaign.
He walked purposefully out of the bathroom, ignoring the invitation of the turned-down bed in the room beyond, and proceeded instead down the hallway to the salotto.
It was an impressive room, its size accentuated by the pale walls and a signal lack of clutter. He’d furnished it in light colours too, with deep, lavishly cushioned sofas in cream leather, and occasional tables in muted, ashy shades.
The only apparently discordant note in all this pastel restraint was the massive desk, which he loved because it had once belonged to his grandfather, and which now occupied a whole corner of the room in all its mahogany magnificence.
In banking circles he knew that he was viewed as a moderniser, a man with his sights firmly set on the future, alert to any changes in the market. But anyone seeing that desk, he’d always thought dryly, would have guessed immediately that underlying this was a strong respect for tradition and an awareness of what he owed to the past.
He went straight to the desk, extracted a file from one of its brass-handled drawers and, after pouring himself a generous Scotch, stretched out on one of the sofas and began to glance through the folder’s contents. An update had been received the previous day, but he’d not had a chance to read it before, and now seemed an appropriate time.
He took a contemplative mouthful of whisky as his eyes scanned swiftly down the printed sheet, then sat up abruptly with a gasp, nearly choking as his drink went down the wrong way and he found himself in imminent danger of spilling the rest everywhere.
He recovered instantly, eyes watering, then set down the crystal tumbler carefully out of harm’s way before, his face thunderous, he re-read the unwelcome information that the private surveillance company engaged for the protection of his absentee wife had provided.
‘We must advise you,’ it stated, ‘that since our last report Signora Santangeli, using her maiden name, has obtained paid employment as a receptionist in a private art gallery in Carstairs Place, apparently taking the place of a young woman on maternity leave. In the past fortnight she has lunched twice in the company of the gallery’s owner, Mr Corin Langford. She no longer wears her wedding ring. Photographic evidence can be provided if required.’
Renzo screwed the report into a ball and threw it across the room, cursing long and fluently.
He flung himself off the sofa and began to pace restlessly up and down. He did not need any photographs, he thought savagely. Too many of his own affairs had begun over leisurely lunches, so he knew all about satisfying one appetite while creating another—was totally familiar with the sharing of food and wine, eyes meeting across the table, fingers touching, then entwining.
What he did not—could not—recognise was the mental image of the girl on the other side of the table. Marisa smiling back, talking and laughing, the initial shyness in her eyes dancing into confidence and maybe even into desire.
The way she had never once behaved with him. Nor looked at him—or smiled.
Not, of course, that he was jealous, he hastened to remind himself.
Just—angrier than he’d ever been before. Everything that had happened between them in the past paled into insignificance under this—this insult to his manhood. To his status as her husband.
Well, if his reluctant bride thought she could place the horns on him, she was much mistaken, he vowed in grim silence. Tomorrow he would go to fetch her home, and once he had her back she would not get away from him again. Because he would make very sure that from then on she would think of no one—want no one—but him. That she would be his completely.
And, he told himself harshly, he would enjoy every minute of it.
CHAPTER TWO
‘MARISA? My God, it is you. I can hardly believe it.’
The slender girl who’d been gazing abstractedly into a shop window swung round, her lips parting in astonishment as she recognised the tall, fair-haired young man standing behind her.
She said uncertainly, ‘Alan—what are you doing here?’
‘That should be my question. Why aren’t you sipping cappuccino on the Via Veneto?’
The million-dollar question…
‘Well, that can pall after a while,’ she said lightly. ‘And I began to fancy a cup of English tea instead.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘And what does Lorenzo the Magnificent have to say about that?’
The note of bitterness in his voice was not lost on her. She said quickly, ‘Alan—don’t…’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He looked past her to the display of upmarket baby clothes she’d been contemplating and his mouth tightened. ‘I gather congratulations must be in order?’
‘God, no.’ Marisa spoke more forcefully than she’d intended, and flushed when she saw his surprise. ‘I—I mean not for me. A girl I was at school with, Dinah Newman, is expecting her first, and I want to buy her something special.’
‘Well, you seem to have come to the right place,’ Alan said, inspecting a couple of the price tickets with raised brows. ‘You need to be the wife of a millionaire banker to shop here.’ He smiled at her. ‘She must be quite a friend.’
‘Let’s just say that I owe her,’ Marisa said quietly.
I
