Now there was amusement in his voice as he heard the sudden panic in her voice. ‘You really think that I intend to have this discussion about the end of my marriage on the phone?’
‘There’s no need for face-to-face contact—we can do it all through lawyers,’ Emma ventured.
‘Then go ahead and do it,’ he retaliated.
Was he calling her bluff because somehow he suspected she was in a weak position? But he couldn’t know that.
‘If you want my co-operation then I suggest you meet me halfway, Emma,’ Vincenzo continued softly. ‘Otherwise you could have a very long and very expensive fight on your hands.’
Emma closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry—because he would seize on any outward sign of weakness like a vulture picking over a carcass. How could she have forgotten about that iron-hard resolve of his, that stubborn determination to get exactly what it was he wanted?
‘Why would you fight me, Vincenzo?’ she questioned wearily. ‘When both of us know this marriage is dead and neither one of us wants it to continue?’
Perhaps if she had shed a tear, perhaps if her voice had wavered with just one tiny shiver of emotion—then Vincenzo might have spared her. But her cool, down-to-earth manner sparked in him a fury which had lain dormant since their marriage had broken down—and now he felt it spring into powerful and ugly life within him. At that moment, Vincenzo didn’t really know or care what it was that he wanted—all he knew was that he wanted to thwart Emma’s desires.
‘Can you do Monday?’ he queried, as if she hadn’t spoken.
Blinking back the slight saltiness at the backs of her eyes, Emma didn’t need to look in her diary—she didn’t even have one. Why would she? Her social life was nonexistent these days and that was the way she liked it.
‘Monday seems to be…okay,’ said Emma, as if she, too, had a rare window in her schedule. ‘What time?’
‘Where are you living? Can you do dinner?’
She thought about it—the last train back to Boisdale from London left just after eleven, but what if she missed it? Her friend Joanna would be happy to have Gino during the day, but taking him overnight would involve a little more juggling. Besides, she had never been apart from her baby boy for a night and she didn’t intend to start now.
Ignoring the first part of his question, Emma forced herself to sound casual. ‘Not dinner, no.’
‘Why? Are you busy in the evening?’ he mocked.
‘I don’t live in London. It’s…easier if we do lunchtime.’
Vincenzo stretched as a glossy brunette in a close-fitting pencil skirt wiggled in to place a cup of espresso on the desk in front of him and he smiled, pausing while he watched the pert thrust of her buttocks as she sashayed out of the office. The smile left his lips. ‘Sì, then we will make it lunch,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll have someone fix us something here. Come to my office—can you remember how to get here?’
But Emma baulked at the thought of going to his London headquarters—with its gleaming magnificence taunting her about the crazy inequality of their two lifestyles. And his office wasn’t neutral territory, was it? Vincenzo would have the upper hand—and there was nothing he liked more.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer it if we went out to a… restaurant?’
Once again Vincenzo thought he detected the waver of hope in her voice and he was surprised at the dark pleasure which washed over him as he swamped it. ‘No, I don’t want to go to a restaurant,’ he negated silkily. And be constrained by the table between them, the hovering of waiters and the formality of the atmosphere? No way. ‘Be here at one.’
And then to Emma’s disbelief he terminated the connection and she was left listening to an empty dialling tone. Slowly, she replaced the receiver and as she glanced up caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror which hung over the phone. Her hair looked lank, her face as white as chalk and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. And Vincenzo had always been so particular how he wanted her to look—she had been his little doll.
Although he was Sicilian, he had happily adopted the Italian ideal of la bella figura—the importance of image—of making the best of yourself. Biting her lip, she imagined the contempt in those mocking black eyes if he could see her now. And any contempt would surely put her at even more of a disadvantage.
Between now and Monday, she was going to have to do something drastic about her appearance.
HEART slamming against her ribcage, Emma stared up at the Cardini building, willing herself to have the courage to walk in. It was a beautiful structure—sleek and curved and fashioned almost entirely from glass. Its design had won awards and it screamed wealth from every polished pane, throwing her reflection back at her a hundred times over and seeming to emphasise her impoverished state in this wealthy area of London.
She’d had a nightmare time trying to find something suitable to wear—all her clothes were practical, not smart—and none of them was of the delicious costly quality which had become second nature to her as Vincenzo’s wife.
In the end she’d chosen a plain dress, which she had jazzed up with a bright, clumpy necklace, and had polished her boots until she could see her face in them. Only her coat was good and you could tell—soft dark cashmere lined with violet silk which felt so delicious against her spare frame. Tiny, embroidered violet flowers were scattered along the hem of the expensive material, as if someone had flung a handful of flowers there, and they had stuck. Vincenzo had bought her that coat from one of Milan’s costliest shops, slipping out from their hotel one afternoon, leaving her asleep and tousled in bed, to return with a large, ribbon-wrapped box.
She hadn’t wanted to wear it today—it was too full of memories, too much a slice of the past. But it was warm and, more importantly, it was smart enough to take her anywhere. And what was the alternative? To waltz into the Cardini headquarters wearing her bargain faux-fur trimmed coat—the kind of which was usually snapped up by hard-up students?
Turning dizzily in the revolving doors, Emma entered the vast, airy foyer and walked up to the reception desk—a journey which seemed to take for ever.
The Madonna behind the desk gave her a bland smile. ‘May I help you?’
‘I have…I have an appointment with Signor Cardini.’
The woman glanced down at a list. ‘Emma Cardini?’
‘That’s me,’ agreed Emma, thinking that the Madonna couldn’t quite hide her look of surprise.
A perfectly polished pink fingernail was pointed to the far end of the foyer. ‘Take the elevator to the very top of the building and someone will be waiting there to meet you.’
‘Thanks.’
As the lift shot silently upwards Emma thought how long it had been since she’d visited London—and how long it had been since she’d been out without her son. And never for a whole day, like this. Would he be okay? she wondered for the hundredth time since buying her ticket at Boisdale station. Or would
