found herself leaning back against its panels, gasping for breath as if she’d just run a mile in record time.
Oh, why—why—did the lock on this damned door have no key? she wondered wildly. Something that would make her feel safe.
Except that would be a total self-delusion, and she knew it. Because there was no lock, bolt or chain yet invented that would keep Renzo Santangeli at bay if ever he decided that he wanted her.
Instead, she had to face the fact that it was only his indifference that would guarantee her privacy tonight.
A reflection that, to her own bewilderment, gave her no satisfaction at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE sofa, Renzo thought bleakly, was not at all as comfortable as he’d claimed.
But even if it had been as soft as a featherbed, and long enough to accommodate his tall frame without difficulty, he would still have found sleep no easier to come by.
Arms folded behind his head, he lay staring up at the faint white sheen of the ceiling, his mind jagged and restless.
He was enough of a realist to have accepted that he wouldn’t find a subdued, compliant bride awaiting him in London, but neither had he anticipated quite such a level of intransigence. Had hoped, in fact, that allowing her this time away from him might have brought about a faint softening of her attitude. A basis for negotiation, at least.
But how wrong was it possible to be? he asked himself wryly. It seemed she had no wish either to forgive him—or forget—so any plans he’d been formulating for a fresh start between them were back in the melting pot.
The simplest solution to his problems, of course, would be to settle for the so-called annulment she had offered and walk away. Accept that their marriage had never had a chance of success.
Indeed, the days leading up to the wedding had been almost surreal, with Marisa, like a ghost, disappearing at his approach, and when forced to remain in his presence speaking only when spoken to.
Except once. When for one brief moment at that dinner party he’d discovered her looking at him with a speculation in her eyes there had been no mistaking. And for that moment his heart had lifted in frank jubilation.
He remembered how he hadn’t been able to wait for their dinner guests to leave in order to seek her out and invite her to go for a stroll with him in the moonlit privacy of the gardens, telling himself that maybe he was being given a belated opportunity for a little delicate wooing of his reluctant bride, and that, if so, he would take full advantage of it.
But once all the goodnights had been said, and he’d gone to find her, she had retreated to the sanctuary of her room and the chance had gone—especially as he’d had to return to Rome early the following morning.
But he hadn’t been able to forget that just for an instant she had lowered her guard. That she had seen him—reacted to him as a man. And that when he’d kissed her hand she’d blushed helplessly.
Which suggested that, if there’d been one chink in her armour, surely he might somehow find another …
So, he was not yet ready to admit defeat, he told himself grimly. He would somehow persuade her to agree to erase the past and accept him as her husband. A resolve that had been hardened by his unwanted interview with his grandmother that very morning.
He had arrived to visit his father at the clinic just as she was leaving, and she had pounced instantly, commanding him to accompany her to an empty waiting room, obliging him, teeth gritted, to obey.
‘Your father tells me you are flying to England today in an attempt to be reconciled with that foolish girl,’ she commented acidly, as soon as the door was closed. ‘A total waste of your time, my dear Lorenzo. I told my daughter a dozen times that her idea of a marriage between such an ill-assorted pair was wrong-headed and could only end in disaster. And so it has proved. The child has shown herself totally unworthy of the Santangeli family.
‘My poor Maria would not pay attention to me, sadly, but you must listen now. Cut your losses and have the marriage dissolved immediately. As I have always suggested, find a good Italian wife who knows what is expected of her and who will devote herself to your comfort and convenience.’
‘And naturally, Nonna Teresa, you have a candidate in mind?’ His smile was deceptively charming. ‘Or even more than one, perhaps? I seem to remember being presented to a positive array of young women whenever I was invited to dine with you.’
‘I have given the matter deep thought,’ his grandmother conceded graciously. ‘And I feel that your eventual choice should be Dorotea Marcona. She is the daughter of an old friend, and a sweet, pious girl who will never give you a moment’s uneasiness.’
‘Dorotea?’ Renzo mused. ‘Is she the one who never stops talking, or the one with the squint?’
‘A slight cast in one eye,’ she reproved. ‘Easily corrected by a simple surgical procedure, I understand.’
‘For which I should no doubt be expected to pay—the Marcona family having no money.’ Renzo shook his head. ‘You are the one wasting your time, Nonna Teresa. Marisa is my wife, and I intend that she will remain so.’
‘Hardly a wife,’ his grandmother said tartly. ‘When she lives on the other side of the continent. Your separation threatens to become a public scandal—especially after her mortifying behaviour at the wedding.’ She drew her lips into a thin line. ‘You cannot have forgotten how she humiliated you?’
‘No,’ Renzo said quietly. ‘I—have not forgotten.’
In fact, thanks to Nonna Teresa, he’d found the memory grating on him all over again—not merely on his way to the airport, but throughout the flight, when it had constantly interfered with his attempts to work. So he’d reached London not in the best of moods, when he should have been conciliatory, only to find his wife missing when he reached the flat.
And when she did return, she was not alone, he thought with cold displeasure. Was with someone other than the Langford man whom he’d come prepared to deal with. Someone, in fact, who should have been history where Marisa was concerned.
And to set the seal on his annoyance, his bride had not been in the least disconcerted, nor shown any sign of guilt over being discovered entertaining a former boyfriend.
But then, attack had always been her favourite form of defence, he recalled grimly, as his mind went back to their wedding day.
He’d always regarded what had happened then as the start of his marital troubles, but now he was not so sure, he thought, twisting round on the sofa to give his unoffending pillow a vicious thump. Hadn’t the problems been there from the very beginning? Even on the day when he’d asked Marisa to marry him, and felt the tension emanating from her like a cold hand on his skin, forcing him to realise for the first time just how much forbearance would be required from him in establishing any kind of physical relationship between them.
Nevertheless, the end of the wedding ceremony itself had certainly been the moment that had sounded the death knell of all his good intentions towards his new bride, he thought, his mouth tightening.
He could remember so vividly how she’d looked as she had joined him at the altar of the ancient parish church
