established in London, she had not expected to hear from Renzo again, so his phone calls and letters had come as a distinct shock. A courteous gesture, she’d told herself, that she needed like a hole in the head and could safely ignore.
And now here he was in person, suddenly and without warning. Back in her life, she thought with anger, because in reality he’d never had the slightest intention of letting her go.
Her ‘breathing space’ was over and there was nothing she could do about it.
Because he clearly had no intention of giving her the divorce she’d been counting on, and she had no resources for a long legal battle.
The first of many bitter pills she would probably have to swallow.
Besides—she owed him, she told herself unhappily. There was no getting away from that. Morally, as well as fiscally, she was obligated to him.
And now, however belatedly, it was indeed payback time.
Was this the so-called consensus he’d offered that day at Villa Santa Caterina? she asked herself bitterly, then paused, knowing that she was banging her head against a wall.
What was the point of going back over all this old ground and reliving former unhappiness?
It was the here and now that mattered.
And she couldn’t escape the fact that she’d gone into their marriage with her eyes open, knowing that he did not love her and recognising exactly what was expected of her.
So, in that way, nothing had changed.
This was the life she’d accepted, and somehow she had to live it. And on his terms.
But now she desperately needed to sleep, before tomorrow became today and she was too tired to deal with all the difficulties and demands she didn’t even want to contemplate.
And this chair was hardly the right place for that.
With a sigh, she rose and crossed to the bed. As she slipped back under the covers it occurred to her that this might be one of the last nights she would spend alone for some time.
Something else, she told herself grimly, that she did not need to contemplate. Yet.
And she turned over, burying her face in the pillow, seeking for oblivion and discovering gratefully that, in spite of everything, it was waiting for her.
She awoke as usual, a few moments before her alarm clock sounded, reaching out a drowsy hand to silence it in advance. Then paused, suddenly aware that there was something not quite right about this wakening.
Her heart pounding, Marisa lifted her head and turned slowly and with infinite caution to look at the bed beside her. And paused, stifling an instinctive gasp of shock, when she saw she was no longer alone.
Because Renzo was there, lying on his side, facing away from her and fast asleep, his breathing deep and even, the covers pushed down to reveal every graceful line of his naked back.
Oh, God, Marisa thought, swallowing. Oh, God, I don’t believe this. When did he arrive, and how could I not know about it?
And why didn’t I spend the night in that bloody chair after all?
A fraction of an inch at a time, she began to move towards the edge of the bed, desperate to make her escape before he woke too.
But it was too late, she realised, freezing. Because he was already stirring and stretching, making her vividly conscious of the play of muscle under his smooth tanned skin, before turning towards her.
He propped himself casually on one elbow and studied her, his eyes quizzical. ‘Buon giorno.’
‘Good morning be damned.’ She found her voice. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
He had the gall to look faintly surprised. ‘Getting some rest, mia cara. What else?’
‘But you said—you promised that you’d sleep on the sofa.’
‘Sadly, the sofa had other ideas,’ Renzo drawled. ‘And I decided that I valued my spine too much to argue any longer.’
‘Well, you had no right,’ she said hoarsely. ‘No right at all to—to march in here like this and—and—help yourself!’
His brows lifted. ‘I did not march, mia bella. I moved very quietly so I would not disturb you. And I did not, as you continued to sleep soundly.’
He paused. ‘Besides, as a good wife, surely you do not begrudge me a little comfort, carissima?’ He added softly, ‘After all, despite considerable temptation, I made no attempt to take anything more.’
‘I am not a good wife.’ Totally unnerved by the tone of his voice, and the look in his eyes, she uttered the stupid, stupid words before she could stop herself, and saw his smile widen hatefully into a grin of sheer delight.
‘Not yet, perhaps,’ he agreed, unforgivably. ‘But I live in hope that when you discover how good a husband I intend to be your attitude may change.’
Marisa realised his eyes were now lingering disturbingly on her shoulders, bare under the narrow straps of her nightdress, and then moving down to the slight curve of her breasts revealed by its demure cotton bodice.
Her throat tightened. I have to get him out of here, she thought. Not just out of this bed, but this room too. Before I make an even bigger fool of myself.
‘But as we are here together,’ he went on musingly. ‘It occurs to me that maybe I should teach you what a man most desires when he wakes in the morning with his wife beside him.’
He reached out, brushing the strap down from her shoulder, letting his fingertips caress the faint mark it had left on her skin. It was the lightest of touches, but she felt it blaze like wildfire through her blood, sending her every sense quivering.
Suddenly she found herself remembering their wedding night, and that devastating, electrifying moment when she’d experienced the first stroke of his hand on her naked breast.
Dry-mouthed, she said, ‘No, Renzo—please.’ And despised herself for the note of entreaty in her voice.
‘But I must, mia bella,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t you think I have waited quite long enough to instruct you in my needs? What I like—and how I like it?’
She tried to think of something to say and failed completely. She was aware that he’d moved close, and knew she should draw back—distance herself before it was too late.
‘Because it is quite simple,’ the softly compelling voice went on. ‘I require it to be very hot, very black, and very strong—without sugar. Even you can manage that, I think.’
Marisa shot bolt upright, glaring at him. ‘Coffee,’ she said, her voice almost choking on the word. ‘You’re saying you want me to—make you—coffee?’ She drew a stormy breath. ‘Well, in your dreams, signore. I don’t know what your last slave died of, but you know where the kitchen is, so make your own damned
