steeling herself for the next encounter.
Cool unresponsiveness would seem to be the answer, she thought, but a lot might depend on how the question was asked.
A reflection that sent an odd shiver tingling through her body.
But it seemed there was to be no immediate confrontation because, to her surprise, Renzo wasn’t there. The only sign of his presence was the neatly folded blanket, topped by the pillow, on the sofa.
She stood looking round her in bewilderment, wondering if by some miracle he’d suddenly decided to cut his losses and leave for Italy alone.
But it wasn’t a day for miracles, because his travel bag was still there, standing in the hall.
On the other hand, she thought, she could always fling a few things together herself, and vanish before he returned. There had to be places where the Santangeli influence didn’t reach—although she couldn’t call any of them to mind.
And with that she heard the sound of a key in the flat door and Renzo came in, dangling a bulging plastic carrier bag from one lean hand.
Marisa stared at it, then him. ‘You’ve been shopping?’
‘Evidently. I found the contents of your refrigerator singularly uninspiring, mia bella.’
‘But there’s nowhere open,’ she protested. ‘It’s too early.’
‘Shops are always glad of customers. This one was no exception.’ He held up the bag, emblazoned with the name of a local delicatessen. ‘I saw a light on and knocked. They were perfectly willing to serve me.’
‘Oh, naturally,’ Marisa said grittily. ‘How could anyone refuse the great Lorenzo Santangeli?’
‘That,’ he said gently, ‘is a question that you can answer better than anyone, carissima.’ He paused. ‘Now, shall we have breakfast?’
She wanted to refuse haughtily, furious at having been caught leading with her chin yet again, but she could smell the enticing aroma of warm bread and realised that she was starving.
He’d bought ham, cheese, sausage and fresh rolls, she found, plus a pack of rich aromatic coffee.
They ate at the small breakfast bar in the kitchen, and in spite of everything Marisa discovered it was one of the few meals she’d enjoyed in his company.
Renzo poured himself some more coffee and glanced at his watch. ‘It is almost time we were leaving. There are a number of things to be attended to before we leave for the airport, and you have yet to pack.’
‘That won’t take very long,’ she said. ‘I haven’t many clothes.’
‘No?’ he asked dryly. ‘You forget, mia cara, that I remember how many cases you brought with you to England.’
She bit her lip. ‘Actually,’ she said, trying to sound casual, ‘I don’t have those things any more.’
‘You had better explain.’
‘I gave all my trousseau away,’ she admitted uncomfortably. ‘To various charity shops. And the luggage too.’
‘In the name of God, why?’ He looked at her as if she had grown a second head.
‘Because I didn’t think I’d need clothes like that any more,’ she said defiantly. ‘So I’ll just have one bag.’
‘Very well.’ His voice held a touch of grimness. ‘Then let us start by going to this place where you have been working. Handing in your notice will take the least time.’
It wasn’t the ideal moment after her last revelation, Marisa thought, but it was still now or never.
She cleared her throat. ‘Actually, the visit may take rather longer than that. You see, there’s something I need to—discuss with you first.’
‘About the gallery?’ Renzo put the knife he’d been using back on his plate with almost studied care. ‘Or its owner?’
‘Well—both,’ she said, slightly taken aback.
‘I am listening,’ he said harshly. ‘But are you sure you want me to hear?’
‘Yes, of course. Because it’s important.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I want—I mean I would really like you to buy me—a half-share in the Estrello.’
There was a silence, then he said, almost grimly. ‘You dare ask me that? You really believe I would be willing to give money to your lover?’
Marisa gasped. ‘Lover?’ she echoed in disbelief. ‘You think that Corin—and I …? Oh, God, that’s so absurd.’ She faced him, eyes sparking with anger. ‘He’s a decent man having a bad time, that’s all.’
She paused, then added very deliberately. ‘I don’t have a lover, signore, and I never have done. As no one should know better than yourself.’
Renzo looked away, and for the second time in her life she saw him flush. ‘Then what is your interest in this place?’
‘Corin’s wife is divorcing him, and she wants a financial stake in the gallery. She’s not interested in artists or pictures, just in the Estrello’s potential as a redevelopment site. She’s even planning to work there after they’re divorced, so she can pressure him into selling up altogether.’
‘And he will do this?’ Renzo asked. ‘Why does he not fight back?’
‘Because he still loves her,’ Marisa said fiercely. ‘I don’t suppose you can imagine what it would be like for him, being forced to see her each day under those circumstances.’
‘Perhaps I am not as unimaginative as you believe,’ Renzo said, after another pause. ‘However, I still do not understand why you should wish to involve yourself—or me.’
‘For one thing it’s successful,’ she said. ‘So it would be a good investment.’ She hesitated. ‘For another, being part-owner will provide me with an interest—even a future career, which I’m going to need some day.’
His brows lifted sardonically. ‘It does not occur to you that some wives seem to find a satisfactory career in their marriages—their families?’
‘But not,’ she said, ‘when they know the position is on a strictly temporary basis.’ She paused. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘Please do. I assure you I am fascinated.’
‘Thirdly,’ she said, ‘Corin really needs the money. He would be so thankful for help.’ She looked away, biting her lip. ‘And I would be grateful too, of course.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘And what form would this gratitude take? Or is it indelicate to ask?’
It was her turn to flush. ‘I think it’s a little late for delicacy.’
‘Then tell me.’
She stared down
