Second Marriage

She had replayed the incident continuously on the screen of her mind for months afterwards in a desperate effort to reassure herself that she had had no chance to avoid the other car, but still she was left feeling that if she had reacted more quickly, been more observant, a better driver, a young man, eighteen years of age, might not have been wiped out. It had emerged that the sports car had been a present for his eighteenth birthday the day before from over-indulgent and wealthy parents, and that at the time of the accident he hadn’t even been wearing a seat belt...

‘Claire?’ Lorenzo’s indignant voice told her she wasn’t concentrating, and she made an effort to force her mind from the horrors of the past and into the present.

No one would have been able to prevent the tragedy, given the circumstances that had prevailed, had they been a veteran driver of fifty years’ motoring or a young twenty-year-old, as she had been. She knew that, she knew it...in her head. Her heart was a different matter. Her heart still had to cope with the feelings of horror and remorse, even though the latter emotion wasn’t even pertinent to the incident, according to everyone else. But she felt it. She felt it. And her fear and diffidence at being in charge of small precious human beings, who would trust her implicitly the way children do—that was inescapably real too.

The physical scars of the accident might only be faint silvery lines on her stomach, unseen by anyone but herself, but the mental disfiguration was something else, something she knew she had to triumph over, but as yet she was powerless to do so. Would the accident have affected her so adversely if Jeff hadn’t deserted her at a time when she had needed him most? Well, she’d never know, would she...?

The death throes of her Tyrannosaurus and Lorenzo’s exasperated sigh told her she hadn’t been a worthy opponent, and after making her apologies she sat and watched the boy load another game, her mind still worrying at her last thought like a dog with a bone.

Jeff had only visited her in the hospital a handful of times, but, knowing his aversion to illness and disease in general and to hospitals in particular, she hadn’t pressured him to come more often—although she had missed him unbearably, and visiting times had become something of a subtle torture as other patients were engulfed by their husbands or boyfriends. Her parents had visited every day, of course, and her brothers and her wide circle of friends had been marvellous. But somehow it hadn’t been quite the same.

And then, when she had been in hospital eight weeks, and two days before she was due to come home, she had received the letter, every word of which was imprinted on her mind, on her very soul.

‘Dear Claire...’ The formality should have warned her of what was to follow. Before then his letters had always begun ‘Darling’ or ‘My precious Claire’.

I don’t know quite how to write this letter but I know I must. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us if I didn’t. This time apart has made me look at our relationship in a new way, has brought certain issues to the fore, if you know what I mean.

No, she hadn’t, but she had read on anyway, with her heart pounding so violently it had made her feel sick.

I think it would be better if we had a break, Claire, for six months or so, became free agents again with no commitments. I feel I’ve tied you down too early and it’s far better that we part now than at some time in the future, when we’ve got children and so on. Please keep the ring and I hope you can understand why I had to do this.

Goodbye. Jeff.

Oh, the hypocrisy of it But, yes, she had understood then and she did now why he had done it. She was just amazed that she hadn’t clicked on to the way his mind was working that first time he had visited her, when the expression on his face as he had looked at her had been one of horror and revulsion at her injuries compounded by a weird sort of panic and disgust.

She had wept, of course, helplessly, hopelessly, for most of the day, and then her eldest brother, Charlie, had come to visit her in the evening and the full truth had come out. It appeared Jeff had been seeing someone else for the last month, a leggy blonde he worked with who was a keep-fit fanatic like him and attended his gym.

‘I got those sort of details after I’d hit him,’ Charlie had told her, with a measure of satisfaction, ‘and if I’m not mistaken he’ll need to see a dentist to replace a couple of teeth—unless he picked them up off the pub floor, of course. I was just hoping you’d never have to know about her, sis.’

She had sent the ring back the next day.

‘Ready, Claire?’ Lorenzo’s voice was very long suffering, and she grinned at him, thrusting the memories back under lock and key in that closed room in her mind

‘Ready—and I’m going to paste you this time.’

‘You wish!’

She spent just over half an hour with Lorenzo before racing up to the room Anna had shown her to earlier. Her suitcases had been unpacked, her clothes put away in the massive walk-in wardrobe and her toiletries placed neatly in the en suite bathroom. It was a beautiful room—the whole house was beautiful, she reflected appreciatively. But she had no time now to gaze out over the sprawling gardens below from the balcony window. She needed to wash away the grime of the day, change into something suitable for dinner and be back downstairs for eight o’clock.

Grace had called by Lorenzo’s sitting room ten minutes earlier to say that they were changing for dinner as it was something of an occasion—Claire’s first night—that she wanted it to be special and that drinks before dinner would be ready at eight.

At the time it had been a crucial moment in the battle of the planets—she had been defending Earth against Lorenzo’s war probes from Venus—but now she wished she had taken a moment or two to ask Grace how dressy it was going to be. Grace and Donato lived in a massive private wing of the house, which Donato had had built once he and Grace had become engaged, and although access was easy it wasn’t quite the same as popping along the corridor to ask advice.

She eyed her clothes, hanging in somewhat meagre splendour at one end of the huge wardrobe, for some precious minutes before realising she couldn’t hesitate any longer and quickly pulling the traditional life-saver, a little black dress, from one silk-embossed hanger, teaming it with a pair of elegant black satin court shoes.

After a hasty shower she towelled herself dry with the huge fluffy bath-sheet that smelt of flowers and summer days, and then, with the towel wrapped round her torso, walked through to the bedroom and sat down in front of the long, ornate dressing table.

Should she have her hair up or down? And what about earrings? Little crystal studs or the big gold hoops her parents had bought her for Christmas? And eyeshadow—green or blue? Which would look best? She caught herself abruptly, gazing at her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes with a little grimace of disgust.

Stop it,—stop it, Claire. The words were fierce in her head. He wouldn’t look at you twice and you don’t want him to. You don’t. He was married to one stunningly beautiful woman for some years and it’s clear he hasn’t recovered from her death. If anyone is going to help him forget his pain it isn’t a little nobody from England who on top of everything else is damaged goods.

The phrase bit into her consciousness, but it had been with her for the last four years—ever since the day she had read Jeff’s letter, in fact. That same terrible evening in the hospital, once Charlie and her parents had left and she was alone, she had remembered Jeff saying the words some months earlier as they bad watched a TV documentary on a cancer patient who was getting married after a series of skin grafts.

‘How could he many her?’ Jeff had been genuinely amazed. ‘I mean, she doesn’t even look like the girl he once knew. He could have anyone. He doesn’t have to have damaged goods.’

‘That’s awful, Jeff.’ She had been horrified, and he had immediately covered his words with an explanation that had deceived her at the time—or maybe it hadn’t, she amended painfully. Perhaps she had just believed what she’d wanted to believe, she’d loved him so much. It had taken the accident to show her that the man she had loved had never existed in the first place.

When she walked into the drawing room some ten minutes later, her hair loose and shining like molten copper, and just the merest touch of green eyeshadow her only make-up, Romano Bellini was very still for some moments before walking from where he had been standing, looking out over the dark grounds through the full-length windows, to her side.

‘In my country it is mostly the older women who wear black,’ he said softly, ‘but perhaps it is a tradition that should change.’

‘I...thank you—at least I think it was a compliment,’ she added, with a disarming uncertainty that made him look at her for one minute more before he threw back his head and laughed—a loud, husky, almost grating laugh, a laugh that sounded as though it hadn’t been aired for a long time.

‘It was,’ he assured her solemnly as she flushed a bright, body-consuming red. ‘Indeed it was.’

Claire was aware of Grace and Donato’s interested glances from the other side of the room, where Donato was preparing cocktails, and she now felt so flustered and out of her depth that she tried to walk hastily forward, forgetting her unusually high heels, one of which entangled itself in an exquisite Persian rug and would have sent her sprawling but for Romano’s firm hand on her arm.

‘Steady, little English girl, steady.’ His voice was deep and very soft, reaching only her ears. ‘I might be the big bad wolf, capable of diverse and terrible crimes, but I am hardly likely to attempt an assault on your virtue in front of my two oldest and dearest friends, am I?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I tripped, that’s all.’ Her voice wasn’t as firm as she would have liked it to be, mainly due to the fact that he had changed from the black shirt and trousers into dinner dress, which, when combined with the midnight-blue silk shirt he was wearing and the wickedly sardonic smile, proved...overwhelming. And stunning. And devastating. She felt the warmth of his hand burning her skin and prayed for calm. This little incident alone confirmed everything she had thought upstairs. They might have come from different planets.

‘Of course you did.’ His voice was smooth now, and cold, and she felt a sudden and quite absurd disappointment that perversely brought her chin high and made her smile bright as she joined the other two.

Things were a little more comfortable once Lorenzo joined them a few minutes later. She had experienced an immediate rapport with Donato’s young brother in the summer, the gift she had with all children as strong as ever, and now they fell into easy conversation as they relived their battles before dinner, teasing each other unmercifully.

‘You have a way with children.’ As they walked through to the formal dining room at Gina’s bidding some minutes later Romano took her arm again, drawing her into his side. ‘I can see why your name has barely been off Lorenzo’s lips since the summer. He clearly adores you.’

‘He’s a nice...he’s a lovely lad,’ she said quietly, alarmed at the way such a casual touch could make her quiver. ‘He’s coped with a lot in his short life from what Grace tells me—the loss of his parents and...and his sister,’ she continued, after the briefest of pauses when she realised she wasn’t being exactly tactful in reminding him of his loss. ‘And yet he has come through it all without any bitterness or resentment and emerged as a normal and well-adjusted teenager.’

‘Donato and Grace are partly to be praised for that.’

She could smell his aftershave, and whether it was because it was wildly expensive or just that his physical chemistry suited it wonderfully well, the end result was making a sensual warmth tremble deep in her lower stomach as the faint but heady fragrance touched her senses.

‘They purposely decided to give the last two or three years to Lorenzo, to make sure he felt loved and wanted for who and what he is, before they tried for a family of their own again.’

‘Did they?’ She stopped at the door to the dining room, the others having walked ahead. ‘They are good people, aren’t they?’ she said softly as she looked up into his darkly handsome face.

‘Yes, they are. But goodness can make one frighteningly vulnerable at times.’ His voice was cold now, very cold. ‘It is a commodity that is less desirable in this present world than scepticism, I think. To disbelieve, to doubt or question, this is not a bad thing.’

‘Not in some circumstances, but you don’t mean as a general rule, do you?’ she asked, stiffening at the blatant cynicism his words had revealed.

‘That is exactly what I mean,’ he said expressionlessly, his glittering black eyes noting the indignant flush in her cheeks.

‘Well, I don’t agree with that!’ She glared at him, her eyes honey-gold in the artificial light overhead and her body language militant ‘That’s awful. That would mean you could never trust anyone, or believe in them, unless you had a signed affidavit first.’

‘A little extreme, but near enough to make no matter.’ He gestured to the room beyond with a curt nod of his head. ‘I think they are waiting...?’

The dinner table was a vision of heavy, solid silver cutlery, fine crystal glasses, exquisite linenware and a magnificent centrepiece of hot-house blooms that perfumed the air with a sweet fragrance. The room itself was grand and ornate too, and more than a little awe-inspiring, like the rest of Casa Pontina.

As the courses came and went, each one more delicious than the one before, Claire found she didn’t have to work at relaxing. Several glasses of good wine combined with Donato and Grace at their best as amusing and congenial hosts were lulling her unease. The tiring day, mostly spent travelling by plane and car, the memories of everything associated with the accident, the confusion and alarm the dark man opposite her evoked—all of it faded into a still, soothing warmth as the wine and good food did its work. It was a calm respite that she knew wouldn’t last, but it was wonderfully pleasing on the senses.

They laughed, they joked, they ate and drank, but through it all, every moment, every second, she was vitally aware of the big, dark, laconic figure opposite her, every nerve and sinew tuned into him in a way she had never experienced before. She didn’t like it, but there was nothing she could do about it either.

‘Did you go home to change?’ It was towards the end of the meal that she asked the question that had been at the back of her mind all evening, indicating his immaculate evening wear with a wave of her hand.

‘Si, it is not far.’ He smiled politely, and his voice reflected his expression as he added, ‘You must visit my home at some time while you are here.’

Oh, he didn’t think she had been angling for a visit to his villa, did he? Her calm composure shattered instantly. She hadn’t. She really hadn’t.

‘Thank you, but I think I’m going to have plenty to do with the lady in waiting.’ She softened the refusal with a careful smile, hoping he would get the message that he was off the hook, but instead of the overt relief she had expected to see in the lethal black eyes his face took on a coolness, a remoteness that was intimidating.

‘I am sure there will be an opportunity, nevertheless,’ he said stiffly. ‘It will be a pleasure to entertain you.’

Brilliant—she’d offended him now. He’d probably guessed she’d sensed he was offering out of courtesy and, with true Italian pride and hospitality, would now force the issue in spite of his feelings just to save face.

‘Yes, perhaps. But Donato and Grace have mentioned how busy you are. We’ll have to see...’ Her voice trailed off as his sombre gaze took hers and held it in a grip that was paralysing.

‘Saturday evening,’ he said grimly.

‘What?’ She was aware that the other three had paused in the easy conversation they had been holding about future names for the babies, and that Donato and Grace at least were listening with some interest.

‘Dinner at my home on Saturday evening.’ It was said without the slightest pretence at an invitation. In fact the cool, harsh words carried more of a challenge than anything else, and it was one she had no intention of taking up.

‘I don’t think—’

‘Donato and Grace too, of course.’ There was a cold arrogance in the way he spoke that suggested he knew she wouldn’t dare accept an invitation by herself, but even that overt mockery wasn’t going to provoke her into agreeing to go to his home, she thought angrily, bristling in spite of herself. Who did he think he was anyway? Ordering her about as though she were some sort of stupid schoolgirl who wouldn’t say boo to a goose?

‘I’m sorry, Romano. It’s very kind of you, but I really would like a few days to acclimatise and get used to things,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sure there will be other opportunities—’

‘A week on Saturday, then,’ he said immediately.

She knew a moment’s sheer panic at the fact that a will far stronger than hers was meeting her head-on, and then decided that she had made her point and that to refuse again would be both petty and rude.

‘That will give you enough time to...adjust?’ he asked with deceptive smoothness, one black eyebrow quirking in a manner that could only be called goading.

‘I should think so.’

She managed a bright smile, as though all the undercurrents had completely passed her by, but then stiffened when in the next instant Donato said, ‘That would work out very well, in actual fact. Grace and I have tickets for the opera on that night—you remember you bought them for my birthday, Romano? I was going to suggest that Grace and Claire used them instead, but if Claire is happy to have dinner with you we will know she is being looked after, and we could all go to the opera together another time.’

‘Of course, a week on Saturday is your birthday.’ There was something, just something in the silky soft voice that told Claire that Romano hadn’t forgotten the date of Donato’s birthday for a moment, or the treat he had arranged for his friend and his wife, and as she turned her head again to look him straight in the eye the black gaze was waiting for her. ‘I’m sure Claire would rather you and Grace enjoy the opera together,’ he continued pleasantly. ‘Is that not so, Claire?’

‘I...’ Game, set and match! Why, oh why, hadn’t she agreed to this Saturday, when Donato and Grace could have come with her? ‘Yes, of course,’ she said hastily as the black eyebrow rose still further at her hesitation. ‘There is no way I would dream of taking your ticket, Donato, you know that, but perhaps the week after that would do just as well?’

‘Nonsense.’ Romano’s voice was brisk now, signalling the end to a conversation he clearly considered had gone on long enough. ‘Donato and Grace will enjoy their evening all the more, knowing you are safe in my hands, Claire.’

The black eyes were wicked as they held hers, the message contained in the words for her ears alone, and then his face took on a benevolent expression that made her want to kick him as he turned to face the others. ‘That is settled, then, sì? A pleasant evening for all concerned, I am sure.’

I’m not. The words were so loud in her head she was surprised the others hadn’t heard them, but then, as Romano turned back to her, she knew he had, and had to force herself to say, in as normal a tone as she could muster, ‘Thank you very much, I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Good.’ He didn’t know how near he came to that kick again as he added, in an innocent drawl, ‘It will - be... nice.’

CHAPTER THREE

THIS was stupid. This was really, really stupid. Claire frowned ferociously at the girl in the mirror as she leant back against the small upholstered dressing table chair. The very last thing in the world she wanted was to have dinner alone with Romano Bellini, so why on earth was she preparing to do just that? She should have pleaded a headache, flu, mental collapse—anything!

She twisted restlessly on the chair, hating the glimmer of panic in her eyes but unable to do anything about it. She hadn’t seen him since that first night she had arrived but had been on tenterhooks every time the phone had rung or the doorbell had sounded—until Donato had mentioned casually at dinner on her third night with them that Romano was abroad for a few days on business. ‘He returns Friday night,’ Donato had added, as though to reassure her that the dinner date was still on. ‘OK?’

No, no it was not OK, but she couldn’t very well say so. Romano had tied her up tighter than a bale of hay, he knew it and she knew it, and the rest of them, to her intense irritation, thought he was merely being friendly and supportive to a stranger in his country.

She sighed, loudly and crossly, before leaning forward again and continuing to put the finishing touches to her make-up. She assumed, considering it would be just the two of them, that smart but casual would be the order of the day, and the long-sleeved waist-length jumper in soft white bobbly wool teamed with an ankle-length skirt in dense black denim seemed to fit the bill.

She had decided to wear her hair up, securing the silky chestnut strands in a high knot on top of her head and allowing just a few strands about her face and neck to combine with her thick fringe and soften the severe style.

A touch of grey eyeshadow on her eyelids and large gold hoops in her ears and she was ready. She fastened the second earring and gazed at her reflection critically. Not bad, quite passable, but nothing on the lines of the sort of women he was used to, she thought quietly. She and Grace had spent one afternoon browsing through old photo albums, and she had been interested to see Bianca had been as beautiful as a baby and child as she was as an adult—interested and dismayed, if she was honest, she amended weakly.

Not that she was interested in Romano. She wasn’t, not at all, but it was slightly disconcerting to be having dinner with a man who favoured tall, voluptuous modeltypes, as the old photographs of the girlfriends he had had before Bianca had borne evidence to, and who had been married for some years to one of the most gorgeous women she had ever seen.

‘Donato and Romano were the original playboys, I think.’ Grace had been smiling as she spoke, clearly totally undisturbed by her husband’s riotous past before he had met her, as her next words had qualified. ‘Before they settled down, that is.’

‘Umm.’ Claire couldn’t drag her eyes away from the dashingly handsome man in the photos, who looked almost boyish compared to now. Still, he had lost his wife, she thought soberly, that would be enough to make any man grow up fast.

‘Was he very affected by Bianca’s death?’ she asked Grace carefully, not really wanting to know the answer but having to enquire just the same. ‘It must have been an awful shock to you all.’

‘It was.’ Claire had noticed before that Grace didn’t like to talk about Donato’s sister, and reproached herself for not keeping quiet as her friend’s face changed. She, of all people, knew how traumatic the results of a bad car crash could be for relatives and friends even if the victim lived, and Bianca hadn’t. ‘But he coped,’ Grace continued quietly. ‘We all did. You just have to, don’t you?’

‘I guess.’ Claire nodded soberly, her face sympathetic as she reached across and squeezed Grace’s hand for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Grace, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I know you and Bianca weren’t close, but being the same age and everything it must have been terribly difficult for you.’

‘Claire—’ Grace stopped abruptly, her face working as she stared into her eyes for a long moment. ‘I... There’s something...’

‘What’s the matter?’

But she had never found out what the matter was because a second later Lorenzo had bounded in, closely followed by Donato, and the moment had been lost.

A discreet knock at her bedroom door brought her out of her reverie, and as she called for her to enter Gina’s dark head peered in. ‘Scusi, signorina, but the signore, he has arrived.’ The little maid beamed at her as though she was imparting wonderful news, and Claire dredged up a suitable response as her heart kicked and then raced like an express train.