The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener

She said quietly, but with emphasis, ‘The whole thing can’t be forgotten too quickly as far as I’m concerned. And please believe that is something I absolutely look forward to.’ She added stiltedly, ‘I hope that’s the reassurance you want.’

There was a glint in the dark eyes that struck Ellie as far too reminiscent of the lady’s grandson. ‘Not precisely,’ said the Contessa. ‘But it will serve for now.’

And then she began, with great charm, to ask questions. If Ellie had ever thought it was only the Spanish who had an inquisition, five minutes with Angelo’s grandmother would have convinced her that the Italians weren’t far behind.

She found herself speaking with total candour about her parents, her friends, her work at the publishing company, revealing, she realised, probably more than she wished. And, finally, she told the Contessa about her apartment.

When she mentioned she lived there alone, the Contessa’s delicate brows rose. ‘Then the sooner you accept the invitation to move to the Palazzo Damiano the better, dear child.’

Ellie sat up very straight. ‘I see no need for that. Besides I love my apartment. It’s my home.’

‘But not for much longer. After all, you are going to be married, and you will share your husband’s home.’

Ellie’s hands clenched together in her lap. ‘And—when I get married, I will do so.’ Or if … ‘But until then, I’ll stay where I am.’

‘Yet surely you must see that is impossible.’ The Contessa sounded almost coaxing. ‘Angelo could not be permitted to visit you there.’ She gave a resolute nod. ‘From now on, there must not be as much as another whisper of scandal about your relationship with my grandson.’

And as Ellie’s lips parted to tell her without mincing her words that visits from Count Manzini did not feature on her personal agenda, and that there was no relationship with him—neither past, present nor future—she heard Angelo’s voice saying coolly, ‘Your drink, Elena mia. Campari with a splash of soda.’ Adding softly, ‘Just as you like it, carissima.’

Of course, Ellie thought, almost grinding her teeth. He’d have asked Madrina. As I should have known.

Accepting the glass from him, with a murmured, ‘Grazie,’ she wished very much she could throw the drink at him, drenching the open mockery in the dark face and staining, perhaps irrevocably, his immaculate dress shirt as well. Before, that is, she left the room, screaming.

As it was, she took immediate refuge behind a wall of reserve, returning only monosyllabic replies to any remarks made to her, and thankful to her heart when the Prince, his wife and the rest of the party came to join them, and conversation became general.

It was when Giovanni announced respectfully that dinner was served that she realised that the group was not complete.

She said in an undertone to the Principessa, ‘But, Madrina, Silvia and Ernesto haven’t come down yet.’

‘They are not here, mia cara.’ Her godmother conveyed the news almost casually. ‘Silvia felt that she was developing a migraine—so painful, so debilitating—therefore Ernesto took her back to Rome. Such a good and caring husband.

‘But do not concern yourself about your own return,’ she added brightly. ‘Cesare has already said that you will travel with us. At the same time, arrangements can be made to bring your things from your appartamento. Which makes everything so very convenient, don’t you agree?’

No, Ellie didn’t agree, but she knew, through experience, that there was no point in saying so. Not once Prince Damiano had spoken. And since when had Silvia suffered from anything like a migraine?

It’s like trying to find your way out of a maze, she thought bitterly as she made her way to the dining room. Every way you turn, you come up against a blank wall.

But later, when she looked up and found Angelo watching her across the silver and crystal of the polished dining table, his dark gaze frankly speculative, it occurred to her that blank walls might be the very least of her troubles.

As an object lesson in discovering how the other half live, Ellie soon realised, residence at the Palazzo Damiano could hardly be bettered.

She walked on marble floors from one massive, high-ceilinged room to another. She slept on the finest linen sheets, and her delicious food was served on delicate porcelain.

Her little flat would have fitted easily into the bedroom she’d been given alone, quite apart from the small but comfortable sitting room which led to it, and the luxurious bathroom which adjoined it.

And her second-hand Fiat screamed ‘poor relation’ when parked beside the Prince’s limousine and her godmother’s elegant Alfa Romeo on the gravelled sweep in front of the palazzo.

But when all this nonsense is over, she told herself staunchly, unlike so much else, it will be still around and still reliable.

And so, she hoped, would her job, even though her engagement had proved to be a nine day wonder at the office, to her acute embarrassment, while the sidelong looks from certain people had confirmed beyond doubt that rumours of Silvia’s affair with Angelo Manzini had indeed reached the public domain.

In addition, one of the directors had called her in and asked outright at what point prior to her marriage did she plan to resign. Totally taken aback, she had flushed and stammered that she loved her work, and had no intention of abandoning it, and been answered by sceptically raised eyebrows, and the comment that her fidanzato might have very different ideas.

If I have to go on biting my lip each time he’s mentioned, she thought savagely, I shall soon have no mouth left.

Even more galling was having to endure his actual physical presence at the palazzo, where he’d become a regular visitor, dining with them several times a week. And telling herself that his visits were only part of the pretence and that it was Prince

Damiano whom he really came to see made the situation no easier to bear.

He sent her flowers, too. Her sitting room was full of them.

And he kissed her. Mainly on the hand and the cheek admittedly, but sometimes on the lips—invariably when it was impossible for her to take evasive action.

Ellie supposed that nine out of ten women would have asked why on earth she would wish to avoid being kissed by one of the most attractive men in Italy, and found it difficult to explain, even to herself.

After all, she couldn’t say that it was because she knew his kisses were prompted by duty rather than desire, when the last thing she wanted was for Angelo Manzini to desire her. Those brief moments in bed in his arms when she’d suddenly turned into a complete stranger had taught her that. And the memory of them still had the power to dry her mouth and make her tremble in a way that was totally outside her experience.

Which was where, she thought resolutely, she wished it to remain.

I must be one of nature’s spinsters, she told herself, and derived no great comfort from this prosaic reflection.

She had not bargained either for being introduced to his relations. His Aunt Dorotea had been one of their earliest callers, a formidable matron who had given Ellie a searching look from head to toe then given an abrupt nod as if expressing satisfaction. Though what all that was about defeated Ellie entirely.

On a more positive note, Signora Luccino had brought her daughter Tullia with her, a girl with a sweet, merry face, married to a lawyer the previous year, and Ellie thought with regret that, under different circumstances, they might have been friends.

The Contessa Cosima, too, was a frequent visitor, alarming Ellie with a gentle flow of chat about churches and wedding dresses. That, she thought, was carrying pretence too far, and wished she had the nerve to say so.

In fact clothing had become an issue altogether. Her wardrobe might be basic, she thought defensively, but it was perfectly adequate—a view that her godmother clearly did not share. The large guardaroba in her room was beginning to fill up with skirts, pants and tops in linen and silk, and a growing selection of evening wear in clear jewel colours and floating fabrics. And each outfit seemed to have its own shoes and bag in softest leather.

As if, she thought, scowling, it was not the done thing for Count Manzini to see her wearing the same thing twice.

She had tried to protest more than once that she was not a clothes horse, but the Principessa had waved these contentions away, smiling. It was her pleasure to see her dear Elena looking so lovely—and so happy too, she added brightly as Ellie’s jaw dropped.

But there was no visit from Silvia. At first Ellie had thought that her cousin was quite understandably steering clear of her, only to be told by the Principessa that Ernesto, presumably in his role as good and caring husband, had taken Silvia for a little vacation on Corfu where his family had a house.

The days at the palazzo became weeks, and as they approached a month Ellie wondered how much longer the negotiations between Galantana and Credito Europa could possibly drag on, and when the deal would finally be done.

Because until that happened, she couldn’t calculate how soon she’d be able to escape from this gilded cage, no matter how luxurious and loving it might be, and begin to reclaim her own life again.

More than anything, as the city heat increased, she missed the Casa Bianca and the breezes that blew from the sea, but her suggestion that she should spend some of her weekends there had been kindly but firmly declined. While her supposed engagement endured, it seemed she was going nowhere.

Surely it can’t last much longer, she told herself each night with increasing desperation as she lay in bed staring up at the painted ceiling where gods and goddesses cavorted with unfeeling cheerfulness at some woodland banquet.

Worst of all, she’d noticed that one of the gods—probably

Mars—was black haired and dark eyed, his lean muscular body hardly concealed by the lion-skin thrown across one shoulder, and bearing a disturbing resemblance to Angelo Manzini. Or was that simply her over-active imagination?

Whatever, it wasn’t an image she wished to find invading her bedroom all over again, but found to her acute annoyance that it still lingered in her mind, even when she turned over and buried her face in the pillow. Rendering her still more tongue-tied when she encountered the Count in the flesh, as it were, although he was always elegantly covered in some designer suit or other.

Another potent suggestion that the quicker she got out of there and back to sanity, the better it would be for her.

And each night she breathed the silent prayer. ‘Oh please—please—let it be soon.’

Angelo stepped out into the heat of the Roman morning, as the automatic glass doors of the Credito Europa Bank whispered shut behind him. His face was calm as he walked to his car, taking his seat in the back with a murmured acknowledgement to the driver holding the door open for him, but this outward appearance was deceptive.

Because, underneath, he was blazingly, wickedly angry.

‘Does Your Excellency wish to return to the office?’ Mario asked with faint bewilderment as the silence lengthened.

Angelo pulled his thoughts away from the meeting he’d just attended, and met the chauffeur’s enquiring gaze in the driving mirror. He said curtly, ‘No, take me to my apartment.’

If Mario found this a strange request in the middle of a working day, it was not his place to argue. He dropped his employer at the main entrance, was told he would not be required again, then watched with a puzzled frown as Angelo strode inside.

The apartment was cool and silent, Salvatore as usual doing his marketing at that time of day. Which was good because Angelo wanted to be alone.

He walked into the salotto, impatiently stripping off his jacket and tie, and tossing them over a chair. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, tore open the neck of his shirt, then poured himself a large Scotch, swallowed it, and poured another, even larger. He’d come home with the intention of getting blind, roaring drunk and wasting no time about it.

The news—no, the ultimatum—that he’d just received at the bank called for nothing less.

He could still hardly believe it. He thought he’d dealt with the trap that had been set for him at Largossa. Believed that simply going through the motions of courting the girl who’d been used in the snare—this Elena, Silvia’s cousin and so much unlike his former mistress that she might have come from a different planet—would be enough to get him what he wanted, and he could then walk away. And that she would be equally grateful to see the back of him.

Dio mio, he thought. He’d almost felt sorry for her, recognising the reluctance of her co-operation. But no longer.

He walked to the sofa, flinging himself back against the cushions, taking another mouthful of Scotch, eyes narrowed, mouth compressed as he stared into space.

Now, too late, he recalled someone telling him when he was younger that Cesare Damiano had been nicknamed the Crocodile in banking circles.

Today the Prince had more than lived up to his name.

‘My wife cares deeply for her god-daughter, Count, and is naturally concerned for the immense harm to her reputation if there were—consequences resulting from your liaison with her.’

He had sat on the other side of his polished desk, hands together, fingertips forming a kind of steeple, his expression grave as he studied the younger man. ‘I am sure you understand me.’

And I, thought Angelo bitterly, fool that I am, I never saw it coming. Never understood that another trap had been set and was waiting for me. And while, if I’d used an atom of commonsense, I might have avoided the first, there is nothing I can do about the second.

Holy Madonna, I couldn’t tell him there’d be no consequences as I’d simply been tricked into the wrong bed, or I’d have found myself lying on the pavement outside, thrown there by his security staff. And the consequences of that would be truly horrendous.

Therefore if I want his money, I have to bite on the bullet by accepting the eternally damned terms he spelled out to me with such care, and somehow persuade the little Signorina Milk and Water to become my wife. With the assurance that, once the knot is tied, the finance will become immediately available.

He punched the arm of the sofa with his clenched fist.

Dear God, what a prospect, he thought despairingly. To have to marry a girl who looks at me as if she’d come across a snake sleeping in the sunshine. Who shrinks from my lightest touch and answers me in monosyllables from surely the coldest mouth in Rome.

But I know quite well it’s not the Prince pulling the strings. That I have his charming wife, plus my own grandmother, and, of course, Zia Dorotea to thank for this current horror. All they needed was the opportunity I was stupid enough to give them, and my fate was sealed.

I must have been insane to think that an engagement would be enough to satisfy them, he told himself. And perhaps I should have asked myself too if their chosen candidate for the post of my wife was really only the scapegoat she appeared to be.

And, for a brooding moment, found himself remembering a slim body warm against his and soft lips that had briefly trembled beneath his kiss. Very briefly, he thought, because the next moment, she had scratched him like a tigress.

Restively, he finished the whisky in his glass and set it aside. Well if there was no other way to secure the promised loan, and they all wished to transform Elena Blake into the Contessa Manzini, he would oblige them.

But, he decided with icy resolution, she would have the title and the status—nothing more, because she was the last woman in the world he would have chosen for himself, and he had no intention of making her his wife in any real sense.

In fact, he told himself harshly, he would continue to seek his pleasures where he found them, though with rather more discretion in future, and he hoped they would all—the girl Elena included—be satisfied with the result of their machinations.

And as he had the phone number of an enchanting creature he’d met at a reception the previous week, instead of drinking himself into oblivion, he would call her right now and see if she was free for lunch, and whatever else the afternoon might suggest.

Starting, he thought with sudden grimness, as he meant to go on.

At first she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Didn’t want to believe it, yet found herself listening numbly to what Madrina was saying so gently but with such total finality.

At last, she said, her voice shaking, ‘I didn’t even want to be engaged. You know that. But—marriage—to him! I couldn’t—not possibly. And he—he doesn’t wish it either. I know it.’

The Principessa patted her hand. ‘But after what happened between you, the Count has to make reparation. Surely, you understand this.’

She sounded like the voice of sweet reason, Ellie thought, aghast.

‘Your engagement must now be followed by a wedding,’ her godmother went on. ‘Quite apart from other considerations, our families bear two ancient names, and his own sense of honour as well as ours demands it. Besides it is high time he was married.’

She added with a note of reproof, ‘You cannot have forgotten, dearest child, the exact circumstances under which you were discovered.’

‘No,’ Ellie said bitterly. ‘Or the reason for it.’

The Principessa pursed her lips warningly. ‘Put whatever you imagine out of your mind, Elena. It is of no use to dwell on something that cannot be altered.’ She paused, then went on more briskly. ‘Do not forget that Angelo Manzini is one of Rome’s most eligible bachelors, and many young women would be glad to take your place at his side.’

Ellie wanted to say ‘And they’d be welcome to him,’ but something in the set of Madrina’s mouth warned her against it.

Although that did not mean she was going to meekly submit to this new and frankly terrifying plan for her future. Far from it.

All this family honour stuff is like something left over from the Renaissance, she thought, seething. But I’m not a Damiano, and I have no intention of becoming a Manzini. My name is Blake and I make my own decisions.

So, I wouldn’t have his glamorous Nobility as a husband, even if he came gold-plated and loaded down with sapphires.

He’s well and truly off the hook, and so, thank God, am I.

CHAPTER FIVE

ON HIS ARRIVAL at the palazzo the following day, Angelo was informed by the butler that the Signorina was in the courtyard, and that it would be his honour to conduct the Count to her side.

So the purpose of his visit was clearly no secret, he thought grimly, as he followed in Massimo’s stately wake, aware that his elegant silk tie seemed to be on the point of strangling him, and realising that, probably for the first time in his adult life, he was nervous about a meeting with a girl.

Although, of course, it was not just any meeting, as he swiftly reminded himself. So much—too much—depended on his ability to persuade her to his way of thinking, his personal reluctance notwithstanding.

The courtyard, at the rear of the palazzo was only small but pleasantly shaded by a lemon tree. The ideal setting, he supposed cynically, for such an encounter.

Elena, he saw, was sitting on the broad stone rim of the goldfish pond, her head bent, trailing her fingers through the water.

When Massimo announced him, she got to her feet in one hasty, almost clumsy movement, and Angelo realised that his own tensions at the coming interview were shared, if not exceeded.

At the same time, he saw that she was even paler than usual, her eyes shadowed and her lips pressed together as if to stop them trembling. She was more than tense, he thought with a jolt of shock. She was actually scared, and suddenly the wave of simmering resentment that had carried him here ebbed a little under the need to reassure her.

To explain, as well as he could, that the union being proposed between them would not include any of the usual physical obligations of being his wife. In fact, few constraints at all, if he could only make her believe him. And that she would spend their time together in all the comfort she could wish.

He walked slowly towards her, halting at what he hoped was a safe distance, unwilling to intimidate her further.

He said quietly, ‘Buona sera, Elena. Come sta?’ He paused, and when she made no reply, continued, ‘I think you have been told why I am here.’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was husky, her hands curling into fists in the folds of her very ordinary navy skirt. The plain white shirt she wore with it demonstrated she had not thought it necessary to adorn herself for the occasion, he thought sardonically.

She went on quickly, ‘And I need you to know that I—can’t. That what you ask is—quite impossible.’

‘But you do not yet know what I want.’ He kept his voice gentle. ‘And that is what I wish to discuss with you now—alone and privately. An arrangement between the two of us that no-one else will hear of. Are you willing at least to listen to me?’

‘There’s no point.’ She shook her head. ‘I—I have to stop it now while I still can. They may have made you ask me, but they can’t force me to say “yes” in return. Not in this day and age. It would be—barbaric. Even Prince Damiano would have to accept that.’

He said drily, ‘I think, mia bella, that you overestimate the Prince’s degree of tolerance. He expects us to be married. Ecco, a wedding ceremony will take place.’ ‘No,’ Ellie said. ‘It can’t. I—I won’t.’ ‘There is another man in your life perhaps?’ ‘No,’ she said raggedly. ‘But that’s not the point.’ Sighing, Angelo walked over to her and sat down on the pond’s stone surround, indicating with a brief gesture that she should join him. She obeyed mutinously, maintaining a more than decorous distance between them, making him suppress a flicker of irritation.

He said, ‘Neither your wishes nor mine are the only consideration here, Elena. That is the real point, as I believed I had made clear to you.

‘I have already committed myself to serious expenditure on my company’s behalf on the basis of the financial package agreed in principle with Credito Europa. But unless you now become my wife, the package will be withdrawn and my dealings with the bank, which are already public knowledge, will be cancelled altogether with potentially disastrous results.

‘Please understand that I have no intention of allowing such a thing to happen. Galantana provides a living for too many people in these difficult times, and I will not jeopardise my company’s current success or the future of my workforce and suppliers while I have the power to avoid such a catastrophe.’

He looked at her, his mouth twisting wryly. ‘You clearly do not want me as a husband. Bene. Let me be equally frank and say that I do not desire you as a wife.

‘I suggest therefore that we regard our marriage as nothing more than a business deal—a temporary inconvenience that can be speedily concluded once Galantana’s expansion has been paid for.

‘As we shall be sharing no more than a roof, a discreet annulment can be arranged, and you will receive a generous settlement in return for your co-operation.’ He smiled at her coaxingly, willing her to soften. ‘So—what do you say?’

Stormy colour warmed her face. ‘That it’s the most flagrantly immoral idea I’ve ever heard, and you must be mad to think I’d ever agree.’

Angelo stayed silent for a moment, irritation warring with disappointment within him. She might be quiet, he thought, but she was certainly not biddable. He would have to be more direct in his approach.

‘I think madness will be waiting for us if you refuse.’ He allowed a grim note to enter his voice. ‘If the deal with Credito