Wife in the Shadows

‘I am here because I have business with Prince Damiano,’ he said softly. ‘And when it is concluded, I shall be gone.’

Let it be soon, thought Ellie, helping herself to more anchovies and wondering at the same time if her cousin was aware of his plans.

When he resumed the conversation, he turned to rather more neutral topics, asking if she played tennis—she didn’t—and if she liked to swim, at which point she claimed mendaciously that she hadn’t brought her bathing costume.

He was being perfectly civil, yet Ellie was thankful when his attention was claimed by Signora Barzado, seated on his other side, and she was therefore able to relax a little and enjoy the gnocchi in its rich sauce, and the exquisite veal dish that followed.

It occurred to her that even if she’d been unaware of his involvement with Silvia, she would still not have felt comfortable with him. There was arrogance beneath the charm, she thought, suggesting that he regarded women as just another facet of his success.

Besides, he was in orbit round some sun while she remained completely earthbound.

Not that it mattered, she told herself, as she ate her panna cotta with its accompanying wild strawberries. Tomorrow he would leave and, with luck, she would never have to set eyes on him again. All the same she wished that Prince Damiano had not been detained in Geneva.

It was a long meal with strega and grappa to accompany the coffee which ended it, but when it was over and they drifted back to the salotto, Ellie’s need to talk to Silvia was thwarted again by her cousin immediately opting to play bridge with Signora Barzado and the Cipriantos.

Count Manzini, to her relief, took himself off to the billiard room with Carlo Barzado, while his grandmother and the Principessa occupying a sofa by the fireplace had their heads together in low-voiced and plainly confidential conversation.

Ellie found a magazine in a rack beneath one of the side tables, and took it to a chair on the other side of the room. It was mainly concerned with the fashion industry, and, inevitably, had a feature on Galantana praising its success and detailing its anticipated expansion. This was naturally accompanied by a photograph of Angelo Manzini seated at his desk, his shirt sleeves rolled back over tanned forearms and his tie loose. He looked tough, business-like, and, as even Ellie could appreciate, sexy as hell.

The camera, she thought, drawing a breath, was no doubt being operated by a woman.

At the bridge table, one rubber followed another and Ellie was forced to accept that Silvia was avoiding any kind of tête à tête between them, and she might as well go to bed.

‘So soon, cara?’ The Principessa regarded her with concern. ‘It is not still the headache?’

‘Oh, no,’ Ellie assured her swiftly and guiltily. ‘That seems to have gone.’

In her room, the bed had been turned down and her white lawn nightgown prettily fanned across the coverlet, but the helpful maid had also closed the windows for some abstruse reason, turning the room into a temporary oven.

Sighing a little, Ellie opened them again, drew the curtains, and switched on the ceiling fan. She took a quick cooling shower, cleaned her teeth, then folded back the coverlet to the bottom of the bed, deciding for once to dispense with her nightgown before sliding under the cover of the sheet.

She’d arranged to leave the Avortino office early that day, so she’d brought some remaining translation work with her to finish off. It was a simple enough task, and normally she’d have whizzed through it, but this time she found it well-nigh impossible to concentrate, and after struggling for almost an hour, she gave up.

If I go on, I’ll have a genuine headache, she thought, putting the script back in its folder, then switching off her lamp and composing herself for sleep instead.

She lay for a while, staring into the darkness, listening to the soft swish of the fan above her, while the events of the day played through her mind like a depressing newsreel. And most disturbing of all was the number of unwanted images of Angelo Manzini that kept intruding upon her.

She tried to tell herself it was hardly surprising, considering that blinding moment of unwelcome revelation about Silvia and its possible repercussions. But it was troubling nevertheless.

On the other hand, there was no point in losing sleep over it, so she turned on to her side, closing her eyes with resolution.

He should not, Angelo told himself grimly as he glanced at his watch, be contemplating this.

Having made the break, he should adhere to his decision and not be lured back, even if it was for ‘one last time’ as she’d breathed to him in that secluded corner of the garden before dinner. When she’d stood so close that the shape of her untrammelled breasts under the cling of her dress were clearly revealed, the nipples standing proud. So close that the familiar perfume she wore filled his senses, reviving memories that commonsense told him were best forgotten.

Although he knew of her relationship with the Principessa, he’d been frankly astonished and certainly not best pleased to find her here. In view of the serious purpose of his visit, she was a complication he did not need.

And yet when she’d looked up at him wistfully, touching her parted lips with her little pointed tongue, reminding him of its delicious artistry, and whispered, ‘Don’t you want me, mio caro?’, in spite of himself, he had found his body responding to her enticement with all its former urgency.

All the same, he would have drawn the line at traversing unfamiliar corridors to reach her, in the hope that the other members of the house party—his hostess in particular—would be safely asleep.

But as this would not be necessary, the promise of ‘one last time’ seemed worth the risk.

No-one, he told himself, would be likely to see him descending from the loggia outside his room, especially now he’d changed his white shirt for a thin dark sweater.

But if the worst happened, he could always explain he’d been unable to sleep, and decided to get some air.

Or, he could take the infinitely wiser course of resisting temptation altogether, and staying where he was. However disappointed his former innamorata might be, she could hardly make a scene over his dereliction. Not in this company.

And afterwards, he would be careful to avoid any encounters with her until she had found the inevitable someone to take his place.

Counsels of perfection, he thought cynically. Which he had, naturalmente, no intention of following. Not while that gloriously rapacious body was waiting to welcome him on this hot, starlit night.

Earlier, he’d fetched the flashlight from his car, and sliding it into his pocket, he went noiselessly out to the loggia and down the steps to the grounds below.

Ellie was never sure what woke her. For one sleepy moment, she wondered why, on such a still night, the pale curtains at her window seemed to be billowing into the room? Only to discover, with blank terror, that she was no longer alone. That a tall shadow, darker than all the rest, was standing beside the bed and a man’s voice was whispering teasingly, ‘Were you asleep, mia bella? Then I hope you were dreaming of me.’

Then before she could move or force her paralysed throat muscles to scream, the mattress beside her dipped under a new weight, and strong arms reached for her, drawing her against bare and aroused male flesh while a warm mouth took hers in the kind of deep and sensual kiss wholly outside her experience.

And for one brief, appalled instant, she felt her ungiven body arch against him in a response as instinctive as it was shocking.

Then, as sanity came racing back, she tore her lips from his and tried to push him away, raking her nails down the hair-roughened wall of his torso.

He swore and his grasp slackened fractionally, giving her the chance to fling herself across the bed away from him, her hand reaching desperately for the lamp switch.

And as light flooded the room, Ellie’s horrified, incredulous gaze met that of her assailant.

Angelo was the first to speak. He said hoarsely, ‘You? But I don’t understand …’

‘Get out of here.’ She was blushing from head to foot, burning with shame, as she delved for the sheet, dragging it up to cover her naked breasts. Trying at the same time not to look at him. ‘Just—go. Now. For God’s sake.’

But it was too late. There was a sharp knock at the door, followed by her godmother’s voice saying, ‘Is all well with you, Elena? An intruder has been seen in the garden.’

Angelo muttered something soft and violent under his breath, and dived for the sheet in his turn. And before Ellie could answer, think of some reassurance to send her latest visitor away, the door was flung wide, and the Principessa came in, swathed in an ivory silk dressing gown. And behind her, dignified in grey satin, the Contessa Manzini, with Carlo Barzado beside her, and Giovanni bringing up the rear.

Lucrezia Damiano stopped, a hand flying to her throat, her eyes widening in shock and dismay. There was a long and deadly silence, which the Contessa was the first to break, turning to request Signor Barzado and the gaping major domo to leave before she too stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.

She said, ‘Cosa succede, Angelo. What is happening here? Have you lost your mind or simply all sense of honour?’ She looked at Ellie, her face like stone. ‘Is my grandson here at your invitation, signorina? The truth, if you please.’

Angelo answered for her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘From first to last, Nonna, it was my own idea.’ He glanced down at the scratches on his chest, his mouth twisting wryly. ‘But clearly, I should have thought again—for several reasons.’

‘You are saying you have disgraced our family name—forced yourself on this girl—on a whim?’ The Contessa closed her eyes. ‘Dio mio, I cannot believe it.’

It occurred to Ellie that hoping to wake up and find she’d simply been having a nightmare wasn’t working. Neither was praying for death.

Clutching the sheet so tightly that her knuckles turned white, she said huskily, ‘Contessa—Godmother—I know how this must look but—really—nothing happened.’

‘I presume because he was interrupted.’ The Principessa’s voice was colder than her god-daughter had ever heard it, as she looked pointedly at Ellie’s nightgown lying on the floor beside the bed.

No, Ellie thought painfully. Because he discovered he was in the wrong room, with the wrong woman.

Thought it, but realised she couldn’t say it because it would only make matters a thousand times worse.

Angelo indicated his own clothing. He said coolly, ‘Perhaps, before anything more is said, I might be permitted to dress myself.’

‘Tra un momento. My god-daughter’s needs come first.’ The Principessa took Ellie’s robe from the chair and advanced to the bed. ‘Put this on, my child, then come with us to the salotto.’ She added, ‘You will have the goodness to join us there, Count Manzini, when you are ready.’

Back turned to him, and seated on the edge of the bed, Ellie huddled awkwardly into the robe and fastened its sash, her fingers all thumbs. She was suddenly aware that she was trembling, and on the verge of tears.

It’s all so ridiculous, she thought, like some dreadful bedroom farce. Except that on this occasion there can be no last act explanations to make everything right again. Because they would have to involve Silvia, and that can’t happen.

As she followed the two older women downstairs, her mind went into a kind of overdrive as she struggled to make sense of what had happened.

It went without saying that Angelo Manzini had expected to find her cousin waiting for him, but Silvia’s room was at the other end of the villa, so what could possibly have made him think she was sleeping in the tower?

And what was all this about an intruder in the grounds? Who had seen him?

Every question she asked herself seemed to throw up another, and she didn’t like any of the answers that were suggesting themselves to her.

Giovanni was just leaving the salotto as they arrived. His face might be expressionless, but he radiated disapproval just the same and Ellie, who’d known him all her life, found herself avoiding his glance.

He’d lit the lamps and brought a tray of coffee to the room, and the Principessa poured a measure of brandy into a glass and brought it to Ellie.

‘I have instructed Giovanni to have another room prepared for you,’ she said. ‘You will not wish to return to the tower.’

No, thought Ellie, with a swift pang. Never again for as long as I live.

Any stupid fairy tale dreams I still had finally crashed and burned tonight.

Aloud, she said, ‘Thank you,’ and swallowed some of the brandy, feeling its warmth pervade the chill inside her. ‘But I swear to you—both of you—that nothing happened.’

‘You regard my grandson’s shameful conduct—this outrage to your godmother’s hospitality as nothing?’ The Contessa’s question was icy. ‘Are you saying, signorina, that you are accustomed to share your bed with strangers? That this unforgivable insult should be—laughed off in some way? Treated as one of the aberrations of modern life? If so, I doubt if Prince Damiano will agree with you.’

Ellie flushed again. ‘No,’ she said, her voice constricted. ‘No, of course not.’ She hesitated, ‘Does he—have to be told?’

‘I think so,’ said the Contessa. ‘Before the story reaches him from another source.’ She paused. ‘It is unfortunate that Carlo Barzado witnessed what had happened, because he will tell his wife, and she will immediately tell the whole world.’

Ellie’s lips parted in a soundless gasp. ‘Oh—surely not.’

The Contessa shrugged. ‘It is inevitable.’

The Principessa sat down beside Ellie, and took her hand. She said more gently, ‘We must suppose that Count Manzini gave some indication—at dinner, perhaps—that he found you attractive, my child, and you were flattered by his attention. Gave him reason to think that you would welcome him later. Is that how it was?’

Ellie bit her lip. The truth was impossible, she told herself, so she would have to rely on prevarication.

She said quietly, ‘If I did, it was—unintentional.’

‘But I think we must accept that was the case and act accordingly.’ Her godmother’s tone was firm. She looked towards the door. ‘I am sure Count Manzini will agree.’

Coming into rooms silently must be one of his talents, Ellie thought bitterly because she’d been totally unaware of his arrival—yet again. But there he was, leaning against the doorframe, the lean body apparently relaxed, his dark face impassive as he listened to what was being said.

But Ellie wasn’t fooled. The anger in him might be dammed back, but she could still sense it. Feel it reaching her across the room.

But why, she demanded silently, when I’m the innocent party in all this? And you know it.

Angelo walked slowly forward. ‘I deeply regret, Signorina Blake, that I completely misunderstood the invitation I thought I had received.’ His mouth twisted harshly. ‘It was an unforgivable error, and naturalmente, I wish to make amends for my behaviour in any way that is suggested.’

‘My dear Angelo,’ said his grandmother. ‘In view of Prince Damiano’s known moral stance, you have only one course of action. Tomorrow, mio caro, to prevent further scandal, you will announce that you and Signorina Blake are engaged to be married.’

CHAPTER THREE

ELLIE’S HAND JERKED and the remains of her brandy splashed down the skirt of her robe.

She said in a voice she hardly recognised, ‘No. I can’t—I won’t do it. It—it’s crazy. I tell you—nothing happened.’

‘I believe you.’ Lucrezia Damiano took the glass from her hand. ‘And if only you had been seen by no-one but the Contessa and myself, there would be no problem.’ She sighed. ‘But my dear Cesare, I fear, will adopt a very different attitude.

‘Promised lovers carried away by their feelings, he might accept, although he would certainly not approve. But a casual encounter based on a passing attraction, and conducted in his house?’ She shuddered. ‘That he would find intolerable.’ And paused, adding, ‘Unforgivable.’

Ellie could feel the tension in the room crackling around her like an electrical storm.

‘I’ll talk to him,’ she said wildly. ‘Somehow make him understand.’

‘But, dear girl,’ said the Principessa. ‘What could you possibly say?’

And in one thunderstruck moment, Ellie realised that both her godmother and the Contessa knew perfectly well exactly where and with whom Angelo had really planned to spend the night.

That they’d probably been aware of the situation for some time.

But that, even if it was not a secret, it would still not be spoken of openly, because discretion had to be observed at all costs.

Which, in the short term, she was being called upon to pay. And her silence was only the first instalment.

She bent her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said wearily. ‘I suppose.’

‘You show good sense,’ the Contessa remarked. She looked calmly at her grandson. ‘You have not spoken, Angelo mio.’

His tone was icy. ‘Perhaps I am lost for words.’

‘Tuttavia, I am sure you appreciate the necessity. Your negotiations with Prince Damiano will go more smoothly if you undertake them as Signorina Blake’s fidanzato, rather than her attempted seducer. I am certain you must agree.’

‘Under the circumstances, it seems I have little choice,’ he said with an undisguised bitterness that made Ellie send him a surprised glance from beneath the veil of her lashes. He added with chilling clarity, ‘And an engagement is not a marriage.’

Excuse me, Ellie wanted to say indignantly, but just who is doing the big favour here and to whom? Because, Count Angelo Manzini, I wouldn’t want you if you came gift-wrapped.

And tried to put out of her mind the sudden searing memory of the way his mouth had moved on hers with such devastating sensual purpose, and her own shocked, aching reaction.

‘Then the matter is settled,’ the Principessa said briskly, and rose. ‘Now I suggest we try to get some rest for what is left of the night.’ She paused, then added pointedly, ‘Let us hope there will be no further alarms to disturb us.’

Ellie did not find the remainder of the night particularly restful. Her belongings had already been transferred to her new room, thanks to the supremely efficient Giovanni, whom, she thought shuddering, she never wanted to look in the face again. She had to admit that the accommodation was more luxurious than the tower room and possessed a very much larger and very comfortable bed for its occupant to sink into.

But she could not relax. She had far too much to think about, little of it pleasant. For one thing, it was clear that she and Angelo Manzini had been deliberately set up, and almost certainly by Silvia, but what she couldn’t figure was—why?

For another, as she’d turned at the door of the salotto to say ‘Goodnight’, she’d found him watching her go with an expression of such scornful resentment that she’d felt her skin burn under his regard.

Anyone would think, she’d thought angrily, as she went upstairs, that I was the one having the illicit affaire, instead of him. But whatever problems he’s having, he’s brought entirely on himself, and he has no-one else to blame.

Plus he must know the last thing I ever wanted was to become involved with him or any of his sordid little games, so a touch of gratitude wouldn’t come amiss.

Nor could she escape the terrible irony that the first time she’d found herself in bed with a man was only as a result of mistaken identity. She supposed it was almost funny, yet she had never felt less like laughing in her life.

The entire situation had been total humiliation, she thought as pain twisted inside her, turning rapidly into complete disaster.

She lay in the darkness, her mind revolving wearily over the same well-trodden ground, trying to make sense of it all and failing miserably.

Wondering too how she would get through the horrific difficulties of the day ahead, pretending to be engaged to a man who appeared to despise her.

She could find no answer to that and there were already pale streaks in the eastern sky when she eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

It was mid-morning when she was woken by one of the maids bringing her a breakfast tray of tea with lemon, warm rolls, ham and cheese. At least she was being spared the gauntlet of the dining room, she thought, as the memory of Signor Barzado’s face, goggle-eyed with shock, invaded her shuddering mind. But that had to be the least of her worries.

She ate what she could, then showered quickly and dressed.

She paused to look at herself in the full-length mirror before venturing downstairs, scrutinising her ordinary dark green linen skirt and very ordinary white tee shirt. That said it all, she thought, grimacing at her reflection. And no-one in their right mind would ever believe that a man like Angelo Manzini would ask her to marry him, or steal through the darkness for a secret night of passion in her arms.

However, that was the story, and she would somehow have to stick to it. But only for a strictly limited period, she told herself, lifting her chin. Which was probably the sole aspect of the situation that she and Count Manzini were likely to agree on.

Giovanni was waiting as she descended the stairs, inclining his head respectfully as he told her the Principessa wished her to be shown to her private sitting room.

No real surprise there, Ellie thought drily. It was a charming retreat, furnished in shell pink, a shade her godmother described as ‘most calming to the nerves’, and where no-one else would dare to go unless specifically invited, so their conversation would be undisturbed.

When they reached the door, Giovanni tapped deferentially, then ushered her in. Ellie walked in, a smile nailed firmly in place, only to stop dead as the room’s sole occupant turned from the window to face her.

He was wearing charcoal pants this morning, and a matching shirt open at the neck. Against the sunlit pastel background, he looked as dark as a moonless night, making Ellie feel, absurdly, that this pretty room was no longer a sanctuary but a panther’s den.

It was all she could do not to take a step backwards, but she recovered herself and said quietly and glacially, ‘I thought I was here to speak to my godmother, Count Manzini.’

‘She felt we should have an opportunity to meet alone.’ His tone was casual. ‘And as we have to convince the world we have been doing so quite intimately over the past weeks, it might be better if you addressed me as Angelo. And I shall call you Elena.’

It was all said without smiling, but at least he wasn’t looking at her as if she was a slug in his salad. Cool indifference seemed an appropriate description. And she would match it.

She lifted her chin. ‘Then you really intend to go on with this—ridiculous pretence?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’ He paused. ‘It was mentioned last night, I think, that I am here to negotiate an important financial deal for Galantana with Prince Damiano. There is a great deal at stake, and I will not allow my plans for a major expansion of the company to be wrecked by the malice of an angry woman.’

She said quickly. ‘Angry?’

‘You were aware, I suppose, that your cousin had been my mistress?’

‘No, I wasn’t,’ she snapped. ‘Not until you arrived yesterday and I saw her reaction.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then you also will not know that I ended the relationship two weeks ago.’

‘Ended it?’ She stared at him. ‘That wasn’t the impression you gave last night.’

‘It was to be the last time,’ he said, shrugging. ‘And one doesn’t wish to disappoint a lady.’