Page 12 of Marriage Made In Hate

She heard words form inside her, forced away the stone in her throat, her lungs. Gritted her clenched teeth.

‘I’ll do it—for him,’ she said.

Acid burned in her mouth.

* * *

Luca was in the pool in the villa’s gardens, relentlessly ploughing up and down in a strong, tireless freestyle, his thoughts turbid as he chewed up the lengths. He needed the exertion—needed something, anything, to release what was inside him.

Dio, had he really done what he had? Let himself be manoeuvred into this? Let Matteo believe his deluded fantasy was actually real?

Should he really have gone along with his godfather’s obsession—driven, he knew, by his impending mortality?

Well, it was too late to think otherwise.

He and Bianca had gone up to Matteo’s bedroom, told him the ‘good news’—Luca’s mouth twisted unconsciously—and the change in Matteo’s countenance had been dramatic.

The fearful, fretful, stricken anxiousness had vanished.

His face had lit up and his weak, thin hand had reached out to wring Luca’s in delight.

The end of the pool neared, and Luca executed a rapid tumble turn before resuming his ploughing through the water. It was too late to regret what he’d done. All he could do now was face up to it, endure it for as long as it took—and make sure Bianca did as well.

Bianca…

Of all the women Matteo wants me to marry, it has to be Bianca…

Some cosmic jester—one of the old pagan gods, no doubt, with a warped sense of humour—had conjured her up out of the past he’d left behind, walked rapidly and ruthlessly away from, and dumped her back in front of him. Forced him into this distasteful farce.

But it was a farce he was stuck with now.

An old saying—bitter and cynical—intruded into his head.

No good deed goes unpunished.

His good deed was taking pity on his godfather at this drastic hour of his failing life.

His punishment—well, that came with a name, a face, a body…and a whole heap of memories he could do without right now.

Especially the memory of that clinch out on the terrace last night. Por Dio, was I mad…insane to do that?

It was the only explanation. She’d goaded him, repudiated him, scorned him, and it had infuriated him…inflamed him. He’d acted on impulse—on something that had flared in him. Something that he hadn’t been able to stop, hadn’t wanted to stop…

He’d wanted to indulge instead.

So he had. He had indulged. Indulged very pleasurably. Finding her mouth with his…drawing her soft, pliant body against his…letting the contact arouse him…arouse her…

No! He pulled his mind away, increased the pace of his strokes to a punishing degree, refusing to let himself remember how it had felt to have Bianca pressed close against him, the feel of her peaked breasts against his chest, the feel of her soft, silken mouth opening to his, the hardening of his own body as she’d aroused it with hers…

He had wanted her—wanted her totally, consumingly, urgently…

He reached the end of the pool again, dived down to execute another tumble turn, twisting and propelling himself against the wall of the pool to force himself forward again, surfacing to take a gulp of air.

Air that might suffocate the memory he must not allow.

Cold water all around him that might quench the desire he must never allow himself to feel for her again.

Because if he did—

No! His negation came again. For Matteo’s sake, and that alone, he’d agreed to pander to the desperate fantasy of a dying man. But that was all he’d agreed to. From now on, whatever it took, what had happened last night must never happen again.

His time with Bianca was over—six long years over. He would keep it that way.

* * *

There was no question of her uncle being anywhere near well enough to leave his room that evening.

Which meant, Bianca thought bleakly, she was going to have to face dining alone with Luca.

She wished she could take the cowardly way out and ask for a simple supper tray to be brought to her bedroom, but then her spine stiffened.

She wasn’t going to hide or run from Luca.

She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

Instead, she’d do the complete opposite.

With an expression on her face that she did not like, but which was impossible to remove, she sat down at the antique dressing table and started on her make-up. War paint—that was what it was going to be. Giving herself courage and taunting Luca at the same time.

Her eyes darkened. Once upon a time—a long, long time ago, when she was a different person altogether—she’d have put on as much make-up as she could, wanting to look a total knock-out. Wanting Luca to take one look at her and instantly sweep her off to bed…

Her mouth thinned. Now she was a little more subtle about it. Her touch lighter…but just as provocative…

‘Yeah? Well, you can want, sunshine, but you ain’t touchin’!’

The echo of her old, rough, ungrammatical speech pattern was raucous in her head, and she welcomed it. It reminded her of the image he’d had of her—had looked down on her for.

As she had so bitterly, painfully discovered.

She dropped the lipstick back onto an embossed silver vanity tray, reaching for her perfume.

It wasn’t the one he’d have been familiar with before—that had been overpowering, as she now realised, one of those cheap, knock-off copies of expensive names.

This was a whole lot classier—the real thing and a lot more sophisticated.

A quick spritz either side of her throat and on her wrists and she was done.

She got to her feet, looking at her reflection.

Tonight she’d thrown together an ensemble of jade-green evening trousers in a soft, silky material, worn with low-heeled sandals and a top in a lighter shade of green, made of similar silky material, with elbow-length sleeves.

A jade pendent and matching bracelet—both her own, not gifts from her uncle—were her only jewellery.

Her hair was loosely confined with a pale green scarf looped at the back of her neck.

For one long second she went on looking at her reflection.

She could feel her heart thudding her chest. She was going to have to face Luca again, on her own, and somehow come to terms with what they’d done.

Work out just what this insane decision to let her uncle think they really were going along with his dying dream was going to involve.

Her expression hardened again. Well, one thing it was not going to involve was any repetition of what had happened out on the terrace. She was never… ever …going to let Luca pull a stunt like that on her again.

For a moment—hot, humid and disastrous—she was there again. Feeling that complete paralysis of her will, of her body, as his mouth had lowered to hers, as her body had pressed against his, as he had swept her back into the past—

She rasped an indrawn breath, breaking the moment. Last night had been a warning—a warning she would heed from now on. She wasn’t letting the past come back.

Deliberately, as she strode to the door, braced herself to go downstairs to face him, she replayed his parting words to her.

‘It’s over, Bianca. Over! Accept it.’

She would keep it that way.

* * *

‘Thank you.’

Luca’s nod towards Giuseppe was both a thank-you and a dismissal, and the butler inclined his own head in stately acknowledgement and withdrew, along with the rest of the staff, leaving Luca to face Bianca across the dining table.

She’d murmured a thank-you too, as their plates had been placed in front of them and the vegetables served, their wine glasses topped up.

But she had said not another word. Not a word to himself, either, since entering the dining room and taking her place opposite his.

The place at the head of the table—Matteo’s—was conspicuously empty.

Luca lifted his knife and fork, made a start on his food. Across the table Bianca was doing likewise. Her face was a study. As for the rest of her…

Yet again, as she had last night, she looked nothing like the way she’d used to look in London. There—back then—she’d dressed revealingly, provocatively, flauntingly. That had been her image then—and for what he’d wanted of her it had worked. Appealed.

But it hadn’t been an appeal that would last.

Not beyond the affair he’d indulged in.

His eyes rested on her now, in an understated jade-green ensemble that offset her Titian hair, which had been styled with casual elegance. Her make-up was minimal. She looked so very different from how he remembered her.

She held a very different appeal…

But she was still as stunningly beautiful…

No. The guillotine sliced down. He took another forkful of his lamb, took a breath. Made himself address the only subject that had any relevance to them now.

‘We’re going to have to discuss how we handle this ludicrous situation.’ He kept his voice matter of fact.

Bianca looked up. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked shortly. ‘What situation?’

‘The situation ,’ Luca said with sardonic emphasis, ignoring the flare in the green eyes levelled on him, ‘in which Matteo thinks we’re engaged to be married.’ His voice tightened. ‘We will have to put on some kind of show for him.’

He saw colour stain her cheeks, but then it was gone.

‘No, we won’t,’ she rebuffed. ‘All you have to do,’ she told him tersely, ‘is clear off. Go back to Rome. Better still, take yourself off on some business trip—New York, China… The further the better!’

Luca frowned. ‘You think it’s that simple?’

‘Of course it is! My poor uncle isn’t going to think anything of it. And I’ll keep up the farce this end until—’

She broke off. Reached for her wine glass and took a gulp, set it back defiantly on the table. Then she lifted her chin and looked straight at him.

‘I don’t want you around, Luca. This whole thing is a nightmare. I’ve agreed to this hideous lie simply for my uncle’s sake…so that he can die happy.’