Page 27 of Marriage Made In Hate

S LOWLY , B IANCA WALKED into the hotel restaurant.

She didn’t want to be here, but Luca’s text had said he needed to discuss Matteo.

Heaviness weighed her down. Though she hoped with all her heart that the immunotherapy would be successful, at some point Matteo would come home—and he would expect her there, want her there.

Now the heaviness crushed her. He would want her and Luca to continue to be engaged, as he so fondly thought. But to play that role now—with all that had changed between her and Luca—would be agony.

It was an agony that pierced like a dagger as she was shown to his table, her heart leaping uncontrollably.

He got to his feet, his eyes going to hers immediately.

Faintness washed through her and she sat herself down, heart beating faster.

The last time she’d set eyes on him had been when softly, silently…

agonisingly…she’d dropped the lightest, slightest brush of her lips to his cheek as he lay sleeping by her side.

Before slipping from the room to face the truth she hadn’t been able to bear to face.

But she must face it now. Face Luca.

She realised, as he resumed his place and the waiter came to the table, hovering to take their drinks order and bestow menus upon them, that despite his customary svelte elegance, his perpetual air of sophisticated cool, tension was radiating from him in the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw.

He’s steeling himself to tell me what I already know he’s going to tell me.

She sheared her mind away. She could not bear to hear that—not yet. Instead, as the waiter left them in peace, she asked after Matteo, and the latest update.

‘He’s still doing well,’ Luca answered immediately.

Was he relieved not to have to tell her quite yet what he must know she would not want to hear? she wondered.

‘Still upbeat,’ he went on. ‘He sounded cheerful when I phoned this morning.’

She gave him a flickering smile. ‘That’s good,’ she said.

The waiter was returning with their drinks.

She’d opted for a glass of white wine, and so had Luca.

She felt she needed it. Her eyes kept wanting to go to him, drink him in, and her consciousness of his physical presence was overwhelming her.

But she had to stay composed. Couldn’t let her response to him show. For his sake. For hers.

The polite enquiry from the waiter as to their menu choices was a welcome distraction. They both opted for fish, and a memory came to her of how she had Luca had both ordered fish at the restaurant in Pavenza, that first day they’d gone there together. Buying the fake engagement ring.

A sudden spurt of courage filled her. She would be brave.

She took a mouthful of her wine to help her. Looked straight across at him. ‘Luca, we have to think ahead—to when Matteo is home again. How…how are we to deal with this impossible fantasy of his? We can’t… We can’t just go on with it.’

For a moment—a moment that seemed to last for ever, unbearable and excruciating—he did not reply. His face was impossible to read, and yet she read it like an open book. Knew exactly what was in it.

She saw him take a breath. Heard him make his reply.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think we can.’

* * *

Luca’s eyes were locked to Bianca’s eyes—so green, so luminous, like the emerald in that engagement ring he’d bought her. The fake engagement ring for their fake engagement. The fake engagement that had yoked them together for the sake of her uncle, his godfather, to make him happy.

But how could they sustain it now?

Impossible.

He heard himself speak, answer again Bianca’s faltering question. ‘We can’t. Not any more. It’s impossible.’

He saw her face pale. Her tension was visible, as it had been since she’d walked up to the table.

She must have been at work today, for she was wearing a charcoal pencil skirt teamed with a dove-grey blouse with a soft collar.

Her make-up was minimal, her Titian hair confined into a pleat that emphasised the sculpted beauty of her face.

But he must not be distracted by her beauty, even though it was filling his senses.

He reached for his wine to break the moment, break eye contact. He took a mouthful of the crisp white Sauvignon Blanc, then set down the glass. She hadn’t moved, but he could see a pulse at her throat.

He drew a breath, knowing he must speak.

‘Bianca, I wanted to talk to you—that’s why I’ve asked you here. You didn’t give me the opportunity in Italy.’ He held her eyes again and saw she still had not moved. Only the pulse at her throat moved, beneath the pallor of her face.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ he said.

* * *

Bianca felt her lungs tightening. It was almost physically painful.

So he was going to spell it out to her—even though she didn’t want him to and it wasn’t necessary for him to do so anyway.

She knew exactly what he was going to say.

Had known it since she’d stood there, all those weeks ago, on the dew-wet grass, watching the sun rise over the garden, listening to the birdsong starting to fill the air with the dawn chorus.

Quickly, she spoke. Wanting…needing…to get in first. ‘No, you don’t.’ She took a breath, a painful one, and looked right at him. Past and present mingled and merged. ‘You don’t need to tell me, Luca. Not this time.’

She swallowed before making herself go on.

‘Six years ago you had to spell it out to me. This time you don’t. I know—’ Her voice dropped. ‘I know it’s over.’

Memory stabbed at her of that day at his palazzo , when she’d made herself think about the time, one day, when Luca would take his bride there, his new viscontessa , and how until then he would doubtless continue his fleeting liaisons.

And I was one of them. Even that night after Matteo’s party. He simply succumbed to the desire he’s always felt for me…made me his again. For that one night. It would never have been for more…

Luca had stilled, his eyes meeting hers full on.

Slowly, very slowly, he spoke. ‘ That’s what you thought I was going to say?’

And there was blankness, complete blankness, in his voice.

* * *

Luca stared. It was all he could do. That and register that something was changing in her expression. But then things were changing inside his head…rearranging themselves.

Was that what she’d thought? Was that the reason she’d avoided him—refused to see him, talk to him? Refused to have any kind of meaningful contact with him since the moment she’d slipped from her bed, from his arms?

Enlightenment was dawning through him.

He leant towards her slightly. ‘Is that what you thought I wanted to do to you? Warn you off?’ Incredulity was in his voice.

She was staring blankly at him. ‘Of course I did,’ she said. ‘What else? You did it before, the first time around.’

His hand reached across the table. Folded over hers resting immobile on the stem of her wine glass. Her hand was cold, but his…his was filled with the warmth that was flooding through him.

‘How could you think I would not want you after our night together?’ His voice was a husk. ‘How is it possible that you should think so?’

Relief was filling him, moving up through his body. The tension that had been his companion since he’d woken that morning to find her gone had fled…dissipated as if it had never existed. He’d thought that she regretted what had happened.

‘That night, Bianca, when I made you mine again…’ He took a breath—a ragged one.

‘ Por Dio , it was your avoiding me—leaving my arms…the bed—that made me think it was you who did not want me ! That the night we’d spent together was nothing but a mistake!

It has been a torment to me—an agony—to think that you rejected me—’

Her expression was changing—he could see it. The change was visible in her face, her eyes. Wonder was filling them…and a glow…a radiant glow. It told him everything he wanted to know. Needed to know. But she was saying it anyway, her voice a breath.

‘How could you think that?’ she asked. ‘How could you ever think that? Oh, Luca—’

He heard the choke in her voice, felt her eyes clinging to his. All of a sudden he pushed back his chair, lifting her hand with his, tightening his fingers over hers. They were no longer cold.

He saw the waiter nearby, summoned him even as he drew Bianca to his feet. ‘Will you hold our order, please?’ he said to the waiter. ‘We’ll call for room service. Later.’

* * *

They barely made it to his room. He rushed her through the door and then swept her up into his arms. Hunger leapt in him.

His mouth swooped down on hers as her arms looped about his neck, pulling him against her.

He could feel his body react to hers instantly, and hunger leapt even more.

He was moving with her, still kissing her, his tongue twining with hers as they tumbled down on the waiting bed.

She was rolling him over, on to his back, sliding his jacket from him, loosening his tie, her mouth barely leaving his as she did so, as hungry for him as he was for her.

Then her fingers were at the buttons of his shirt, slipping them rapidly, and she was sliding her hands over his bared chest. He reared up, eager to repay the courtesy.

Words were falling from him in between kisses, telling her how irresistible she was, how infinitely desirable, how his hunger for her was consuming him.

She gave a laugh, uninhibited and joyous, throwing back her head as she knelt on the bed beside him and he fumbled urgently with the buttons on her blouse. He wanted to rip it from her.