Page 3 of Marriage Made In Hate

T HE PLANE WAS coming in to land. Bianca’s gaze went out through the porthole to the approaching land.

Italy. A country she’d never been to. Never been invited to.

Not by Luca. She felt the familiar lick of acid on her skin.

It had come to her repeatedly since she’d walked, dazed and disbelieving, out of the solicitor’s office three days ago.

Two worlds were colliding. The world she’d made for herself, taking six years to do it. And the world she’d come from.

Or thought she had come from.

Because what that elderly, dry-as-dust solicitor had told her was so far beyond belief that she still did not believe it—dared not believe it. But it was because of what he’d told her that she was sitting on this plane, having asked for impromptu leave from work.

Given the circumstances, Andrew had been completely supportive.

‘Of course you must go. It’s quite extraordinary!’

That was one word for it. Bianca had another one. One that made her heart beat faster and made her wish the plane would move onward faster.

Miraculous. That was the word in Bianca’s head.

After all these years…

* * *

Luca replaced the phone on his desk in his office. Matteo wanted him to go for dinner in two days’ time. He had been quite insistent. He had also asked him to arrive in black tie.

Luca had assented—of course he had. But he was concerned that Matteo would be tiring himself by inviting guests.

Several business trips, taking in Geneva, Frankfurt and Brussels, had kept Luca from visiting for nearly three weeks, but now he could be sure he would be based indefinitely in Rome.

If Matteo should take a turn for the worse he did not want to be out of the country.

He was keeping his diary here in Rome flexible too.

Though his social life was full, there was currently no particular female in his life, and as Matteo was his priority right now he intended to keep it that way.

Usually, given his bachelor status, plus his title, his wealth and—he knew without vanity—looks that women found pleasing, he could take his pick.

That was certainly what he’d enjoyed doing when he was younger.

And not just in Italy. He had self-indulgently romanced many of the all too eager females he’d encountered in his stints working abroad.

Enjoyable interludes, never intended to last. As those he romanced had all understood.

All except one—

He sheered his mind away. No point remembering that hot-as-hell time with Bianca.

He could ponder with hindsight whether it had been wise to allow himself to indulge in a searing affair with someone who came from so very different a world from him.

Yet that fateful evening when, after a business meeting in Canary Wharf, he’d been taken for a drink at a nearby bar, his eyes had gone to the female mixing cocktails and he’d not been able to drag them away.

Titian-hair piled high on her head, striking looks, full lips… And eyes that he had seen, when they’d clashed with his, were a brilliant emerald-green.

She’d frozen, tilted vodka bottle in hand, and their eyes had locked. Message sent—and received. He’d moved in on her, knowing that this stunning flame-haired beauty had spiked in him an instant desire that demanded only one course of action.

To make her his—consumingly, totally his.

She’d come to him effortlessly, and he had the honesty to admit that he’d enjoyed the fact that she was so different from his normal fare—and not just because of her very different background.

She played no games, and was totally upfront that she wanted him as much as he wanted her, that her desire and passion matched his.

He’d been taken aback, he acknowledged with honesty, to find he was her first lover, but she’d told him that she’d been saving herself for a guy who was really worth it.

With hindsight, maybe that should have been a warning sign that she would not see their affair in the same way he had seen it… As something to be indulged in, enjoyed, that would then come to a natural end. That she might want…more.

More than just an affair. Something more permanent.

But his stint in London had ended, and so had his time with her.

He’d hoped she’d accept it gracefully.

She hadn’t.

When he’d said he was leaving London, and that their time together had run its course, she’d clung to him. Titian head thrown back, arms tightening around his neck, she had told him that she had nothing to keep her in London, that she was free to come with him anywhere he went, anywhere at all…

He’d had to peel her off him. Say what he’d said to her…

‘It’s over, Bianca. Over! Accept it.’

Memory flashed in his head. Her face as he’d set it out for her. Said what it had been necessary for him to say, loath though he had been to be so harsh. But she had brought it on herself.

Her expression had been impossible to read.

And then, as he’d finished, she had simply looked at him, mouth set tight, with a narrow band of colour across her sculpted cheekbones that contrasted with the icy pallor of her skin.

A mask had come down over her long-lashed eyes.

She’d said nothing—not a word. Had just stood there.

He’d nodded, walked away. Leaving her. Going back to his own life, to Italy, putting her into the past. Leaving her there. Where she must stay. There was no other place for her.

Right now his only focus was Matteo. Being there for him while he was still there for Luca to see him…

* * *

Bianca was walking in the villa’s gardens.

They were peaceful and secluded, though too formal for her own personal taste, with paved pathways, sculpted topiary, stone ponds and benches.

She would need to go in soon. Matteo liked a pre-prandial aperitivo , and she looked forward to that special time with him.

He wasn’t always well enough to come downstairs.

He had his good days, and days that were not so good…

Her eyes shadowed. She had been granted so much, and yet it was coming at a price. Sadness filled her, and she felt a clutching at her heart. He had made her so welcome, embraced her into his life…just as he was preparing to take his leave of it.

But she would not think such sad thoughts. That time ahead would come—it must—but for now, for this wonderful time, she would not let it spoil what she had been granted. Granted so miraculously.

Her boss, Andrew, was being wonderfully supportive. She was on an indefinite leave of absence, although she was using her spare time—when Matteo was resting—to work remotely, keeping in touch with what was going on back home.

Home? The word hovered in her head. Matteo had said this was her home now. Had pressed her hand and told her she must not think of leaving. She had given her assent willingly, whole-heartedly, and he had been reassured. As for what would happen after…?

Well, that was for then. This was for now. A special time in her life, and one for which she gave such thanks.

She wended her way back to the villa. She wanted to change—Matteo liked to see her looking nice, and she obliged him willingly.

He had already insisted on sending her out in his car, chauffeur-driven, to the main town in the area, to avail herself of the fashionable shops there.

To please him she had acquiesced in that too.

It had seemed ungracious not to. Ungracious not to enjoy this luxurious, leisurely life here at the Villa Fiarante.

Memory rippled through her. Though she had never wanted Luca to buy her things, she had, all the same, enjoyed to the hilt the deluxe life he led.

And in the time she’d been with him she’d led that life too—eating at fancy restaurants, drinking fine wines that she’d barely appreciated but enjoyed all the same, taking taxis everywhere, having the best seats in the theatre when he took her to shows.

Oh, she’d lived the high life with him all right.

But it had been borrowed from him—nothing more than that.

And now…

She walked inside the palatial villa, its resplendent rooms and décor cared for by staff—led by the stately Giuseppe—like a well- oiled machine. She never had to lift a finger. Matteo took it for granted, of course, but then this was his world, his birthright.

Disbelief shimmered through her. To think she’d grown up on a shabby council estate in the East End of London when all along—

No, best not to dwell on that. It was too sad to think of why that had come to be. Far too sad. But thanks to Matteo that sadness had found if not a happy ending—not when he was taking his leave of life—but a lining that was richly silver indeed.

He might never have found me and I might never have known that any of this existed. Never have known Matteo.

Her mood lightened and she ran up the grand sweeping staircase to her room.

It was as large as her flat—if not larger—and beautifully appointed.

It took her little time to get ready, changing out of cotton trousers and tee shirt—part of her own casual wardrobe—and exchanging them for a knee-length dress in pale blue.

It looked deceptively simple, but the price tag had been hefty, and she had bought it only because she’d known Matteo would like to see her in it.

He did, too, when she went into the library a short time later. He was in his usual leather chair, dressed formally, but his top shirt button was undone, and he looked comfortable and relaxed. His colour, so often very pale, looked better too, and Bianca was glad of it.

She stooped to drop a kiss on his thin cheek. ‘How are you this evening?’ she asked, taking a seat opposite him.

‘All the better for seeing you,’ he said.

His English was accented, and memory struck her, as it always did. Luca’s accent when he spoke English had been to die for. Even the most unromantic statements in the world could sound sensuous and beguiling…