Page 9 of Marriage Made In Hate

Then he nodded at Giuseppe and closed the double doors to the saloni , where they had taken coffee after dinner.

As the doors clicked shut, and her uncle was left with the faithful Giuseppe and the diligent Paolo to be escorted to his bedroom and the rest and sleep he so obviously needed, Bianca turned away.

Absently, to give herself something to do, she placed the used coffee cups and the two liqueur glasses she and Luca had used on the silver tray.

Matteo had abstained, and she was glad of it.

The wine had been quite enough for him, given his illness and his cocktail of medications.

A voice behind her spoke. Deep, authoritative, and edged like a blade.

‘We need to talk,’ said Luca. ‘Now.’

* * *

Luca strode to the French windows, throwing one of them open wide. He wanted fresh air, and he wanted privacy. He had things to say, and he did not wish them to be interrupted by staff clearing away the coffee cups, or asking if there was anything else he needed.

All he needed was Bianca—to himself. And to let rip with what had been burning inside him since his godfather had dropped that second bombshell.

He could feel his fury now, knifing at him to get out, black in his head as he flicked the light switch by the French windows and lit the external wall lamps. They threw a pool of light on to the wide, paved terrace, almost turning it into a stage.

He paused by the open window pointedly. Leashing his self-control with icy intent. He saw her stiffen. For a moment he thought she was going to try and cut and run…trot out some verbiage about being tired and wishing to retire. Not that he would let her.

But then her head went back and he saw her shoulders straighten.

Without a word she marched past him, out into the pool of soft light beyond, and then turned.

He stepped after her, closing the French windows.

She stood, illuminated as if on a stage, her beauty displayed, and Luca felt something go through him that he instantly sought to repress. Extinguish.

He’d done so six years ago—he would do so again. And again and again and again.

For however long it takes!

His expression was tight, as he moved forward. Close, but not too close.

His eyes lasered her.

‘You do realise,’ he said, and each word was bitten out from him as he finally unleashed the self-control he’d been exerting, ‘that all the idiocy Matteo spouted will not happen? Whatever fond hopes you may have been harbouring.’

His voice was withering. Scathing and scornful. He saw her expression change—saw her flinch, almost. Though it was gone so swiftly he thought he had only imagined it. Then hardness filled her face.

‘Any “fond hopes”—believe me—are entirely my uncle’s!’ Her voice was as withering as his. As scathing and as scornful.

A short, harsh laugh broke from him. ‘Oh, don’t even try and pretend otherwise!

This insane proposition is your idea! The moment you realised that I was Matteo’s godson you saw your chance!

Your chance to get what you didn’t get six years ago.

Marriage! That’s what you were after! But I wouldn’t play ball!

I walked away from you. And now you see a chance of bringing me to heel the way you couldn’t back then!

Well, I’ve got news for you, Bianca—I didn’t want you then, and I don’t want you now either! ’

As he threw this tirade at her he saw her face tighten into stark immobility. The fact that it threw her features into relief, accentuating her beauty, he refused… refused …to acknowledge. He refused to acknowledge anything—any damn thing at all—except his need to let rip at her.

He let rip some more. He needed to. Emotion was knifing inside him, and it had to come out or it would cut him to the quick. Do him serious damage. The emotion was anger—of course it was. That was the only emotion the situation warranted. The only one he would permit.

The shock he’d felt all evening was finally being let loose.

Bianca…reappearing out of the past with a completely new identity.

But still the same agenda. Wanting more of me than I want of her.

And now, after six years, she thought she’d found a way to get it. A despicable way.

Contempt twisted in his voice now. ‘How could you make use of Matteo the way you have? Manipulate him into wanting what he announced at dinner! A dying man—and you make use of him to try and get me to marry you! It’s contemptible!’

He saw her expression change, and the starkness of her features gave way—contorting. Convulsing.

‘Contemptible?’ she shot back, fury naked in her voice.

‘I’ll tell you what is contemptible !’ Her voice was a hiss, like a snake.

‘Your vanity! Your incredible, overweening vanity! You think—you actually think!—that I want to marry you? My God, I wouldn’t marry you if you came served on a silver salver with an apple in your mouth, you conceited pig!

You are the last man on God’s earth that I would ever, ever marry!

For any reason whatsoever! Any reason! Even…

’ She drew a breath, narrow and constricted. ‘Even for the sake of my poor uncle!’

Her eyes flashed suddenly—furiously—like emerald fire. Luca felt their power…armoured himself against their force. Her attack on him he thrust aside—her accusation was predictable and irrelevant. As was what she threw at him now.

‘I am appalled to discover that you are my uncle’s precious godson!’

‘Make that two of us!’ he threw back grimly. ‘I am appalled to see you here—’

‘That was the only upside to this evening!’ she spat. ‘That sweet, sweet moment when your vile assumption about my presence here was shot down in flames! When Matteo told you I was his niece!’ Her words were vicious beneath the saccharine.

‘Sweeter still,’ he snarled back at her, ‘was the moment when he said he wanted us to marry!’

She threw her head back. ‘“Sweet” is not the word! I love my uncle very much—and I am so incredibly glad and grateful we have discovered each other’s existence.

I’m devastated—horribly devastated—and heartbroken that our time together must be so short.

But even loving him there are sacrifices I will not make for him—and marrying you is top of the list!

You were a conceited pig six years ago, Luca—and you’re a conceited pig still! ’

She surged past him, aiming for the French windows.

Blind rage was in him. Rage for what she had manipulated her poor dying uncle into wanting. Rage for her trying to deny it. Rage at her daring to try to turn the tables on him , accuse him , when it was she who was the cause of all this fiasco!

And his rage that went even deeper than that—became something quite other than rage…

His hand lashed out. Fastened around her wrist. Stopped her in her tracks.

* * *

Bianca felt his hand close around her wrist over the pearl bracelet in a vise-like grip. Rage became outrage.

‘Let me go !’

She tried to yank herself free, but he’d stepped up to her.

Close.

Too close.

His closeness filled her consciousness. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the cool night air felt hot—stiflingly hot.

She couldn’t breathe. All evening she’d been burningly, punishingly conscious of Luca.

Who’d suddenly appeared out of nowhere…out of a past she’d thought dead and buried.

She’d thrown away the shovel with which she had doggedly, determinedly and desperately buried it, and yet suddenly, like the demon king in a pantomime, he had just… appeared.

Framed in the entrance to the saloni.

Walking into her life again. Invading it.

All through the whole nightmare evening she’d been forced to be hideously aware of him, feeling his fury and his outrage at her very presence. And then what had her poor, benighted, hapless uncle said and done? Dear God Almighty…

She’d known from the moment she’d heard Matteo make his unbelievable announcement that a showdown with Luca would be coming.

That it had to come. That was why she’d walked out here on to the terrace, at his insistence, knowing she had to make it clear—coruscatingly, irrefutably clear—that whatever her poor, deluded, pitiful…

dying …uncle had said, she wanted to stamp it out instantly and totally.

And now to have Luca dare to accuse her of having persuaded Matteo to dream up the idea! Laying it at her door! As if…as if…she had fed the notion to her uncle!

As if I actually wanted Matteo to say what he did!

Luca was blaming her… accusing her… sneering at her…

Despising her…

Like he had six years ago.

Rage contorted inside her—rage and another emotion, just as strong, that she crushed down as she had always crushed it down. She had had to learn to crush it down, for six long, brutal years.

And crushed down it would stay—whatever it cost her.

However close to her he stepped. Imposing his presence on her.

She could sense his body—the scent of his aftershave, his skin, the heat of his breath on her, the dark, killing flare of his eyes…

She had to pull free. She had to.

Desperation fuelled her.

‘I said let me go !’

She yanked again—but the vise of his fingers only tightened. His body was looming against hers, blotting out the light from the wall lamp, silhouetting his profile.

‘This is assault !’ she ground out, eyes flashing with fury—fury at him for seizing her…fury at herself for not being able to free herself. Fury that was safer than any other emotion.

And then something changed in him. A sudden tension. In heels she was tall, but she had never been taller than him…never even as tall. Nor was she now. Her face was lifted to his, rage and outrage warring in her flashing eyes, the gritted steel of her jaw.

‘Assault?’

He threw the word back at her. And as he did so she saw the sudden tension in him abruptly ceasing. Changing.

His grip around her wrist was ceasing. Changing.

Easing.

Softening…

‘Assault?’ he said again.