Page 140 of Exotic Affairs: The Mistress Bride\The Spanish Husband\The Bellini Bride

‘It is when it’s Antonia who has been insulted,’ Stefan said angrily.

‘And my mother who did the insulting,’ Marco coldly pointed out.

‘Excuse me,’ Antonia whispered, and broke free from both of them. She needed to get away from here, and she needed to do it now. Fighting tears, fighting the crawling worms of humiliation, fighting to keep her head up high as she went, she walked quickly for the stairs.

If she’d cared to look back, she would have seen that Marco’s mother was already feeling the discomfort of what she had done. She was touching her son’s arm, trying to get his attention. But Marco didn’t even offer her a glance as he strode after Antonia. His hand found her waist and clamped her close. Together they started down the stairs. In her haste Antonia tripped over her own spindly shoes. Marco grimly held her upright, and kept her moving while the throb of his anger pulsed all around her like the heartbeat pound of a drum.

They reached the plate-glass door at the same time as the doorman pulled it open. Neither realised the door was being opened to allow someone outside to come in. There was a bump of bodies.

‘Scuze signor—signorina,’ a deep, quietly modulated voice apologised.

It was automatic to glance up. Automatic to attempt the polite reply to the apology. Antonia looked into the stranger’s face, he looked into hers, and any attempt to speak was thoroughly suffocated beneath yet another thick layer of appalled dismay.

Black hair spiked with silver, grey eyes with a hint of green. As tall as Marco, but more slender than Marco, he was a man in the autumn years of his life.

Still, she knew exactly who it was she was staring at—and, worse, he knew that she knew.

‘Madonna mia,’ he breathed in shaken consternation. ‘Anastasia.’

Anastasia… It was too much in one short evening for Antonia to deal with. It was all she could do to shrink back into the only solid thing she could rely on right now.

Marco might be immersed in the red tide of anger, but he saw the exchanged looks, heard the name shudder from the other man’s lips. Knew there was yet something else going on here that he wasn’t privy to, and felt his anger switch from his mother and back to the woman now shrinking into his side.

‘You are mistaken,’ he clipped at the other man. ‘Please excuse us,’ he added coldly, then got them the hell out of there before anything else smashed into them.

Outside, the Quadrilatero was busy with window-shoppers. Marco’s car was parked in a side street not far away. Holding on to his temper until he got them there was a case of clamping his mouth shut and saying nothing.

Opening the passenger door, he helped her into the plush black leather seat, then squatted down to lock home her seat belt. She didn’t seem to notice. With yet another lash of anger, he grabbed her chin and made her look at him. Her eyes were almost black, her skin paste-white and her lovely mouth completely bloodless. She looked as fragile as a piece of fine Venetian glass, likely to shatter without careful handling.

But he didn’t feel like handling anything carefully.

In fact, he wanted to shatter her into little pieces so he could reach the real woman, because this one had become a complete stranger to him!

With a harsh sigh he released her chin, stood up and closed the car door. He got in beside her, then fired the engine. Jaw locked, teeth clenched, he set them moving, bullying his way into the nose-to-tail traffic clogging up Milan’s crazy one-way road system, then took an amount of pleasure in doing the same thing in his quest to forge them the most direct route home.

Car horns blared at him in protest. Headlights flashed. Abuse was thrown at him in colourful Italian. He didn’t care. He was so angry! Angry with Kranst and his little party piece. With his mother and her unforgivable behaviour! And he was angry with Antonia for allowing him to believe the painting he had in his apartment was of her!

And then there was the man in the gallery doorway, he added to his long list of grievances because, despite appearing otherwise, he’d recognised him. His name was Anton Gabrielli, a wealthy industrialist turned recluse, who had rarely been seen in public since his wife died several years ago.

And he might have called Antonia Anastasia, but the error had been irrelevant. He knew her! And, more to the point, Antonia had recognised him!

‘How do you know Anton Gabrielli?’ he demanded.

It was like talking to a puppet. ‘I’ve never met him before in my life,’ she answered woodenly.

‘Don’t lie to me!’ he rasped. ‘He may have got your name wrong, but you knew each other all right. The mutual horror was all too revealing.’

‘I said I’ve never met him before!’ she shouted. It was so out of character that he threw a sharp look at her. No puppet now, he noted. She was shaking so badly that it made the diamond at her throat shimmer. On a choked little gasp, she turned her face right away from him so he couldn’t read it. It was the act of someone caught in a lie.

Without another word, he turned his attention to getting through the traffic, while a new filthy suspicion began to tear into him. Anton Gabrielli was about the same age as Kranst. If she’d enjoyed Kranst as a lover then why not Gabrielli? After all, what did he actually know about Antonia’s life before Kranst?

Nothing, he realised. Absolutely nothing.

As the ugly green stuff began to replace his blood again, he finally managed to reach his goal and pulled them to a screeching stop in the basement car park of his apartment. He switched off the engine—then clamped a hard hand on Antonia’s thigh as she released her seat belt.

‘Stay,’ he gritted. It was a dire warning. She wasn’t going to make him kick his heels down here for a second time while she rode the lift alone.

The fingers fluttered, then went to rest on her lap, her body melting back into the seat. With a tight hiss of satisfaction he got out, swung round the car, opened her door then bent to help her alight.

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