Page 153 of Exotic Affairs: The Mistress Bride\The Spanish Husband\The Bellini Bride

Stepping inside, the first thing he saw was the large brown cord-wrapped package leaning against the wall—Antonia’s portrait he’d had delivered from the Romano Gallery. The next thing was Carlotta. She was standing there wringing her hands. Ice cold struck right through to his heart.

‘Antonia?’ he rasped. ‘Where is she?’

The housekeeper’s eyes were filled with dismay. ‘She’s gone, signor,’ she whispered. ‘She’s gone…’

CHAPTER TEN

HIS legs took him down the hall, into the bedroom and straight to the built-in cupboard. The suitcase had gone. Through the eyes of a man who was still not prepared to take in what was happening to him, he turned to scan the rest of the room.

What had once pleased his eye, with its uninterrupted use of space, now looked cold and spartan, as if someone had come along and wiped it clean of its heartbeat.

So the few small items carefully placed on the smooth bed caught his attention. Walking over to them, he just stood staring down at the set of keys to this apartment, the tear-drop diamond necklace, the stack of credit cards and the mobile telephone.

His skin suddenly felt as if it didn’t fit his body any more. Was that all she felt she was worth to him? Even the bed was playing its part here. He began to feel sick. If she’d tossed down a set of scarlet underwear she could not have made her feelings more clear.

The phone gave a beep. He looked at it, saw there was a message written on it in text. Picking it up he stared at the words she had left for him. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all that it said.

In English too. He sometimes forgot she spoke English her Italian was so good. But, maybe in this case I’m sorry said it better for her than mi despiace did.

It didn’t for him, because sorry wasn’t enough! He wanted to know more. He wanted to know why! Could she not have held faith with him for just one more day?

‘When did she leave?’ He was aware of Carlotta standing in the doorway, watching him with anxious eyes. She obviously had something to tell him or she wouldn’t be there invading his private moment like this.

‘Just after the signor left,’ the housekeeper answered.

Signor. Marcos swung round. ‘Signor Kranst?’ he demanded.

But Carlotta shook her head. ‘A Signor Gabrielli,’ she informed him. ‘I think they argued,’ she added, looking uncomfortable for saying so. ‘The signorina had me see him out. It is when he gave me the cheque to give to Signorina Antonia.’ Her eyes flickered, then dropped to the waste-paper basket standing by the dressing table. ‘She was very upset,’ she added, as Marco’s gaze followed hers to the basket.

A bell sounded then, saying that someone was in the foyer wanting to come up. ‘I don’t want to see anyone,’ Marco grimly instructed.

With a nod, Carlotta left, leaving him alone to walk over to the waste-paper basket.

About the same time that Stefan was using tough talk on Carlotta to gain his way into the apartment, Antonia’s flight was being called at last.

It was now two hours late and her nerves were completely frazzled. Gathering her things together, she stood up, then paused to take in a careful breath. This was it, she told herself. She could leave now. No more arguing with herself. No more agonising over what she really wanted to do. It had to be better to go while she still had the strength to do it, rather than wait until she was thrown out then spend five years pining for his return, as her mother had—wasn’t it?

So move, Antonia, she told her feet. Follow the general exodus towards the gate as if you’re just another tourist on her way back home.

‘No luggage slip, signorina?’

She looked down at the cabin-weight suitcase which suddenly seemed a pathetic judgement on her year in Milan. When she’d packed it, in London, she had meant to send for her other things once she was settled with Marco. But he had done away with the need by buying her new things. Anything else of value to her would be coming back to London with Stefan.

She shook her head at the attendant who was checking her boarding pass. ‘This is all I have,’ she said. And a heart full of tears, she added silently.

Marco was leaning against the open window, which led out onto the terrace, when Stefan Kranst had the arrogance to stride into the room.

‘I want words with you,’ he insisted grimly. ‘I don’t know what happened last night after you left Romano’s with Antonia. But—’

‘Anton Gabrielli happened,’ Marco inserted, without bothering to turn.

The name met with silence. Not the blank, who-are-you-talking-about kind of silence. But the dear-God-in-heaven kind, that throbbed with grim recognition.

‘What did he want?’ Stefan asked him.

‘I see you know the man,’ Marco drily responded.

‘What did he want?’ Stefan repeated harshly.

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