Page 31 of The Italian's Marriage Bargain

‘Is that what all this is about?’ He swung around, his eyes blazing. ‘Are you demanding we change the rules all of a sudden? Do you want me to say I love you, Felice? Do you want me to tell you that this is for ever?’ Each word was like a knife plunging into her heart; each word lacerated her with its emptiness.

She shook her head, her hands flying to her ears. Oh, she wanted him to love her, wanted him to tell her, but not like this, never like this—some enforced declaration, a platitude to keep her quiet, a crumb to sustain her.

‘Have I ever for one moment treated you with anything other than respect? Have I ever for even a second given you reason to doubt me?’ He didn’t give her time to answer, his fury gaining momentum with each and every elaborate gesture. ‘I told you the day we met that Anna and I were finished, and you looked me in the eye and said you believed me…’

‘It was easy to believe you then.’ She had found her voice, shaky as it was. ‘I didn’t have to see her then, pawing you, making innuendoes. The red light is on, Luca. You said yourself that meant you were not to be disturbed! But it would seem those rules don’t apply to Anna. Why, even Ricardo—’

‘So you are listening to Ricardo now? Listening to someputtana’shusband? A man who would rather let people think I had slept with his wife than rejected her!’ The shock on her face wasn’t missed, and Luca gave a haughty nod. ‘That is right. These are the people you choose to listen to over your husband.’

‘You’re talking as if our marriage is real!’ As he let out a furious hiss she retreated somewhat, shaking her head and turning to go—to where, she wasn’t sure, but she had no desire to continue this explosive argument, no wish to upturn stones and expose the horrible lies that bound them. But Luca had other ideas. Pulling her back, he swung her around none too gently, forcing her attention, stabbing her with his eyes.

‘Don’t you walk out on me! Come and finish what you started, Felice.’

Her eyes darted nervously; she could feel the sweat trickling between her breasts as he moved closer, his face menacing. ‘I’m just pointing out that you’re talking as if we’re a real husband and wife, as if…’ She was swallowing hard now. She’d been pushing for this confrontation but now that it was here she didn’t want it—didn’t want to hear the mirth in his voice, the pity when he realised she loved him, that this wasn’t nor had ever been a game to her, a solution to a problem.

That it was the real thing.

‘As if what?’ His voice was like a whip cracking, every word so well articulated, so measured the Italian accent almost melted away.

‘As if we love each other,’ Felicity whispered. ‘As if it’s imperative that I believe you; as if you care what I think of you.’

‘And just what doyouthink, Felice?’ His voice was deathly quiet, but it didn’t mask the danger behind it. ‘What goes on in that pretty head of yours? I’ve tried asking nicely, tried treading carefully, but it’s got me nowhere. Well, I’m through being nice. I’m through treading gently. If you’ve got something to say, then now would be a good time.’

‘I want you to talk to the solicitor, Luca! I want you to deliver on your promise and sort out the title at the resort, and I want you to stop sabotaging any attempt I make to study.’

Letting her go, he picked up his glass, then with a howl of anger hurled it at the wall before carefully selecting another glass from the silver tray and pouring a large whisky. ‘Have you finished?’ Turning, he let his eyes blaze a trail across the room, his words biting her with their savagery. ‘Is that all you want from me, Felice? Is that it?’

‘Not quite.’

His knuckles were white around the glass, his face deathly pale and menacing as she calmly walked towards him, every calm, measured word she spoke exacerbating the tension in the room.

‘There is another thing I want from you, Luca.’ She was in front of him now, her stance confrontational, utterly refusing to be intimidated by this insufferable man, refusing to let him even glimpse the agony in her soul. ‘I want some respect. If you can’t keep your lover quiet then at least keep her at a respectable distance.’

If Felicity had possessed such a thing no doubt she would have dressed for bed buttoned up to the neck in some Victorian cotton nightdress. Certainly, from the bristling indignation emanating from Luca, had he possessed a pair of pyjamas they’d have been on also.

Instead they had to settle for opposite sides of the bed, with Felicity practically hanging onto the mattress-edge in an effort not to touch him, concentrating on keeping her breathing even as he blew out the candles and flicked off the light, utterly determined to be the first to fall asleep.

She lost by a mile.

However much Felicity wanted to believe he was pretending, somewhere between his turning off the light and his head hitting the pillow Luca fell into the deepest of sleeps, each gentle snore rippling through her, catapulting her into a fury. She wanted to dig him in the ribs, kick him, even, demand how the hell he could go and fall asleep when there were so many questions to be answered, so much unsaid.

His hand sliding across the bed, sleepily snaking around her hips, was like being branded with a red-hot poker. She didn’t want him to touch her, didn’t want to lose herself in his touch. The row that had blown in needed to be faced head-on, not made up in bed. He pulled her towards him, even in sleep the attraction they generated so palpable, the sexual awareness so real it was impossible to deny it. He tucked his body into hers, pulling his knees up behind her, and she lay frozen, unyielding, wondering how to explain to this impossible, difficult man what she didn’t even understand herself. That her body ached for him, that even as she lay there as still as stone he moved her, that every fibre of her being screamed for him—for all of him, not this half-life they had engineered, not this shell of a marriage without commitment.

His tumid warmth was nudging her thigh now; she could feel him responding to her. One lazy hand was almost distractedly circling her stomach, then with a low grumble he pulled her closer, snaking his fingers up and cupping her breast in his hot, dry hand.

It hurt.

Wriggling slightly, she heard his low moan of protest, but the horrible nagging question that had been plaguing her was back, and no matter how she tried to ignore it, no matter how she tried to suppress it, it was here with force now, demanding she face it, stop ignoring things and deal with the problem.

‘Felice?’ His low sleepy moan caused her to pause momentarily as she crept out of the bed, missing the safety of his caress already.

‘I’m just going to the bathroom,’ she whispered. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Let’s not fight.’ He didn’t even open his eyes, and she stood and stared at him in the darkness for a moment, wishing it was all that simple, wishing it was all so easy.

Wishing his beauty didn’t touch her so.

‘Come back to bed, Felice. Don’t keep pushing me away.’ His hand flicked out from the sheets, warm and strong, his grip possessive, pulling her towards him. His eyes had opened, and even in the darkness she could see the desire burning there.

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