HELEN BROOKS - Husband By Contract

In a few weeks, less even, the harsh shock of his mother’s death would begin to fade and the mercurial resilience of all children would come into play. This was the important time, the crucial time that might shape his personality for good or ill; she could spare him a few weeks of her life, surely? But could she stand being so close to Donato? She took a deep breath and smiled at the little face watching her so closely. She had no choice, as Donato had known all along.

‘I have a home in England now, Lorenzo, but I am going to stay with you until you are feeling better and don’t need me any more. Is that all right?’ she asked softly, knowing she had done the only thing possible when the small face relaxed and the look of panic and dumb confusion left the big dark eyes.

‘Sì.’ He nodded slowly before suddenly running to her, flinging his arms round her middle and hugging her tight, only to leave the room in a mad scamper, head downwards, to hide his tears of relief.

‘So...’ Donato stood with her, looking after the small figure as it disappeared. ‘This is not what you envisaged.’

‘No, no, it isn’t.’ His cool, controlled voice grated on her nerve-endings like barbed wire and she raised shadowed eyes to his. He had known what he was doing when he had sent that telegram, she thought bitterly, known her love and respect for his mother would force her to make the journey to Italy in spite of their failed marriage, and that once here she wouldn’t turn her back on Lorenzo’s plight.

He hadn’t bothered about her for months, had continued quite happily with his life here and all it held—an image of Maria’s lithe, sleek figure flashed into her mind and she dismissed it abruptly—and then when he needed to use her, and ‘use’ was the right word, she told herself with acid resentment, had had no compunction about turning her life upside down for a second time.

She saw that the dark gaze had seen into her mind and now Donato shrugged slowly, his voice low. ‘I cannot help the love he has for you, Grace; it has always been so.’

And you? You once loved me too, she thought with a pain that shocked her. Before it all went wrong, before the death of our child drove me nearly insane and you into the arms of another woman.

Oh, she shouldn’t have come. She turned from him, tears pricking at the back of her eyes with burning ferocity. She should have forgotten Liliana, Lorenzo, all of them, should have stayed in England where the nights were cool and the days humdrum and nothing disturbed her peace of mind.

‘Grace, I know this is hard for you—’

‘Don’t touch me!’ As he reached out to her she sprang back with a suddenness that surprised them both, her voice shrill and defensive. ‘Don’t you dare touch me, Donato. I’ve said I’ll stay for a few weeks until Lorenzo is feeling better but that doesn’t give you the right to maul me about.’

‘Maul you?’ He was utterly outraged, his big, muscular body taut and rigid and his handsome face black with fury. ‘I have never mauled a woman in my life,’ he said grimly.

‘Of course not,’ she agreed with icy sarcasm. ‘They just fall at your feet all by themselves.’ Like Maria. She didn’t want to feel such anger; she’d thought she had come through the fire of desolation and betrayal and had finally put it behind her, but since the first moment she had seen him again her vulnerability where this man was concerned had hit her as strongly as ever and it frightened her—frightened her more than she could say. ‘It amazes you, does it, that any woman could resist your fatal charm?’ It was a cheap jibe but she couldn’t help it; any defence was better than none.

His eyes continued to hold hers for one more long moment and then she saw him take a deep pull of air as he shook his head slowly. ‘You used to conduct yourself with refinement and charm,’ he said tightly. ‘What has happened to you that you have become so uncivilised?’

She heard the words as though in a vacuum, the sheer audacity of them failing to register for a few seconds, but when they did her hand shot out to connect with the hard, tanned skin of his face in a resounding slap that actually echoed in the room. ‘You can ask me that?’ she hissed furiously, her hand drawing back to strike again, but this time his fingers shot out to entrap her wrist in a steel hold that was bruising.

‘Yes, I can ask you that,’ he rasped, his eyes dangerous and the imprint of her hand beginning to stain the brown skin red. ‘I have every right to ask you to explain yourself; I am your husband.’

‘Not any more—’

‘The courts would disagree with you,’ he said harshly. ‘You are my wife, Grace, legally and before God. There has been no divorce; the marriage contract still stands.’

‘Not in my eyes.’ She was panting hard, her slim fairness overshadowed by his dark maleness as he held her fast. ‘You might be my husband by contract but that is all, and without love our marriage certificate becomes just a piece of paper.’

‘That is a very convenient line of thought but one that is totally without foundation,’ he said icily, ‘as you well know. Legally—’

‘I don’t care about “legally”, Donato,’ she ground out slowly, punctuating each word with a significant pause. ‘Do you understand that? I don’t care—about our marriage, you, all of this.’

‘No?’ Now he drew her closer, his hold on her intimidating rather than restraining. ‘But I think this is not altogether the truth, mia piccola,’ he said with a dangerous softness, ‘and I also think you are trying to convince yourself rather than me.’

‘Let go of me!’ He had both her wrists in his hand now, holding them against the hard-muscled wall of his chest as he fitted her against him, his other hand in the small of her back. She had always been tiny against the hard male breadth and height of him and she knew it was useless to struggle; nevertheless that was exactly what she did do as his dark head lowered to take her lips.

He growled softly, the sound impatient as she postponed the inevitable, and then his mouth covered hers, plundering the sweetness within as he urged her even closer against the hard frame of his body. She fought—for long seconds she fought, even more so when the realisation that his familiar touch and smell were evoking feelings she could well have done without dawned on her consciousness, but eventually she became still, knowing that she couldn’t win. She would never win against Donato.

When she had left the Vittoria mansion twelve months ago the same knowledge had had her pale-faced and shaking as Liliana had clung to her, the older woman’s normally proud and composed face awash with tears as she had begged her daughter-in-law to wait before asking Donato for the divorce Grace had said was inevitable.

‘Why? Why now, Grace?’ Liliana had wept, holding the younger woman close to her as they had waited for the taxi Grace had ordered. ‘He loves you—I know this, I know it. Please, for my sake, do not be hasty. Give yourself some time apart but do not be hasty.’

But as much as she loved Liliana Grace couldn’t tell her what she had learnt only that morning—of Donato’s affair with Maria; she had felt too raw, too humiliated at the time. Later she had regretted it, knowing that Donato would have covered his tracks well and that his mother would have been forced to think that she had ended the marriage on a whim, but by then she had made a new life in England and had believed there was always the chance, some time in the future, to put the record straight with Liliana. But ‘some time’ had never come.

She remembered Liliana’s last words to her before the taxi had taken her away. ‘This is all a mistake, my dear, and one day you will see it. You have suffered, I know how you have suffered, but Paolo was part of both of you; let your grieving pull you closer together. I shall say to Donato you want time to heal; that is all.’