Sharon Kendrik - Cruel Angel

That did it. She saw his muscles tense and a pulse at his temple begin an ominous throbbing.

‘And who is the lucky man?’ he ground out. ‘Do you always greet him like— this ?’ His hand moved disdainfully as he gestured at the skimpy garment which covered her body. ‘Is it the dear David—the man who writes these plays which no one can understand?’

‘His plays are wonderful !’ she defended shrilly, and she saw his mocking smile and knew that she had fallen into some kind of trap. She leaned forward angrily. ‘And how did you know that I was seeing David? I suppose you’ve had all your nasty little spies out, haven’t you? I forget that you have a whole network of information gatherers to do your dirty work for you.’

He returned her angry look with one of infuriating calmness, which did not fool her for a minute. ‘From what I have seen of him, he does not look man enough to share your bed,’ he goaded.

Knowing that she had a weapon which would wound his pride more than anything—she used it. ‘He’s man enough,’ she retaliated.

For a moment she thought she had gone too far. She honestly thought that he was going to hit her—Stefano, who had never hit a person in his life before. She felt like shrinking away from the clenched fists at his side, their knuckles white with the restraint he was obviously exercising. She must have been mad to suggest to him that David was her lover, when he was due to arrive at any minute, and knowing Stefano’s fiercely possessive pride. She couldn’t repress a small shudder as she imagined an angry confrontation. And then, surprisingly, she saw his stance relax, and he walked straight past her to stroll into the sitting-room. She followed him in frustration.

When he turned round, all traces of his anger had disappeared, to be replaced with an expression of disdain. He stared incredulously at the small room, at the shabby furniture, the clean but well-worn curtains. ‘You live like this ?’ he said scornfully. ‘Is this what you broke up our marriage for—to live like this ! Like a—pauper?’

‘I like this flat,’ she defended. ‘And at least it’s mine. Paid for by me.’

‘It is not a suitable place for my wife to live,’ he said flatly.

Her temper was on the verge of eruption. ‘How many times do I have to tell you before you get it into your stubborn head? I am your wife in name only—and not for very much longer, thank God!’

‘We will see how much of a wife you are.’ He smiled infuriatingly.

That sounded ominously like a threat, she thought, but even if it was he no longer had a hold on her. ‘We could stand here scrapping all night, Stefano, but it won’t change anything,’ she told him with a studiedly cool assurance she was far from feeling. ‘Why don’t we just accept the fact of our incompatibility, and put it down to experience?’

‘Experience?’ he echoed softly. ‘Is that what life is all about to you, Cressida, mmmm? A series of experiences to be lived through? To be discarded when it falls short of perfection? Is that why you ran away? In search of pastures new? Different and better—’ his voice was harsh ‘‘‘—experiences’’?’

Her anger and her indignation were swallowed up by an inexorable sorrow. She had carefully and deliberately closed off that section of her life, had refused to dwell on the heartache he had inflicted on her when he had told her to go. And now it was as if he had ripped open her carefully healed wound, left her heart exposed and helpless.

She swallowed convulsively. ‘We both know why I left.’ She forced a quiet dignity into her voice. ‘And I don’t intend discussing it now. Just tell me one thing. Why have you come here?’ She felt in urgent need of a good, strong drink, but she didn’t dare get herself one. Stefano, a man never in need of any artificial stimuli, might interpret that as yet another weakness in her resolve, and hadn’t she already betrayed enough weakness before him today to last a lifetime? ‘Why have you come back?’ she repeated.

He smiled enigmatically. ‘There are a number of reasons.’

She felt as though she were playing a game of poker. ‘Such as?’

‘Perhaps I have revised my opinion of the arts—’

‘Don’t give me that!’ she interrupted hotly. ‘Why change the habits of a lifetime?’

‘Or perhaps,’ he continued, unperturbed, ‘I see the play as a good investment.’

She let out a pent-up sigh. Of course! As easy as that. Profit. She should have guessed. He had riches to rival Croesus, but still it wasn’t enough. In business, as in life, Stefano had a killer instinct. Life to him was just a series of deals to be made, possessions to acquire, then lock away. She’d been one herself, hadn’t she? And thank God she’d got out in time. She looked at him with scorn. ‘You’re backing the play even though you’ve openly admitted you don’t like it!’ she accused.

‘It is not to my taste.’ He shrugged. ‘But perhaps audiences are not quite so discerning.’

She found herself in the strange position of acting as David’s champion. If only Stefano knew of the fundamental innocence of their relationship! ‘The audiences are going to lap it up—because it comes from the heart. David believes integrity to be more important than profit,’ she said coldly. ‘Although it’s a word I doubt whether you’d find in your vocabulary.’

He made a small sound of disgust underneath his breath. ‘Integrity does not buy bread.’

Cressida suddenly felt very tired. This conversation was going precisely nowhere. When Stefano was in this kind of mood there was no arguing with him, and besides, David would be here at any moment, and the last thing she wanted was a confrontation. ‘Will you please go now?’

In direct opposition to her request, he seated himself in one of the over-stuffed armchairs.

‘Don’t bother making yourself comfortable,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t know why you’re here, Stefano—all I do know is that I want to be left in peace to get on with my life. And I want you out of here. Is that clear?’

He ignored her question. ‘And the company—do they know of their leading lady’s relationship with their new backer? ‘‘Angel’’, I think you say.’

Fear dried her mouth. ‘Of course they don’t. No one knows . . . ’

‘No one knows we are married.’ His voice was distorted with anger. ‘Of that I am only too aware. Cressida wishes to be single again and dunque !’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Her wish shall be granted. This is a society where the vows of matrimony can be shrugged aside as casually as if they were of no consequence.’

‘That isn’t true!’ she flared. ‘There are reasons why I’m divorcing you—perfectly legitimate ones. And what is more I don’t want anyone— anyone —knowing of my past relationship with you.’

The dark eyes glinted. ‘Oh? And why is that?’

Her temper erupted. ‘Oh, don’t pretend to be so naïve, Stefano! My position would be intolerable! If any of them knew I’d been your wife, I’d be viewed with suspicion. I’d no longer be treated as an equal, would I?’

His mouth twisted. ‘And yet you do not mind it being known that you are dating the playwright?’

‘That’s different, and you know it!’ she exploded. ‘You’re backing it—you’re providing the money. And money is power—as you are perfectly well aware.’

He had got to his feet in a single, light movement, the grace of which only emphasised the powerful strength of his tall frame. He stood studying her through hooded eyes which told her nothing. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will agree to keep our liaison quiet—on the condition that you have dinner with me tonight.’