Kate Walker - The Proud Wife

‘You are my wife …’ Pietro’s shadowed eyes met hers head-on, no trace of doubt or hesitation in his confident stare, though the heavy lids did droop down, hiding their expression behind long, thick lashes.

‘Soon to be ex,’ Marina reminded him, not allowing herself to be intimidated by his merciless scrutiny.

Oh, he hadn’t liked that. It was obvious from the sudden flare of something dangerous in the depths of his eyes. But he was no longer dealing with the amazed and overwhelmed girl he had married, the one who had been too naïve to see him for what he really was. She’d done a lot of growing up in the past couple of years.

‘You are my wife,’ he repeated. ‘And as such you will be given what is due to you.’

Well, that was a double-edged comment if ever there was one. But which way was she supposed to take it? Marina wondered. As a promise of fair play or a threat of retribution?

‘But first there are a couple of conditions.’

KATE WALKERwas born in Nottinghamshire, but as she grew up in Yorkshire she has always felt that her roots are there. She met her husband at university, and originally worked as a children’s librarian, but after the birth of her son she returned to her old childhood love of writing. When she’s not working, she divides her time between her family, their three cats, and her interests of embroidery, antiques, film and theatre, and, of course, reading.

You can visit Kate at www.kate-walker.com:

THE PROUD WIFE

KATE WALKER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THE letter lay exactly where he had left it last night, right in the centre of his desk. The single sheet of paper was aligned carefully square in the centre of the piece of polished oak, straight in front of his chair where it could not possibly be missed. All it needed was his signature and it would be folded neatly, placed in the already-addressed envelope and sent on its way.

After that there would be no turning back.

But until he made the final move, added the swift, determined scrawl of his signature—the work of just a couple of seconds—nothing at all would happen. It would just lie there, untouched, until he was ready.

Of course it would, Pietro told himself, his mouth twisting wryly at the corners. He hadn’t spent almost half his lifetime building up the sort of retinue of employees that any man would envy not to have things that way: staff who would not only obey his every command but anticipate it perfectly, knowing exactly what he wanted and when. They would remain poised, waiting, until he gave the word to act. Then—and only then—would they carry out his instructions to the peak of perfection. It was something he had come to expect so much that he no longer even noticed it, only coming up against the system that created it when something went wrong—which happened so rarely that he couldn’t actually recall the last time it had ever ruffled the controlled surface of his world.

He would never allow it to happen: lack of control, wildness of emotion, brought confusion and chaos with it. Confusion and chaos of the sort that he never, ever wanted to experience again.

‘Dannazione!’

The curse was torn from him, the flat of his hand slamming down on the polished surface of his desk so that the letter lifted slightly in the air current it created, fluttered, shifted and landed back down again an inch or two to the left before lying still again.

He had known the sort of chaos that could be created by lack of control. Once, just once, he had been fool enough to let that sort of wildness invade his life and take with it the organisation and rule of rational thought he valued so deeply. He had loosened his grip on the reins and lost control. And he had hated the results.

Just once had been enough.

Just once—never again—and it had all been because of this woman.

His dark, brooding look fixed on the letter-heading once again and his fingers clenched, itching to grab the sheet of paper and crush it in his grip, giving in to the heavy pounding of dark anger through the blood in his veins.

Dear Ms Emerson …

That wasn’t her true name, of course, but he’d be damned if he’d let his secretary put ‘Dear Principessa D’Inzeo’, or worse, ‘Dear Marina’. Never mind the fact that she was entitled to both names, or that they would stick in his throat if he tried to say them. He hated the thought that his family name was attached to a woman who had given up on their marriage after less than a year and walked out without so much as a backward glance.

Just the thought of her name triggered a rush of images of the voluptuous, red-headed spitfire he’d met when her car had dealt his a glancing blow on an icy London street. The impact of her curvaceous body, green, slightly slanting cat-like eyes and that glorious mane of hair had been immediate. He’d lingered over exchanging insurance details until she had agreed to have a drink with him to finalise things. The drink had turned into dinner and she had never moved out of his life again.

Until after they were married.

Their short-lived marriage had been a total, wretched failure, an ugly spot on his conscience for too long. The searing heat of their hunger for each other had had to burn itself out, but he had never expected it to crash and burn quite so badly—or that the new life he had thought he was going to welcome into the world would in fact be the death of everything he had imagined would be in his future.

It was also appallingly messy, some unfinished business that needed sorting out with everything signed, sealed and made official. Which was the point of the letter.

Pietro paused, raking both hands through his black hair as his blue eyes stared down at the neatly typed letter on the desk surface so intently that the words blurred, becoming totally indistinct. This was what he wanted: freedom from the woman who had turned his life upside down but had never loved him. The chance to slam the door closed on a bitter part of his past, to turn his back on it and walk firmly away, heading out into the future. So what the hell was he doing hesitating, considering … even debating? Why didn’t he just sign and send the letter on its way?

He didn’t even give himself time to consider the thought. He wanted this over. Done. Finished with, once and for all.

Reaching out, he snatched up the silver pen that had been lying beside the paper ready for this moment and clicked it open with a firm, decisive movement. This ended now; he was taking his freedom back.

It was the work of just a few seconds to scrawl his signature at the bottom of the page, underlining it with a fierce, hard slash that almost ripped through the page.

It was done—and not before time.

Then in an abrupt change of mood he picked up the letter and folded it carefully, matching the corners with cool precision before sliding it into the envelope that his PA had prepared. The ordinary post wouldn’t do.

‘Maria!’ He lifted his voice so that it carried into the other room, the clear tones strong with conviction. ‘Arrange to have this couriered to the address on the envelope, please. I want to make sure it gets there as quickly as possible.’

He wanted to make sure it was put right into Marina’s hands so that there was no mistake. He would know that she had received it and that he could finally start to move forward with his life.

His soon-to-be ex-wife would have the freedom to get on with hers too—something he was sure that she wanted every bit as much as he did.

The letter lay exactly where she had left it last night, right in the centre of the kitchen table. The single sheet of paper was aligned carefully square, in the centre of the scarred and worn pine, straight in front of her chair where it could not possibly be missed.