It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge

‘There is no need, I assure you. He is content to settle for what he has.’

‘Then there’s nothing more to be said.’ Emily got to her feet. ‘And I’d be better employed checking on dinner.’

‘One duty at least that you can perform without reservations, carissima,’ he said blandly and picked up his book.

In the kitchen she attempted to relieve her feelings by slamming the oven door and clanging saucepans together, but her sense of mingled anger and bewilderment persisted unabated.

I can’t bear what’s happening to me, she thought swallowing. I have to get away from him. But how?

Even without the snow, she couldn’t think of a place to go where he wouldn’t be able to trace her and follow. Financially her options were limited too. Until her twenty-first birthday, she had no direct control over her affairs and she was beginning to realise how deeply this could matter.

Up to now, admittedly, Rafaele had kept a light hand on the reins, as well as strictly maintaining his distance, so she’d been able to stifle her resentment at the arbitrary way his dual role in her life had been imposed, in the sure knowledge that it would soon be over.

Now, in the space of twenty-four hours, there were suddenly no more certainties and her countdown to freedom had turned into a test of her endurance that she dared not fail.

Demanding the annulment had been a supreme mistake. What on earth had made her think she could challenge him like that and get away with it?

I was angry, she thought. It was as simple as that. And maybe I simply wanted to make him angry too.

But why? That was the question that she could not answer.

Had she allowed the stories in the gossip columns to get to her at last? Was this some kind of—personal backlash because she found herself being air-brushed out of his life in this arbitrary way? An impulsive but misjudged bid to remind him that she still existed?

Yet why should she even care—when she herself was supposed to be in love with Simon?

None of it made any sense, she thought unhappily.

Yes, she’d been stupid to attract his attention so blatantly, when she could just have accepted his terms and faded quietly out of the picture, which was, after all, what she’d always expected would happen.

Even so, she’d never dreamed her attempt to needle him would have such dire consequences. At most, she’d expected an icy rebuke. Never this kind of retribution.

But then, what had she ever really known about Rafaele Di Salis, except that her father had trusted him, even though the younger man had owed him some mysterious debt?

And, apart from the stories in the scandal sheets, and in spite of the enforced intimacies of the previous night, Emily thought, biting her lip, he was still pretty much of an enigma to her.

For instance, all she knew about his family background was that his parents were both dead, and that was information that she’d gleaned solely from her father, who’d warned her that it was not something that Rafaele cared to speak about. He’d also suggested that she shouldn’t ask questions, but wait until her husband chose to discuss the subject with her.

Only he never had.

But when we’ve been together before, we’ve barely had conversations, thought Emily, let alone discussions. Talking is a sharing thing, and I must have known even then that it was dangerous to share. That I needed to keep him at arm’s length.

I wish I’d also realised how unwise it might be to make him angry.

For a moment it was as if her eyes blurred suddenly and she ran an impatient hand across them. She couldn’t afford any sign of weakness. She’d tried rejection and she’d tried pleading with him, all to no avail. Now, all that was left to her was survival.

I will get through this, she told herself, and I’ll walk away when it’s over without a backward glance. I have to.

The living room was empty when she went in to set the table but, just as she’d finished arranging the cutlery, Raf appeared from the cellar with a handful of candles and a selection of pottery holders.

‘Oh.’ Emily hesitated as he put two of them on the table and lit them. ‘Isn’t that a little extreme? After all, this is hardly formal dining.’

‘You saw the lights flickering, si?’ There was faint impatience in his tone.

‘Well—yes.’ So it hadn’t been her eyes, after all.

‘I think we may lose the power,’ he went on. ‘And I thought it would be safer to make other arrangements now rather than later.’ He paused. ‘I would rather not test the cellar steps in the dark.’

‘No,’ she said with constraint. ‘Of course not.’

His brows lifted. ‘You don’t like candlelight?’

She shrugged evasively. ‘I’d prefer it not to be a necessity.’

His glance was faintly mocking. ‘You favour romance over practicality, cara? How very sweet. I am encouraged.’

‘Actually,’ she said, ‘given the choice, I’d like you to fall down the cellar steps and break your neck, signore.’ And heard his low laugh follow her back to the kitchen.

As a meal, it turned out better than she could have hoped. What the chicken lacked in flavour, it made up in succulence, and the vegetables were perfectly cooked. And Emily discovered, to her great surprise, that she was ravenous.

‘There isn’t a great deal left for tomorrow,’ she said ruefully, eyeing the carcass.

He shrugged. ‘The bones will make soup. So do not worry, Emilia, and drink some more wine.’ He refilled her glass. ‘Believe me, I will not allow you to starve.’

There was a silence, then she said slowly, ‘Will you tell me something?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Ask me and I will decide.’

It didn’t sound particularly hopeful, but she ploughed on.

‘My father told me you’d offered to marry me because you owed him—big time.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m just curious to know my—market value.’

There was a silence. Then, at last, ‘The debt is immeasurable,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘But it was the only repayment he ever asked of me, so I could not refuse. Does that content you?’

‘How can it?’ Her voice sounded stifled. ‘When it would have been so much easier on both of us if you’d simply—found the money from somewhere.’

His faint smile twisted. ‘And even easier to be wise in retrospect, cara.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Now I will make some coffee.’

Once the clearing away was done, in actual hours and minutes it seemed a long while until bedtime, but Emily found the time passing with disquieting speed as she turned the pages of the thriller she was trying to read with only the sketchiest idea of what was taking place in print.

She could not concentrate. In spite of herself, her eyes kept straying to the neat wooden clock in the centre of the mantelpiece, watching the inexorable movement of its hands. The countdown to the inevitable moment when she would have to submit to him all over again in that big bed upstairs, she thought, her throat tightening.

Seated opposite her, Raf appeared to have no such concerns. He seemed totally absorbed in his own book as he lounged in the corner of the sofa, reaching every now and then for his wineglass.

And how dared he be so relaxed, when she was like a cat on hot bricks?

And the worst of it was that she really wanted to go to bed. She was being assailed by wave after wave of drowsiness, which she had to conceal at all costs, she thought resentfully, putting her hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle yet another yawn.

‘Why don’t you stop struggling, carissima, and admit you are tired?’