The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener

‘Accident?’ Ellie queried, startled. ‘I—I don’t think I understand.’

Assunta shook her head. ‘There was nearly a collision with another car overtaking when it should not have done so.’ She crossed herself. ‘The signore escaped without injury, may God be praised, through his own swift action. Otherwise he might have been killed.’ She paused. ‘Did he not tell you this?’

‘No,’ Ellie said slowly. ‘He—didn’t mention it.’

‘Perhaps he did not wish to cause you concern.’ Assunta’s warm, inquisitive gaze scanned Ellie’s slim figure, as if seeking for a reason for the Count to show such consideration to his young wife.

‘Yes,’ Ellie agreed quietly. ‘Perhaps.’

‘The Count wishes me to say that dinner will be served at eight o’clock this evening,’ Assunta continued. ‘After his ordeal, he will need an early night, senza dubbio.’

‘Sì,’ Ellie said after a pause. ‘No doubt he will.’

When Assunta had delivered her towels to the bathroom and left, Ellie wandered back to the chaise longue and sat down, staring into space.

He might have been killed …

An uncontrollable shiver ran through her. Yes, she’d have had the promised freedom but at what kind of terrible cost? Didn’t they say—Be careful what you wish for, because it could be granted?

She suddenly had an image of him standing in front of her, as he had been so short a time before. Could see the lean, long-legged body, his powerful shoulders undisguised by his elegant suit, the dark incisive face, the fathomless eyes and the swift, slanting smile as if they’d been etched on her brain.

Was aware of a tug of something which was almost like yearning, secret and unbidden, and which she had never experienced before. And could not afford to experience again.

A real marriage.

His words seemed to take on the impact of a siren song, with the power to beckon her to disaster, and she knew she could not allow that to happen.

He had married her from necessity not desire, and necessity was still driving him. It would be futile and dangerous to think otherwise.

At the same time, maybe she should re-think the bluntly negative response she’d been planning. Find some other way to tell him what he asked was impossible.

Silvia had said that she could not imagine her surrendering to Angelo on that bed. Well, she could not do so either. Could not, she told herself as her heart thundered against her ribcage. And would not.

Or not in the way he would undoubtedly have in mind.

Because she was simply a matter of expediency to him—as she always had been and always would be. And having his baby would be no different either. She would be little more than a surrogate mother. Stories in the papers suggested that women were well paid to use their bodies for such a purpose, but under strict terms and conditions.

She could formulate her own, she told herself. Rules to be strictly observed which would also safeguard her against harbouring any absurd fantasies about him, or about her role in his life.

And the price of her compliance would be her eventual escape from this meaningless existence that had been forced on her and the regaining of her freedom. That would be made totally clear.

For a moment, she quailed inwardly at the prospect of telling him, then rose, squaring her shoulders. After all, she thought, as long as he gets the heir he wants, why should he care? It may even be a relief.

She waited until it was almost eight o’clock before she ventured downstairs. To Donata’s obvious disapproval, she’d insisted on wearing her plainest dress, a simple crossover style in white silk, and left her hair loose.

She found Angelo standing by the open windows in the salotto, looking broodingly over the gardens, a glass of his usual whisky in his hand. He turned as she entered, his brows lifting. ‘Mia bella,’ he said softly. ‘You look like a bride again.’

Ellie was taken aback. She’d meant to indicate that she hadn’t taken any particular trouble with her appearance. That, for her, this was just—any evening. She said with constraint, ‘That was not my intention.’

He clicked his tongue, his smile glinting. ‘You disappoint me. Would you like a drink?’

‘Sì, grazie. Some fresh orange juice.’

‘You do not think the circumstances call for something stronger?’ He added ice to the tumbler and brought it to her.

She took the drink with a word of thanks. ‘I suppose you mean the circumstances of my learning from Assunta that you’d apparently escaped death by inches?’ She kept her voice cool and level.

‘Sì—among other things.’

The juice was sweet and refreshingly cold against her dry throat. ‘Is that why you suddenly decided you needed a child to carry on your name? Why you no longer wanted to wait for the day when you’d be rid of me at last and able to find a wife more to your taste?’

His tone was reflective. ‘It reminded me, certamente, how unexpected life can become—and how fragile. And that it is by no means certain that the future Contessa you describe even exists.’

‘But you’ll never know,’ she said. ‘Unless you try to find her.’

‘Ah,’ Angelo said softly. ‘But that could take forever, and I also realised how unwise it is to allow time to—waste.’ He paused. ‘Besides, my decision was not as sudden as you may think.’

She said huskily, ‘And if I say I still find it—unacceptable.’

‘Then I shall try to persuade you to change your mind. I have not forgotten, carissima, how sweet your lips once tasted.’ His gaze travelled slowly from her mouth down to the slender curves now hidden by the discreet vee of her neckline. ‘I believe, with your permission, that I could make you happy.’

‘A practical demonstration of your famed skill with women?’ Ellie lifted her chin. ‘I don’t think so.’

There was another silence, then he said, ‘I would not have described my intentions in those terms.’

‘Then we must agree to differ. In any case, it hardly matters.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The truth is you wish me to have your child. We do not have to be—lovers in the usual sense to achieve this.’

He said, frowning, ‘Perhaps I sustained some blow on the head this afternoon, for I find myself singularly stupid tonight. Have the goodness to explain what you mean, per favore.’

‘You told me earlier you wished me to—live with you—as your wife.’ She stared down at the melting ice in her glass.

‘But I—I wouldn’t find that acceptable. However, if you simply wanted to change the manner of your—visits to me at night in order to make me pregnant, I would agree to that. But only that.’

There was a further, more ominous silence, then Angelo said quietly and courteously, ‘I am still not sure I understand you. At least,’ he corrected himself, ‘I hope I do not. Are you saying, effettivamente, that you will allow me occasional access to your body solely for the purpose of procreation?’

‘Yes.’ She did not look at him.

He said hoarsely, ‘Santa Madonna, Elena, you surely cannot mean that.’

‘I do mean it,’ she said. ‘Those are my conditions for having your child, and ensuring the Manzini succession. They won’t change.’

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to stroke her cheek, and Ellie recoiled, her heart skipping a beat as she retreated a step. He must believe, she thought, that he would only have to touch her.

Angelo halted, the dark brows snapping together as he studied her. He said at last, ‘So am I never to hope that we will spend our nights sharing a bed together—sleeping in each other’s arms after we have made love?’

She bit down on her lip. ‘Why not hope instead, signore, that I waste none of the time you mentioned, and give you a son very quickly.’ She paused. ‘And I’m quite sure your nights won’t be lonely without me, so you could be getting the best of both worlds.’

‘How curious you should think so.’ He drank the remainder of his whisky with an angry jerk of the arm, then walked to the door, holding it open for her with exaggerated politeness. ‘And now, my dear wife, shall we have dinner? After which, I shall, of course, avail myself of your unparalleled generosity. Or do I perhaps need your consent in writing first? No? Then—avanti!’