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

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СКАЧАТЬ wedding dresses. That, she thought, was carrying pretence too far, and wished she had the nerve to say so.

      In fact clothing had become an issue altogether. Her wardrobe might be basic, she thought defensively, but it was perfectly adequate—a view that her godmother clearly did not share. The large guardaroba in her room was beginning to fill up with skirts, pants and tops in linen and silk, and a growing selection of evening wear in clear jewel colours and floating fabrics. And each outfit seemed to have its own shoes and bag in softest leather.

      As if, she thought, scowling, it was not the done thing for Count Manzini to see her wearing the same thing twice.

      She had tried to protest more than once that she was not a clothes horse, but the Principessa had waved these contentions away, smiling. It was her pleasure to see her dear Elena looking so lovely—and so happy too, she added brightly as Ellie’s jaw dropped.

      But there was no visit from Silvia. At first Ellie had thought that her cousin was quite understandably steering clear of her, only to be told by the Principessa that Ernesto, presumably in his role as good and caring husband, had taken Silvia for a little vacation on Corfu where his family had a house.

      The days at the palazzo became weeks, and as they approached a month Ellie wondered how much longer the negotiations between Galantana and Credito Europa could possibly drag on, and when the deal would finally be done.

      Because until that happened, she couldn’t calculate how soon she’d be able to escape from this gilded cage, no matter how luxurious and loving it might be, and begin to reclaim her own life again.

      More than anything, as the city heat increased, she missed the Casa Bianca and the breezes that blew from the sea, but her suggestion that she should spend some of her weekends there had been kindly but firmly declined. While her supposed engagement endured, it seemed she was going nowhere.

      Surely it can’t last much longer, she told herself each night with increasing desperation as she lay in bed staring up at the painted ceiling where gods and goddesses cavorted with unfeeling cheerfulness at some woodland banquet.

      Worst of all, she’d noticed that one of the gods—probably

      Mars—was black haired and dark eyed, his lean muscular body hardly concealed by the lion-skin thrown across one shoulder, and bearing a disturbing resemblance to Angelo Manzini. Or was that simply her over-active imagination?

      Whatever, it wasn’t an image she wished to find invading her bedroom all over again, but found to her acute annoyance that it still lingered in her mind, even when she turned over and buried her face in the pillow. Rendering her still more tongue-tied when she encountered the Count in the flesh, as it were, although he was always elegantly covered in some designer suit or other.

      Another potent suggestion that the quicker she got out of there and back to sanity, the better it would be for her.

      And each night she breathed the silent prayer. ‘Oh please—please—let it be soon.’

      Angelo stepped out into the heat of the Roman morning, as the automatic glass doors of the Credito Europa Bank whispered shut behind him. His face was calm as he walked to his car, taking his seat in the back with a murmured acknowledgement to the driver holding the door open for him, but this outward appearance was deceptive.

      Because, underneath, he was blazingly, wickedly angry.

      ‘Does Your Excellency wish to return to the office?’ Mario asked with faint bewilderment as the silence lengthened.

      Angelo pulled his thoughts away from the meeting he’d just attended, and met the chauffeur’s enquiring gaze in the driving mirror. He said curtly, ‘No, take me to my apartment.’

      If Mario found this a strange request in the middle of a working day, it was not his place to argue. He dropped his employer at the main entrance, was told he would not be required again, then watched with a puzzled frown as Angelo strode inside.

      The apartment was cool and silent, Salvatore as usual doing his marketing at that time of day. Which was good because Angelo wanted to be alone.

      He walked into the salotto, impatiently stripping off his jacket and tie, and tossing them over a chair. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, tore open the neck of his shirt, then poured himself a large Scotch, swallowed it, and poured another, even larger. He’d come home with the intention of getting blind, roaring drunk and wasting no time about it.

      The news—no, the ultimatum—that he’d just received at the bank called for nothing less.

      He could still hardly believe it. He thought he’d dealt with the trap that had been set for him at Largossa. Believed that simply going through the motions of courting the girl who’d been used in the snare—this Elena, Silvia’s cousin and so much unlike his former mistress that she might have come from a different planet—would be enough to get him what he wanted, and he could then walk away. And that she would be equally grateful to see the back of him.

      Dio mio, he thought. He’d almost felt sorry for her, recognising the reluctance of her co-operation. But no longer.

      He walked to the sofa, flinging himself back against the cushions, taking another mouthful of Scotch, eyes narrowed, mouth compressed as he stared into space.

      Now, too late, he recalled someone telling him when he was younger that Cesare Damiano had been nicknamed the Crocodile in banking circles.

      Today the Prince had more than lived up to his name.

      ‘My wife cares deeply for her god-daughter, Count, and is naturally concerned for the immense harm to her reputation if there were—consequences resulting from your liaison with her.’

      He had sat on the other side of his polished desk, hands together, fingertips forming a kind of steeple, his expression grave as he studied the younger man. ‘I am sure you understand me.’

      And I, thought Angelo bitterly, fool that I am, I never saw it coming. Never understood that another trap had been set and was waiting for me. And while, if I’d used an atom of commonsense, I might have avoided the first, there is nothing I can do about the second.

      Holy Madonna, I couldn’t tell him there’d be no consequences as I’d simply been tricked into the wrong bed, or I’d have found myself lying on the pavement outside, thrown there by his security staff. And the consequences of that would be truly horrendous.

      Therefore if I want his money, I have to bite on the bullet by accepting the eternally damned terms he spelled out to me with such care, and somehow persuade the little Signorina Milk and Water to become my wife. With the assurance that, once the knot is tied, the finance will become immediately available.

      He punched the arm of the sofa with his clenched fist.

      Dear God, what a prospect, he thought despairingly. To have to marry a girl who looks at me as if she’d come across a snake sleeping in the sunshine. Who shrinks from my lightest touch and answers me in monosyllables from surely the coldest mouth in Rome.

      But I know quite well it’s not the Prince pulling the strings. That I have his charming wife, plus my own grandmother, and, of course, Zia Dorotea to thank for this current horror. All they needed was the opportunity I was stupid enough to give them, and my fate was sealed.

      I must have been insane to think that an engagement would be enough to СКАЧАТЬ