Exotic Affairs: The Mistress Bride\The Spanish Husband\The Bellini Bride (38 page)

But he paused to watch her walk towards him with his eyes narrowed in male appreciation. ‘
Perfezione
,’ he murmured, as she leant down to press a morning kiss to his ready lips.

‘
Grazie
,’ she returned in mocking relief. ‘For this is about as prim as I get.’

The sun caught the strawberry highlights threading through her neatly pleated hair, and played sultry games with the amber colour of her conservatively styled silk blouse. On her feet she wore classically plain court shoes and a simple string of pearls she had owned for ever and didn’t warrant locking away in Marco’s safe circled her slender throat. Her make-up was so natural there was barely any sign of it and her smile said everything was right in her world.

‘Where’s Carlotta?’ she asked as she sat down next to him.

‘Called in sick,’ Marco explained. ‘I found her message waiting with our answering service, along with a hundred and one others…’

Antonia’s hand froze momentarily on its way to pick up the coffee pot. Stefan, she remembered. Stefan had said he’d been leaving messages for her all last week. A small silence began to vibrate with the hum of expectancy while she waited for what Marco was going to say next.

But he said absolutely nothing, and when she dared a glance at him, he was behind his newspaper again. He wasn’t going to mention Stefan’s calls, she realised. And she was damned if she was going to mention them and put at risk all this wonderful harmony they had managed to recapture.

So, ‘Did Carlotta say what was wrong?’ she enquired instead.

The newspaper twitched, long brown fingers flexed slightly, as if he was aware that she was aware of Stefan’s calls and those fingers were reacting to the fact that she too was going to pretend they had never happened.

‘Summer flu,’ he replied. ‘She does not wish to pass it on, so she expects to be away for the rest of the week.’

‘Poor Carlotta. I must send her a get-well card,’ she murmured, and finished pouring her coffee before transferring her attention to her bowl of fruit. ‘Did you prepare this?’ she asked.

‘Mmm.’ It was not quite the sexy
Mmm
of before. Was he angry? Was he annoyed that she wasn’t going to ask about Stefan’s calls?

‘Molti grazie, mi amante,’
she returned, determinedly keeping her tone light. ‘This unusual act of servility is most definitely your biggest surprise to date.’

The husky dark tones of a very male laughter flipped her heart over, then it flipped again with relief when he folded the paper away and she was able to see the humour also reflected on his beautiful face.

He wasn’t brooding about Stefan. He wasn’t going to let this newly attained harmony spoil because of a few silly messages. ‘Eat your fruit. Drink your coffee,’ he advised indulgently. ‘We have approximately ten minutes before we have to leave.’

‘Leave?’ She frowned. ‘Why? Where are we going?’

‘
I’m
going to Venice,’ he replied as he got to his feet. ‘And you,
mi bellisima
, are coming with me.’

With that, he dropped a casual kiss onto the top of her head and began to stroll arrogantly for the doorway.

But this time no warm smile followed him. No feeling of delight that he was planning to take her along on one of his business trips for the first time since she’d entered his life.

So much for protecting harmony, she mused grimly as she felt it all wither away. ‘When did you decide this?’ she fed quietly after him. ‘Before or after you played back the messages?’

He stopped walking and turned, an almost saturnine figure with his features suddenly cast in bronze. ‘Before,’ he replied, earning himself a flash of scepticism. ‘It was learning that Carlotta would not be around to play chaperon that clinched your fate for you,’ he answered that scepticism. ‘For no woman plays Marco Bellini false while he is safely ensconced elsewhere,
capisce
?’

Oh, she understood all right. He didn’t trust her to be alone in Milan with Stefan in the same city. ‘So the surprise you promised was never intended as a pleasant surprise,’ she concluded, and smiled cynically. ‘How typical of you to give with one hand and take back with the other.’

‘On the contrary,’ he argued. ‘The trip to Venice could be a pleasure for both of us. It really depends on whether you want to make it so.’

‘Or not, if I decide to stay here instead,’ Antonia pointed out.

The threat had him walking back to her. When he reached her side, he bent to place one hand on the back of her chair, the other flat on the table. The way he loomed over her hinted at menace. Placing her fork in the bowl of fruit, Antonia refused to let her fingers shake as she placed them down on her lap, then sat back in the chair to face his hard gaze squarely.

‘You prefer to stay here?’

His eyes held hers, and were loaded with challenge. Answer
yes
and she would be lying, not to mention confirming his suspicions about her motives. Answer
no
and she would be feeding his ego with something she had no wish to feed him now.

She went for the compromise. ‘Stefan is my
friend
. Why can’t you accept that?’

His eyes didn’t waver, not for a second. ‘Do you prefer to stay?’ he repeated.

Hers did, though; they flickered away on a frown of irritation. ‘Of course I would rather be with you,’ she sighed. ‘But not under duress, and
not
because you feel it’s your only option!’

‘I could throw you out. That’s another option.’

‘I could walk!’ she lashed back. ‘That’s an even better one!’

‘Are you coming?’ The wretched man wasn’t fazed in the slightest.

‘Yes!’ she snapped, and dislodged his hand by pushing back her chair and shooting to her feet with a jolt of anger.

He just sent her a mocking look. ‘Then eat your fruit and drink your coffee,’ he suggested, and with a wave of a hand walked away again. ‘Come and get me from my study when you’re ready to leave.’

‘I’ll need longer than ten minutes to clear up here before we go,’ she threw impatiently after him.

‘For you,
mi amante
, I will delay our flight!’

Magnanimous in victory, he left her standing there not sure whether to smile or scowl. The smile won, twitching impulsively at the corners of her mouth as she sat down to finish her fruit. Twenty minutes later she was annoyed again because he hadn’t told her until just
before they were leaving that they were going to stay over in Venice, so she hadn’t bothered to pack a bag.

‘Shop for what you need when we get there,’ said the man to whom money had a different meaning.

‘For want of a further five minutes it seems terribly extravagant,’ she complained.

‘Time is money to me,
cara
,’ he pointed out.

‘Then I’m sorry for costing you money while you waited,’ she said primly. ‘What a problem I am to you.’

Sarcasm or not, he slashed a grin at her. ‘My biggest problem is going to be keeping my mind on business when I know you’re within easy reach of me,’ he murmured lazily.

‘Then I hope you spend your meetings in a state of permanent distraction.’

‘While you do what?’

‘Spend your money as fast as I can produce the credit cards,’ she answered.

He laughed, and kissed her until the lift arrived. After that it didn’t really matter any more that he was only doing this to keep her and Stefan apart. The harmony was back, and she was happy to bask in it. Happy to bask beneath the amount of care and attention he paid her throughout their short flight to Venice and the ensuing journey along the canals until they came to their hotel.

Heads turned, people stared. She basked in that also. For being with a man like Marco Bellini was a bit like walking alongside royalty: paths were smoothed, people deferred. He was rich, he was known, he was handsome and single. Women envied her place in his life. Men envied all his many advantages.

Having safely delivered her to their hotel, he left her to her own devices while he went off to keep his appointments.

She shopped till she’d dropped, and spent the rest of her time trailing around some of the tourist sites amongst the thick summer crowds and the heat that melted.

By the time she arrived back in their suite she was so exhausted it was all she could do to run a bath and sink into it. On the bed lay the smart designer bags to go with her new smart designer purchases. On the floor lay the scatter of her discarded clothes.

Letting himself in a few minutes later, Marco smiled at the evidence of her occupation. Antonia was untidy by nature, though she would make the effort to try not to be because she thought it must irritate him. Being brought up to strict rules set by a succession of nannies meant that regimental neatness had become second nature to him.

But it didn’t irritate him. In truth, he liked to walk into a room and see instant proof of her presence. The bathroom door stood ajar, and from behind it he could hear the lazy slap of water which told him what she was doing now.

It was the easiest thing in the world to strip off his clothes and go in there to join her. Up to her neck in bubbles, she smiled as he approached, lifted her knees to allow him room to sit down opposite her, then, on a contented sigh fed her feet up his chest as he stretched his long legs on either side of her.

‘Long day?’ he enquired.

‘Spent your money. Played tourist. Got too hot. Killed my feet. Came back here to die peacefully. And you?’ she returned the enquiry.

‘Made a few lira, invested a few lira.’ His accompanying shrug said it was par for the course. ‘Threw
my impressive weight around a bit. Came back here to make love to this woman I know.’

Her eyes began to gleam. ‘Is she any good?’

So did his. ‘
Molti bellisima
,’ he softly confided, and picked up one of her feet to begin an expert massage to its slender sole. She liked that. Closing her eyes, she simply lay back and let him indulge her.

In fact Marco indulged her in many ways during the next few days. They dined in quiet out-of-the-way places where the tourists didn’t go, walked hand in hand through narrow streets like dark caverns, and made love for most of the night. When he had to leave her to attend his meetings he made it brief, and secondary to what was really going on here in Venice.

Which was the steadily strengthening realisation that she was becoming more and more important to his happiness than he had ever allowed himself to believe before.

By the time they caught the flight home to Milan, on Friday afternoon, he knew he was almost ready to make the ultimate commitment. Only—

He wanted to see what Kranst had planned before he laid himself open. Antonia hadn’t mentioned Kranst.
He
hadn’t mentioned him. But had she been in touch with him? Did she know what Kranst was up to? Did she know that Marco was worrying about it?

Did she care?

He needed to know the answers before he made any kind of commitment because, damn it, he had his pride to protect here!

It was a hesitation that was going to cost him, though Marco couldn’t have any way of knowing it then.

They arrived back at the apartment late on Friday afternoon, to find Carlotta back at her post and smiling
her usual welcome. She thanked them for the postcards Antonia must have sent her, then went on to relay a series of messages, most of them business, but some from his mother wanting him to call her as soon as he got in.

‘My father?’ he questioned sharply.

But Carlotta shook her head. ‘I asked,’ she said. ‘Your
mamma
assured me he was pleasingly well.’

So he nodded, and decided to leave any calls home until after this evening was over.

That was another mistake.

There were also several calls for Antonia from Stefan Kranst which, from their content, told him that Antonia had held faith and not attempted to contact Kranst while they’d been away. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and kiss her for that, but good sense warned him not to make an issue of it—just as she was sensibly asking no questions about that other taboo subject, his parents.

Franco rang as they were sharing a pot of coffee while relaxing for an hour in front of the TV before they needed to start getting ready to go out. Marco felt fine, very at peace with himself and the beautiful creature curled up beside him. He and Franco chatted as best friends do. He was thanked for the painting they’d given the de Maggios as an anniversary present, and for the thought which had gone into it, and tried to pass the whole thing off as if he knew exactly what Franco meant. But he didn’t, and his gaze was sardonic when he remembered how easily he had let Antonia off without answering that little bone of contention between them. Then he suggested dinner somewhere after the Kranst showing.

It was at that moment that the tension began to creep in. Antonia sat up and away from him. Studying her
profile, he heard Franco telling him that he and Nicola were not going tonight because they were spending the weekend up at Lake Como with her parents. Franco suggested Wednesday instead. Marco agreed, then hurriedly rang off.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked instantly.

‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘I think I’ll go and get my shower now—’

But he wasn’t so easily fooled. ‘Kranst can only hurt you if you let him,’ he said quietly.

‘It isn’t me Stefan hurts, Marco,’ she replied, smiled a sad smile and walked away.

She was referring to him, of course, and it was a strange experience to acknowledge that she was right. Kranst did have the power to hurt him. He hurt Marco’s pride and his ego, because the artist had a part of Antonia he had never been able to touch. What part that was exactly he had not been able to work out, but it had something to do with the way she refused to accept any hint of criticism where Kranst was concerned, whereas Marco she could find fault with very easily.

T
HE
Romano Gallery claimed prestige position in the famous Quadrilatero. It was double-fronted in plate glass, with black steel framework, and Rosetta Romano’s name made its point with eye-level modesty in black lettering on the door.

Class wasn’t in it. Only people of substance dared place their fingers on that door.
A
black-suited lackey did it for Marco and Antonia, pulling it inwards with panache and a crisp, ‘
Buon giorno
, Signor Bellini—
signorina
.’

The interior was an artistic exhibit in its own right—white walls, white floor and a white stairway leading up to the main gallery rooms. Its only decoration was a single black spot, strategically placed on one wall to offer perspective.

Marco’s hand at the base of her spine kept her moving towards the stairway. They took it together, climbing towards the two black-clothed waiters stationed at the top, holding trays loaded with glasses of champagne. Neither took a glass. To swallow right now would be an impossibility, with the tension rising steadily since they’d left the sitting room back at the apartment.

She had thought of ringing Stefan and insisting he explain about the painting so she could then decide whether to come or not. But two things had stopped her. One had something to do with a complicated thing called loyalty. To speak to Stefan just now seemed to
be putting her loyalty to Marco into question. And the second was because she knew Marco would insist on coming here tonight no matter what she wanted to do. It was a male pride thing. Stefan had thrown him a challenge and Marco would rather slit his own throat than decline it.

But that didn’t mean she hadn’t spent time on her own, going over every painting from her days living with Stefan, looking for the one he had not shown in public before. As far as she could recall there wasn’t one—which worried her all the more, because he had to have something up his sleeve or he wouldn’t have thrown down that teasing gauntlet to Marco in the first place.

Dressed from neck to toe in black, at least she blended in with the status quo tonight, she then observed, as her gaze flicked around a semi-packed ante-room that fed into the main viewing rooms. Her hair was up, caught in a twist of black velvet, and her only adornment was a gold chain necklace with a single tear-drop diamond that Marco had placed around her throat just before they left the apartment. The diamond nestled against the black of her dress and sparkled as she moved.

‘Stunning,’ Marco had called her. ‘Too lovely to resist. Too perfect to touch.’

But she still didn’t deserve his surname, she mused, with a mockery that was a long way from humorous.

‘Ah,
buona sera
!’ Rosetta Romano came to greet them with all the extravagance of an Italian hostess. ‘Marco,
mi amore…
’ Both elegant hands touched his face, then were replaced with kisses to both cheeks. ‘Do you realise it must be over a year since you visited me here?’

It was a scold issued in the nicest possible way. While Marco said all the right things in reply Antonia studied Rosetta Romano, who had been a legend in her time for choosing husbands by the size of their wallets. Now that her beauty was fading she preferred to be known for her artistic eye. All the big names had exhibited here. Two years ago Stefan would not have stood a chance. Now—?

Rosetta turned her attention to Antonia. Her eyes sharpened, then narrowed searchingly. ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I see it. Stefan assured me I would.
Buona sera
, Signorina Carson,’ she greeted with a slightly wry smile. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you at last.’

Kisses on both cheeks were compulsory in Milan. The whisper Rosetta placed in her ear was most definitely not. ‘Stefan is such a wicked man. I do hope you are prepared for this.’

No, she wasn’t, and keeping that from showing on her face took a lot of self-control. But she wasn’t able to stop the small anxious shiver from chasing down her spine. Marco felt it, and his hand moved on her waist to draw her closer to his side.

‘What did she say to you?’ he questioned when Rosetta floated away to greet her next arriving guests.

Antonia didn’t even try to dress it up. ‘She wanted to know if I was ready for whatever is coming,’ she told him.

‘And are you?’ he asked curtly.

She flashed him a look. ‘The point is, are you?’ she coolly countered. ‘Since you seem to believe that anything to do with me and Stefan is deliberately engineered to reflect badly on you.’

She was right and he knew it. A muscle flexed in his jaw. Then he was forced to offer an amiable smile to
some friends who immediately accosted them. After that it was other friends. Progress towards their main objective became a laboriously slow affair. With his hand never leaving contact with her, Marco conversed lightly with acquaintances while Antonia stood beside him, eyes constantly looking around the steadily thickening crowd in search of Stefan. But still he hadn’t put in an appearance.

What was he up to? Why was he piling on the tension like this?

People began filtering off into the adjoining rooms. With the smoothness of a man in no kind of hurry, Marco manoeuvred them into doing the same.

Antonia held her breath, Marco’s hand pressed her just the bit closer to his side as they stepped through to the main gallery. Together they paused, together they took stock of what was presented—and together they began to frown.

For there was nothing on these walls that could warrant the challenge with which Stefan had lured them here—if you didn’t count the evidence that Stefan had seemingly found himself a new subject to occupy his genius.

She was tall, she was dark, she was exquisitely different, and her rich African beauty could not have been further removed from what had gone before her. The long slender line of her body laid bare a sensuality that curled around the senses, the silken quality of her skin set fingers twitching with a need to reach out and touch. But, as usual, with Stefan, it was her eyes that drew you.

No hint of mirrors or ghosts anywhere, but a luxurious darkness that seemed to hold all the secrets of the universe.

Understanding came, trailing gentle fingertips over her emotions in the heart-rippling realisation that here, in these frames, was Stefan’s salvation.

He had set himself free.

‘Are you all right?’ Marco asked gruffly.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. But he knew that she wasn’t. He could feel her fighting a battle with tears as they walked from frame to frame. ‘She’s incredible, don’t you think?’

‘Bellisima,’
Marco quietly agreed. And he knew he should be pleased by what he was seeing, but in truth he wanted to wring Kranst’s selfish neck for choosing this way to tell her he had finally found someone else who drew this depth of emotion from him.

‘I presume by your response that you knew nothing about her?’

‘Not a thing,’ she replied, having to swallow the tears again.

‘Maybe you should ask him,’ he suggested, and drew her attention to where Stefan Kranst was standing, not far away, watching her responses with an intensity that made Marco’s blood boil.

Her head twisted round, her breath caught for a second, then her slender waist was sliding away from his hand. Without another word to him, she crossed the room towards a man who had always held too much power over her for Marco’s peace of mind. Grimly he watched her pause a step away, watched her head tilt to one side as it tended to do when she asked a question. He saw Stefan Kranst’s handsome face break into a rakish grin, and wanted to hit the self-obsessed bastard!

‘Who is she?’ was the question Antonia had put to Stefan.

‘My saviour,’ Stefan had grinned.

‘Her name?’ she demanded.

‘Tanya,’ he provided.

‘Tanya…’ Antonia repeated, and let her gaze drift to the nearest painting, where Tanya’s smile held the rich knowledge of all men’s needs. ‘It suits her,’ she murmured, then on a burst of soft laughter she went into his arms. ‘Oh, I’m so happy for you!’ she cried.

Across the room, Marco turned away from that embrace to continue to view the painting in front of him as if he had no problem at all with his woman falling into her ex-lover’s arms once again. Someone sidled up beside him.

Of course it had to be Louisa. ‘I do admire your confidence in those two, Marco,’ she drawled lightly. ‘Now, if, for argument’s sake,
he
belonged to me, I would be over there scratching
her
eyes out by now.’

‘But he doesn’t belong to you—he belongs to her,’ he said, indicating the beautiful black woman whose naked form exuded sexual contentment from every gifted brushstroke. ‘And Antonia,’ he then added very softly, ‘belongs to me.’

With that he walked away, in no mood to play tit-for-tat word games tonight. He wanted his woman back, and he wanted her now!

‘When do I meet her? Where is she?’ Antonia was demanding of Stefan.

‘Back in London, hiding away from you,’ he drawled lazily. ‘Just in case I was wrong about you, and you are secretly in love with me.’

Catching her soft burst of laughter as he approached, Marco also heard Antonia’s amused reply. ‘Of course you told her that I will always love you?’

‘Hello, Marco,’ Stefan greeted, a trifle drily. ‘Come to claim Antonia?’

The man could read minds.

‘We have to be leaving soon,’ Marco answered smoothly. ‘Another engagement, I’m afraid,’ he invented with bland ease.

The moment he began speaking Antonia moved to his side and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. She was making a point here, Marco recognised. And it should feel good.

So why did he feel as if she was taking second best by coming to him like this?

Irritation flicked to life. What the hell was he talking about? He scorned his own crazy imagination. He had never played second best to anyone in his life!

‘Dare I ask the expert for an opinion?’ Kranst reclaimed his attention. His expression was slightly wry, slightly challenging Marco to do his worst.

But Marco found he no longer wanted to play tit-for-tat games with Kranst, either. He just wanted to get Antonia somewhere private so he could make her forget Stefan Kranst’s name!

So, ‘You must know you’ve done it again,’ he said easily. ‘Have you sold the reproduction rights yet?’

‘Still negotiating.’ Stefan smiled. Then, ‘Thank you, Marco,’ he added seriously. ‘Your opinion means a lot to me.’

And to your reputation, Marco added silently. Though anyone with eyes should be able to see that the man was about to make his second killing here.

Glancing down, he found Antonia was smiling up at him as if he had just bestowed the greatest accolade he possibly could. It made him want to shake her for still caring so much about Kranst’s precious ego when it was clear the man didn’t give a damn about hers!

‘It’s time we were leaving,’ he told her, wishing they
hadn’t bothered to come here at all. The man was a menace—to him and to Antonia!

‘Before you do that,’ Stefan Kranst inserted, looking at Antonia, ‘I have something for you, my darling, if you remember…’

Beside him, Marco felt her stiffen. ‘You mean this isn’t surprise enough?’ she laughed, in a voice strapped by strain.

‘No.’ The artist’s smile was rueful. ‘Special gifts come in solid form.’

Marco frowned at the answer, because it wasn’t true. Not where Antonia was concerned. It was a lesson he had learned himself only last week via the red Lotus. Then he remembered Kranst’s remark about the
Mirror Woman
, felt his own tension rise up to meet Antonia’s, and realised that she had remembered a whole lot sooner than he had done.

‘I have it waiting in Rosetta’s office,’ Stefan Kranst said smoothly, and turned away to stride purposefully towards Rosetta Romano’s private office.

It really left them with no choice but to follow. ‘This had better be worth the build-up,’ Marco muttered, unable to stop himself.

‘I hope not,’ Antonia mumbled in reply, which just about said it all for both of them.

Rosetta Romano’s office was a large white space of modern stylism. The only thing, therefore, that stood out in the room, was the giant black easel holding a large frame covered by a piece of fine black muslin.

The moment she saw it Antonia released a gasp of recognition, ‘Stefan… no!’ she shot out.

But Stefan was not willing to listen. He was already standing beside the easel and, with an agonising smoothness he trailed away the fine sheet covering.

Total silence arrived in starbursts of pain-bright recognition. Antonia began to tremble. Marco simply left her standing there and moved on legs suddenly in danger of collapsing to stand right in front of the painting.

It could have been a copy of the
Mirror Woman
. Certainly it was the same balcony, the same morning half-light touching that same sensual hint of gold to her silk-smooth skin. And it was certainly Antonia standing there naked, looking back over her shoulder in much the same way as the Mirror Woman did.

But it wasn’t the same painting. For this was no mirror reflection, there was no emptiness in her beautiful eyes. Instead they were filled with the truth.

Antonia was held paralysed by exposure, static eyes fixed on Marco’s hardening profile, static heart threatening to burst in her breast. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t. She wanted to say something in her defence, but she couldn’t do that because the evidence was so terribly damning.

Stefan came to stand beside her. His hand took hold of her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. But she didn’t feel comforted. Standing here watching the man she loved grimly coming to terms with the knowledge that she had been deceiving him filled her with the kind of dread that made every nerve-end she possessed scream in agony.

‘I can’t believe you’ve done this without my approval,’ she managed to breathe out frailly.

‘If I had asked, you wouldn’t have given it,’ Stefan gently replied.

‘But
why
have you done it?’ It seemed such a betrayal from the one person in this world she trusted completely.

‘It was time he knew,’ he said simply. ‘You’ve let it
go on too long. You must know that by now, my darling.’