Exotic Affairs: The Mistress Bride\The Spanish Husband\The Bellini Bride (42 page)

‘We can at least try to set the record straight.’

‘For what purpose?’ she asked. ‘To make
you
feel better? Your mother?
Me?
Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter who the model is; people will always look at me and see the same woman! I can’t change that. I
look
like her! In every way but name I could
be
her! Either
you have to learn to accept it or we have nothing left here to—’

Firm hands toppled her back down to him. ‘Shut up,’ he gritted. ‘I know what you were going to say, so just shut up!’

‘You started it,’ she sighed.

‘And I am finishing it!’ And he did, by launching into a second seduction.

It was all very fierce, intense and possessive, but sex didn’t solve everything. Okay, so in bed they were as compatible as any two human beings could be. But out of it?

Nothing could change. He wanted to fix what couldn’t be fixed. Which was why she hadn’t told him the full truth about Anton Gabrielli. She might love Marco, but some secrets you could only trust to someone who would love you enough not to care what you had to tell them.

And Marco didn’t love her that way.

This time her drift from satiation to sleep was allowed to happen uninterrupted. But Marco lay awake, frowning into the darkness until dawn eventually began to filter into the room, when, carefully untangling himself from Antonia, he slid out of the bed.

Two hours later he was in a helicopter heading for his parents’ Tuscany home, intent on an interview with his father. And Antonia was just awakening to find the place beside her empty—if you didn’t count the written note waiting on the pillow.

‘Don’t worry me,
cara
,’ it said. ‘Be here when I return.’

Don’t worry me
, she read again.
Be here…

Such emotive words, she thought sadly. But what did they tell her, except that he didn’t want her to go? They
didn’t solve anything. They didn’t put right what his mother had done to her self-esteem. She would have to be really brazen to go amongst his friends after last night’s public humiliation and boldly outface their new perception of her.

And she wasn’t that brazen. Though she didn’t think Marco would understand if she tried to explain it to him. He would probably think she was angling after another marriage proposal. When in actual fact the one he’d given her had been more than enough for her.

So was she going to ‘be here’ when he got back?

Her indecisive sigh told its own story. She just couldn’t make up her mind. To go was going to hurt. To stay was going to hurt. Her problem was deciding which one was going to hurt more.

Getting out of bed, she showered and dressed in a simple dusky-mauve skirt and a cerise top, then went to search out Carlotta to see if she knew where Marco had gone.

It was Saturday, after all, and she had rarely known him to work on Saturdays. He preferred to laze around and do as little as possible.

Carlotta was just placing a pot of coffee, a bowl of freshly sliced fruit and some toast down on the table for her when she arrived in the sunny breakfast room.

No, she didn’t know where Marco had gone.

The smell of the toast made Antonia realise that with last night’s drama she hadn’t eaten a scrap since late afternoon yesterday and she was hungry, which was a much simpler problem to solve.

Or was it that she didn’t really want to look for the answer to where Marco had gone? she wondered as she sat down. He’d threatened to go and see Anton Gabrielli. He also had to smooth things out with his
mother. Who else? she asked herself. Confront Stefan with what she had told him? Demand his money back for the
Mirror Woman
? The list could go on and on.

Any interview between Marco and Anton Gabrielli did not sit comfortably with her, although the man could only tell Marco more or less what she had already said, she attempted to reassure herself.

As for an interview with his mother—the outcome of that depended entirely on which one of them was the more committed to his or her offended senses. Either way, it did not promise to be a pleasant conversation. Nor did it sit comfortably with her that she was the cause of dissension between mother and son.

Then there was Stefan. Annoyingly unpredictable Stefan, who was likely to say anything if Marco pushed hard enough. And, since he knew just about everything about her, it was yet another confrontation she would prefer didn’t take place.

Which leaves you with what? she asked herself as she poured a second coffee. All of these people discussing you as if you didn’t have a voice of your own? When all it would take is for you to face the man and tell him everything, warts and all, then stand back and see what the full truth brings you back by return.

Maybe she would. Maybe she would wait around after all, do just that, and tell Marco everything.

Carlotta appeared. ‘A Signor Gabrielli is in the foyer,
signorina
,’ she informed her. ‘He is asking if you can spare him a few minutes of your time?’

Signor Gabrielli
. Her stomach turned over. The coffee suddenly lost flavour. He couldn’t know—could he? No, she told herself firmly. He couldn’t know. He was here to ask about Anastasia, probably. Wanting to find
out how his ex-mistress had faired in the twenty-five years since they’d last met!

Well, she was ready to tell him that, Antonia resolved, and came to her feet. ‘Let him come up and show him into the small sitting room, Carlotta, if you please.’

The sheer formality of her words set the housekeeper frowning. The way Antonia’s face had suddenly turned so cold caused a hesitation before Carlotta turned away without saying whatever had been on her mind.

Alone again, Antonia made herself sit down, made herself sip at the coffee and eat a piece of toast. And she made herself ready for a meeting that was coming twenty-five years too late.

H
E WAS
wearing a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. And Antonia’s first impression as she stepped into the room was—stiff. In the single grainy newspaper cutting she had of him he didn’t look stiff. He looked young and vital—very much as Marco looked.

But that had been taken twenty years ago. In twenty years maybe cynicism with life could change Marco into this man’s image. Though she hoped to goodness that it didn’t, she thought with a distinct shiver.

‘Good morning,
signor
,’ she greeted him in cool English. ‘
I
believe you wanted to see me?’

Gracious, polite, giving no hint that she knew anything at all about him. She was leaving it up to him to give away as much—or as little—as he knew about her.

He didn’t return the greeting. In fact he didn’t do anything but narrow his eyes and look her over like something in a specimen jar. Her nerve-ends began to tighten. He had a face cast from iron and a thin-lipped mouth that appeared to have forgotten how to smile. Already predisposed to dislike him, what she was feeling bouncing back from him gave her no reason to alter that view.

‘You are Anastasia’s daughter,’ he eventually announced, as if he’d needed that detailed scrutiny to make absolutely sure before he committed himself to the statement.

‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘Is it about my mother that you wish to see me?’

He shifted his stance. It wasn’t by much but it was enough for her to know that he was intensely uncomfortable at being here.
‘Si,’
he replied. ‘And—no,’ he added. ‘By your response, I have to assume that you know about me?’

‘Your affair with my mother? Yes.’ She saw no reason to hide it.

He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘It was perhaps unfortunate that we should meet as we did last night.’

Unfortunate? ‘I think I shocked you,’ she allowed. ‘And I’m sorry for doing that.’

His eyes contained a distinctly cynical glint at her apology. ‘Until I saw you I believed the Stefan Kranst paintings were your mother. But then,’ he said curtly, ‘I did not know that you existed.’

For the first time someone had made the correct assumption about Stefan’s model. It was ironic that he was now changing his mind to suit what everyone else believed.

‘We were extremely alike,’ she said. ‘Few people could tell the difference.’

‘Were—?’ he picked up sharply.

‘My mother died two years ago,’ she explained.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he murmured politely.

‘Thank you,’ she replied. This couldn’t become any more formal if they tried.

Shouldn’t she be feeling something? Antonia asked herself curiously. Shouldn’t she at least sense a genetic bond, even if it was only a small one? Realising she was still standing by the door, she began to walk forwards, gauging his tensing response as a man very much on his guard. What did he think she was going to do—physically attack him?

‘You even walk like her,’ he uttered.

Antonia just offered a brief smile. He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. She looked like her mother. She moved like her mother.

‘Would you care to sit down?’ she invited politely. ‘Can I offer you a drink—espresso or—?’

‘I am your father,’ he ground out brusquely, bringing her to a breathtaking stop. Then, with a slash of a hand, ‘There,’ he said. ‘It is now in the open between us. So we may stop this civility. What do you want?’

‘I b-beg your pardon?’ Antonia blinked in astonishment.

‘You heard me,’ he said. ‘I want to know your price.’

Antonia could not believe she was hearing this. ‘But you came to see me,’ she reminded him. ‘I didn’t—’

‘It is called pre-empting your intentions,’ he cut in. ‘I decided that it would only be a matter of time before you came after me. So here I am.’ He gave a shrug. ‘All I want to know is how much your silence is going to cost me.’

Her silence? Antonia stared at him in disbelief. He had come here to face her because he thought she was about to start blackmailing him? ‘But I don’t w-want—’

‘Your kind always want.’

Suddenly it hurt to breathe. His voice held contempt. His eyes held contempt. He hated the sight of her! He didn’t even know her yet he was judging her to be mercenary. And,
her kind
? A flashback came to her of Marco’s mother wearing the same expression, showing the same arrogant superiority that they thought gave them the right to treat her like this!

Glancing up, he caught her expression; his own turned graven. ‘Anastasia let me down,’ he ground out bitterly. ‘You should not be here. It is most unfortunate that we have to have this conversation at all.’

Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Sickness began to claw at her stomach. ‘You thought my mother would go back to England and rid herself of me simply because it was what you expected her to do?’

‘Anastasia demanded money,’ he explained. ‘I automatically assumed she meant to use it to—rectify the problem.’

The
problem
? ‘I was not my mother’s problem!’ she cried. ‘
You
were that! She needed money to survive!’ God, she felt so disgusted. ‘You walked away, closed the lease on her apartment, bank accounts,
everything
!’

‘It is the way these things work.’ He was callously unrepentant. ‘As you will find out yourself, no doubt, when your moment arrives.’

Was this how he had treated her mother on that final confrontation? Was this the reason why she never really recovered her self-esteem? How could she have loved this man? How could she have
not
seen through him?

‘You make me feel sick,’ she breathed.

‘Don’t take the high moral ground with me,
signorina
!’ he suddenly barked at her. ‘For here you are, living with a man who makes you the scornful talk of all Milan!’ His face was hard again, his accent cold and his opinion of her set in stone. ‘Think before you speak, whether you would prefer
me
to announce to the world that Marco Bellini’s mistress is Anton Gabrielli’s bastard daughter! And the Mirror Woman is actually her cheap slut of a mother!’

She slapped him—hard. For which part she wasn’t sure, but the hand flew out when he insulted her mother. Standing there facing each other, both emanated intense dislike, and she did not feel even a small hint of remorse
for that slap. His hand came up to cover his cheek and his eyes burned vows of revenge on her.

‘I heard what Isabella Bellini did to you last night,’ he said. ‘The whole gallery was buzzing with talk of the incident.’ And he smiled that thin smile again when she turned white. ‘Do you think you will still be here if this situation ever becomes public?’ he posed. ‘Do you think because you can lay claim to a father worth as much as the Bellinis they will turn a blind eye to what you actually are?’

‘How can you stand there and preach over me when your own sins are staring right at you?’ Antonia gasped. ‘And why come here at all, if you don’t care if I speak out? You have a wife. Don’t her feelings count for anything?’

‘My wife is dead,’ he said. ‘You cannot hurt her. But I can most certainly hurt your present position here in this place of luxury if you dare to make our connection public.’

‘But I don’t understand why you should think I’d want to!’ The whole thing had become so bewildering, she couldn’t follow his logic at all.

‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘I merely wanted to be sure that you understand your position here. For you don’t have one.’ He made the point plain. ‘I am no use to you as a lever towards marriage to Bellini. In fact I am most probably your biggest danger to that goal. But I am willing to accept you possess a certain right to lay embarrassment at my doorstep,’ he conceded. ‘And, bearing in mind that one day in the future Bellini is going to tire of you, I accept I owe you some—incentive to keep your silence about me when that time comes.’

‘I want you to leave,’ she announced, beginning to shake on the inside.

‘This is not your home to order me out of,’ he replied, and at last his thin lips did what she suspected they had been wanting to do since he arrived here and twisted into bitter dislike. ‘Just name your own figure…’

Staring at him, she realised he’d had the absolute gall to reach into his inside pocket and take out his chequebook! He was expecting to pay her off! Anger returned, and she was glad to feel it rise up inside her because it saved her from bursting into tears.

He was standing there with book and pen, waiting for her to say something. So she did. It was really too irresistible not to. ‘Everything you’re worth,’ she announced, then folded her arms and watched his face turn to plastic. Money, it seemed, was all-important to him. Oh—and his reputation, she added, since he really couldn’t cope with the idea of having a twenty-five-year-old mistake come back to haunt him!

Irritation flashed across his face. ‘I don’t think you understand—’

‘My own worth?’ she put in. ‘Or how much
you
are worth
signor
?’ She took delight in watching him stiffen. ‘Well, let me put that question straight before there is any more confusion here. You are worth precisely
nothing
to me—
capisce
?’ She even used Marco’s way of saying it. ‘So you may write on your cheque “I give my illegitimate daughter Antonia Carson exactly
nothing
!”‘ Her eyes flashed with disgust. ‘Now excuse me,’ she said, and turned and left the room.

If Marco had been there to watch her do it, he would have recognised the move as Antonia showing her contempt.

But Marco wasn’t here. And neither did she intend to be by the time he arrived home. If her own father could view her like that, what hope did she ever have
of gaining the respect of anyone while she continued to stay with Marco?

She had to go—and right now, she decided. Before Marco had any chance of convincing her otherwise! And the saddest thing was she knew he could do it. One word, one touch, and she was as weak as a kitten where it involved him.

Carlotta was hovering in the hallway. Her face looked concerned, which made Antonia wonder if the housekeeper had overheard what had been said in the sitting room.

But, ‘Will you see Signor Gabrielli out for me, please?’ was all Antonia said to her. Then walked past her and into the bedroom…

At about the same time that she was confronting her father, Marco was confronting his own across the desk in the family library. All around them stood the results of centuries of time-honoured collecting. The house itself was a national treasure. And out beyond the window spread a whole valley strung with the vines which made the wine the Bellini name was as famous for as its centuries-old corporate leadership.

‘I need your support,’ Marco was saying grimly. ‘I have no wish to feud with my own parents, but push me and I will.’ It was both a threat and a warning.

‘You are expecting me to dictate to your mother?’ the older man asked, then released a laugh of fond derision. ‘Sorry, Marco. But I am too sick and too wise to accept the task.’

But he wasn’t as sick as Marco had expected to find him. ‘You’re looking better,’ he remarked—perhaps belatedly.

‘Thank you for noticing.’ His father thought it belated
too. In height, in looks, in every way there could be, Marco was his father’s son. But a few months ago a virus had sucked the life out of Federico Bellini. By the time the doctors had managed to stabilise him he had halved his body weight, lost the use of one lung and damaged his heart, liver and kidneys.

‘New drugs,’ the older man dismissed with the same contempt with which he had always treated the medication which kept him living. ‘Who is this woman your mother sees as such a threat that she publicly offends her?’

Subject of his health over, Marco noted. It was his father’s way. It would be Marco’s way, given the same circumstances. ‘You know who she is,’ he sighed. ‘She’s been living with me for the last year.’

‘You mean you’re still with the same one?’ Federico pretended to be shocked, but Marco wasn’t taken in by it. Though he did allow himself a wry little smile of appreciation for the thrust. ‘No wonder your mother is in a panic.’

‘It isn’t her place to panic.’

‘Then I repeat,’ his father incised, ‘who is she?’ And the accent was most definitely on the
who
.

Dipping his hand into his inside pocket, it was not a chequebook that Marco retrieved, but a photograph, taken at his best friend’s wedding. He dropped it on the desk in front of his father. Federico picked it up, studied it.

‘Your good taste has never been in question,’ he drawled.

‘But—?’ Marco prompted.

‘I might have been out of circulation for the last year, but I have seen the painting,’ Federico said. ‘She has
an exquisite body and sad eyes.’ The photograph came back across the desk.

Odd, Marco noted, that when he could have challenged that comment with the truth he did nothing of the kind.

Because Antonia was right, he realised. Look at the naked mother and you see the naked daughter. So it didn’t really matter what people were told.

And anyway, there was a point of honour here he was determined to hold on to. He had a right to choose his own future, and Antonia had a right to be accepted for that choice. If his parents could not bring themselves to do that, then…

Then what? he asked himself.

‘Nice to own. Nice to sip,’ his father murmured. ‘But that’s about all, Marco…’

It was a refusal of support. Marco picked up the photograph and placed it back in his pocket. ‘Is that your final word?’

His father sent him a grim look as he stood up to leave. ‘Is she pregnant?’ he asked.

Now there was an interesting concept, Marco mused cynically. A Bellini child, born out of wedlock. A wry smile touched his mouth ‘No,’ he replied. ‘But I could easily make it so.’

Ah—now he was actually being taken seriously, he saw with grim satisfaction as his father’s expression sharpened dramatically. ‘Sit down,’ Federico commanded.

Marco complied, but only because it was what he had expected to be told when he’d stood up in the first place.

‘Now, explain to me why
this
woman, when you could have any woman you wanted?’