Cruel Angel

She liked it, loved the way he said it. It had an imperious ring to it. Her green eyes widened as she replied, almost shyly—and this in itself was strange, for she was never shy as a rule. ‘And I’m Cressida,’ she said. ‘Cressida Carter.’

‘I know.’ His voice was soft. ‘You see, I know everything about you.’

Cressida closed her eyes as she stood beneath the piercingly cold jets of the shower, remembering how flattered she had been by his research. It seemed that he had gone to a great deal of trouble to find out about her. Somehow, he had tracked down where she lived, and with whom, and where she studied—and what. He had even discovered that her parents had followed the dictates of the late sixties, and had ‘dropped out’—living in splendid if somewhat basic isolation on the Balearic Island of Ibiza. She remembered running her fingers wonderingly through the thick, springy hair, and asking him how he had learnt so much about her in such a short time, but he had shrugged nonchalantly, and kissed away her questions, telling her that things like that were of no consequence to her.

What he had meant, of course, she thought grimly as she massaged more shampoo into her scalp to attempt to remove the stubborn lacquer, what he had meant was that she shouldn’t bother her pretty little head about things which didn’t concern her. For wasn’t that one of the maxims by which the di Camilla family lived—that women should just sit quietly and beautifully in the background, providing comfort and satisfaction for their men?

Cressida shook her wet hair as she stepped out of the shower and began to rub herself dry, her pale skin glowing with the friction of the rough towel. She pulled on a short cream satin dressing-gown and sat in front of the mirror at her dressing-table, the hairdrier blowing the dark red waves into angry fronds which echoed her mood, when there was a loud shrilling of the doorbell. Her brow creased momentarily. David, of course. He was early. Well, he would just have to wait in the sitting-room while she changed.

She ran lightly to the door, and pulled it open, the welcoming expression on her face dying immediately when she saw who it was who stood there.

‘No,’ she whispered disbelievingly.

‘Oh, yes,’ he contradicted softly, and then his eyes moved down, lingering slowly on the satin of her wrap, as he surveyed the fullness of her breasts which were tingling uncomfortably under his gaze—she could feel the taut peaks pushing against the silky material, and she automatically crossed her arms around her chest, shielding her betraying body from his gaze. And the movement caused the hard line of his mouth to twist in derision.

‘I see you still answer the door as alluringly as possible,’ he said harshly.

As he stared directly into her eyes, her imagination stupidly led her to think that she saw a flash of some deeper emotion than plain desire, a softening of the harsh mouth, but it was gone before she remembered that it had been a common fault of hers—crediting him with feelings which he did not possess. She hugged herself tighter as she looked down at the carpet, a lump in her throat, willing the idiotic tears not to spring to life.

‘Tell me, do you always dress to please, Cressida?’

His words were a grim challenge and her eyes were drawn unwillingly to his face. Sometimes she had wondered if he was made of flesh and blood as she was, and now she wondered anew. How could a face which could move with such animation, which could dissolve so sweetly with passion—how could such a face remain now as cold and as unreadable as a blank book? And yet she could still look on it and remember how much she had loved him.

The sharp reminder of her lost love pierced her heart like a sabre cut and, afraid that he would see and taunt her moment of weakness, she moved a step away. ‘You’ve got no right to come in here and criticise me—and you’ll have to go,’ she said desperately. ‘I’m expecting—’ she made her voice linger fondly ‘—someone.’

That did it. She saw his muscles tense and a pulse at his temple begin an ominous throbbing.

‘And who is the lucky man?’ he ground out. ‘Do you always greet him like—this?’ His hand moved disdainfully as he gestured at the skimpy garment which covered her body. ‘Is it the dear David—the man who writes these plays which no one can understand?’

‘His plays are wonderful!’ she defended shrilly, and she saw his mocking smile and knew that she had fallen into some kind of trap. She leaned forward angrily. ‘And how did you know that I was seeing David? I suppose you’ve had all your nasty little spies out, haven’t you? I forget that you have a whole network of information gatherers to do your dirty work for you.’

He returned her angry look with one of infuriating calmness, which did not fool her for a minute. ‘From what I have seen of him, he does not look man enough to share your bed,’ he goaded.

Knowing that she had a weapon which would wound his pride more than anything—she used it. ‘He’s man enough,’ she retaliated.

For a moment she thought she had gone too far. She honestly thought that he was going to hit her—Stefano, who had never hit a person in his life before. She felt like shrinking away from the clenched fists at his side, their knuckles white with the restraint he was obviously exercising. She must have been mad to suggest to him that David was her lover, when he was due to arrive at any minute, and knowing Stefano’s fiercely possessive pride. She couldn’t repress a small shudder as she imagined an angry confrontation. And then, surprisingly, she saw his stance relax, and he walked straight past her to stroll into the sitting-room. She followed him in frustration.

When he turned round, all traces of his anger had disappeared, to be replaced with an expression of disdain. He stared incredulously at the small room, at the shabby furniture, the clean but well-worn curtains. ‘You live like this?’ he said scornfully. ‘Is this what you broke up our marriage for—to live like this! Like a—pauper?’

‘I like this flat,’ she defended. ‘And at least it’s mine. Paid for by me.’

‘It is not a suitable place for my wife to live,’ he said flatly.

Her temper was on the verge of eruption. ‘How many times do I have to tell you before you get it into your stubborn head? I am your wife in name only—and not for very much longer, thank God!’

‘We will see how much of a wife you are.’ He smiled infuriatingly.

That sounded ominously like a threat, she thought, but even if it was he no longer had a hold on her. ‘We could stand here scrapping all night, Stefano, but it won’t change anything,’ she told him with a studiedly cool assurance she was far from feeling. ‘Why don’t we just accept the fact of our incompatibility, and put it down to experience?’

‘Experience?’ he echoed softly. ‘Is that what life is all about to you, Cressida, mmmm? A series of experiences to be lived through? To be discarded when it falls short of perfection? Is that why you ran away? In search of pastures new? Different and better—’ his voice was harsh ‘‘‘—experiences’’?’

Her anger and her indignation were swallowed up by an inexorable sorrow. She had carefully and deliberately closed off that section of her life, had refused to dwell on the heartache he had inflicted on her when he had told her to go. And now it was as if he had ripped open her carefully healed wound, left her heart exposed and helpless.

She swallowed convulsively. ‘We both know why I left.’ She forced a quiet dignity into her voice. ‘And I don’t intend discussing it now. Just tell me one thing. Why have you come here?’ She felt in urgent need of a good, strong drink, but she didn’t dare get herself one. Stefano, a man never in need of any artificial stimuli, might interpret that as yet another weakness in her resolve, and hadn’t she already betrayed enough weakness before him today to last a lifetime? ‘Why have you come back?’ she repeated.

He smiled enigmatically. ‘There are a number of reasons.’

She felt as though she were playing a game of poker. ‘Such as?’

‘Perhaps I have revised my opinion of the arts—’

‘Don’t give me that!’ she interrupted hotly. ‘Why change the habits of a lifetime?’

‘Or perhaps,’ he continued, unperturbed, ‘I see the play as a good investment.’

She let out a pent-up sigh. Of course! As easy as that. Profit. She should have guessed. He had riches to rival Croesus, but still it wasn’t enough. In business, as in life, Stefano had a killer instinct. Life to him was just a series of deals to be made, possessions to acquire, then lock away. She’d been one herself, hadn’t she? And thank God she’d got out in time. She looked at him with scorn. ‘You’re backing the play even though you’ve openly admitted you don’t like it!’ she accused.

‘It is not to my taste.’ He shrugged. ‘But perhaps audiences are not quite so discerning.’

She found herself in the strange position of acting as David’s champion. If only Stefano knew of the fundamental innocence of their relationship! ‘The audiences are going to lap it up—because it comes from the heart. David believes integrity to be more important than profit,’ she said coldly. ‘Although it’s a word I doubt whether you’d find in your vocabulary.’

He made a small sound of disgust underneath his breath. ‘Integrity does not buy bread.’

Cressida suddenly felt very tired. This conversation was going precisely nowhere. When Stefano was in this kind of mood there was no arguing with him, and besides, David would be here at any moment, and the last thing she wanted was a confrontation. ‘Will you please go now?’

In direct opposition to her request, he seated himself in one of the over-stuffed armchairs.

‘Don’t bother making yourself comfortable,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t know why you’re here, Stefano—all I do know is that I want to be left in peace to get on with my life. And I want you out of here. Is that clear?’

He ignored her question. ‘And the company—do they know of their leading lady’s relationship with their new backer? ‘‘Angel’’, I think you say.’

Fear dried her mouth. ‘Of course they don’t. No one knows . . . ’

‘No one knows we are married.’ His voice was distorted with anger. ‘Of that I am only too aware. Cressida wishes to be single again and dunque!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Her wish shall be granted. This is a society where the vows of matrimony can be shrugged aside as casually as if they were of no consequence.’

‘That isn’t true!’ she flared. ‘There are reasons why I’m divorcing you—perfectly legitimate ones. And what is more I don’t want anyone—anyone—knowing of my past relationship with you.’

The dark eyes glinted. ‘Oh? And why is that?’

Her temper erupted. ‘Oh, don’t pretend to be so naïve, Stefano! My position would be intolerable! If any of them knew I’d been your wife, I’d be viewed with suspicion. I’d no longer be treated as an equal, would I?’

His mouth twisted. ‘And yet you do not mind it being known that you are dating the playwright?’

‘That’s different, and you know it!’ she exploded. ‘You’re backing it—you’re providing the money. And money is power—as you are perfectly well aware.’

He had got to his feet in a single, light movement, the grace of which only emphasised the powerful strength of his tall frame. He stood studying her through hooded eyes which told her nothing. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will agree to keep our liaison quiet—on the condition that you have dinner with me tonight.’

Cressida felt like pinching herself to check that this was really happening. ‘I can’t have dinner with you. I’ve already told you—I’m expecting David.’

He gave a ruthless smile. ‘Then we will take him, too.’

An involuntary shiver ran up her spine. Stefano sounding reasonable like this was Stefano at his most dangerous. ‘What are you saying?’ she demanded, her voice breaking on the question. ‘What do you want?’

He shrugged. ‘That is the thing to do in this country, is it not? The ‘‘civilised’’ thing? The husband and the wife who have once shared their lives to sit having dinner with the new partner. Did you not once tell me that you wanted it to be an amicable divorce?’

She looked at him helplessly, remembering the stumbling letter she had written to him after six months of separation—another letter he had ignored. Had she really been so naïve as to say that to him? ‘What do you want?’ she repeated weakly.

‘I told you. Have dinner with me tonight, and our little secret will remain just that.’

The doorbell pealed, not as loudly as when he had pressed it, but loud enough to shatter the fraught silence.

Stefano smiled, his eyes roving in a lazy line from her bare toes to the curve of her hips where the satin clung. ‘It is your choice, my beauty—so choose.’

She was trapped, she realised, as her wide green eyes stared at his implacable face. She should just tell him to go to hell and be done with it. But Stefano was not the kind of man to heed such a demand. And, apart from compromising her neutral position as one of the players in a very tight-knit company, if word of her marriage to Stefano got out, could she really bear the gossip, the surmising, the endless questions? If her marriage was laid bare for general analysis, then wouldn’t it just force her to confront its failure herself? To remind her with heart-rending poignancy just how destroyed she had felt at its end?

The doorbell rang again.

‘Well, beauty,’ he murmured softly, ‘have you decided?’

‘Yes, damn you. Yes. The answer’s yes.’

CHAPTER THREE

THE instant she had made her decision, Cressida began to regret it. As she opened the door to David, she wondered what possible motive Stefano could have for wanting to meet the man she was sharing her life with. David stood smiling on the doorstep, looking casual and windswept, dressed in blue jeans, a matching denim shirt and a rather old tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbow. The scent of the pipe tobacco he sometimes smoked hung around him as he stepped forward to drop a light kiss on Cressida’s mouth.

‘Hello, love,’ he said.

A cold voice rang out. ‘Hadn’t you better go and change, Cressida?’ And there stood Stefano in the doorway, the thin smile on his mouth not echoed by the dark eyes.

‘Hello,’ said David interestedly, and Cressida saw Stefano’s mouth curl in derision at the younger man’s attitude.

It had been one of the things she had first admired about David—his easygoing nature, and his optimism. Even now, with an atmosphere which was as chilly as a winter’s afternoon, with the forbidding stance of the handsome stranger who stood in her flat, and she, herself, clad in a short dressing-gown, it was plain to see that David was merely curious to know who Stefano was. And for some obscure reason, this irked her. If the situation had been reversed . . . She couldn’t suppress a small shudder as she tried to imagine what Stefano’s reaction would be if he had found her, only half dressed, with a strange man in her flat.

She stepped forward awkwardly to make the introductions. ‘David Chalmers—this is Stefano di Camilla.’

David frowned, and, crossing his arms, he scratched the end of his nose in a thoughtful gesture. Cressida could see his mind working overtime.

‘Di Camilla,’ he said slowly. ‘Haven’t I heard—?’

‘You may have heard my name being mentioned,’ said Stefano smoothly, with scarcely a trace of the Italian accent which was so dominant when he was angry, or excited. ‘I have the honour of providing some measure of support to the superb play of yours which Cressida is starring in.’

Hypocritical swine, thought Cressida, glaring at him, but meeting no answering response. How could he lay it on like that, after the nasty little asides he’d made about David’s work?

David had stepped forward and grasped Stefano’s hand eagerly. ‘How do you do, Mr di Camilla?’ he said eagerly. ‘I’d heard Justin mention you, of course. We were getting worried—our other sponsors were threatening to pull out. You know, of course, how bad things are in this economic climate? I had no idea that events had progressed so far down the line. Justin might have told me,’ he added, as an aggrieved afterthought.

‘One of the conditions of my support was the need for confidentiality until the deal was certain,’ said Stefano blandly.

‘Oh, of course, of course—I quite understand!’ said David eagerly.

He was just like a bouncing little puppy, thought Cressida, trotting up to some wild creature eight times the size. Don’t trust him an inch, she willed, wondering whether she would be strong enough to follow her own advice.

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