Marrying the Italian: The Marcolini Blackmail Marriage / The Valtieri Marriage Deal / The Italian Doctor's Bride
‘Perhaps you misunderstood what my mother said,’ Antonio offered. ‘Her English is not quite as good as it could be.’
Claire’s blue-green eyes sent him a caustic glare. ‘I know what I heard, Antonio,’ she said. ‘And besides, your mother speaks perfectly understandable English. Why don’t you ask her what she said to me that night? Go on—call her up and ask her. Put the phone on speaker. She can hardly deny it with me standing right here listening to every word.’
Antonio sent splayed fingers through his hair again, releasing a breath that caught on something deep inside his chest on its exit. ‘I do not wish to upset my mother right now,’ he said. ‘She has not been well since the death of my father.’
She gave a disdainful snort. ‘You Italians really know how to stick together, don’t you? I know blood is thicker than water and all that, but Marcolini blood is like concrete.’
‘It is not about taking sides, Claire,’ he said. ‘The issues that brought about our estrangement need to be addressed by you and me personally. I do not want to drag in a jury on either side to complicate things any further.’
‘What about Daniela?’ she asked. ‘Have you spoken to her lately?’
‘No, not lately,’ he answered. ‘She got married about a year ago, to a friend of one of my cousins who lives in Tuscany. She is expecting a baby; I am not sure how far along she is now—pretty close to delivery, I should think. I have not spoken to her since my father’s funeral.’
Claire tried to ignore the deep stab of pain she felt every time she heard of someone else’s pregnancy. She seriously wondered sometimes if she would ever be able to feel happy and hopeful for another mother-to-be. How could they be so complacent, so assured of a healthy delivery? Did they really think a good diet and moderate exercise would guarantee them a live baby? She had done all that and more, and look where it had led. She had gone home empty-handed, shattered, shell-shocked. Every tiny bootie and delicately embroidered and knitted outfit had screamed at her from the walls of the beautifully decorated nursery she had seen to herself: where is the baby for all this stuff?
There had been no baby.
Instead there had been a tiny urn of ashes which Claire had carried all the way back to Australia, to give her daughter the interment she felt her baby deserved.
‘If my mother somehow misinformed you about my relationship with Daniela, I am deeply sorry,’ Antonio’s voice broke through her painful thoughts. ‘The only excuse I can offer on her behalf is that she was probably concerned our marriage was on the rocks, and thought it would help you to come to some sort of decision over whether or not to continue with it.’
Claire hugged her arms close to her chest, her teeth savaging her bottom lip as she thought about Antonio’s explanation for his mother’s behaviour. It sounded reasonable on the surface. Their marriage certainly hadn’t been a rose-strewn pathway, and they hadn’t exactly been able to hide it from his family. Claire cringed at the thought of how often she had sniped at Antonio in their presence towards the end.
Doubts started to creep up and tap her on the shoulder with ghost-like fingertips. What if she had got it totally wrong? What if what she had seen that day had been exactly as Antonio had tried to explain it at the time?
Claire’s own insecurities, which had plagued her from the beginning of their hasty marriage, had made her vulnerable to suggestion. She had immediately jumped to the conclusion Daniela and Antonio had enjoyed a mid-afternoon tryst in the hotel that day. She had not for a moment considered any other explanation. But then maybe she hadn’t wanted to? Claire thought in retrospect. Maybe Antonio was right about his mother. Rosina Marcolini had been concerned her daughter-in-law was miserably unhappy, and had been so from the start. She had probably assumed Claire was no longer in love with her son, so had given her a way out of the situation. Rosina had obviously told her son it was Claire who had asked her for money, not she who had offered it, but proving it now was going to be difficult—unless she could challenge his mother face to face.
Claire looked up at Antonio. ‘When you didn’t come home at all that night I assumed you were with Daniela.’
He frowned at her. ‘But don’t you remember I got an emergency page to go back to Theatre?’ he asked. ‘When I saw how bad things were with the patient I asked one of the theatre staff to call you to let you know I was going to be late. She tried several times to call, but each time it was engaged or went through to the message service. In the end I told her to give up, as I did not want to be distracted from the difficult case I was working on. The patient was in a bad way and I needed to focus.’
Claire bit her lip again. She had been so angry and upset she had turned her mobile off and left the landline off the hook. It had only been after Antonio’s mother had dropped by and had that short but pointed conversation with her that she’d decided to pack her bags and leave.
Antonio came closer and took her hands in his. ‘I got home at six in the morning to find you had gone,’ he said. ‘I lost valuable time thinking you had gone to stay with one of the friends you had made from the Italian class you attended. By the time it was a reasonable hour to call one of them to check you had already boarded the plane. I got to the airport just in time to see it take off. I was angry—angrier than I had ever been in my life. I could not jump on the next plane to follow you as I had patients booked in for weeks ahead. So I decided to let you go. I thought perhaps some time with your family would help you. God knows nothing I did ever seemed to work. But when you consistently refused to take my calls I realised it was over. I thought it was best you got on with your life while I got on with mine.’
Claire lowered her gaze to look at their linked hands. There were no guarantees on their current relationship. He had not made any promise of extending their reconciliation beyond the three-month period. She knew he desired her, but then he was in a foreign country without a mistress at the ready. What better way to fill in the time than with his wayward wife—the one who had got away, so to speak? A man had his pride, after all, and Antonio Marcolini had more than his fair share of it. Claire had done the unthinkable to him. Walking out on him without once begging to be taken back.
This set-up he had orchestrated might very well be a cleverly planned plot to serve his own ends. He knew a divorce would be costly; he no doubt realised he had to keep her sweet as so much was now at stake—his father’s millions, for one thing. A temporary affair would stall divorce proceedings for several months. Long enough for him to find some way out of handing her millions of dollars in settlement.
She pulled her hands out of his. ‘I think you did the right thing in leaving me to get on with my life,’ she said. ‘We both needed time to regroup.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, looking at her for a long moment. ‘But five years is a long time, Claire.’
‘Yes, and I needed every minute of it,’ she said, with another lift of her chin.
His mouth thinned. ‘How many lovers have there been? How many men have come and gone from your bed?’
Her eyes flashed at him. ‘I hardly see what business that is of yours.’
He reached for her hands again, tethering her to him with long, strong fingers. ‘How soon did you replace me?’ he asked, holding her gaze with the searing heat of his.
She tried to get out of his hold but his fingers tightened. ‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked, glaring up at him.
His jaw tensed, a nerve at the side of his mouth pulsing like a miniature hammer beneath his skin. ‘Have you had casual affairs, or something more permanent?’ he asked.
‘There’s been no one permanent,’ Claire said, tugging at his hold again. ‘Now, let me go. You’re hurting me.’
He looked down at his hands around her wrists and loosened his hold without releasing her. His thumbs began a slow stroke of the underside of each wrist, making her spine lose its rigid stance. Claire closed her eyes against the tide of longing that flowed through her. His body was so close she could feel its tempting warmth. The urge to feel his hardness against her again was suddenly irresistible, and she tilted towards him before she could stop herself. It was a betraying movement, but she was beyond caring. For some reason his demonstration of jealousy had stirred her, making her wonder if he felt something for her after all. It had been so long since she had felt anything but this aching sadness and emptiness inside. Would it be so very wrong to succumb to a moment of madness? Making love with Antonio would make her forget everything but the magic of his touch, how he could make her feel, how he could make her body explode time and time again with passion. It was what she wanted; it was what they both wanted.
Antonio held her from him. ‘No, Claire,’ he said firmly. ‘Not like this. Not in anger and recrimination.’
Claire looked up at him in confusion. ‘I thought your whole idea was to get me back into your bed as quickly as possible?’
His expression left her little to go on. ‘I am not denying my intention of resuming a physical relationship with you, Claire, but if I were to follow through on your invitation just now I am sure you would hate me all the more tomorrow.’
She raised her brows at him. ‘Scruples, Antonio?’ she asked. ‘Well, well, well—who would have thought?’
He stepped away from her, his mouth once again pulled into a taut line. ‘If you would like to shower and change, we have a charity function to attend this evening,’ he said. ‘The dress is formal. You have just under an hour to get ready.’
Claire frowned. ‘You expect me to come with you?’
His look was ruthlessly determined. ‘I expect you to be by my side, as any other loving wife would want to be. No public displays of temper, Claire, do you understand?’
She pressed her lips together in resentment, not trusting herself to speak.
‘I said, do you understand?’ he repeated, pinning her with his coal-black gaze.
She lifted her chin. ‘I hate you, Antonio,’ she said. ‘Just keep thinking about that tonight, while I am hanging off your arm and smiling at the cameras like a mindless puppet. I hate you.’
He shrugged off her vitriol as smoothly as he did his jacket; he hooked his finger under the collar of it, his eyes still holding hers. ‘Just think how much more you are going to hate me when I have you begging in my arms, tesoro mio.’
Claire swung away from him, anger propelling her towards the bathroom. She slammed the door behind her, but even under the stinging spray of the shower she could still feel the promise of his words lighting a fire beneath her skin. Every surface the water touched reminded her of how he had touched her in the past: her breasts, her stomach, her lower back and thighs, and that secret place where the tight pearl of her womanhood was swollen with longing for the friction of his body. She hated herself for still wanting him. It made her feel like a lovesick fool who had no better sense than to get her fingers burned twice. That she had been a lovesick fool the first time round was more than obvious to her now. Antonio had probably been laughing at her gaucheness from the start of their affair. She had been a novelty to him—a girl from the bush, an innocent and naïve girl who had been knocked off her feet by his sophisticated charm.
Claire turned off the shower and reached for a towel with grim determination. She would show him just how much she had grown up and wised up over the last five years. He might think he could cajole her back into his bed as easily as he had the first time, but this time around she was not going down without a fight.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANTONIO was flicking through some documents on his lap when Claire came out of the bedroom, close to forty-five minutes later. She felt his gaze run over her, taking in her upswept hair, the perfection of her understated make-up, and the flow and cling of her evening dress, in a fuchsia-pink that highlighted the creamy texture of her skin and the blue-green of her eyes.
He put his papers to one side and rose to his feet. ‘You look very beautiful, Claire,’ he said. ‘But you have forgotten something.’
Claire frowned and put a hand up to check both her earrings were in place. ‘What?’
He picked up her left hand. ‘You are not wearing your wedding and engagement rings.’
Claire felt her stomach go hollow. ‘That’s because I no longer have them,’ she said, not quite able to hold his look.
He brought up her chin with the end of his finger, locking his gaze with hers. ‘You sold them?’ he asked, with a glint of anger lighting his eyes from behind.
‘No,’ she said, running her tongue across her lipgloss. ‘They were stolen not long after I got back from Italy. My flat was broken into one day when I was at work. My rings were the only things they got away with. The police said the burglars had probably been disturbed by someone and took what they could and bolted.’
His finger stayed on her chin for several heart-chugging seconds. ‘Were the rings covered by an insurance policy?’
‘No…I couldn’t afford it, and—’
‘That is not true, though—is it, Claire?’ he said, with that same glitter of simmering anger in his diamond-hard gaze. ‘You could well afford it, but you chose to spend the money my mother gave you on other things.’
Pride made Claire’s back stiffen. ‘So what if I did?’ she said. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
His hand dropped from her face as if he didn’t trust himself to touch her. ‘We will be late if we do not leave now,’ he said tersely.
Claire followed him out to the lifts. The smooth ride down was conducted in a crackling silence. As soon as the doors swished open he put a hand at her elbow and escorted her to a waiting limousine. She pasted a stiff smile on her face for the benefit of the hotel staff and their driver, but inside she was seething. Acting the role of his reconciled wife was going to be much more difficult than she had first imagined. There was so much bitterness between them, so much ingrained distrust and resentment.
Antonio leaned forward to close the panel separating them from the driver. As he sat back one of his thighs brushed Claire’s, and she automatically shifted along the seat.
He gave her a smouldering look that sent a shiver down her spine. ‘You did not find my touch so repulsive an hour or so ago, Claire.’
She sent him a haughty glare in the vain hope of disguising her reaction to him. ‘I must have been out of my mind. I can think of nothing I want less than to sleep with you again.’
He smiled a lazy smile as he moved closer, until he was touching her thigh to thigh, his hand capturing one of hers. Claire flinched at his touch, and he frowned and looked down at the faint bracelet of fingertip bruises he had unknowingly branded her with earlier.
His smile disappeared and a heavy frown furrowed his brow. He picked up her other hand and turned it over, ever so gently. ‘I did this?’ he asked in a husky tone as he met her eyes.
Claire swallowed tightly. His touch was achingly gentle now, his fingers like feathers brushing over the barely-there bruises. His eyes were so dark, intensely so, as if the pupils had completely taken over his irises. Her heart began to thud, in an irregular rhythm that made her chest feel constrained.
‘It’s n-nothing…’ she said with a slight wobble in her voice. ‘I probably knocked myself against something…’
He was still frowning as he looked back at her wrists. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, low and deep. ‘I had forgotten how delicately you are made.’
Claire held her breath as he lifted each of her wrists in turn to his mouth, the soft salve of his kisses stirring her far more deeply than the words of his apology could ever do. His lips were a butterfly movement against her sensitive skin, a teasing of the senses that made her realise how terribly unguarded she was around him. Her heart shifted inside her chest like a tiny insect’s wings, beating inside the narrow neck of a bottle.
His eyes came back to hers, his fingers loose as they held her hands within his. ‘Do they hurt?’ he asked in a gravel-like tone.
She shook her head, still not trusting herself to speak. She felt choked-up, emotion piling right to the back of her throat in a great thick wad of feeling she couldn’t swallow down, no matter how hard she tried. Her eyes began to burn with the effort of keeping back tears, and she had to blink rapidly a couple of times to stave them off. This was the Antonio she had fallen so deeply in love with all those years ago. How was she supposed to resist him when he sabotaged her resolve not with force but with tenderness?
Antonio released her hands with a sigh. ‘We have to sort this out, Claire. I know you think I have engineered this to my advantage, but we both have to be absolutely sure about where this ends up.’
Claire could already guess where it was going to end up. She was halfway there already: back in love with him, back in his arms, dreaming of a happy ever after when there were no guarantees she would ever have a nibble at the happiness cherry again. She could almost taste the hard pip of reality in her mouth. He didn’t love her. He had never loved her the way she longed to be loved—the way her mother had never been loved, even after three desperate tries to get it right. Was Claire facing the same agonising destiny? A life of frustrated hopes? Girlhood dreams turned to dust as thick as that lining the roads of the Outback where she had grown up?
The limousine purred to a halt outside a convention center, and within moments the press were there to capture the moment when Antonio Marcolini and his wife, newly reconciled, were to exit the vehicle.
Claire thought she had hidden her discomfiture well as she got out of the car with Antonio by her side, but somehow, in the blur of activity and the surging press of the crowd, she met his gaze for the briefest of moments and realised she had not fooled him—not even for a second.
He offered her his arm and she looped hers through it with a smile that tugged painfully at her face. ‘Do we have to do this?’ she whispered with a rueful grimace. ‘Everyone is looking at us.’
He picked up a tendril of her curly hair and secured it behind her ear. ‘We have to, cara,’ he said, meshing his gaze with hers. ‘We need to show ourselves in public as much as possible.’
Claire drew in a scratchy breath and, straightening her shoulders, walked stride by stride with him into the convention center. But for some reason she felt sure he hadn’t been referring to the glamorous evening ahead, but more about the night that was to follow…
The table they were led to was at the front of the ballroom, where the other guests were already seated. Each person stood and greeted Antonio formally, before turning to greet her with smiles of speculative interest.
Drinks were served as soon as they sat down, and Claire sipped unenthusiastically at a glass of white wine as convivial conversation was bandied back and forth around her. She smiled in all the right places, even said one or two things that contributed to the general atmosphere of friendliness, but still she felt out on a ledge. She didn’t belong here—not amongst his colleagues, not amongst his friends. She had never belonged, and somehow sitting here, with the lively chatter going on around her, it brought it home to her with brutal force. Even listening with one ear to one of the women at the table describing the latest antics of her toddler son felt like a knife going through Claire’s chest. Her mind filled with those awful moments after her baby had been delivered, the terrible silence, the hushed whispers, the agonised looks, the shocking realisation that all was not as it was supposed to be.
‘Claire?’
Claire suddenly realised Antonio was addressing her, his eyes dark as the suit he was wearing as they meshed with hers. ‘Would you like to dance?’
She sent the tip of her tongue out to sweep away yet another layer of lipgloss. ‘Dance?’
He smiled—Claire supposed for the benefit of those around them, watching on indulgently. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You were very good at it, I seem to remember.’
Claire lowered her gaze to stare at the contents of her glass. ‘I haven’t danced for ages…’
‘It does not matter,’ he said, taking her by the hand and gently pulling her to her feet. ‘This number is a slow waltz. All you have to do is shuffle your feet in time with mine.’
She had a lot more to do than shuffling her feet, but after a while Claire relaxed into it, relishing the feel of Antonio’s arms around her as he led her in a dance that was a slow as it was sensual. Each step seemed to remind her of how well-matched their bodies were, the union of male and female, the naturalness of it, the ebb and flow of moving in time with each other as if they had been programmed to respond in such a way. His thigh pushed hers backwards, hers moved his forwards, and then they moved together in a twirl that sent the skirt of her long dress out in an arc of vivid pink.
‘See?’ Antonio said, smiling down at her as he led her into another smooth glide across the floor. ‘It is like riding a bike, si? You never forget the moves.’
Claire could feel her body responding to his closeness. His pelvis was hard against hers, with not even the space for a silk handkerchief to pass between their bodies. She felt the stirring of his body, the intimate surge of his male flesh that made her ache for his possession all over again. She tried to convince herself it was just a physical thing: he was a virile man, she was a young healthy woman, and the chemistry that had brought them together in the first place had been reawakened. Sex with an ex or an estranged partner was commonplace. The familiarity of the relationship and yet that intriguing element of forbidden fruit made resisting the urge to reconnect in the most elemental way possible sometimes unstoppable. She could feel that temptation now; it was like a pulse deep in her body, a rhythm of longing that would not go away no matter how much she tried to ignore it.
‘You are starting to tense up on me,’ Antonio said. He ran his hands down the length of her spine as the number came to an end, and an even slower, more poignant one took its place. ‘Relax, cara. there are people watching us.’
How could she possibly relax with his hands resting in the sensitive dip of her spine like that? Claire felt as if every nerve was set on super-vigilance, waiting for the stroke and glide of his next touch. Her belly quivered and her skin lifted in a fine layer of goosebumps as she met his dark, intense gaze.
‘I’m not used to such big crowds these days,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been out for ages. Compared to you, I live a very quiet life.’
He rested his chin on the top of her head as they moved in time with the music. ‘There is nothing wrong with living a quiet life,’ he said. ‘I sometimes wish mine was a little less fast paced.’
Claire breathed in the scent of him as they circled the floor again. It felt so right to be in his arms, as if she belonged there and nowhere else. The trouble was she wasn’t sure how long she was likely to be there. He seemed very intent on sorting out the train wreck of their previous relationship, but his motives for doing so were highly suspect.
It was so hard to tell what Antonio was thinking, let alone feeling. He had always been so good at keeping his cards close to his chest. She, on the other hand, wore her heart on her sleeve and had done so to her own detriment. She had made herself far too vulnerable to him from the outset, and now she felt as if she was doing it all again. He knew he had her in the palm of his hand. He knew she would not do anything that would jeopardise her brother’s well-being. That was his trump card, and she was too cowardly to call his bluff, even though she dearly wanted to.