Exotic Affairs: The Mistress Bride\The Spanish Husband\The Bellini Bride (44 page)

‘Antonia?’ he rasped. ‘Where is she?’

The housekeeper’s eyes were filled with dismay. ‘She’s gone,
signor,’
she whispered. ‘She’s gone…’

H
IS
legs took him down the hall, into the bedroom and straight to the built-in cupboard. The suitcase had gone. Through the eyes of a man who was still not prepared to take in what was happening to him, he turned to scan the rest of the room.

What had once pleased his eye, with its uninterrupted use of space, now looked cold and spartan, as if someone had come along and wiped it clean of its heartbeat.

So the few small items carefully placed on the smooth bed caught his attention. Walking over to them, he just stood staring down at the set of keys to this apartment, the tear-drop diamond necklace, the stack of credit cards and the mobile telephone.

His skin suddenly felt as if it didn’t fit his body any more. Was that all she felt she was worth to him? Even the bed was playing its part here. He began to feel sick. If she’d tossed down a set of scarlet underwear she could not have made her feelings more clear.

The phone gave a beep. He looked at it, saw there was a message written on it in text. Picking it up he stared at the words she had left for him. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all that it said.

In English too. He sometimes forgot she spoke English her Italian was so good. But, maybe in this case
I’m sorry
said it better for her than
mi despiace
did.

It didn’t for him, because
sorry
wasn’t enough! He wanted to know more. He wanted to know
why
! Could she not have held faith with him for just one more day?

‘When did she leave?’ He was aware of Carlotta standing in the doorway, watching him with anxious eyes. She obviously had something to tell him or she wouldn’t be there invading his private moment like this.

‘Just after the
signor
left,’ the housekeeper answered.

Signor
. Marcos swung round. ‘Signor Kranst?’ he demanded.

But Carlotta shook her head. ‘A Signor Gabrielli,’ she informed him. ‘I think they argued,’ she added, looking uncomfortable for saying so. ‘The
signorina
had me see him out. It is when he gave me the cheque to give to Signorina Antonia.’ Her eyes flickered, then dropped to the waste-paper basket standing by the dressing table. ‘She was very upset,’ she added, as Marco’s gaze followed hers to the basket.

A bell sounded then, saying that someone was in the foyer wanting to come up. ‘I don’t want to see anyone,’ Marco grimly instructed.

With a nod, Carlotta left, leaving him alone to walk over to the waste-paper basket.

About the same time that Stefan was using tough talk on Carlotta to gain his way into the apartment, Antonia’s flight was being called at last.

It was now two hours late and her nerves were completely frazzled. Gathering her things together, she stood up, then paused to take in a careful breath. This was it, she told herself. She could leave now. No more arguing with herself. No more agonising over what she really wanted to do. It had to be better to go while she still had the strength to do it, rather than wait until she was thrown out then spend five years pining for his return, as her mother had—wasn’t it?

So move, Antonia, she told her feet. Follow the general
exodus towards the gate as if you’re just another tourist on her way back home.

‘No luggage slip,
signorina
?’

She looked down at the cabin-weight suitcase which suddenly seemed a pathetic judgement on her year in Milan. When she’d packed it, in London, she had meant to send for her other things once she was settled with Marco. But he had done away with the need by buying her new things. Anything else of value to her would be coming back to London with Stefan.

She shook her head at the attendant who was checking her boarding pass. ‘This is all I have,’ she said. And a heart full of tears, she added silently.

Marco was leaning against the open window, which led out onto the terrace, when Stefan Kranst had the arrogance to stride into the room.

‘I want words with you,’ he insisted grimly. ‘I don’t know what happened last night after you left Romano’s with Antonia. But—’

‘Anton Gabrielli happened,’ Marco inserted, without bothering to turn.

The name met with silence. Not the blank, who-are-you-talking-about kind of silence. But the dear-God-in-heaven kind, that throbbed with grim recognition.

‘What did he want?’ Stefan asked him.

‘I see you know the man,’ Marco drily responded.

‘What did he want?’ Stefan repeated harshly.

His anger jolted Marco enough for him to wave a hand towards the bed. ‘See for yourself,’ he invited. And turned to study Stefan Kranst’s face as he walked over to look down at the neat row of items set out on the bed. The diamond, the keys, the credit cards, the phone still displaying its message. And the cheque,
carefully pieced back together. Stefan stared at it for a long time before he spoke.

‘I saw him at the gallery last night,’ he admitted. ‘I hoped you’d got Antonia away before he arrived.’

‘They came face to face. He called her Anastasia…’

Other than for a tightening of his lips, Stefan made no comment. ‘When did this arrive?’ he asked grimly instead.

‘The man delivered it himself this morning,’ Marco told him, ‘while I was out,’

‘No wonder she left in a hurry. He threatened her, didn’t he?’ Hard eyes lifted to Marco. ‘Do you know who he is?’

The question earned him a grimace. ‘Her father, at a guess.’

‘She told you that?’ Stefan looked so surprised that Marco couldn’t hold back the wry smile.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I managed to work it out.’ She didn’t feel able to trust me with it, he added silently, and sent his gaze flicking back to the view beyond the terrace. She hadn’t really trusted him with anything, when he came to think about it. Not the truth about the
Mirror Woman
. Not the father he hadn’t known she had. Even her innocent relationship with Kranst had been kept a titillating secret.

Out there, above the city, he saw a flash of light as the sun caught the tips of a plane as it took off. ‘Do you know where she is?’ he asked quietly.

‘Not on that flight, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Stefan Kranst replied. ‘She left for England hours ago, Marco,’ he added almost gently.

The gentleness was almost his undoing. Moisture dared to slide across his eyes. He stiffened up, shoved his hands in his pockets, heaved in a deep breath. Felt
the ring box, felt some other emotion wreak havoc with the wall of his chest.

‘I’m going after her,’ he announced, keeping his face turned away from Kranst as he shifted towards the bedroom door.

‘I came here for a reason,’ Stefan reminded him.

Marco paused. ‘To gloat?’ he suggested.

Stefan released a heavy sigh. ‘Give me a break for once, Marco,’ he begged wearily. ‘I
care
about Antonia more than her real father does. That means I
care
about what’s been happening here! She came to see me before she left,’ he went on tightly. ‘I didn’t like the way she looked. Now I know why, if Gabrielli’s been here,’ he added cynically. ‘But the point is, she gave me something I think you should know about…’

Marco spun around.

‘Keys.’ Stefan took them out of his pocket. ‘And an address in Milan. I came to see if you were as interested as I am in finding out what the hell she has been keeping from
both
of us!’

She couldn’t do it.

Standing here at the departure gate, with her boarding pass in her hand and only a short walk to freedom, she couldn’t take another single step!

Tears clogged her throat, burned her eyes, hurt her stomach. I love him! she cried inside, and just couldn’t go!

‘Are you all right?’ someone asked her. Someone else pushed impatiently past. ‘You don’t look well,
signorina…
’

I’m not. I’m sick with love. ‘I’ve just r-remembered s-something,’ she murmured shakily. ‘I have to go back to Milan.’ She swallowed at the attendant’s shocked expression.

‘Can you take my name off the f-flight register, please? I have my luggage here with me so you d-don’t have to have it removed from the plane.’

Maybe that was why she’d used the smallest suitcase she could find. Maybe she
never
intended leaving Marco! Maybe she’d needed to get this far before she could finally accept that the man was her other half! You couldn’t go anywhere with only half of you! It just wouldn’t let you.

Dropping the tickets and the boarding pass on the attendant’s desk, she turned and started running. She needed to get back to him—fast! ‘Don’t worry me,’ he’d said. ‘Be here when I return!’

He wanted her. What more could she ask of him, for goodness’ sake? He
cared
that his mother had upset her! He had even asked her to marry him so that she wouldn’t leave!

Oh God, why did clarity have to come this late? Why couldn’t she have just waited until he got home and then faced him with Anton Gabrielli, instead of running away without giving him a chance to respond? And he
wasn’t
like Gabrielli! How dared she compare the two of them?

The taxi queue was huge. Strange therefore, after a half-hour wait, she should get the same driver that had brought her to the airport. She gave the address for the apartment. He raised his eyebrows at her via the mirror as he drove off. ‘It is a popular address today,
signorina
. I collected you from there this morning,’ he remembered. ‘Then I took another person there this afternoon. Now I take you back. Do you think the gentleman will be waiting to catch my taxi for the return journey here?’

He thought it was funny. Antonia didn’t. ‘Do you know the man’s name?’ she questioned huskily.

‘Sure,’ he shrugged. ‘Everyone knows Signor Bellini. He tips well too…’

Marco paid off the driver and got out of the taxi to wait for Stefan to join him. The Ferrari wasn’t back from its service and he was damned if he was going to drive Antonia’s Lotus. That was staying exactly where it was until
she
came back to claim it.

‘What the hell has she been doing in a place like this?’ he demanded.

Stefan didn’t answer. Going to the door, he used the key, then stepped inside. With Marco crowding behind him he took the stairs floor by floor, passing by the doors bearing nameplates of a suspect nature.

‘You do know that this is part of the red-light district?’ Marco growled into Stefan’s back.

‘I do now,’ the other man answered and, though he had a fair idea what it was that Antonia did here, he was beginning to feel a trifle edgy—just in case he was wrong.

They arrived on the top landing. Neither spoke as they stepped up to the only door. Stefan turned the key, the tension riding high as he walked inside first.

Therefore he had those few split seconds to just stand looking around him before murmuring, ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Then he added a rueful grin.

Not for Marco it wasn’t. How long had he known this woman? he asked himself as he stood there beside Stefan Kranst and stared at what might euphemistically be called an artist’s studio. Light streamed in through a wall of windows, setting dust motes dancing in the air. The room smelled of old wood and oil and turpentine thinner, and everywhere you looked stood the paintings. Some drying, some framed, some waiting to
be framed. Piazza del Duomo. La Scala. Pusteria di Sant’Ambrogio. The bustling Brera, with its trendy little shops and people, and the gardens at Villa Reale.

Over by the window stood a huge trestle bench stacked with pencil sketches. On the easel waited a half-finished view from his own terrace, looking out over the top of Milan.

Marco hadn’t known Antonia had ever picked up a paintbrush, never mind possessed the capacity to produce work like this.

‘Look at these,’ Stefan murmured. He had moved towards the window and was now sifting through the sketches.

Sketches of life drawn with a quick sure hand. Sketches of people going about their business. Something caught in Marco’s chest as he had a sudden vision of her sitting on a bench or a low stone wall just sketching—sketching while he had been safely out of the way in his office playing in the big league, believing her to be doing what the women of wealthy men did, which was basically nothing.

Then—no. He amended that notion, and didn’t like himself for admitting that he hadn’t really given much thought to what Antonia did when he wasn’t there.

Stefan lifted a sheet of paper to one side, then went still enough to catch Marco’s attention. Marco’s own face looked back at him. It almost took his breath away, at the accuracy with which she had caught his mood of the moment.

The shark on his way to hunt prey, he named it with a wryness that didn’t hold any humour. Picking it up, he found another—and another. All revealing his different moods in accurate detail.

Then something else caught his eye to divert his attention.

It was a half-finished painting of Franco and Nicola about to leave on their honeymoon. Antonia clearly had not been pleased with the result because she had tossed it onto the bench and left it there. But that wasn’t why the painting held him. It was the realisation that, in size, it would have fitted exactly the painting she had wrapped for the anniversary gift.

Yet she hadn’t thought to show him, ask his approval. In fact she hadn’t sought his approval on anything she had been doing in here.

And it hurt. ‘Why not tell me?’ he murmured out loud.

Turning from where he had wandered off to, Stefan Kranst looked at him—just looked—and he knew the answer. She would have had to feel safe from his mockery to tell him about all of this, and she hadn’t.

‘I am no ogre,’ he growled out angrily—angrily because this was just another area she hadn’t trusted him with.

Antonia had changed her mind at the very last minute. She didn’t know why she had done it, but some instinct had suddenly spoken to her and said, Better stop Stefan from emptying your studio if you’re intending to stay here. So she’d redirected the driver and realised only after she had let him go that she no longer had any keys to get into the building.

Fortunately another tenant was just coming out. He recognised her and, with a smile, stood back to allow her inside. ‘You have visitors,’ he told her.