The Passionate Italian 11 DECEMBER EPUB (3 page)

She was right. She had changed. The uncertain girl who would do anything to fit in, to follow her dreams of belonging, had been replaced by a woman who kept the world at arm’s length.

What
had made her change?

Who
had made her change?

He swept the complex feelings of anger, frustration and sadness aside. He’d discover her secrets. He just needed some time. And he’d just bought that.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Your business is your own. No concern of mine.”

Time he rattled her poise a little.

“Or perhaps concerned that I’d snub a lover?”

Much to his irritation she smiled sweetly at him, the sort of guileless smile, which had got him into trouble with her in the first place.

“I’m not concerned about money, lovers or anything else. Just intrigued by your change of habits.”

“I am not a creature of habit. You memory is faulty on that point.”

“Come on, I know how much you hate computers. Your style was always short, sharp commands—either by phone or in person. Two years couldn’t have changed you that much. Unless…”

He raised his eyebrows. Why was she goading him?

“Unless what? You have some stunning revelation about me?”

“Only that my presence appears to be irritating the hell out of you and you’re taking it out on a defenseless computer. I can see why you needed me in the first place with IT skills like that.”

He clicked the laptop closed. “And I need you now, angelo mia.” It was his turn to unnerve her. She had to learn that she was here at his insistence and on his terms. “You always were very perceptive, very sensitive to my needs.” He didn’t even need to move towards her to see the flush of heat pulse through her body. “I can see you haven’t changed.”

She turned away quickly, flicked her hair over her shoulder in a dismissive gesture and assumed an intense interest with the view outside the window.

He leaned towards her, taking the opportunity to breathe in her smell—fresh and sensual at the same time—he could never get enough of it. Then he followed her gaze as the glittering lights of Wellington city reduced to pinpricks before becoming extinguished by the darkness of the surrounding hills.

“You came as far as you could to get away from me.”

Her eyes closed briefly as if struck by something in his tone rather than his words. He’d tried to keep it neutral—but he wasn’t overly familiar with anything neutral.

“I needed distance. I had to get away.”

“To a small country where you led a small life.”

She looked at him sharply.

“You don’t have to live in Europe and spend a lot of money to live a full life.”

“No. But it’s usual to leave the house occasionally. You lived like a hermit.”

No-one else would have noticed but me, he thought: the flash of pain in her eyes, the sharp contraction in her brows and around her mouth. The hurt. It was over in a moment, covered by an affected indifference. He knew the indifference was a mask because everything else about her told him that she was anything but indifferent.

He’d succeeded in wiping the humor from her eyes and he suddenly wished he hadn’t.

“I suppose there’s little you don’t know about my life.” Her voice was flat.

“There’s nothing I don’t know about your life.” He’d got through to her at last. He might as well continue to see how much she could take. He relaxed back into his seat. “You seldom traveled, carried out all your business online and mixed only rarely with the local community. I know everything: from who you saw, to the contents of your shopping trolley.”

Rose swallowed her anger. “Must have been fascinating reading.”

“Not just reading. Watching too.”

“You had someone film me? That’s not only an invasion of my privacy, that’s plain creepy.”

“Not in this day and age. Everyone is watched by someone—the government, friends, family.”

“Acting a little love-sick aren’t we?”

“Acting like someone who is looking after their investment.”

“An investment?”

Her voice was icy; the words enunciated too clearly.

“An investment?” Rose repeated, except louder this time. Her anger was betrayed by the sharp sibilant edge she gave the word. But she was past caring—this was the last straw.

“What else would you call someone in whom one has poured money, hoping for a return. It’s simple economics, Rose.”

The old feelings of inadequacy came flooding back. But with it now was a strength gained through her years on her own.

“You condescending bastard. I am not an item for your balance sheet. I’m damn good at creative IT work.”

“If perhaps, a little lacking in admin expertise.”

The accuracy of his criticism made her see red.

“Who was it who turned your security business around? ME! But who was it who nearly knocked a million US off your balance sheet when seducing the girlfriend of your business partner?”

“Not you.”

“Glad you got that one right.” Rose sat back in her seat.

“Anyway, you make it sound as if it were a bad thing. The girl in question was breaking up with my partner.”

“Shame she hadn’t told your partner that.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know why you’re so concerned, it was before your time.”

“I’m not concerned.” She said between gritted teeth. “I’m just making a point.”

“Which was?”

“God knows.” She slumped back in her chair. “Giovanni. Sometimes you drive me crazy.”

“At last we’ve found something we have in common.”

She sighed heavily. “I’m tired. I want to rest now.”

“Rest. Sleep if you like. I have business to attend to.”

As soon as her eyes were closed an image of Alberto’s smoothly handsome features came to mind. Giovanni’s little “investment”, he’d called her.

Thank God Alberto wouldn’t be in Milan.
 
Just the thought of him made her skin crawl. At first he’d tried to seduce her but when that had failed he’d grown angry and had tried to find creative ways to humiliate her. With unerring skill he’d identified her weak points and suggested that the only reason Giovanni had married her was to protect the family’s commercial interests: a useful investment for the family. Why else would Giovanni have married a nobody, far less beautiful than any of the women with whom he’d been linked?

Giovanni couldn’t know of the private taunts his brother had subjected her to. Taunts that ultimately turned poisonous with abuse. But Giovanni had just used the same word.

An investment, a possession. A possession that had slipped from his grasp. Whatever Giovanni’s feelings for her—if he had any—he would be angry that she’d left. One didn’t just leave Giovanni Visconti. If one did, one lived to regret it. Giovanni had a way of making you pay.

And how exactly, she wondered, was he going to make her pay?

She opened her eyes once more finding no relief in her thoughts. Giovanni’s attention had returned to the computer. Why he bothered was beyond her. He didn’t need to. He had enough staff to run a small country.

She turned to the blackness of the Tasman Sea—New Zealand now long gone—as they headed towards Australia. From there they’d stop briefly in Singapore and then on to Italy.

Twenty-four hours alone with Giovanni.

She guessed that it wouldn’t take long to find out what exactly he had in mind.

It wasn’t until the steward had laid out selection of Italian antipasto, together with some fresh New Zealand delicacies that Giovanni joined her at the table once more.

“A glass of champagne, Signora Visconti?” The steward’s smile was warm, despite his formality.

Rose started at her old name and then smiled acceptance. But it wasn’t until the door closed behind the steward that Giovanni broke the silence.

He held up his glass. “Salute.”

“Are we celebrating something?”

“Our renewed partnership, cara.”

“A
forced
partnership.”

“Come, you will benefit. If only to, what was it you said, be ‘free of the fear’ that I will find you. The fact that I will set you up financially for the future is surely not insignificant.”

“Giovanni, you seem to be ignoring the fact that I didn’t choose to be here.”

“Perhaps you did not think it possible?” He shrugged. “But, here we are, together at last.”

She closed her eyes at his arrogance, at his inability to imagine that someone may disagree with him. She sighed, knowing when she was beaten. “Here we are…”
 

“Now, you must eat. You look as if you haven’t eaten dinner since you left Italy.”

“I guess that could be a compliment.”

“It could be, but it isn’t. You are too skinny. I prefer flesh on my women.”

“Just as well I’m not your woman then isn’t it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are my wife.”

“In name only.” She popped an oyster into her mouth, relishing its texture and the cheek-pinching tang of fresh lemon.

He sighed and let his head drop back on the seat. “You will always be my woman, whether you or I like it or not.”

“I’m sure you tell all your conquests that they belong to you.”

He shrugged. He looked indifferent to the fact that his image was regularly plastered over the tabloids, a new woman on his arm at every party.
 

“All women need to feel loved.”

“Loved, but perhaps not stifled.”

“You are splitting hairs. It is an excellent trait in an IT professional, but irritating in a woman.” He glanced at his watch. “Eat. Then we’ll get down to business. We have a day—and a night—ahead so we may as well be productive.”

“And this is the night if I’m not mistaken. Surely you don’t make your staff work at night?”
 

“But what better opportunity? We have only one bedroom.”

“You have two bedrooms on this plane, Giovanni. I know, I’ve counted.”

“You wouldn’t put the staff out of a bed now would you?”

“They have their own quarters.”

“Not tonight. We have a larger complement than normal. So we will be sharing a bedroom. You are my wife after all.”

“In name only.”

She couldn’t read the complex message in his eyes.

“Eat. You’ll need your strength.” He pushed a plate of risotto over to her and, despite herself, her mouth watered. He was right, it had been a long time since she’d eaten such an exquisitely prepared meal.
 

By the time Rose had finished eating, she had also had enough of the questions.

Giovanni had eaten little during dinner, preferring to interrogate her about her time in New Zealand. To begin with she’d attempted to answer his questions. Then she’d resorted to one-syllable answers. Then, to silence.

She pushed away her empty plate and placed her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her steepled fingers

“Giovanni. I’ll put this as plainly as possible. We were separated for two years and what I did, in the little time that you can’t possibly have information about, is my affair. Mine. I have had enough of your jealousies.”

“I was merely protecting what was mine.”

“I am not your possession.”

He was silent for a moment. “I know.” His words were as quiet as they were shocking to her. “But I do not feel that way.”

“No, you don’t. And it’s impossible. Do you remember at the Scala party when you hit that man for talking to me?”

“He deserved it.”
 

“That was the first time. I should have known then that you couldn’t be trusted.”

He turned from her to pour more wine.

When he faced her once more his expression was cool. Her words seemed to have had no effect on him.

“Of course I hit him. He deserved it for trying to seduce you. I don’t know why you were so upset—why you left in anger.”

“Because I was tired of it all.”

“So you hid in the church.”

“I did not ‘hide’. And, anyway, I never did understand how you knew where to find me.”
 

“Instinct. That’s how I live. The church moved you once and you were drawn to it again. It was a place of refuge for you in some way.” He shrugged.
 

She shook her head. She didn’t want to admit that it wasn’t a refuge—anything but—it was where she felt closest to him. Where she could remember him as he truly was: no jealousy, no issues of control. Where she could gain strength by reminding herself how much she loved him.
 

“It was peaceful. And it held good memories for me: of our first night together when, oddly, you decided to show me the sights. Strange, we didn’t get to see any more sights after the church.”

“I’d asked you to marry me. It would have been strange indeed to continue our tour of Milan after that.”

“I thought you were crazy. We’d known each other for, what? Four hours?”

“It was enough.”

The silence extended around them as they both remembered. It had also been silent that night in the Santa Maria presso San Satiro: a haven of calm amidst the bustle and humid warmth of a Lombard summer evening.

Even now Rose could smell the candle wax and incense that had filled the air. The scent and the jewel-like decorations were inextricably linked with her realization that she loved Giovanni, more deeply and more profoundly than she had ever have thought possible.
 

“It was a very special night,” she admitted.

“The medieval fresco is reputed to have special powers. Anything magical enough to make the Madonna bleed is surely powerful enough to make two people know they should be together.”

“Miracles, magic—it’s not the real world.”

“You say that as if you do not believe in miracles.”

She laughed. “Of course I don’t. There are no such things. Only people fooling themselves.”

“Is that what you believe we were doing? Fooling ourselves?” He leant towards her, insisting that she look him in the eye. “Miele, if people have faith enough in something then it can become real. Why do you not believe this?”

Rose’s mouth went dry. “Because—” The thought of her child flitted through her mind. She tried again to respond. “Because it is nonsense.”

He shook his head. “My English Rose, so northern, so prosaic. You have to see it to believe it, eh?” He laughed as if the idea was ludicrous. “You have to taste it to know it for what it is.”