CHAPTER NINE
THE HOTEL THEY checked into dated back to the Renaissance and was as grand as any they had stayed in before. With its high frescoed ceilings and intricate architecture, it was the sort of place Grace loved to explore in detail.
Today, though, the last thing on her mind was exploration of any kind. Being such a distance from Lily felt as if her heart had been ripped out. For twelve long weeks it had been just the two of them, but, while the bond between them had been strong from the word go, she had always been aware of something missing, something she hadn’t dared put a name to. She still wouldn’t put a name to it, too mindful of the danger it could bring if voiced, even if only in her own head.
That missing something...it had vanished the day they had been forced to move back to Sicily and back into Luca’s world.
She tried to tell herself the nausea within her belly was due to separation anxiety and nothing else.
It had nothing to do with being alone with Luca—properly alone—for the first time in so, so long.
But something had changed. She could feel it. Loathing was no longer the chief emotion binding them together. It was more than just desire too, although yesterday, sitting on that bed with him cupping her breast, the heat from his hand permeating the fabric of her top...
They had both been fighting to contain the desire that leaped from one to the other, almost as if the charge that lived within her plugged into a charge within him.
She’d had to fight with everything in her not to press her chest into his palm. She’d had to fight not to touch his face, not to rub her cheek against his, not to simply jump onto his lap, smother him with craven kisses and...
She shuddered and closed her eyes.
If Lily hadn’t been in the room with them, she had no idea if she would have been strong enough to keep the war within herself going.
However much she wanted to deny it, anticipation brewed within her too. That treacherous charge in her stomach flamed brightly.
It was at times like this she could punch herself. She was in control of her body and its reactions. She and she alone.
To take her mind off her strangely melancholic mood and thoughts, she opened the wardrobe door and stared, not for the first time, at the hideous dress. If there were a bottle of red wine to hand she would happily tip it all over the vile creation. For good measure she would splosh the dregs all over the foul beige shoes Luca had selected for her to wear with it. Her dowdy old primary school teacher had worn similar shoes. However, looking at them cheered her up a little; right then she needed physical evidence of her husband’s bastard tendencies.
Checking her watch for the umpteenth time, she saw she still had well over an hour to kill before they were due to leave. Luca had disappeared to a meeting within minutes of their arrival saying only that he would be back in time to shower and change. She hadn’t asked who the meeting was with—who else could it be but Francesco? Still, for all she knew, he could be overseeing the beating of another hapless fool stupid enough to try to cheat Luca Mastrangelo and associates.
He hadn’t always been like this. The first year of their marriage—although restrictive in terms of freedom—had in all other respects been perfect. Luca had been perfect.
The change had been so subtle she had hardly noticed it, not at first. As his evenings away from her had increased from the odd one here and there to almost every other, she’d comforted herself knowing that more often than not he would join her in the early hours, whether in the master bedroom or the smaller bedroom in her studio. By the last few months of their marriage, those evenings when he was around, instead of the coffee they usually used as fuel, he would have a Scotch in hand. His temper had shortened too—not against her, apart from that one time in his office, but she had been acutely aware of how tense he was, the sharpness of his tone. She’d been desperate for him to confide his troubles in her. But he’d refused. He’d refused to even acknowledge there was anything wrong.
Looking back, she could see she’d never pushed him that hard for answers. Apart from the row they’d had the day before she left him, she’d never really pushed him, and even then she’d backed down.
It had been far easier to bury her head in the sand and pretend everything was all right.
And was that what Luca had been doing—was doing—too? Burying his head in the sand?
The more she thought about it, the more confused she felt. His abhorrence at being labelled a gangster was real. He genuinely didn’t see himself with those eyes.
Closing the wardrobe door, she debated calling Donatella again and checking that Lily was okay. Before she could dial the number, a message pinged into her phone. Opening it, she felt her heart lighten to see a photo of Lily lying on the sofa in her usual starfish position, beaming her new gummy smile. The picture had also been sent to Luca.
The accompanying message read:
Lily sends you both big kisses and says she wants you both to stop worrying and enjoy your night away.
Grace bit her lip and brushed away a relieved tear.
God, she was being such a sap. She wasn’t the first woman to leave her baby and she wouldn’t be the last. Lily was being cared for by someone who loved her deeply and wouldn’t harm a hair on her head.
She reread the message. The both part of it jumped out. Did that mean Luca had been calling his mum too?
Watching him bathe and dress their daughter had been so funny and so very touching. When she had got up that morning to give Lily her early bottle, he had appeared within minutes and chivvied Grace back to bed, insisting on feeding Lily himself.
Dear Lord, but he had fallen in love with Lily. She could see it in the softness of his eyes and the gentle tone of his voice, the tender way he held her. Their little daughter had crawled into his heart.
Donatella was smitten too.
If she found a way to escape, how could she, in all conscience, take Lily and disappear? It would be kinder to rip their hearts out and stamp on them.
But she could not allow herself to think of these things. She needed to concentrate on shoring up her mental defences against her husband. She had a whole evening to get through, during which she would be expected to act as Luca’s good Sicilian wife and pretend to be some obedient creature whose only objective in life was to please her husband. She would have to pretend she still loved him, pretend she enjoyed having her hand held in his.
Most of all she would have to convince herself he meant nothing to her, that her blood didn’t heat or her pulse rocket when he touched her.
Her fingers began to itch, a feeling that startled her. It wasn’t the same itch as when she’d wanted to slap him. This was an itch from old.
For the first time in almost a year she felt a desperate urge to paint, to draw, to sketch.
Before she could begin tearing the suite apart looking for some paper and a pen or pencil—when, she wondered, had she stopped carrying a sketch pad with her everywhere she went?—there was a light rap on the suite door.
She checked the spyhole, only opening the door when satisfied her visitor was a member of the hotel staff.
‘Signora Mastrangelo?’ the severe-looking woman asked, a large package in her hands.
‘Sì,’ Grace replied, showing off a little of her Italian.
‘This has just arrived for you,’ the woman said in perfect English.
‘Who’s it from?’
‘I do not know, signora. Maybe there is a note inside for you?’ she added helpfully.
‘Thank you. I mean, grazie.’
‘Prego.’
Grace closed the door and took the box to the dining table, intrigued and a little wary of what could be inside and who could have sent it.
Clenching her teeth together, she took a deep breath and ripped off the brown packaging. Inside was a long cream box with a familiar motif.
Her heart suddenly wedged in her throat, she opened the lid as if she were expecting a load of cobras and rattlesnakes to be inside.
Her hands flew to her mouth. No note accompanied it. No note needed to accompany it.
Inside was the peacock-skirted dress she had fallen in love with before Luca had forced the beige monstrosity on her.
He must have noticed her staring at it on the mannequin. Not only had he noticed but he had remembered.
If her belly wasn’t already a mass of noodles and butterflies before, it was now a riot to match the beautiful colours of her dress.
When had he bought it? And why? Why now? So many confused thoughts were flying through her head that at first she didn’t hear the new rap on the suite door.
Opening it, she found the same employee standing at the threshold, this time holding another, smaller package.
‘My apologies, signora. I had not been informed that this too was delivered by the courier.’
Less than a minute later, Grace opened the package and discovered the most amazing pair of high, strappy gold sandals.
* * *
Grace was applying her make-up when she heard Luca enter the suite. Immediately her steady hand began to shake, violently enough for her to stab herself in the eye with her mascara wand.
‘Grace?’ he called out.
‘I’m in my room,’ she replied, putting a palm to her smarting eye.
‘Are you ready?’
‘Nearly.’
‘Will you be ready to leave in fifteen minutes?’
‘Yes.’
Ready in fifteen minutes? Never mind that she needed to reapply her make-up and change from the hotel robe into the dress, she could have fifteen years and she doubted she would be ready.
‘Are you all right in there?’ He must have heard something in her voice because his tone was concerned.
‘I’m fine.’
Removing her palm, she almost laughed out loud at her reflection. One eye was still perfectly made up. The other, the one she had stabbed, had all the make-up running, the eye itself bright red and weeping.
‘Brilliant,’ she muttered under her breath.
Her door opened.
‘You’re not fine,’ Luca accused, strolling over and peering closely at her. ‘What have you done?’
‘Stabbed myself with my mascara. Don’t worry. I’ll give it a couple of minutes to stop weeping and then I’ll redo it.’
A slow grin spread over his face. ‘You look like Morticia Addams.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Or that clown. What’s its name? Poirot?’
‘Pierrot,’ she corrected with a snigger.
‘That’s the one. You painted your friend Cara as Pierrot once.’
‘So I did.’ She grinned, remembering. Luca had belly-laughed when he’d seen the finished product. ‘It was revenge after she trashed one of my dresses when she’d drunk too much wine.’
‘Was that when we’d been out to that party in Palermo and she tripped over a tree?’
‘Yep.’ Taking a quick peek in the mirror, she grimaced. ‘I look a mess.’
‘How did you come to assault yourself with your make-up?’
‘It’s all your fault,’ she said, fixing him with a stern look. ‘You startled me when you started barging around the suite like a jumbo elephant.’
‘I’m nothing like a jumbo elephant.’ He raised a brow. ‘Apart from one particular part of my anatomy.’
She raised a brow in turn and indicated the door. ‘Shouldn’t you be going for a shower?’
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to discuss my jumbo-sized appendage?’
A warm, bubbly feeling spread through her veins. She slapped his arm lightly. ‘Your modesty never fails to astound me. Now go and have a shower before you stink the whole suite out.’
‘I’m going, I’m going,’ he said with mock surrender. When he reached the door, he turned back to her. ‘Did you receive any packages while I was at my meeting?’
And just like that, she remembered where she was, and all the good feelings inside her vanished.
Consternation hit.
For a few brief seconds, time had turned and transplanted her—them—into the past.
The here and now had disappeared. For that brief moment in time when they had teased each other she had forgotten that she hated him.
‘Yes. I received them. Thank you.’ And shortly she would have to put on the dress and shoes. Call her contrary but part of her would prefer to wear the hideous beige creation. At least then she would be able to seethe at him all night, would be in no danger of further softening.
When he left, she went straight to the bathroom and washed her face. She was patting it dry when Luca came back into her room.
‘Here, take this,’ he said, handing her a small tube. ‘Put a couple of drops in your eye and it should get rid of the redness.’
Don’t be touched at his thoughtfulness, she warned herself. Keep your guard up.
He stood, watching her, waiting for her to say something.
‘Thanks.’
He nodded. ‘No problem. I’ve told the driver we’ll be a few minutes late, so don’t rush.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m sure the last thing you want is for your perfect wife to look as if she was thrown together.’
His mouth tightened. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. I was thinking of you. If you want to twist it then that’s your problem.’
Grace stared at his retreating figure wishing she could take it back.
But take what back? Luca had been very clear in his expectation that she be a good Sicilian wife and nothing had been said to alter that.
They couldn’t live in a permanent state of angst. It was natural some of the good feeling from their previous marital incarnation should seep into the fabric of this new form. She just had to be alert and ready for it.
She could not afford to drop her guard. Not for a second.
* * *
When Luca left his room twenty minutes later, he found Grace sitting on the sofa with her back to him, a glass of red wine on the table in front of her.
‘You were quick,’ he commented, helping himself to the glass and opened bottle she had left out for him.
She got to her feet and reached for her wine. Taking a sip of it, she turned to face him.
He took her in slowly, studying every inch.
That his wife had never been one for spending hours on her appearance was somewhat of an understatement. Considering she spent—or had spent—most of her natural state splattered with paint, she always used to joke it was pointless. However, she had adored dressing up for nights out, could transform her fresh-faced beauty into gorgeous, quirky sophistication with nothing more than a tiny make-up bag of tricks.
Tonight, in fifteen short minutes, she had outdone herself.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off her. The sunny colours were perfect on her, the buttercup bodice enhancing her small cleavage and the litheness of her stature. The front of the dress rested above her knees, displaying her long, slender legs to perfection, the back of it mere inches from the floor. Her hair, which had grown into a very short bob, had been spiked in all directions, her make-up bold, her eyes painted a smoky brown that darkened the hazel of her eyes. A splash of orange lipstick, that on any other woman would look crass, completed the look to perfection.
He watched as she swallowed and moved towards him, the peacock skirt swaying as she walked.
‘Could you do the zip up for me, please?’ Her voice was terse, her features hard.
‘Of course.’
In her room, for all of a minute, he’d thought he had found his old Grace, the woman whose mocking was never malicious, intended only to amuse, never to sting.
This woman before him was not that Grace.
He wanted to find his old Grace again. She was in there, somewhere. He wanted to reach in and pull her out permanently.
She turned her back to him. She’d managed to zip it three quarters of the way up. He imagined her fighting it, contorting herself into all different positions in an attempt to zip it fully, anything rather than have to ask him for help.
Standing closer than was necessary, close enough to hear the shallowness of her breaths, he placed a hand on her shoulder, bare except for the thin strap of her dress. Her skin held none of the ruddiness her compatriots were famed for. Grace’s skin was a light honey tone and satin to the touch.
He pulled the zip up to where it ended just below her shoulder blades. Instead of stopping and stepping back, he trailed his fingers along that soft skin to the base of her neck.
She stood rigid, like the very mannequin that had worn this same dress, no longer breathing. He brushed his hands down her long, supple arms then snaked them around her waist and pressed against her. She would have to be a corpse not to feel the length of his hardness.
‘What are you doing?’ she rasped, stepping out of his hold.
‘Enjoying my wife.’
‘You buy me a dress you know I like and think you can enjoy me?’
‘Stop twisting things.’ He raked his fingers through his freshly styled hair, uncaring that he mussed it. Every time he took a step forward she jumped a mile back.
‘Then why did you buy it? What happened to me wearing the punishment dress? Did you buy this as a way of softening me up so I’d fall into bed with you? Or was it an attack of the guilts?’
‘I do not need to soften you up to get you back into my bed.’ Ignoring her mention of guilt, he took in her heightened colour, the anger in her eyes that fought with the desire also residing there. ‘All I would have to do is kiss you and you would be begging for me to take you.’
‘Bull—’
‘Would you like to put it to the test?’ he interrupted. ‘One kiss and see where it leads, see whether it leads to you begging for more?’
She fixed her hazel eyes on him, her throat working frantically. ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before I kiss you or go anywhere near a bed with you in it.’
‘If being in hell means sharing a bed with you, I’ll take that over heaven.’
Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ before she snapped it shut and grabbed her clutch bag from the bureau. ‘Shouldn’t we be making a move?’
‘Yes, my good Sicilian wife,’ he agreed, fighting to keep his tone amiable. Tonight would likely be awkward enough for them both—he wanted her to at least relax enough to enjoy some of it, but, by God, she was making it hard.
He extended his arm to her. ‘It is time for us to be sociable and party with Florence’s finest.’
‘If they’re friends of yours, I expect the party will be full of gangsters with guns.’
The good humour he had been clinging on to by the skin of his teeth vanished, her testiness clearly contagious. ‘You push my tolerance too far. I might want you back in my bed, bella, but do not think it means I am disregarding our agreement. If you want to stay in Lily’s life you had damn well better behave yourself tonight.’
* * *
As they were in Florence, in Grace’s eyes the art capital of the world, she expected the party to be a refined affair with soft background music and plenty of canapés. And a few machine guns discreetly tucked away in full view.
Francesco Calvetti’s party was located in his new hotel, which was as opulent and plush as the hotel she and Luca were staying in, and seeped with as much architectural history. Yet she could give it only cursory appreciation, her exchange with Luca leaving her feeling all wrung out. It was so hard having to keep up the fight of her responses towards him. When it came to Luca, her head and her body were poles apart. It was a fight she feared her body was winning.
The drive to the hotel had been a game in ignoring each other: Grace looking out of her window, Luca emailing and conducting whatever cyber business was necessary on a Saturday evening.
However hard she ignored him, her body remained painfully aware.
They entered the lobby flanked by four bodyguards. Luca hooked a muscular arm around her waist. ‘Smile and act happy,’ he said into her ear, the menacing undertow audible.
She responded with a smile of such saccharine goodness she hoped the sweetness made him puke. Anything had to be better than him knowing her whole body vibrated with excitement at his closeness.
It was somewhat of a shock when they entered the ballroom and found it transformed into a nightclub. Or that was what she assumed it had been turned into with the heavy velvet drapes that covered the walls and the dark mood lighting. Loud music pumped, not the quaint string group she had envisaged but a DJ in a booth high up on a stage, already surrounded by a throng of beautiful women. She recognised him as the house DJ employed at Luca and Francesco’s nightclub in Palermo. She had visited it twice and loathed it. Luca had holed himself up in the offices, leaving her bored out of her skull. At least when she accompanied him to one of the casinos there was always something to do that didn’t involve gyrating into strangers’ groins.
She could feel the vibrations through her fantastic gold sandals. Next to the DJ’s booth were two caged podiums in which semi-naked lap dancers writhed. Much as it made her feminist hackles rise, even she could see the professional pride they took in their performances.
For the second time that evening she wished she had her sketchbook with her.
The ballroom was packed, not with shady men in black—although there were a fair number of them around—but men and women from the height of Sicilian and Italian society, minor British royalty and American film and rock stars. She even recognised a few patrons of the arts. Dotted around the enormous room were enough armed guards—unobtrusive but to her trained eye obvious—to overthrow a government.
It seemed as if Luca knew all the guests. Forced to stick to his side, she was introduced to dozens of both new and familiar faces, all of whom studied her with great interest. It was the familiar faces she found the hardest to endure, the curiosity in their eyes at the return of the prodigal wife.
She’d had no idea anyone would be interested about the state of their marriage, not at a birthday party in Florence.
Luca must have picked up on the curiosity too, for he kept her hand tightly clasped in his. Or was he simply marking his territory?
Glasses of champagne were thrust into her free hand, which she took cautious sips of, careful not to drink too much. Alcohol had a terrible habit of loosening her inhibitions and she needed to keep them tightly squashed away.
Her hackles rose again when a tall, lithe man approached them, two women walking to heel as if especially trained.
Francesco Calvetti. The party boy. Luca’s main business associate.