The Blackmail Baby. Natalie Rivers

made the worst mistake of her life?

      ‘So you are sticking to your story?’ Lorenzo asked. ‘Perhaps for the sake of consistency you think it best to maintain the pretence for now?’

      ‘What do you want from marriage—from your wife?’ Chloe demanded, refusing to let him bully her into saying something to humiliate herself.

      ‘I wanted someone honest and natural,’ he said. ‘Someone I could respect. Not another of those women whose grandiose pronouncements of love are as false as their manicured appearance.’

      ‘I have been honest with you,’ Chloe said, blinking furiously as she felt her eyes start to burn with tears. There was no way she was going to let herself cry in front of him, not after the way he was treating her. ‘And if you can’t respect that—can’t respect me—then that’s your problem.’

      She lifted her chin defiantly, pressing her teeth into her lower lip to stop it quivering, and tried to push past him. But his fingers closed on her arm, biting into the flesh like a steel vice.

      ‘Go and compose yourself,’ he said, witheringly. ‘But don’t take too long. After all, you were the one anxious not to be rude to our wedding guests.’

      Chloe drew in a startled breath, looking over her shoulder, down into the ballroom below. She had all but forgotten where she was and it was a shock to see the party still in full swing.

      A wave of nausea washed through her as she wondered if anyone had seen her awful exchange with Lorenzo. But no one was looking up at them and a quick glance around assured her that they were alone on the balcony.

      ‘There were no witnesses—which is fortunate for you—’ his words were disdainful, but that did not mask the undercurrent of menace in his tone ‘—because I will not tolerate any further disrespect from you. Or permit you to shame me in any way.’

      Chloe stared at him, suddenly unable to recognise the man she had fallen so deeply in love with. She opened her mouth to respond—to tell him that she wouldn’t tolerate any more of his vile behaviour. But before she had the chance to speak he turned sharply and strode away towards his study.

      She stood stock-still, watching him go—aware of the crackling emotion storming through his tall, powerful body as his long, thrusting strides bore him swiftly along the corridor. She’d never been able to look away if Lorenzo was in the room. His presence drew her gaze like a magnet.

      Even now, after everything that had just happened, she couldn’t look away until he was out of sight. But, as his study door closed, she knew what she must do. She had to get herself away from him—as fast and as far as possible.

      Ten minutes later Chloe hesitated by the door of her bedroom, looking down at the beautiful silk wedding gown lying on the bed. She’d felt like a princess wearing that dress. Or maybe like Cinderella going to the ball. But she’d found out in the most brutal way that Lorenzo was not Prince Charming.

      She shuddered, remembering his expression when she’d declared her love for him, and pressed her hands over her face, trying to blot out the memory of the caustic look in his eyes as he’d ground her hopes and dreams into dust. He’d broken her heart and callously humiliated her in one fell swoop.

      For the first time she was grateful that none of her family had made it to the wedding. Her mother and sister were too involved in their new life in Australia, and since Chloe had decided not to go with them it was almost as if they’d forgotten she existed. And of course her father was not there. She didn’t even know where he was—or if he was still alive.

      She drew in a deep breath and forced herself into action. She’d thought that this was the happiest day of her life, but Lorenzo had woken her up from that fairy tale with a merciless jolt. Now she’d have to hurry if she wanted to have any chance of making a clean getaway. And at that moment all she wanted was to be as far away from Lorenzo as possible.

      She pulled her faux fur hat tight onto her head to completely cover her light blonde hair and obscure her face as much as she could. Then she turned up the collar of her long coat and slipped out into the corridor, heading towards the side staircase that led to the palazzo’s water gate.

      She knew there’d be many boats at the Grand Canal entrance, waiting to ferry the wedding guests back to their hotels after the reception, and she needed transportation to get across the lagoon to the airport as quickly as possible. There wasn’t much time before the last plane left the city that night.

      Disguised in bulky winter layers, she didn’t look anything like the petite blonde bride who had arrived that day, radiant with happiness and fresh from her wedding ceremony—and she desperately hoped that no one would recognise her. She couldn’t bear it if one of Lorenzo’s security staff dragged her back inside—back to Lorenzo.

      She shivered as she climbed into a water taxi and gave directions for Marco Polo Airport. An icy wind that felt as if it had blown straight from the frozen spires of the Dolomites sliced right through her and started her shivering deep inside.

      That afternoon the sparkling flurries of snow had seemed beautiful and romantic. Now the weather seemed unrelenting and cruel.

      But at least she’d got away from the palazzo unchallenged, and was on her way across the dark lagoon to the airport. The windows of the boat were completely misted over so that she couldn’t see anything, and the movement of the water was making her feel sick.

      Suddenly the night seemed impenetrable—a swirling black and white uncertainty, with no visible landmarks. And her heart was breaking into a million tiny fragments that were no different from the icy shards of snow blowing down from the mountain peaks, to be swallowed up by the ink-black water of the lagoon.

      Lorenzo stood outside on the balcony, staring into the snowstorm in a temper that was as foul as the night. The snow was falling so thickly that the lights shining from the buildings on the other side of the Grand Canal were just a dim glow, and there was no way to see any distance across the open water.

      Not that there was anything to see. Chloe was gone.

      She had boarded the final commercial plane to leave the city that night, and now the weather made it impossible for him to follow—even in his private jet.

      He swore bitterly, gripping the balustrade with fingers that were as cold and hard as the stone beneath them.

      He knew where she was almost certainly heading—to the home of her best friend, Liz, in a small village south of London. But as a precaution he had people waiting at Gatwick Airport to track her onward journey and to confirm her final destination.

      It was not a long flight. In fact she was probably nearly there by now. He lifted his arm automatically to check his wristwatch, and cursed again as he saw that the face of his watch and his dark wedding suit were covered with icy white snow.

      He turned abruptly and stepped into the bedroom, dashing the snow away with rough, impatient sweeps of his hands. But it was already melting with the heat of his body, so he shrugged his wet jacket off and tossed it aside.

      Suddenly he froze—staring down at the wedding dress Chloe had abandoned on the bed. His heart thudded violently in his chest and he felt his blood surge angrily through his veins.

      How dared she walk out on him like this?

      How dared she turn tail and run away into the night?

      The end of their marriage was not her decision to make on a whim, simply because he had quashed her sentimental outburst.

      But that was immaterial now. He did not know or care whether her declaration of love had been a calculated ploy. Or if it had been a simple misguided notion brought about by the grandeur of the occasion. It made no difference now. By running away she had sealed her fate. Their marriage was over.

      He picked up the dress and found himself picturing how sexy Chloe had looked wearing it. He’d spent most of the afternoon imagining peeling it slowly off her delectable body.

      He