The Santangeli Marriage. Sara Craven

went straight to the desk, extracted a file from one of its brass-handled drawers and, after pouring himself a generous Scotch, stretched out on one of the sofas and began to glance through the folder’s contents. An update had been received the previous day, but he’d not had a chance to read it before, and now seemed an appropriate time.

      He took a contemplative mouthful of whisky as his eyes scanned swiftly down the printed sheet, then sat up abruptly with a gasp, nearly choking as his drink went down the wrong way and he found himself in imminent danger of spilling the rest everywhere.

      He recovered instantly, eyes watering, then set down the crystal tumbler carefully out of harm’s way before, his face thunderous, he re-read the unwelcome information that the private surveillance company engaged for the protection of his absentee wife had provided.

      ‘We must advise you,’ it stated, ‘that since our last report Signora Santangeli, using her maiden name, has obtained paid employment as a receptionist in a private art gallery in Carstairs Place, apparently taking the place of a young woman on maternity leave. In the past fortnight she has lunched twice in the company of the gallery’s owner, Mr Corin Langford. She no longer wears her wedding ring. Photographic evidence can be provided if required.’

      Renzo screwed the report into a ball and threw it across the room, cursing long and fluently.

      He flung himself off the sofa and began to pace restlessly up and down. He did not need any photographs, he thought savagely. Too many of his own affairs had begun over leisurely lunches, so he knew all about satisfying one appetite while creating another—was totally familiar with the sharing of food and wine, eyes meeting across the table, fingers touching, then entwining.

      What he did not—could not—recognise was the mental image of the girl on the other side of the table. Marisa smiling back, talking and laughing, the initial shyness in her eyes dancing into confidence and maybe even into desire.

      The way she had never once behaved with him. Nor looked at him—or smiled.

      Not, of course, that he was jealous, he hastened to remind himself.

      Just—angrier than he’d ever been before. Everything that had happened between them in the past paled into insignificance under this—this insult to his manhood. To his status as her husband.

      Well, if his reluctant bride thought she could place the horns on him, she was much mistaken, he vowed in grim silence. Tomorrow he would go to fetch her home, and once he had her back she would not get away from him again. Because he would make very sure that from then on she would think of no one—want no one—but him. That she would be his completely.

      And, he told himself harshly, he would enjoy every minute of it.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘MARISA? My God, it is you. I can hardly believe it.’

      The slender girl who’d been gazing abstractedly into a shop window swung round, her lips parting in astonishment as she recognised the tall, fair-haired young man standing behind her.

      She said uncertainly, ‘Alan—what are you doing here?’

      ‘That should be my question. Why aren’t you sipping cappuccino on the Via Veneto?’

      The million-dollar question…

      ‘Well, that can pall after a while,’ she said lightly. ‘And I began to fancy a cup of English tea instead.’

      ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘And what does Lorenzo the Magnificent have to say about that?’

      The note of bitterness in his voice was not lost on her. She said quickly, ‘Alan—don’t…’

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He looked past her to the display of upmarket baby clothes she’d been contemplating and his mouth tightened. ‘I gather congratulations must be in order?’

      ‘God, no.’ Marisa spoke more forcefully than she’d intended, and flushed when she saw his surprise. ‘I—I mean not for me. A girl I was at school with, Dinah Newman, is expecting her first, and I want to buy her something special.’

      ‘Well, you seem to have come to the right place,’ Alan said, inspecting a couple of the price tickets with raised brows. ‘You need to be the wife of a millionaire banker to shop here.’ He smiled at her. ‘She must be quite a friend.’

      ‘Let’s just say that I owe her,’ Marisa said quietly.

      I owe her for the fact that she recommended me to Corin Langford, so that I’m now gainfully employed instead of totally dependent on Renzo Santangeli. And for not asking too many awkward questions when I suddenly turned up in London alone.

      ‘Do you have to do your buying right now?’ Alan asked. ‘I just can’t believe I’ve run into you like this. I was wondering if we could have lunch together.’

      She could hardly tell him that her lunch hour was coming to an end and it was time she went back to her desk at the Estrello Gallery. She had already instinctively slid her betrayingly ringless left hand into the pocket of her jacket.

      Meeting Alan again was a surprise for her too, she thought, but tricky when she had so many things to conceal.

      ‘Sorry.’ Her smile was swift and genuinely apologetic. ‘I have to be somewhere in about five minutes.

      ‘At your husband’s beck and call, no doubt.’

      She hesitated. ‘Actually, Renzo’s—away at the moment.’

      ‘Leaving you alone so soon?’

      Marisa shrugged. ‘Well, we’re hardly joined at the hip.’ She tried to sound jokey.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can imagine.’ He paused. ‘So, what do grass widows do? Count the hours until the errant husband returns?’

      ‘Far from it,’ she said crisply. ‘They get on with their own lives. Go places and see people.’

      ‘If that’s true,’ he said slowly, ‘maybe you’d consider seeing me one more time.’ His voice deepened urgently. ‘Marisa—if lunch is impossible meet me for dinner instead—will you? Eight o’clock at Chez Dominique? For old times’ sake?’

      She wanted to tell him that the old times were over. That they’d died the day he had allowed himself to be shunted out of her life and off to Hong Kong, because he hadn’t been prepared to fight for her against a man who was powerful enough to kill his career with a word.

      Not that she could altogether blame him, she reminded herself. Their romance had been at far too early a stage to command the kind of loyalty and commitment that she’d needed. It had only amounted to a few kisses, for heaven’s sake. And it was one of those kisses that had brought their relationship to a premature end—when Alan had been caught saying goodnight to her by Cousin Julia.

      That tense, shocking night when she’d finally discovered what the future really had in store for her.

      If Alan had really been my lover, she thought, I wouldn’t have been a virgin bride, and therefore there’d have been no marriage to Renzo. But I—I didn’t realise that until it was too late. Alan had already left, and, anyway, did I ever truly care enough for him to give myself in that way?

      She concealed a shiver as unwanted memories stirred. Lingered disturbingly. ‘Alan—about tonight—I don’t know… And I really must go now.’

      ‘I’ll book the table,’ he said. ‘And wait. Everything else is up to you.’

      She gave him an uncertain smile. ‘Well, whatever happens, it’s been good to see you again.’ And hurried away.

      She was back at the gallery right on time, but Corin was hovering anxiously nevertheless, the coming session with his lawyers clearly at the forefront of his mind.

      ‘He’s going through a difficult divorce,’ Dinah had warned