Italian Bachelors: Irresistible Sicilians. Michelle Smart

as to up and leave without a word.’ He threw his arms out, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, ignoring the throb in his fist. ‘You didn’t just leave me, you left everything, all your work, all your clothes...’

      In the midst of his fury he saw how white she had become, how she clung to her workbench as if she depended on it to keep her upright.

      Taking a deep, ragged breath, he fought for control and forced his voice to adopt a modicum of calm. ‘Two weeks after you went missing, your bank statement arrived. I opened it and found every euro had been transferred into a new account the same day you disappeared. Do you know how I felt then?’

      Slowly, she shook her head.

      ‘Elated. Suddenly there existed the possibility you were alive. Until then it hadn’t even occurred to me to check the safe for your passport.’ When he had discovered it missing, the relief had been so physical he had slumped to the floor and buried his head in his hands, sitting there for minutes that had felt like hours, his usually quick brain taking its time to process the implications. But once he had processed them...

      He had dug up all her bank statements and read them in detail. Apart from the odd splurge on painting materials, Grace had hardly touched the allowance he gave her. Over a two-year period she had accumulated more than two million euros.

      Had she been planning her escape from the start?

      Whatever the reason, his wife had saved enough money to start over.

      From then, it had been a case of following the money trail. Luckily for him, money—his money—was able to lubricate the tightest of lips and within a day he had been in Frankfurt. Unluckily for him, he had been a week too late. She had already gone. It had taken another four months for him to find her latest location but he had been too late then too.

      In the meantime, Pepe had come up trumps with Cara’s phone, through which they’d determined what they had good reason to believe was Grace’s number. That same number had remained inactive until barely a fortnight ago.

      ‘You put me through hell,’ he said flatly. ‘I would have gladly traded my life for yours and you let me believe you were dead. Now tell me why I don’t deserve some answers.’

      ‘I was going to leave you a note,’ she said. For the first time he detected a softening in her voice. ‘But I couldn’t risk you coming home early and finding it before I had a chance to leave Sicily. I knew you would never let me go.’

      ‘What kind of a monster do you think I am?’ he asked, throwing his arms back in the air. ‘That argument we had before you disappeared? Was that the cause of it?’

      ‘No! That row—as horrible as it was, I would have forgiven it in time...’

      ‘So tell me! When, exactly, did I frighten you so much that you believed I would stop you doing anything?’

      ‘That’s just it! You never let me do anything.’ She threw her own arms in the air. ‘You promised I could exhibit my work in Palermo and it came to nothing—every time I found the perfect venue you found the perfect excuse to keep me from buying it. I wasn’t allowed to drive my own car, I had to travel everywhere with armed guards—I couldn’t even buy a box of tampons without one of your goons hovering over me. I would insist he stay outside the shop door but I couldn’t be certain he didn’t have his binoculars out spying on me, ready to report back to you.’

      ‘My men were assigned for your own protection, not to spy on you,’ he roared. ‘They were there to keep you safe. This isn’t England. You knew when you married me that you were marrying into—’

      ‘I most certainly did not! I took you at face value. I thought everyone in Sicily carried guns for their personal protection. If I had so much as suspected the kind of monster you really were...’ Her vicious tongue suddenly stopped, her eyes widening, fixing on his shoulder. ‘Luca, you’re bleeding.’

      Sure enough, when he followed her line of sight down to his shoulder, a dark stain had appeared. Immediately he became aware of the accompanying ache.

      Now he was aware of it, his knuckles throbbed too.

      Grace stared for a moment longer, then turned and dragged a paint-splattered chair over to him. ‘Sit down and take your top off,’ she ordered in short, clipped tones. ‘I’ll get the first-aid kit.’

      ‘Stop trying to change the subject,’ he said. With all the bitterness and acrimony flying around, a sour taste had formed in his mouth. ‘You were about to explain what you find so abhorrent about me.’

      White-lipped, her jaw clenched, she sank to her knees in front of a small cabinet. ‘You’re hurt,’ she said as she rummaged through it. ‘My home truths won’t mean a thing if you bleed to death. Let’s sort your wound out first.’

      Yes, he was hurt. Heartsick and nauseated with a chest so tight it was difficult to draw breath. ‘You are the last person I want tending to any of my injuries, now or ever.’

      A small green bag with first aid written on it whipped over and landed by his feet.

      ‘If you want to bleed to death like a stuck pig, be my guest. Or, if you want to be an adult about it, let me take a look at your wound.’

      She stood before him, hands on hips, glaring at him. He had always known she had proper backbone but its strength had only become fully apparent since he found her.

      An image flickered in his hammering brain of his wife facing off against their teenage daughter. Would Lily inherit her mother’s independent streak? How often would he have to step in as peacemaker when they faced off to each other?

      That was if they lasted that long. At the rate he and Grace were going they would be lucky to see the new year in without killing each other. He could feel the fury that resided in her as clearly as he could feel his own.

      He inclined his head and then carefully removed his sweater and shirt.

      With brisk efficiency, Grace picked up the first-aid kit and brought another chair over to sit opposite him.

      She tilted her head and studied him. ‘You’ve torn the stitches.’ Unzipping the kit bag, she removed a square foil package and ripped it open with her teeth. ‘Keep still.’

      Her head bowed in concentration, she used the antiseptic wipe to clean the blood with her right hand, her left hand resting lightly on his thigh to steady herself.

      His senses filled with the fragrance of her shampoo tickling his nose. The trace of turpentine that had become more elusive the longer she had been gone was there too, more pronounced than it had been in months.

      Being back in her studio with her filled him with emotions he could not begin to comprehend.

      How he had loved watching her paint, watching the deep concentration she applied to her art. She would cut out the world from inside her head so all that remained was her and the canvas that became an extension of herself. If he was home, he would bring his laptop to the studio and work while she painted. For the most part she would be oblivious to his presence, but every now and then she would turn her head and bestow him a beaming smile that left him in no doubt how happy she was to have him there with her.

      Even before she disappeared he had missed those times, but the running of the casinos and nightclubs had taken him away from home more frequently than he would have liked, especially in the evenings.

      ‘I like what you’ve done to your hair.’

      She stilled and raised her eyes. ‘I thought you would hate it.’

      ‘Is that why you cut it so short? To spite me?’

      ‘Partly. Mostly it was to make it harder for you or anyone searching to recognise me. Every time I moved on I would cut a little more off and change the colour.’

      ‘It’s just as well I found you when I did or you would have ended up looking like a Tibetan monk.’

      She laughed, but it sounded