The Italians: Cristiano, Vittorio and Dario. Jane Porter

as he did. The fact that it was subtle made it no less dangerous.

      It was as if she were in a tiny boat being drawn by the current towards a lethal waterfall. Frantic, she tried to pull back mentally—to save herself before she plunged.

      ‘I heard that you and Santo have finally found a prime piece of land in Sardinia.’ Her carefully chosen reminder of his unwavering commitment to the business had the desired effect.

      His beautiful eyes narrowed warily. ‘We’re negotiating a deal on the land now. Developing in Sardinia isn’t easy.’ But he’d find a way.

      This was what he did. He relished the challenge, if only to prove that he could outsmart and outwit the opposition.

      That was why he was so angry with her, she mused. It wasn’t just that she’d left. It was because she hadn’t given him the opportunity to fight and win a victory. She’d just retreated.

      ‘Congratulations. I know how much you wanted to expand there.’

      ‘The deal isn’t done yet.’ But it would be. She had no doubt about that.

      The silence sizzled with undercurrents but the presence of so many guests meant that their interaction could be nothing but civilized. She was aware of the curiosity of the crowd but Cristiano wielded too much power and influence for anyone to dare to stare or openly speculate.

      Suddenly she wondered if their separation had been hard for him, this man who had lived such a gilded existence. His life was an upward trajectory, soaring higher and higher. Until she’d walked out, his ambitions for the future had continued unimpeded.

      ‘This is where you’ve been hiding, Cristiano.’ The scent of flowers surrendered to the stronger smell of perfume as another beautiful girl approached, this one with sloe eyes and a wide, sensuous mouth. That mouth curved into a smile that was unmistakably flirtatious and she didn’t glance once in Laurel’s direction as she placed a proprietorial hand on his arm.

      Laurel was shocked by the flash of jealousy that consumed her.

      She stared at that hand, consumed by a sick feeling that came with witnessing such a blatant act of possession. The long red nails reminded her of splashes of blood. It couldn’t have hurt more if the girl had dug them straight into Laurel’s heart.

      Jealousy became a fizz of anger.

      They never left him alone. Wherever they went, women elbowed each other to get closer, to flirt, to attract his attention, to try and take a piece of him. And he didn’t consider it strange because this had been his experience for all of his adult life.

      She still remembered the shock on his face when he’d asked her out and she’d turned him down.

      Almost as great as his shock when she’d walked out on their marriage.

      Driven to the edge of her tolerance by those long red nails and that look of promise, Laurel turned to walk away but Cristiano was faster. With a smooth, decisive movement, his hand shot out and he closed his fingers around her wrist, preventing her escape with a grip as secure as any handcuff. ‘Adele, I don’t believe you’ve met Laurel.’

      ‘Oh.’ The girl’s smile slipped slightly, her cool response revealing just where Laurel ranked in her list of influential social contacts. ‘Hi.’

      ‘My wife,’ Cristiano said in a firm voice and the smile vanished altogether.

      Laurel stood still, aware only of the blood pounding in her ears and his iron hold on her wrist.

      It was too little, too late and she didn’t understand it.

      Why would he emphasize a relationship that was over?

      The girl’s eyes narrowed slightly and her hand slipped from Cristiano’s arm. ‘Ah. I’m sure you two have lots to talk about.’ With a smile at Laurel that clearly said, I can wait until you’re off the scene, the girl sashayed away to talk to Santo, who was laughing at the far end of the terrace.

      ‘You see?’ His voice was harsh. ‘I can be sensitive.’ It was a blatant reference to the occasion when she’d lost her cool, upset by the continuous stream of women who seemed to consider a wife no impediment to flirtation. She’d accused him of insensitivity. He’d accused her of overreacting.

      For him to finally acknowledge her feelings on the subject only when they were this close to divorce bordered on the insensitive, she thought numbly. All he’d done was prove that he could have made the effort if he’d wanted to.

      ‘I no longer care who flirts with you.’ She wanted that to be true, but her mind had other ideas and tortured her with questions about which of the girls Cristiano was seeing. Because of course he had to be seeing someone. It had been two years. A man like him wasn’t going to be on his own for long once word got around that his wife had left him.

      ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ He took absolutely no notice of the women glancing at him across the sunlit terrace. Soon the sun would fade and the twinkling bulbs wound around the trees would send sparkles of light across the water. It was a breathtakingly romantic setting, the beauty of the surroundings a cruel backdrop for playing out the final scenes of a dying marriage.

      ‘I don’t really care if you believe it. I’m not saying it to challenge you.’ Did he realise that he was still holding her wrist? And why wasn’t she pulling her arm away? Across the terrace the dark-haired girl was holding court, every exaggerated toss of her head designed to draw the attention of the only man who interested her. ‘I really don’t care if you have yourself a harem.’

      ‘Would it make you feel better if I had? Ease your conscience?’ They were standing close to each other, his hand still locked on her arm in a proprietorial gesture that made no sense.

      ‘I have nothing on my conscience.’

      She knew from the sudden defensive flash in his eyes that he’d picked up her implication that his own conscience was the one that should be hurting. No one could accuse Cristiano Ferrara of being slow. His mind was as sharp as a blade.

      Which made his refusal to apologise all the more hurtful.

      He breathed deeply and she wondered whether this was the moment he’d finally admit his contribution to their break up. ‘We stood together in the little chapel that has been part of my family’s estate for generations, and I made you a promise. For better, for worse. In sickness and in health.’ His anger was no less dangerous for the fact that it was so ruthlessly contained. ‘You made the same promises. You were wearing a pretty white dress at the time—lace at the neck and my grandmother’s antique veil. Remember? Is this ringing any bells in that messed up head of yours?’

      The memory felled her at the knees and was the only reason she didn’t slap him for his inability to see his own part in their break up. ‘You are accusing me of breaking promises? In sickness and in health, Cristiano.’ In that small intimate space they’d created, she threw his words back at him. ‘Nowhere in our marriage vows did it say, Just as long as neither interferes with your husband’s business deals.’

      Furious with herself for opening up a wound she’d wanted to keep closed and even more furious with him for being so blind to his own shortcomings, Laurel thrust her glass into his hand, twisted free and virtually sprinted across the terrace towards the steps that led down to the private beach. She felt like Cinderella on the dot of midnight, except that she didn’t want the Prince to catch her.

      She could lose both shoes for all she cared. That wouldn’t be enough to stop her running.

      Santo stepped in front of her, his expression deceptively benign as he blocked her path. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

      Laurel ground her teeth, silently cursing everyone with the surname Ferrara. ‘Back to the villa. Not that it’s your business.’

      ‘You’re hurting my brother. That makes it my business.’

      ‘He’s big enough to look after