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Belle rolled her eyes, unimpressed or, at least, trying to seem unimpressed. ‘I know that.’
‘Vashir is a very devout and conservative society and Gaetano’s behaviour would cause a huge scandal there, which would engulf Zarif’s image in Gaetano’s sleaze. Every ruler has opponents and it would be used against him to remind people that his father was a foreigner with a sordid irreligious lifestyle. He doesn’t deserve that. Like all of us, he paid the price of having Gaetano as a father while he was still a child,’ Cristo informed her grimly. ‘I offered to marry you and adopt those children to prevent that from happening.’
‘But you didn’t tell me that, so you can hardly expect me to be sympathetic now,’ Belle told him roundly. ‘It’s not only a little late in the day to start calling me a blackmailer, it’s also darned unfair when you never gave me those facts in the first place!’
At that spirited retort, Cristo gritted his teeth again in smouldering silence.
‘I did not blackmail you!’ Belle exclaimed, sliding off the bench to stand up and walk down the steps before turning back to face him while his attention lingered on her slender leggy proportions in the denim shorts and camisole she wore. ‘Evidently my plans to go to court on the children’s behalf put you between a rock and a hard place but you made the decision to propose marriage!’
Lean, strong features set in forbidding lines in the shadowy candlelight, Cristo stared broodingly back at her. ‘I did but even now I know that your plans to have your day in court would have damaged those children more than you can possibly appreciate.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’
‘I know exactly what I’m talking about—in fact nobody knows better!’ Cristo parried with unexpected rawness, his dark eyes glittering like stars. ‘Gaetano trailed my mother through court in a supposed attempt to gain custody of me when I was a child. Of course what he really wanted was a bigger payoff from the divorce. He didn’t want me; he never wanted me. All the dirty secrets of my parents’ marriage were trailed out in court and made headlines across Europe and you can still read about it online if you know where to look. Do you really think those children would thank you either now or years from now for seeing their parents’ less than stellar private life splashed across the tabloids and the net?’
That angle hadn’t occurred to Belle and she gulped. ‘Naturally I didn’t want your charity when the children were legally entitled to a share in their own name.’
‘It wouldn’t have been charity.’
‘No, but you would’ve been buying my silence and theirs!’ she lashed back at him angrily. ‘I watched what you did with Mayhill—all aboard the Ravelli gravy train to keep everyone quiet about Gaetano, Mary and their kids.’
‘Didn’t you climb aboard the same train with a wedding ring?’ Cristo taunted with sizzling derision.
‘No, I darned well didn’t!’ Belle hurled back, temper leaping up in a surge of inner flame. ‘Because no matter what you think I’m not a gold-digger or a social climber! I married you for the sake of my brothers and sisters, so that they would never have to go through what Bruno and I went through!’
‘What did you go through?’ Cristo demanded with galling impatience.
‘When Mum started the affair with Gaetano and then later when she gave birth to Bruno, I think people were inclined to turn a blind eye to it all because everybody knew she’d had a rough time with my father until he died.’ Belle breathed in deep, angry pain and mortification coursing through her slender length. ‘Back then the locals felt sorry for her—my father was an abusive drunk.’
‘And then?’ Cristo’s attention was locked to her beautiful face and the glistening lucidity of her wide green eyes.
‘And then it went sour for all of us because Mum continued the affair with Gaetano and went on having children. Everyone knew Gaetano had a wife abroad. They decided Mum was shameless and bold and stopped talking to her, wouldn’t even serve her in some village shops,’ Belle recounted unhappily. ‘But she lived in the Lodge outside the village and shopped elsewhere so the hostility didn’t really touch her...but I went to local schools with the children of those judgemental parents...’
Her voice momentarily ran out of steam and then picked up again as she shared a memory, a haunted look on her face as if she had drifted mental miles away, and in a way she had because she was back there, walking into a classroom as a vulnerable adolescent, being called a slut by a bunch of girls because everyone knew her mother was a woman who had just given birth to two more children by her married lover. Nobody had intervened when she was bullied because it was widely known and accepted that Mary Brophy was a wicked woman raising her children in a degenerate home where the most basic rules of morality and decency were being broken on a regular basis.
‘I never had any friends apart from Mark,’ she admitted curtly. ‘The other mothers wouldn’t let their daughters mix with me or come to my house. It got worse as I got older because then I had the boys calling me names as well and making approaches...well, you can imagine the approaches.’
Cristo, raised from an early age in a city that bred anonymity, was genuinely taken aback by what she was telling him. He’d had no suspicion of the moral rectitude in a small rural community where those who dared to defy public opinion and break the rules could be punished by exclusion and enmity.
‘I didn’t want my sisters or my brothers to go through that.’
‘Obviously not, cara,’ Cristo murmured ruefully, suddenly grasping one very good reason why his bride had been inexperienced because she had naturally been denied that outlet as a teenager and young woman when to give way to the desire to experiment could have surely seen her labelled as having followed in her mother’s footsteps. ‘And Bruno?’
‘I’ll tell you about that some other time but he was bullied as well. That’s why he and Donetta were sent to boarding school in the first place.’
‘Are you coming back up to the house?’ Cristo enquired in the dragging silence that had fallen. ‘It is two o’clock in the morning.’
Belle prayed for calm and restraint as she walked away from the pavilion. ‘You were very offensive and insulting...and disrespectful too.’
‘Sì, bellezza mia, but it is possible that complete honesty could be the best way forward in a marriage such as ours,’ Cristo stated thoughtfully.
Belle mulled that concept over while she mounted yet another endless flight of steps. All the emotion and activity of the day were suddenly hitting her in one go and exhaustion was weighing her down. ‘I haven’t forgiven you, though,’ she was quick to tell him, lest he be assuming that the slate had been wiped clean when it wasn’t.
Having watched her pace flag, Cristo closed an arm round her slender spine to guide her up the steep incline. ‘That’s okay.’
Cristo felt surprisingly buoyant as he urged her back upstairs to their bedroom. In the light he could see the marks of tear stains on her face and his conscience pierced his tough hide. She was so much more emotional than he was and that unnerved him. He would never forget the wounded expression on her face when she had told him about the bullying she had endured at school. To his way of thinking, her mother had been every bit as selfish in her own way as his father, he reflected grimly, but he knew better than to share that thought.
At the same time, he could only be impressed by how very protective Belle was of her brothers and sisters. He had never known that family intimacy, never appreciated that love could bond a family so tightly together, and he could not help wondering how different he might have been had he shared a similar experience. In spite of the misfortunes Gaetano had caused Mary Brophy’s children, they remained a very closely connected unit.
‘I’m not getting back into the same bed,’ Belle announced one step inside the bedroom door.
Payback time, Cristo acknowledged. ‘I’m not that insensitive. I wasn’t about to make a move on you.’
Her eyes were prickling with the sudden heat of tears and she held them wide to hold the tears back. ‘I know, but I still need my own space for a while,’ she said tightly.
Cristo searched the pale, unhappy tightness of her lovely face and compressed his stubborn mouth, knowing without even thinking about it that he didn’t want her away from him and, even worse, had a disturbing desire to keep her close. ‘I’d prefer you to stay with me.’
Mere minutes later, having won that last battle, Belle settled heavy as a stone into the comfortable bed in the room next door and lowered her lashes on her damp eyes. She had wanted to be with him but had angrily denied herself that choice because common sense had told her it would be wrong. Wrong to let Cristo think he could do and say as he liked without consequences, wrong to let him hurt her and then put a brave face on it to the extent that he would think he might as well do it again. Blackmailer, gold-digger, social climber? Was it even possible for her to disprove such suspicions? And should she even want to? Did it really matter? After all, theirs was a marriage of convenience and she simply had to learn to keep a better hold on her emotions and stop looking for responses she was unlikely to receive. She couldn’t afford to start caring about a male who didn’t care about her but, regardless of every other factor, she was utterly determined that, at the very least, Cristo would give her respect.
Cristo lay sleepless in bed and expelled a groan. He knew Belle was treating him just as she treated Franco with the ‘no means no’ approach and the withdrawal of privileges until better behaviour was established. In the darkness he suddenly surprised himself when amusement surged over him and he laughed out loud. She had thrown him a challenge. No woman had ever done that to Cristo before and it bothered him to appreciate that he actually admired her nerve.
* * *
The next morning, Cristo wakened when something bounced hard on the bed and his eyes flew wide on the dawn light piercing the curtains.
‘Kiss-do!’ Franco carolled from below his mop of black curls and looked down expectantly at him. ‘Belle?’
‘Belle’s asleep,’ Cristo responded, anchoring the sheet more firmly round his naked length as Franco threw his small solid body at him. ‘Bekfast?’ Franco asked hopefully, leaning over him with wide eyes.
Wondering where the nanny was, Cristo promised breakfast and Franco beamed. Indeed, Cristo was startled when his little brother wound his arms round his neck and bestowed a soggy kiss on him. The toddler accompanied him into the en suite, chattering endlessly but using few recognisable words. Cristo showered and shaved while Franco played with the contents of the drawers and cupboards and made an unholy mess. While he got dressed, Franco played under the bed with, ‘Bekfast, Kiss-do?’ a constant refrain to the activity.
Franco closed his hand into Cristo’s as they left the bedroom and the flustered nanny appeared several doors further down the corridor.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Ravelli. I’ve been looking everywhere for him. He disappeared while I was in the bathroom,’ Teresa confided.
‘Relax, I’ll ensure he gets breakfast.’
‘Bekfast,’ Franco repeated urgently, swinging on Cristo’s hand and skipping with excitement. There was a definite charm to the child’s open-hearted affection and liveliness, Cristo conceded reluctantly.
In the dining room, Umberto provided an ancient wooden high chair for Franco’s use and Cristo advised the manservant to see that a new one was purchased with a safety harness because he was already aware that Franco was an escape artist and guilty of frequently climbing out of his cot. Whatever Cristo ate, Franco wanted to eat and Cristo was quietly appalled at the mess the child made. When he threw a piece of tomato, Cristo told him off and Franco burst into floods of tears, which had to be the exact moment when Belle entered the room.
‘Oh, my goodness, I didn’t know he was with you!’ Belle gasped in dismay.
‘He’s a very determined little character,’ Cristo remarked above the racket Franco was making. ‘I told him off for throwing food.’
‘No hug, then,’ Belle ruled as Franco held out his arms to be comforted. ‘You know you’re not allowed to throw food.’
Franco sulked when his complaints were ignored and finally started eating again.
Belle grinned across the table at Cristo. ‘Thanks for looking after him.’
The natural glory of her smile took his breath away and his dark eyes narrowed appreciatively. It was first thing in the morning and as far as he could tell she wasn’t wearing much make-up but she still looked amazing, her translucent china skin flushed and freckled, green eyes bright, her mane of hair coiling round her slim shoulders with a life all of its own in every bouncy corkscrew curl of auburn. ‘He’s my brother as well,’ Cristo murmured wryly. ‘And quite a handful.’
‘Yes, he is...far too much for Isa to cope with at this age.’ Pleased by that long-awaited concession that Franco was his brother too, Belle stared at Cristo, trying to stop herself from doing it but quite unable to resist the temptation. Her gaze traced the line of his high-cut cheekbones, perfectly straight nose and wide shapely mouth. The perfect features of a dark fallen angel, which got to her every time. A rush of heat tightened her nipples and surged low in her pelvis in a betrayal she could not squash. She still found him irresistibly attractive, she conceded ruefully.
The thwack-thwack of noisy helicopter rotor blades somewhere nearby made Cristo frown and spring upright to stride over to the window. Still munching her toast, Belle followed suit. ‘What is it?’
‘I think you’re about to make the acquaintance of one of my brothers,’ Cristo murmured tautly. ‘Nik. Make allowances for him if he’s short with you. He’s going through a tough divorce and it’s unsettled him.’
‘I’ll just make myself scarce while you catch up with him,’ Belle offered, hastily lifting Franco out of the elderly high chair.
‘No, he should meet you now that he’s here, gioia mia,’ Cristo overruled without hesitation. ‘You’re my wife. I’m not ashamed of you, nor am I going to hide you.’
CHAPTER SEVEN (#uca032b44-5670-52ad-a716-c379e0f219ac)
CRISTO STRODE OUTSIDE to greet his brother, Nik. The two men stopped on the terrace to talk. Belle hovered, hearing an animated exchange between the men in a foreign language. It didn’t sound like Italian and she wondered if it could be Greek. When she heard the other man expostulate loudly several times she guessed that Cristo was telling him about her mother and the children and she winced uncomfortably, feeling agonisingly self-conscious.
Nik Christakis was a big man, even taller than her bridegroom, but he did bear a strong resemblance to Cristo. Nik frowned across the room at her and his frown only darkened more when he saw the young child standing by her side.
‘My wife, Belle, and our youngest little brother, Franco,’ Cristo imparted in calm explanation in response to his brother’s interrogative look. ‘My brother, Nik.’
‘Our?’ Nik queried straight away. ‘The child’s nothing to do with me. Five of them? You would have to be crazy to take that on, Cristo! Gaetano’s dead and buried. What does it matter what comes out about him now?’
‘It would matter to Zarif,’ Cristo countered squarely.
‘Like I care about that!’ Nik quipped darkly, digging into an inside pocket on his jacket to extract a document, which he extended to his brother. ‘Read it and weep. Learn what happens when you get married without a pre-nup.’
‘We didn’t have a pre-nup,’ Belle remarked awkwardly, uneasy with the tension flowing around them, and Nik’s reluctance to even acknowledge her, never mind make polite conversation.
Cristo raised his dark gaze slowly from the document to say, ‘I have to admit that I’m surprised.’
‘Are you? Are you still that naïve? Obviously Betsy married me for my money and now she’s trying to steal half of everything I own!’ Nik declared with raw, unconcealed bitterness.
‘She didn’t marry you for your money,’ Cristo contradicted with quiet assurance. ‘She fell in love with you.’
‘Don’t be naïve. I give you and your wife and her little bunch of Ravelli by-blows two years at most before she walks out and tries to take the shirt off your back!’ Nik vented with ringing derision.
Belle flushed and lifted her chin. ‘I wouldn’t do that. Look, I’ll leave you two to talk in private,’ she completed, anchoring Franco’s hand in her own.
As she left she heard Nik Christakis cursing, something that was instantly recognisable in many languages. She realised that she was very grateful not to be married to a man like that. Nik’s hard-featured face, cold eyes, not to mention the smouldering bitterness that escaped every time he mentioned his estranged wife, Betsy, chilled Belle to the marrow. Nik was clearly tough, obstinate, furiously hostile and, she suspected, the sort of man who would make an implacable enemy, a man who saw only the worst in anyone who crossed him.
Cristo, she reasoned, was more reasonable, more civilised...wasn’t he? She respected him for speaking up in defence of his sister-in-law. Furthermore the night before she had been surprised and reluctantly impressed when Cristo had suggested that complete honesty between them might well be the way to make their marriage work. That was a rational and mature attitude to take, she acknowledged thoughtfully. She liked and respected honesty, hated the lies and persuasive pretences that Gaetano had shamelessly employed to keep her mother content and make his own life smoother.
Two hours later, after Nik had finally departed and a second helicopter had flown in and deposited its colourful cargo, Cristo went off in search of Belle and found her sitting in the shade of a tree clutching a book. ‘You own a massive library of books,’ she complained as she heard his approach and lifted her head, auburn hair gleaming rich as silk in the shadowy light below the overhanging foliage, ‘but I could only find a couple written in English.’
Cristo swiped the hardback from between her fingers and studied the spine. It was a heavy-duty tome on the history of his mother’s family, written by one of his ancestors and translated by a more recent one. ‘I’ll order some English books for you. I’d suggest that you start learning Italian but it would hardly be worth your while.’
Her bone structure tightened, tension leaping through her as she absorbed that reminder that their relationship was of a strictly temporary nature. Images of his passionate lovemaking the night before swam up through her mind and killed every sensible thought stone dead, making concentration impossible while sending a wave of unwelcome heat travelling through her slender length. Her face hot, she studied the book fixedly as he returned it to her with an elegant gesture of one long-fingered hand. Last night those hands had touched her with breathtakingly erotic expertise and had extracted more pleasure from her weak body than she had known it was capable of experiencing. His complete poise in the aftermath of their passionate argument the night before, however, set her teeth firmly on edge. Evidently, as far as he was concerned, everything was done and dusted but Belle still felt as though her reactions, emotions and even her thoughts were whirling around in a maelstrom and out of her control.
‘Were you looking for me?’ she asked curiously.
‘Yes, cara. It’s time for you to enjoy your wedding present.’
‘Wedding present?’ Belle parroted as she rose slowly to her feet in discomfiture. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Wedding presents go with the territory of getting married,’ Cristo fielded smoothly, a lean hand settling to the base of her spine to steer her back in the direction of the villa.
‘But not between us, not in our sort of marriage,’ she parried with spirit.
‘I promised to treat you as my wife and that is what I am trying to do.’
‘So...’ Belle murmured tightly in the echoing hall. ‘This present...?’
‘It’s waiting for you in the ballroom,’ Cristo informed her, nodding to Umberto to open the double doors.
Belle crossed the hall slowly, peering into the vast room to focus in astonishment on the catwalk now dissecting it. ‘My goodness, what the heck—?’ she began in confusion.
‘Every woman wants a new wardrobe. I arranged to have a selection flown in along with the models to show the clothing off. All you have to do is choose what you want to wear.’
Every woman wants a new wardrobe? Most social climbing, gold-digging women would certainly fall into that category, Belle reflected with a helpless little moue of distaste that he should have assumed that she was that sort of a woman. But he hadn’t given her a choice. This was what Cristo thought she wanted and, it seemed, he was happy to deliver on that score and it would be needlessly confrontational for her to deny him the opportunity. One step into the ballroom she was introduced to Olivia, who whisked a tape measure over her with startling speed and efficiency and announced that any garments she selected would be delivered sized to fit by lunchtime the next day.
Funky music kicked off in the background as Olivia took one of three comfortable seats awaiting them while urging Belle to define what Olivia described as ‘her personal style’. Belle had to hinge her jaw closed at the question because she had no idea how to answer it. In any case Olivia had already embarked on a commentary on the first outfit while a brunette model wearing something floaty, purple and weirdly shaped like a lampshade strolled down the catwalk towards them. As a very tall blonde with a shock of almost-white chopped hair appeared in swimwear Olivia endeavoured to determine Belle’s fashion preferences. But Belle had never had the budget to develop a taste for luxury. As a student, she had worn jeans in winter and shorts in summer with only the occasional cheap skirt or dress purchased for nights out. Money had always been in short supply in her life, clothing generally purchased from her part-time earnings as a bartender, and she had only ever shopped in chain stores.
‘Don’t you like any of it?’ Cristo prompted, shooting his bride a questioning glance from his brooding dark eyes when she remained awkwardly silent.
As she connected with his stunning eyes her heart flipped inside her chest and turned a somersault. ‘It’s a bit overwhelming...all this,’ she admitted breathlessly.
‘Then I’ll choose for you.’
And what Cristo chose was highly informative and Belle almost burst out laughing, for without fail every short skirt, backless gown and low neckline received Cristo’s unqualified and enthusiastic vote of approval. On that score he was very predictable, very male and reassuringly human. Amused by the very basic male he was revealing beneath the sophisticated façade, Belle began to regain her confidence and started to quietly voice opinions, shying away from the more spectacular garments in favour of the plainer ones, insisting that she couldn’t possibly wear shocking pink with her hair.
‘I like pink,’ Cristo argued without hesitation. Though as Olivia took up the conversation he suddenly remembered his feelings of horror at the many shades of pink spun throughout the small home back in Ireland. But his wife in pink...that was a different matter.
‘There are only certain shades of pink which you should avoid,’ Olivia, ever the highly accomplished saleswoman, assured her.
At that point the blonde appeared in a ravishing set of ruffled turquoise lingerie and Cristo sprang upright and actually approached the catwalk. ‘I want that,’ he spelt out without an ounce of discomfiture in his bearing.
Belle’s cheeks flamed while she noted the manner in which the very leggy blonde was posing for Cristo like a stripper, loving the attention as her breasts jiggled in the bra with her little dance movements, and she spun round to display her almost bare bottom taut in panties that were little more than a thong. Cristo seemed mesmerised by the spectacle, his dark golden eyes veiled, his sinfully seductive bronzed features taut as if he was struggling to conceal his thoughts.
He was attracted to the blonde, Belle decided with a sinking sick sensation in the pit of her stomach, and he couldn’t hide the fact.
‘Thank you, Sofia,’ the saleswoman said loudly as she stood up and the music stopped mid-note, leaving a sudden uncomfortable silence in its wake. Olivia said her goodbyes and took her leave through the rear door of the ballroom.
‘Well, wasn’t that educational?’ Belle remarked freezingly when Cristo finally wandered back to her side.
His winged ebony brows drew together in bewilderment. ‘How so?’
Her generous mouth compressed. ‘You fancied the blonde,’ she told him bluntly.
