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There was another pause. ‘And your call is in connection with…?’
So there was no recognition of her name and no knowledge of her status. No respect, either—and something deep inside Emma bristled with hurt and rejection.
‘I’m his wife,’ she said baldly.
The woman had clearly been wrong-footed and Emma could almost hear her thinking—What the hell do I tell her?
‘Please hold the line,’ she said crisply.
Emma was forced to wait for what seemed like an eternity, while pinpricks of sweat beaded her forehead despite the chilly atmosphere in the cottage. She was just silently practising saying Hello, Vincenzo over and over in her head to make it sound as emotionless as possible, when the telephonist’s voice broke into her thoughts.
‘Signor Cardini says to tell you that he is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed.’
The humiliation hit her like a blow to the solar plexus and Emma found herself gripping on to the receiver as if she wanted to crush it in her clammy palm. She was just about to drop it back down onto the cradle when she realised the woman was still speaking to her.
‘But he says if you would care to leave a number where you can be contacted, he will endeavour to ring you when he has a moment.’
Pride made Emma want to pass on the message that he could go to hell if he couldn’t even be bothered to speak to the woman he had married.
But she could not afford the luxury of pride. ‘Yes, here’s my number,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you have a pen?’
‘Of course,’ said the woman in an amused voice.
After she had put the phone down, Emma went to make a cup of tea, cupping the steaming mug around her cold fingers as she looked out of the kitchen window at the little garden she had grown to love.
Shiny brown conkers from a large tree on Andrew’s huge adjoining estate had fallen over the flint wall and all over her tiny lawn and path. She had planned to put one of those mini sandpits in an unused corner of the plot and to grow a fragrant white jasmine to scent the long summer evenings—but all those dreams seemed to be fast evaporating.
Because that was another downside she hadn’t even considered until now. If she was forced to move from this rural idyll—where would her little boy play when he eventually started to toddle and then to walk? Very few cheap lets came with their own garden.
The ringing of the telephone shattered her troubled thoughts and Emma snapped it up before it could wake the baby.
‘Hello?’
‘Ciao, Emma.’
The words hit her like a bucket of ice-water. He said her name like no one else—but then, nothing that Vincenzo did or said was remotely like anyone else. He was unique—like a rare black glittering gem with dark danger at its very core.
Remember the way you’ve been practising saying his name in that bland and neutral way? Well, now isthe time to put it into practice. ‘Vincenzo.’ She swallowed. ‘It was good of you to call back.’
At the other end of the phone, Vincenzo’s hard lips twisted into a cruel parody of a smile. She spoke as if she were about to purchase a computer from him! In that soft English voice which used to drive him crazy—both in and out of bed. And despite the still-raw hostility of his feelings for her—even now he could feel the slow coil of awareness beginning to unfurl in his groin.
‘I found a brief window in my schedule,’ he said carelessly, flicking his dark gaze in the direction of the crammed diary which lay open on his desk. ‘What do you want?’
In spite of having told herself that she didn’t care what he thought of her any more, Emma was woman enough to know a painful pang of regret. He spoke to her with less regard than he might use to someone who was removing the garbage from his house. How quickly the fires of passion could become cold grey embers which just left a dirty trace behind.
So answer him in the same matter-of-fact way—keepthis brisk and formal and it might not hurt so much. ‘I want a divorce.’
There was a pause. A long pause. Eyes narrowing, Vincenzo leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him as he considered her statement. ‘Why? Have you met someone else?’ he questioned coolly. ‘Perhaps planning on remarrying?’
His indifference pierced her—wounded her far more than it should have done. Could this possibly be the same Vincenzo who had once threatened to tear the limbs from a man who had asked her to dance, until she had calmed him down and told him that she had no desire to dance with any other man than him. No, of course it wasn’t. That Vincenzo had loved her—or, at least, had claimed to have loved her.
‘Even if I had met someone—I can assure you that I wouldn’t be taking a trip down the aisle. You’ve put me off marriage for a lifetime, Vincenzo,’ she said, wanting to try to hurt him back—but it was clearly a waste of time because his responding laugh was laced with cynicism.
‘Which doesn’t answer my question, Emma,’ he persisted silkily.
Emma’s heart missed a beat. ‘And…I don’t have to answer it.’
‘You think not?’ Vincenzo swung round in his chair and gazed out at the London skyline—at the spectacular sparkling skyscrapers which dominated it, two of which he owned. ‘Well, in that case, this conversation isn’t going to get very far, is it?’
‘We don’t need to have a conversation, Vincenzo, we need—’
‘We need to establish facts.’ His words iced into hers. ‘Do you have your diary?’
‘My diary?’
‘Let’s fix up a date to meet and talk about it.’
In the little cottage, Emma’s knees sagged and she clutched onto the table for support. ‘No!’
‘No?’ Now there was amusement in his voice as he heard the sudden panic in her voice. ‘You really think that I intend to have this discussion about the end of my marriage on the phone?’
‘There’s no need for face-to-face contact—we can do it all through lawyers,’ Emma ventured.
‘Then go ahead and do it,’ he retaliated.
Was he calling her bluff because somehow he suspected she was in a weak position? But he couldn’t know that.
‘If you want my co-operation then I suggest you meet me halfway, Emma,’ Vincenzo continued softly. ‘Otherwise you could have a very long and very expensive fight on your hands.’
Emma closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry—because he would seize on any outward sign of weakness like a vulture picking over a carcass. How could she have forgotten about that iron-hard resolve of his, that stubborn determination to get exactly what it was he wanted?
‘Why would you fight me, Vincenzo?’ she questioned wearily. ‘When both of us know this marriage is dead and neither one of us wants it to continue?’
Perhaps if she had shed a tear, perhaps if her voice had wavered with just one tiny shiver of emotion—then Vincenzo might have spared her. But her cool, down-to-earth manner sparked in him a fury which had lain dormant since their marriage had broken down—and now he felt it spring into powerful and ugly life within him. At that moment, Vincenzo didn’t really know or care what it was that he wanted—all he knew was that he wanted to thwart Emma’s desires.
‘Can you do Monday?’ he queried, as if she hadn’t spoken.
Blinking back the slight saltiness at the backs of her eyes, Emma didn’t need to look in her diary—she didn’t even have one. Why would she? Her social life was nonexistent these days and that was the way she liked it.
‘Monday seems to be…okay,’ said Emma, as if she, too, had a rare window in her schedule. ‘What time?’
‘Where are you living? Can you do dinner?’
She thought about it—the last train back to Boisdale from London left just after eleven, but what if she missed it? Her friend Joanna would be happy to have Gino during the day, but taking him overnight would involve a little more juggling. Besides, she had never been apart from her baby boy for a night and she didn’t intend to start now.
Ignoring the first part of his question, Emma forced herself to sound casual. ‘Not dinner, no.’
‘Why? Are you busy in the evening?’ he mocked.
‘I don’t live in London. It’s…easier if we do lunchtime.’
Vincenzo stretched as a glossy brunette in a close-fitting pencil skirt wiggled in to place a cup of espresso on the desk in front of him and he smiled, pausing while he watched the pert thrust of her buttocks as she sashayed out of the office. The smile left his lips. ‘Sì, then we will make it lunch,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll have someone fix us something here. Come to my office—can you remember how to get here?’
But Emma baulked at the thought of going to his London headquarters—with its gleaming magnificence taunting her about the crazy inequality of their two lifestyles. And his office wasn’t neutral territory, was it? Vincenzo would have the upper hand—and there was nothing he liked more.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer it if we went out to a… restaurant?’
Once again Vincenzo thought he detected the waver of hope in her voice and he was surprised at the dark pleasure which washed over him as he swamped it. ‘No, I don’t want to go to a restaurant,’ he negated silkily. And be constrained by the table between them, the hovering of waiters and the formality of the atmosphere? No way. ‘Be here at one.’
And then to Emma’s disbelief he terminated the connection and she was left listening to an empty dialling tone. Slowly, she replaced the receiver and as she glanced up caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror which hung over the phone. Her hair looked lank, her face as white as chalk and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. And Vincenzo had always been so particular how he wanted her to look—she had been his little doll.
Although he was Sicilian, he had happily adopted the Italian ideal of la bella figura—the importance of image—of making the best of yourself. Biting her lip, she imagined the contempt in those mocking black eyes if he could see her now. And any contempt would surely put her at even more of a disadvantage.
Between now and Monday, she was going to have to do something drastic about her appearance.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_c1f2c58b-a20a-5a5b-969e-beea5a433376)
HEART slamming against her ribcage, Emma stared up at the Cardini building, willing herself to have the courage to walk in. It was a beautiful structure—sleek and curved and fashioned almost entirely from glass. Its design had won awards and it screamed wealth from every polished pane, throwing her reflection back at her a hundred times over and seeming to emphasise her impoverished state in this wealthy area of London.
She’d had a nightmare time trying to find something suitable to wear—all her clothes were practical, not smart—and none of them was of the delicious costly quality which had become second nature to her as Vincenzo’s wife.
In the end she’d chosen a plain dress, which she had jazzed up with a bright, clumpy necklace, and had polished her boots until she could see her face in them. Only her coat was good and you could tell—soft dark cashmere lined with violet silk which felt so delicious against her spare frame. Tiny, embroidered violet flowers were scattered along the hem of the expensive material, as if someone had flung a handful of flowers there, and they had stuck. Vincenzo had bought her that coat from one of Milan’s costliest shops, slipping out from their hotel one afternoon, leaving her asleep and tousled in bed, to return with a large, ribbon-wrapped box.
She hadn’t wanted to wear it today—it was too full of memories, too much a slice of the past. But it was warm and, more importantly, it was smart enough to take her anywhere. And what was the alternative? To waltz into the Cardini headquarters wearing her bargain faux-fur trimmed coat—the kind of which was usually snapped up by hard-up students?
Turning dizzily in the revolving doors, Emma entered the vast, airy foyer and walked up to the reception desk—a journey which seemed to take for ever.
The Madonna behind the desk gave her a bland smile. ‘May I help you?’
‘I have…I have an appointment with Signor Cardini.’
The woman glanced down at a list. ‘Emma Cardini?’
‘That’s me,’ agreed Emma, thinking that the Madonna couldn’t quite hide her look of surprise.
A perfectly polished pink fingernail was pointed to the far end of the foyer. ‘Take the elevator to the very top of the building and someone will be waiting there to meet you.’
‘Thanks.’
As the lift shot silently upwards Emma thought how long it had been since she’d visited London—and how long it had been since she’d been out without her son. And never for a whole day, like this. Would he be okay? she wondered for the hundredth time since buying her ticket at Boisdale station. Or would he kick up when he realised that his mother was gone for more than an hour or two?
Pulling the pay-as-you-go cell phone from her handbag, she stared at the blank screen. No messages. She’d told Joanna to call her if she was worried about anything—anything—which meant that all must be well.
So do what you have to do, she thought, drawing a deep breath as the lift pinged to a halt and the doors slid open to reveal a glamorous brunette in a close-fitting pencil skirt and a blouse which was obviously pure silk. Her hair was piled artfully on top of her head, there were two starry diamonds sparkling at her ears, and suddenly Emma felt like a poor country cousin who had come visiting. Just how many beautiful women did Vincenzo need working for him?
‘Signora Cardini?’ asked the woman. ‘Will you please follow me? Vincenzo’s expecting you.’
Well, of course he’s expecting me! Emma wanted to shout as she watched the woman wiggling her way towards a set of double doors. And who gave you the right to call my husband by his Christian name in that gurgling and rather pathetic way?
But he’s not going to be your husband for very much longer, is he? And in fact, he hasn’t been your husband for a long time—so better lose the unreasonable jealousy right now, Emma.
The doors were being opened with the kind of flourish which seemed to indicate that she was being summoned into the presence of someone terribly important and Emma braced herself for the sight of Vincenzo, just as she had been doing during the journey here. But nothing could prepare her for the heart-stopping reality of seeing her husband again in the living and breathing flesh.
He was standing in front of the wall of glass which ran along one side of his arena-sized office—and so at first sight he was in silhouette. But the darkened outline only served to emphasise a physique which was utterly magnificent—all lean, honed muscle—the kind of perfection which sculptors had been using as the masculine ideal since the beginning of time.
His hands were splayed rather arrogantly over narrow hips, which tapered down to long, lean legs—but then arrogance had always been Vincenzo’s middle name. He saw what he wanted and he took what he wanted—and he usually got it by a mixture of power and persuasion and sheer charisma.
Emma swallowed—the reminder pushing her into protective mode—because she had one most precious thing which Vincenzo could not be allowed to take and she needed all her wits about her.
‘Hello, Vincenzo,’ she said.
‘Emma,’ he responded, in a tone she had never heard him use before. Firing off a command in rapid Italian, which caused the brunette to quickly leave the office, closing the doors behind her, he stepped from the shadow and into the light and, in spite of everything, Emma felt her stomach turn quite weak as she looked up into his face.
For he was even more devastatingly gorgeous than she remembered when she had agreed to marry him. Back then she had been carried along by the wild and dizzy excitement of being in love—so enraptured that she had not stopped to think that he was a truly remarkable-looking man. And then, when the marriage had begun to crumble, he had seemed cold, icy, uncaring—and she had shrunk from him and he from her.
But since then Emma had been through a lot—and a lot of it had been difficult. These days she was under no illusion that she had briefly dallied with a dream—and today Vincenzo looked like every woman’s dream man.
He was dressed for business, in one of those amazingly cut suits which managed to be both formal and yet not in the least bit stuffy and could only have been made in Italy. He’d removed his jacket, revealing a white silk shirt which gave a tantalising hint of the rock-hard body which lay beneath. And he’d loosened his tie, too, and undone the top couple of buttons on his shirt, so that she could just discern the dark whorls of hair which grew there.
But it was his face which mesmerised most, and Emma allowed her gaze to reach it almost reluctantly—as if dreading the impact it was going to have on her. And it hit her with a painful shock as she realised she was looking into a hardened and cynical version of Gino’s soft little features.
Had Vincenzo ever looked that soft and approachable? Emma wondered as her eyes drank him in with a greed she couldn’t quite suppress.
He would have been almost classically beautiful were it not for the fact that a tiny scar made a pale V-shape in the dark texture of his shadowed jaw. And his face was hard, too, with black eyes glittering like jet and a smile which was edged with a kind of cruelty. Even when he had been in hot pursuit of her, he had always had that hard edge to him. A quality which had always made her slightly wary of him.
For he had always treated her with a kind of autocratic authority. She had just been another possession to acquire along the way—the virgin bride who had never managed to follow through with what his expectations of her were.
‘It has been a long time,’ Vincenzo said, and his voice sounded as bitter as unripe lemons. ‘Here, let me take your coat.’
She wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t be staying long enough to need to take it off, but he might prove to be difficult if she did that. What was more, she had agreed to have lunch with him and the central heating in the office meant that the coat was impractical. But the last thing she wanted was Vincenzo slipping the garment from her shoulders, his hands brushing against her vulnerable skin, the very gesture reminding her of so many undressings in the past….
‘I can manage,’ she said, wriggling out of the coat and hanging it awkwardly over the back of a chair.
Vincenzo was studying her with an air of fascination. He had recognised the coat immediately but the dress was new—and what a horrible little dress it was. His lips curved. ‘What in Dio’s name have you been doing to yourself?’
‘What do you mean?’ With an effort she kept her voice steady, trying to quell the fear that he might somehow have found out about Gino. But he couldn’t have done or he wouldn’t have been staring at her with that oddly distasteful look on his face. Not even he was that good an actor.
‘You’ve been on one of those crash diets?’ he demanded.
‘No.’
‘But you are too thin. Much too thin.’
That was what long-term breast-feeding did—she’d only stopped a couple of months ago—and if you threw in child-minding, gardening, cleaning, cooking, shopping and generally juggling her busy life without anyone else to help her, it was no wonder she’d lost serious amounts of weight.
‘All skin and bone,’ he continued, still in that same critical drawl.
Maybe she should have been insulted at his bald words for this was the man who used to tell her that she was a pocket Venus, that she had the most perfect body he’d ever seen on a woman. At least this way, his undisguised censure reassured Emma that the relationship really was dead—that, not only did he not like her, but it seemed that he did not desire her any more, either.
