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The Marriage Surrender
Michelle Reid
The bride had a secret… .She adored her husband, but knew she could never give him what he really needed. That was why she walked out on their marriage two years ago. Now Joanna has no choice but to return to Sandro for help. He agrees, but on one condition: that she return as his wife - to his bed. Joanna loves Sandro more than ever, but can she face a replay of their disastrous wedding night?Surrender to Sandro means revealing the secret she's kept hidden from him all along. Passion is the risk that Joanna must take - if she's to save her marriage… .
He kissed her again, long and deep and achingly gentle. (#u157ae118-11b0-5d18-b7ff-a263413e4923)Title Page (#u473deb30-2b59-5b7b-987a-18bb297641fa)CHAPTER ONE (#ucc23ca25-5176-5c0c-acb0-a1303879f752)CHAPTER TWO (#u92867212-4049-5dd0-add4-9948a5c94d37)CHAPTER THREE (#udb291c12-d2a4-59a1-b8b4-3bb99d29f09a)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
He kissed her again, long and deep and achingly gentle.
“This is it, Joanna,” he warned as he drew away again to watch her lashes flutter upward to reveal eyes dazed by a hopeless passion. “So keep looking at me,” he urged. “For this is what I am now. Not the guy who crept stealthily around your problems the way I did the last time we were together—but this man. The one who means to invade your defensive space at every opportunity. And do you know why? Because each time I do it, you quiver with pleasure more.”
“I can never be a proper wife to you.”
“You think so?” Sandro pondered. “Well, we shall see....”
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The Millionaire’s Mistress
by
Miranda Lee
Harlequin Presents
#2026
The Marriage Surrender
Michelle Reid
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
‘COULD I s-speak to Alessandro Bonetti, please?’
The public call box smelled of stale cigarettes. Pale-faced, the full length of her slender body muscle-locked by the mettle she needed to make this telephone call, Joanna barely noticed the smell or the unsavoury mess littering the floor beneath her black-booted feet as she stood there clutching the telephone receiver to her ear.
‘Who is calling, please?’ a coolly concise female voice enquired.
‘I’m...’ she began—then stopped, white teeth pressing into her full bottom lip as the answer to that question stuck firmly in her throat.
She couldn’t say it. She just could not bring herself to reveal her true identity to anyone but Alessandro himself when there was a very good chance that he might refuse to speak to her, and in the present state that she was in, she didn’t need some cold-voiced telephonist listening to that little humiliation.
She had been there before...
‘It—it’s a personal call,’ she temporised, closing her eyes on a faint prayer that the reply was enough to get her access to the great man himself.
It wasn’t. ‘I’m afraid I will have to have your name,’ the voice insisted, ‘before I can enquire if Mr Bonetti is available to speak to you.’
Well, at least that stone-walling response placed Sandro in the country. Joanna made a grim note. She had half expected him to have gone back to live and work in Rome by now.
‘Then put me through to his secretary,’ she demanded, ‘and I’ll discuss this further with her.’
There was a pause, one of those taut ones, packed with silent pique at Joanna’s rigidly determined tone. Then, ‘Please hold,’ the voice clipped at her, and the line went quiet.
The seconds began to tick slowly by, taking with them the desperation that had managed to bring her this far. A desperation that had kept her awake last night, trying to come up with some other way to get herself out of this mess without having to involve Sandro. But every which way she’d tried to look at it, it had always come down to two straight choices.
Arthur Bates or Sandro.
A shudder ripped through her, the mere thought of Arthur Bates’ name enough to keep her hanging onto that telephone line, when every self-preserving instinct she possessed was telling her to cut loose and make a bolt into hiding somewhere rather than resort to this.
But she was tired of hiding. Tired of—being this person who stood on her own, isolated by her own inability to reach out to another human being and simply ask for help.
So, here she was, she reminded herself bracingly, ready to ask for that help. Ready to reach out to the only human being she felt she could reach out to. If Sandro said No, get lost, then she would. But she had to give him one last chance—give herself this chance to put her life back together again.
After all, she consoled herself, against the fretful doubts rattling around inside her head, she wasn’t intending dumping permanently on him, was she? She was simply going to put a proposition to him, get his answer, then get the hell out of his life again.
For good. That would be part of her proposition. Help me this one time and I promise never to bother you again.
Easy. Nothing to it. Sandro wasn’t a monster. He was, in actual fact, quite a decent human being. He couldn’t still be feeling bitter towards her, surely? Not after all this time.
Then the telephone suddenly began demanding more money and her self-consolation died a death as a much more familiar panic soared abruptly into life, gushing through her system like a raging flood.
What am I doing? she asked herself frantically. Why am I doing this?
You’re doing this because you’ve got no damned choice! her mind snapped back, so angrily that it jerked her into urgent movement. Her trembling fingers reached out towards the small stack of coins she had piled up in front of her ready to feed into the pay box. She made a grab for the top coin in the stack—and stupidly sent the rest of them scattering so they fell in a chinking shower to the ground.
‘Oh, damn it,’ she muttered, starting to bend to pick up the scattered coins as a voice suddenly sounded down the earpiece.
‘Good morning, Mr Bonetti’s secretary speaking,’ it announced. ‘How may I help you?’
The voice made her shoot upright again. ‘Just a minute,’ she muttered, struggling to feed the only coin she had stopped from falling into the required slot with fingers that decidedly shook. The line cleared and Joanna took another few moments to pull her ragged nerves together. ‘I w-would like to speak to Mr—to Alessandro, please.’ She quickly changed tack, hoping the personal touch might get her past this next obstruction.
It didn’t. ‘I’m afraid I must insist on your name,’ Sandro’s secretary maintained.
Her name. Her teeth gritted together, eyes closing on a fresh bout of indecision. Now what did she do? she asked herself pensively. Tell the truth? Let this woman bear witness to the full depth of Sandro’s refusal, instead of the other cool voice she had spoken to before?
‘This is—M-Mrs Bonetti,’ she heard herself mumble, the name sounding as strange leaving her own lips as it must have sounded to the woman on the other end of the telephone line.
There was a short sharp pause. Then, ‘Mrs Bonetti?’ the voice repeated. ‘Mrs Alessandro Bonetti?’
‘Yes,’ Joanna confirmed, not blaming the woman for sounding so astonished. Joanna herself had never managed to come to terms with being that particular person. ‘Will you ask Alessandro if he has a few minutes he could spare for me, please?’
‘Of course,’ his secretary instantly agreed.
The line went quiet again. Joanna breathed an unsteady sigh into the mouthpiece, wondering how many cats she was setting loose amongst Sandro’s little pigeons by daring to make an announcement like that.
Again she waited, so tense now she could barely unclench her jaw-bone, the thrumming silence setting her foot tapping on the debris-littered concrete base of the call box, fingernails doing the same against the metal casing of the telephone. And there was a man standing just outside the kiosk, obviously waiting to use the telephone after her. He kept on sending her impatient glances and her palms felt sweaty; she tried running them one at a time down her denim-clad thighs but it didn’t make any difference, they still felt sweaty.
‘Mrs Bonetti?’
‘Yes?’ The single word shot like a bullet from her tension-locked throat.
‘Mr Bonetti is in conference at the moment.’ The voice sounded incredibly guarded all of a sudden. ‘But he said for you to leave your number and he will call you back as soon as he is free.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Joanna said, feeling a dragging sense of relief and a contrary wave of despair go sweeping through her. ‘I mean—I’m in a public call box and...’
Shaky fingers came up to push agitatedly through the long silken fall of her red-gold hair while she tried to think quickly with a brain that didn’t want to think at all. Sandro couldn’t speak to her and she didn’t think she could accumulate enough courage to do this again.
‘I’ll h-have to call him back,’ she stammered out finally, grasping at straws that really weren’t straws at all, but simply excuses to stop this before it soared out of all control. ‘Tell him I’ll call him back s-some time w-when I—’ Her excuses dried up. ‘Goodbye,’ she abruptly concluded, and went to replace the telephone.
But, ‘No! Mrs Bonetti!’ The secretary’s voice whipped down the line at her. ‘Please wait!’ she said urgently. ‘Mr Bonetti wants to know your reply before you... Just hold the line a moment longer—please...’
It was a plea—an anxious plea, which was the only thing that stopped Joanna from slamming down the receiver and getting out of there.
That and the fact that she had just had a revolting vision of Arthur Bates smiling at her like a very fat cat who was about to taste the cream. She shuddered again, feeling sick, feeling dizzy, feeling so uptight and confused now that she really didn’t know what she wanted to do.
Oh God. She closed her eyes, tried to get a hold on her swiftly decaying reason. Sandro or Arthur Bates? her mind kept on prodding at her. Arthur Bates or Sandro? The choice that was no choice.
Sandro...
Sandro, the man she had not allowed herself to make any contact with for two long wretched years.
Except when she’d told him about Molly, she then remembered, feeling what was left of the colour drain from her cheeks as poor Molly’s face swam painfully into her mind. She had tried to contact Sandro once—about Molly.
He had ignored her call for help then, she grimly reminded herself. So there was every chance that he was going to do the same now.
And why not? she derided. There was nothing left between them any more, hadn’t been for a long, long—
The phone began demanding more money again. She jumped like a startled deer, eyes flicking open to search a little wildly for another coin. It was only then that she remembered that she had knocked them all flying to the ground a few minutes earlier, and she bent down, functioning on pure instinct now because intelligence seemed to have completely deserted her.
But then, it always did when it came to Sandro, she acknowledged ruefully as her fingers scrambled amongst the dirt, cigarette ends and God alone knew what else that was littering the call box floor.
‘Mrs Bonetti?’
‘Yes,’ she gasped.
‘I’m putting you through to Mr Bonetti now...’
There was a crackling sound in her ear that made her wince. Her scrambling fingers discovered one of her missing coins. Grabbing at it, she straightened, face flushed now, breathing gone haywire, fingers fumbling as she attempted to push home the coin, the stupid panic turning her into a quivering, useless mess because she was about to hear Sandro’s dark velvet voice again and she didn’t know if she could bear it!
The man outside the call box got fed up with waiting and banged angrily on the glass. Joanna turned on him like a mad woman, her blue eyes flashing him a blinding glare of protest,
‘Joanna?’
And that was all it took for everything to come crashing down around her—the agitation, the panic—all crowding in and congealing into one seething ball of chest-tightening anguish.
He sounded gruff, he sounded terse, but oh, so familiar that her own voice locked itself into her throat. The man outside banged again; she closed her eyes and set her teeth and felt Sandro’s tension sizzle down the telephone line towards her, felt his impatience, his reluctance to accept this call.
‘Joanna?’ he repeated tersely. Then, ‘Damn it!’ she heard him curse. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes,’ she answered breathlessly, and knew she had just taken one of the biggest, bravest steps of her life with that one tiny word of confirmation. ‘S-sorry.’ She apologised for the tense delay in taking it, and tried to relax her jaw in an effort to find some semblance of calm. ‘I dropped my m-money on the call box f-floor and couldn’t find it,’ she explained. ‘And there’s a m-man standing outside w-waiting to use the telephone. He keeps banging on the glass and I—’
The rest was cut off—by herself, because she realised on a wave of despair that she was babbling like an idiot.
Sandro must have been thinking the exact same thing because his tone was tight when he muttered, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Sorry,’ she whispered again, which seemed to infuriate him.
‘I am in the middle of an important meeting here,’ he snapped. ‘So do you think you could get to the point of this—unexpected—honour?’
Sarcasm, hard and tight. Her eyes closed again, her chest so cramped she could barely drag air into her lungs as each angry word hit her exactly where it was aimed to hit.
‘I n-need...’
What did she need? she then stopped to wonder. She had become so addled by now that her reason for calling him at all had suddenly got lost in the ferment of her panic.
‘I n-need...’ Moistening her dry lips, she tried again. ‘Your—advice about something,’ she hedged, knowing she couldn’t just tell him outright that the only reason she was phoning him after all this time was to ask for money! ‘Do you think you could possibly m-meet me somewhere, s-so we can talk?’
No reply. Her nerve-ends reached snapping point A tight, prickling feeling began to scramble its way up from her tingling toes to her hairline. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t swallow, and, worse than all of that, she felt like weeping.
And if Sandro knew that he would fall off his chair in shock, she mocked herself.
‘I am flying to Rome this evening,’ he informed her brusquely. ‘And my day is fully taken up with meetings until I leave for the airport. It will have to wait until I get back next week.’
‘No!’ That wouldn’t do! ‘I can’t wait that long. I...’ Her voice trailed away, her mind flying off in another direction as she bit into her bottom lip on a fresh wave of desperation. Then, defeatedly, she whispered, ‘It doesn’t m-matter. I’m s-sorry to have—’
‘Don’t you damn well dare put that phone down on me!’ Sandro warned on an angry growl that told her that, even after all this time, he could still read her intentions like an open book.
And she could hear him muttering something to himself—cursing most likely—in Italian, because Sandro always did revert to his native tongue when he was really angry. She could even see him in full detail while he did it. Tall and lean, an unbearably handsome Latin dark figure, with brown velvet eyes that turned black when angry and a beautifully shaped intensely sensual mouth that could kiss like no mouth she had ever experienced, but could also spit all sorts at her without her knowing what the words were—but, hell, did she get their drift!
Then, emerging from the middle of all that Latin temperament, came a warning beep that the phone needed feeding yet again.
‘I haven’t any more money!’ she gasped into the mouthpiece while her eyes flickered anxiously across the dirty floor at her feet. ‘I’ll have to—’
‘Give me your number!’ Sandro snapped.
‘But there’s a man waiting to use the telephone. I have to—’
‘Maledizione!’ he cursed. ‘The number, Joanna!’
