LITMIR.BIZ

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he was determined to hold on to. He had a right to choose his own future, and Antonia had a right to be accepted for that choice. If his parents could not bring themselves to do that, then…

      Then what? he asked himself.

      ‘Nice to own. Nice to sip,’ his father murmured. ‘But that’s about all, Marco…’

      It was a refusal of support. Marco picked up the photograph and placed it back in his pocket. ‘Is that your final word?’

      His father sent him a grim look as he stood up to leave. ‘Is she pregnant?’ he asked.

      Now there was an interesting concept, Marco mused cynically. A Bellini child, born out of wedlock. A wry smile touched his mouth ‘No,’ he replied. ‘But I could easily make it so.’

      Ah—now he was actually being taken seriously, he saw with grim satisfaction as his father’s expression sharpened dramatically. ‘Sit down,’ Federico commanded.

      Marco complied, but only because it was what he had expected to be told when he’d stood up in the first place.

      ‘Now, explain to me why this woman, when you could have any woman you wanted?’

      Arrogance abounded. Antonia would have just loved to hear his father say those words. ‘She’s what I want.’ He stated it simply. Then he sat forward and looked his father directly in the eye. ‘She is what I intend to have,’ he extended with deadly seriousness. ‘Comprende…?’

      The silence lasted for all of thirty seconds, the sabre fight with their eyes an evenly matched thing. Then Federico Bellini sat back in his thick brown leather chair, huffed out a short laugh, gave a shake of his head and said, ‘Next weekend. Here, I think. We will keep this official, above-board and on the right side of the sheets, if you don’t mind.’

      ‘Grazie,’ Marco thanked him, and not by a flicker did he wallow in his triumph.

      But his father hadn’t finished. His eyes suddenly took on a devilish gleam. ‘Now all you have to do is get your mother to see things your way…’

      Carlotta had already been in and returned the bedroom to its usual pristine smoothness, Antonia found. Nothing out of place, nothing to show that the room had been used at all. Walking over to a built-in closet, she took out the small leather suitcase again. She wasn’t really surprised to find that Marco had neatly returned her clothes to their appropriate places in the room. It was the way of the man. The way of his housekeeper. Everything neat and in its place. This bedroom was Antonia’s place. Last night should have reminded her of that.

      This time no angry male strode in to halt the process of packing. The suitcase closed with a snap. But as she set the case down on the floor a knock sounded on the door and Carlotta stepped inside.

      Of course, she had to see the suitcase. Her eyes shot to Antonia’s. ‘No, signorina, you—’

      Something stopped her. An awareness of her place in the order of things? Acceptance that, for Antonia at any rate, leaving was perhaps the wise thing for her to do?

      Looking away again, she walked forward. ‘Signor Gabrielli asked me to give you this,’ she said, and handed Antonia a cheque, then turned and left again without uttering another word.

      It kind of said it all. Without so much as glancing at the cheque to see how much money her father considered his daughter’s silence worth, she ripped it into small pieces and deposited it in the waste-paper basket, then, simply because she needed to do it, she walked over to the terrace window and stepped outside.

      Milan shimmered in the blistering heat of yet another hot summer’s day. Way down there below her the traffic made up for its unusual silence of the night before. And one of the first things her eyes fell upon was the imprint of Marco’s body still hugging the cushions on the lounger he must have used. Carlotta had obviously not got around to coming out here yet, because a sandwich and a glass of red wine were standing on a table close by.

      When he hadn’t been able to sleep last night, he must have gone to the kitchen to make himself a late night snack and brought it out here to enjoy. But he’d seen her lying asleep on the other lounger. Food and wine had been forgotten in favour of other forces.

      Like the recovery of his woman, she mused. The putting her back where she belonged, in his arms, and in his bed.

      Her eyes glazed over. She had to turn away to stop the tears from flowing. It was then that she remembered the tear-drop diamond necklace, and set her feet moving further down the terrace to find it still lying exactly where she had placed it beneath the lounger. Recovering it, she took it back into the bedroom and was about to put it down on her dressing table when she noticed the note from Marco folded there.

      ‘Don’t worry me, cara,’ it said. ‘Be here when I return.’

      It came without warning. The first sob, followed quickly by another—and another. Dropping onto the dressing stool, she covered her face with her hands then simply let go and sobbed her heart out.

      When it was over, she stood up. Took a moment to compose herself and decide what she needed to do before she left here for the last time…

      Marco was standing alone in his father’s library, using the landline telephone to connect him with the Romano Gallery. He wanted Stefan Kranst. He got Rosetta Romano.

      ‘Where is he?’ he demanded.

      ‘He flies home to England this afternoon,’ Rosetta told him. ‘I thought you must know that he never meant to stay longer than the first-night viewing. What do you want me to do with Signorina Carson’s painting?’ she asked. ‘Stefan never said, and Signorina Carson rang off before I could ask her when she called looking for Stefan not ten minutes ago.’

      The painting. Marco frowned. He’d forgotten all about it. ‘Have it packed up and delivered to my apartment,’ he instructed. ‘Did Antonia say why she wanted Kranst?’

      ‘No. She just asked where he was staying and rang off, that was all.’

      Marco rang off too. It wasn’t that he was worried any longer about Stefan Kranst, he told himself. But his feet took him in search of his father to wish him a quick farewell before he was heading outside and to the waiting helicopter. It didn’t occur to him, until he was in the air again, that he could have rung Antonia before leaving, just to check that she was okay.

      Okay, he then repeated drily. You want to check that she’s actually there! He didn’t trust her. Could he trust her? ‘This changes nothing,’ she had told him in the depths of a night of loving. Impulsively he fished out his mobile. One glance from his pilot and he was reluctantly putting it away again.

      Antonia was arguing with Stefan. ‘You have to do this for me, Stefan—please,’ she begged him. ‘You owe it to me after last night’s fiasco!’

      ‘Isabella Bellini was contrite afterwards, if that helps you any,’ he told her.

      ‘I don’t care what she was!’ It was almost a sob. ‘It doesn’t make any difference. My mind is made up. I’m leaving Milan.’

      ‘And Marco?’ he included.

      She swallowed and nodded. ‘These are the keys.’ Her fingers shook as she held them out to him. ‘All you need to do is pay off the lease then get my things and bring them with you back to London.’

      Stefan refused to take the keys. ‘What in heaven’s name happened after you left with him?’ he demanded impatiently.

      But she shook her head. ‘I’ll tell you another time. I have a plane to catch.’

      ‘Does he know you’re going?’ Stefan asked.

      She didn’t answer. He released a sigh. ‘My darling, I’ve told you something like this before but I am going to say it again. Marco Bellini is not a man to cross swords with.’

      Her chin shot up, jewel-bright eyes sparkling with something he had

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