Wicked Wives. Anna-Lou Weatherley

up to her chest and hugged them tightly, cursing herself. She felt the heat pulse between her legs, a dull ache for him. Even dreaming of Tom felt like a terrible betrayal of her husband and yet there were times when she could not prevent it; it was times like this, in the dark of a lonely night, that he dripped into her psyche, resurrecting feelings she had spent a lifetime trying to bury.

      Though she attempted to deny it to herself, Ellie knew she had loved Tom Black with a deep, intense passion and burning lust that regrettably she had never mimicked with her husband. With Tom it had been instantaneous and all-consuming; she had wanted him with a base ferocity that had scared her, if only for the fact that deep down she suspected it would one day destroy her – a supposition that had nearly turned out to be correct in the end. It had always bothered Ellie that it had not been the same way with her husband. A husband who she knew would walk the world barefoot twice over to make her happy and give her what she wanted in life. She heard her mother’s familiar voice resounding inside her mind, ‘the heart wants what the heart wants, Eleanor,’ she would say as if to justify her own dubious choices. ‘You don’t choose love; it chooses you.’ And yet Tom had turned her over without a backwards glance the moment Loretta Fiorentino had strutted into the Venus Club, all tits and lips and cheap costume jewellery, seducing him with her exotic accent and talk of going places. Loretta had set her cap at Tom Black that night and had promised him the earth in a bid to lure him into her lair; money, clubs, contacts, ‘the whole enchilada’, as Tom had put it. Not that Tom had needed much persuading. He was going places, with or without Ellie in tow, and had abandoned her without a second’s thought; though some years later he would vehemently deny this betrayal, attempting to prove his love to her one final time …

      It was no good. Ellie threw back the fine cream silk sheets and flung her long, slim dancer’s legs over the side of the intricately carved four-poster Fratelli Basile bed that in a twist of irony her husband had imported from Italy, her Agent Provocateur lace chemise sliding down her naked body as she stood. Making her way over to her dressing table, she sat down on the cushioned stool and blinked at her reflection; seeing herself as a stranger would. Ellie pulled at her skin absentmindedly, poking her tongue out before reaching for her Crème de la Mer serum. Eye bags she could cope with; she could have them removed tomorrow if the fancy took her, it was just her past that wasn’t so easily erased.

      Ellie snapped herself out of her thoughts by applying a dollop of Laura Mercier Fig hand cream, inhaling the deep, earthy sweet scent as she rubbed it into her skin. She had to stop this; no good had ever come out of raking over the past.

      It was that bloody bitch Loretta’s photograph that had triggered all of this. Ellie had spent decades repressing her past with an iron will that would’ve flawed a heavyweight champion, and so tonight felt like a defeat, though if she was honest, it had also been cathartic. Thinking of Tom had allowed her to remember the girl she had once been, someone she had denied for the past two decades. A girl that, in an odd way, she missed being.

      Ellie’s iPhone suddenly beeped, and alarmed, she snatched it up from the bedside table.

      ‘Oh thank God,’ she breathed aloud as the message came into view.

      Hi Mom, Dont worry bout me. Havin a GR8 time. B in touch soon. Tx

      She stared at the text for a moment. Something was different somehow but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. The use of the word ‘Mom’ perhaps.

      Ellie slid back into bed. She was just being paranoid. Tess was OK, and even though she could not quite shake the sense of unease that had stalked her these last few days, for now, it was one less thing to worry about.

      CHAPTER 15

      Marco DiMari discarded the phone onto the bed without so much as a second thought as he rifled through Tess’s belongings. There had to be a fair few grand’s worth of designer gear here he thought happily, as he inspected the contents of her Louis Vuitton holdall with gusto. The suitcase alone was worth a small fortune and he could just see himself passing through customs with it. He grinned at the thought.

      Marco DiMari’s real name was Tarik Valmir and although he had people, women largely, believe that he was a real Italian stallion from Rome, he was in fact born in a small city called Lezhe in Albania and had grown up largely on the peripheries of East London, Bethnal Green, to be exact. The Italian thing was simply a ruse to entice women; it certainly got you into their knickers a lot quicker. Ever tenacious, he had even learnt to speak the language fluently, fooling Italian women themselves on occasion. Oh yes, Tarik liked his alias. He liked it a lot.

      Hoping that he might’ve thrown Tess’s mother off the scent with his text message, Marco came across Tess’s passport.

      ‘Bingo,’ he said underneath his fetid alcoholic breath.

      He was sure there was big money to be made from this one and he wasn’t about to let such an opportunity slip through his nimble fingers. He’d seen a new opportunity in Tess Scott, the billionaire’s fragrant daughter. One that was far too good to pass up.

      Marco heard the pounding on the wall next door again. The girl had been going at it on and off all morning, hammering at the door and walls, crying and screaming like a banshee. He knew he would have to give her something to drink soon before she collapsed with dehydration. He didn’t want a stiff on his hands – she was worth far too much for that.

      He heard Tess’s muffled cries through the wall.

      ‘That’s right love, you carry on. We’re halfway up a fucking mountain in Spain you dozy bitch, no one can hear you.’ He banged his fist against the wall in retaliation, laughing, ‘no one at all!’