The condition had been one she was expecting so she felt a rush of relief that this was all it was.
She meant it, she tried to tell herself. She really did. Bitter memories of the past put a depth of feeling into her response that must surely convince Pietro, even if she couldn’t convince herself. Once she had been so very happy to have Pietro’s name as her own. It was a name with a long-lived Sicilian history, the name of centuries of princes and princesses, hugely wealthy bankers who had a much more prestigious place in the world than her own ordinary middle-class family. She had been proud to have it as her surname, amazed at the deference and response that it brought with it, the speedy effect just mentioning it would create—an effect that Pietro treated with casual disdain.
But most important to her had been that it was the name of the man she adored. And it should have been the name of her baby too. The cruel slash of pain that thought brought with it pushed her into unguarded speech.
‘Why would I want to keep the name of the man whose marriage to me meant nothing to him?’
To his lawyer’s right, she heard Pietro snatch in a sharp, angry-sounding breath from between clenched teeth. Her throat tightened, knotting itself against the lurching beat of her heart as she tensed, waiting for his furious response. But it never came. The look that Matteo flashed towards Pietro silenced whatever outburst had been about to escape his ruthless control and he subsided into silence again, merely indicating with a swift, impatient flick of his free hand that the lawyer should continue.
But Marina couldn’t be unaware of the way that the other hand, the one still wrapped around his water glass, tightened against the hard surface until his knuckles showed white, revealing the fierce struggle he was having with himself to hold back the angry words that had almost escaped him.
‘I will have no trouble with that particular condition,’ she managed stiffly, still keeping her eyes on Matteo’s calm, controlled face.
‘Buon.’
The silver pen made a small check-mark against the relevant paragraph in the document.
‘Next, you will sign a confidentiality agreement, promising never to speak of your marriage, never to reveal anything of your life with Principe D’Inzeo, either during the time you were together or of the reasons why you split up.’
‘I … What?’
Now she had to turn to Pietro; she couldn’t stop herself. She knew that her eyes were wide with anger and disbelief—and, yes, a savage degree of pain—when she turned them on the man who sat silent and immobile as a rock.
‘You want me to sign …?’ she managed, but then the hurt got the better of her.
How could he think that she would ever want the world to know the truth about their life together? That would mean letting everyone know about the way she had been so bitterly disillusioned. The baby …
From nowhere came the thought that, if their baby had been born, it might have had the same pale, devastating eyes as its father and suddenly it felt as if the sides of the room were closing in on her, taking all the daylight with them, making it difficult to breathe.
‘How dare you?’
If she had thrown the words at the wall opposite, it could hardly have responded less. Pietro’s reaction was to narrow his eyes until they barely gleamed from behind the darkness of his lashes as he sat back in his chair, watching and waiting.
‘I have my name to protect.’
‘But you can’t really think that I would do anything to damage it?’
When Pietro blinked slowly and eased his position in the chair, he looked like nothing so much as an indolent lion, lazily considering the question of whether it was worth the trouble of pouncing. There was enough controlled menace in his stare to make her reach for her water glass and snatch at a quick gulp of the drink so as to ease the uncomfortable dryness of her throat.
‘And can you say the same for your boyfriend?’
‘What boyfriend?’
She didn’t give Pietro the chance to answer that, rushing on instead in her determination to refute his implied accusations.
‘Just who do you think I am? I have had nearly two years apart from you. Two years! And in all that time did I so much as give an interview or get my picture in a magazine?’
‘You didn’t have your freedom then,’ he drawled coolly. ‘And you had a comfortable allowance that meant you needed to keep me sweet.’
‘No, I didn’t. Do you ever check your bank statements?’ Marina challenged when one black eyebrow lifted in a cynical questioning of her assertion. ‘Or do you find it hard to notice when a paltry million is missing—or not—from the many hundreds of millions you have coming in and out each month?’
That had him finally sitting up straight. The flash of anger in the glare he turned on his lawyer was so sizzling that for a second Marina almost expected to see the elegant Matteo shrivel into a pile of smoking ash right where he sat.
‘I said …’ Pietro began, but a strong sense of fair play had Marina rushing to the other man’s defence.
‘Oh, I know—I can imagine what you said, or rather ordered, would be done. And I’m sure that poor Matteo did just as you commanded. But you can’t order me around. I’m not married to you now.’
Pietro’s beautifully sensual lips twitched into a wry smile that mocked her passionate outburst.
‘Are you implying that I was ever able to order you around?’ he enquired sardonically. ‘Because believe me, bella mia, that was never the case. In truth, I doubt that anyone has ever been able to order you to do anything. So are you claiming that you never used the allowance?’
‘No—I’m not claiming!’ Marina pushed back the annoying strand of hair that had worked loose from her ponytail with an impatient movement. ‘I’m telling you: I never used the allowance you sent. Not a penny.’
‘Why not? That money was for your keep.’
‘Why not? I would have thought that was obvious. I don’t need to be kept. I have a job—I went back to the library. I earn my own living. I don’t want anything from you. I never did and, now that we’re not married, I never will.’
‘Might I remind you that we are at present only separated?’ There was an odd edge to Pietro’s voice, one that roughened it shockingly at the edges. ‘We are not yet divorced.’
‘Not yet,’ Marina admitted. ‘But it can’t come soon enough for me. I just want it over and done with—signed and sealed so that I can get out of here with my freedom and never look back.’
‘In that case,’ Pietro returned imperturbably, ‘perhaps you will let “poor Matteo”—’ he echoed her words mockingly ‘—get on with things.’
But Marina had had enough.
‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think we will “get on with things”.’
She pushed back her chair, thought about getting to her feet and then hesitated. A few moments more and it would have had much more effect. She was actually quite enjoying seeing Pietro off-balance for once. He didn’t quite know how to take her—and for now that was exactly how Marina wanted it.
‘What things, Pietro?’
She directed the question straight into his watchful face, seeing the faint scowl that drew his dark brows together, frowning over narrowed eyes.
‘What things—more terms? More conditions? More dictates from the great lord and master, Il Principe D’Inzeo?’
‘Marina …’ Pietro’s use of her name was low-toned, deep, a strong note of reproof on the single word.
‘More