The Proud Wife. Kate Walker

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 “thou shalt do this” and “thou shalt not do that”? “Thou shalt not speak to the press”? Do you really think I’d want to let the scandal mags know the truth about our marriage?’

      She was letting her tongue run away with her but somehow she couldn’t even bring herself to care. This was why she had come here, why she’d felt she had to put herself through the ordeal of seeing Pietro one last time. She had wanted to try to voice—partly, at least—the things she had never been able to say when they had been married. To try to provoke him into reacting, into something other than the carefully measured, icy distance that was all that he had showed her in the end. All that the once heady, burning passion had burned down into, cold and ashy.

      ‘Do you think I’d want the whole nasty, miserable mess spread out in the tabloids—our dirty washing hung out to dry in full view of the public?’

      ‘Marina …’

      It was definitely dangerous now, definitely a warning. His eyes were blazing cold fury, and the hand that had held the water glass now drummed a warning tattoo on the polished table-top. But it was a warning Marina was well past heeding. She had the bit between her teeth, and she wasn’t going to be called to order by anyone.

      ‘You think you can toss me some instructions and if I want your money I’ll do as I’m told, will follow your conditions to the letter?’

      ‘I think you’d better listen to what those conditions are.’

      ‘No.’

      Marina shook her head firmly, sending her auburn ponytail flying with the deliberate emphasis she put on the movement.

      ‘I don’t need to hear them.’

      She heard Pietro’s breath hiss in sharply, watched his sharp, white teeth snap together and the muscles in his jaw tighten ominously.

      ‘Marina—you came here so that we could discuss the terms of our divorce in a civilised manner.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘No?’

      That really shocked him and the flood of triumph she felt as a result had a devastatingly intoxicating result, rushing through every nerve and vein like the powerful effect of some richly potent brandy.

      ‘No—that’s not what I came here for. In fact these “discussions” are nothing to me. Because, you see …’

      Now was the time for her to get to her feet, and she pushed back her chair so that it almost overbalanced with the force of her action. Now was the time for her to stand upright so that Pietro had to look up to her as she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and looked straight down her nose at him.

      ‘I only have to follow your instructions, agree to your conditions, if I want anything from you. That was the bargaining card you thought you held—the one that gave you some sort of power over me. But you were wrong.’

      Stooping to pick up the document case she had brought in with her, she turned it in her hands until it was just in exactly the right position. Her defiant green eyes met his coldly assessing blue ones with as much determination and strength as she could muster.

      ‘You only hold those bargaining cards if I take anything at all from you—that’s what you counted on, and that was where you went wrong. Because you see, Your High and Mightiness, Principe Pietro Raymundo Marcello D’Inzeo, I want nothing at all from you—nothing.’

      She had to pause for breath there, and when she did she expected that he would break in on her, that he had to say something. But still Pietro sat immobile, still as a sphinx. He barely even seemed to be breathing, he was so motionless, so ruthlessly in control. Only his eyes burned with something so fierce, so dangerous, that just for a moment Marina’s heart lurched, her nerves stuttering. Then she pulled herself together, drew a deep, unsteady breath and rushed on.

      ‘I came here today not to discuss terms but to give you them.’

      Zipping open the leather case, she pulled out a sheaf of papers that exactly matched the ones in front of both Pietro and Matteo, the ones from which the lawyer had been reading the list of conditions.

      ‘I’ve seen your offer of a divorce settlement and I’ve decided to reject it—totally and completely.’

      At last Pietro moved, even if it was only his mouth that opened to speak in a voice that was deadly and low.

      ‘Then you’ll get …

      ‘Then I’ll get exactly what I want, husband dear—exactly what I came here to tell you I’ll take from you—and the answer is nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because I came into this marriage with nothing and I’m going out of it with exactly the same. So you can take your divorce settlement and put it—put it wherever you like. Because I want none of it!’

      As she finished speaking, she tossed the documents down onto the table in front of Pietro where they landed with a heavy thud, the impact throwing up the loosened pages and sending them flying up into the air—straight into her husband’s icily controlled and rigid face.