The Marriage Surrender

The two fitted together so neatly that the old sense of wild panic hit all over again, and she scrambled urgently around, looking for something to wear on her feet. She found a pair of lightweight leather slip-ons and hurriedly pushed her bare feet into them. Her freshly-shampooed hair slid like a curtain around her face, drying quickly of its own accord in the heat Rome was basking in—while London still shivered.

At last she was ready to walk out of the room and down the hall to the apartment’s main doors. It took mere seconds to make it as far as the lift, only then to use up precious minutes having to talk herself into using the damned thing.

It’s either that or stay here, she told herself grimly. Because she couldn’t see any sign of a stairwell in the vicinity.

Frustration bit hard into her lily-white cowardice, sharp white teeth doing the same to her full bottom lip. Oh, stop being so pathetic! she told herself angrily. One bad experience in a lift didn’t make all lifts evil places!

Still, even as she stepped forward and made herself press the call button, she was half hoping that the lift wouldn’t come. But there was a whirring sound and a click as it arrived at its destination. The doors slid open and Joanna looked warily inside, memories of what had happened the last time these doors had stood open in front of her like this mingling with all her other wretched lift memories.

With a deep breath, she made herself walk forward, turn to face the console, then sent up a tense finger to stab at the ‘down’ button. The doors swished shut. She closed her eyes, felt the lift start to move and curled her hands into tight fists at her sides as her heart began to hammer.

Oh, why did it have to be like this? she asked herself tragically. Why did she have to live in fear of lifts, or have to run away from a man who had never once lifted a single finger towards her in anger?

A man she loved, a man she cared for; a man who had once loved her enough to move heaven and earth just so that he could be with her! It wasn’t fair—it just wasn’t fair!

The lift stopped. Her eyes flicked open, bright blue and wretched, because she’d suddenly realised that she couldn’t do it; she just couldn’t run out on him like this!

The doors parted; one of her hands snaked up to press the ‘up’ button...

‘Well, well,’ a smoothly sardonic voice drawled. ‘Now, why isn’t this as big a surprise as it should be?’

He was leaning against the lift’s outer casing, smiling at her but in an angry way—very angry; she could see the twin fires burning in his dark eyes.

‘How...?’

‘How did I know you were on your way down here?’ he accurately interpreted. ‘Because each time this lift is used an alarm sounds in the concierge’s office—where I was sitting enjoying a cup of coffee and a pleasant chat,’ he explained with acid bite.

‘I...’

‘You were on your way to look for me?’ he suggested lazily. ‘How nice.’

‘No,’ she denied, flushing slightly. ‘I...’

‘Because you missed me so much, you could not bear to be away from me for a single moment longer.’ He nodded sagely. ‘I am most flattered.’

‘Will you stop finishing my sentences for me?’ she snapped. ‘That was not what I was going to say!’

‘I also see you are feeling much better,’ he drawled. ‘For the shrew is back.?

?

‘I wasn’t leaving,’ she retorted, wondering why she had changed her mind about running when, really, two seconds in his company was enough to make any woman run!

‘Just working off your phobia about lifts.’ He nodded again, clearly not believing her. ‘How brave, cara.’

Joanna sighed and leaned a defeated shoulder against the lift wall. ‘I only wanted some fresh air, Sandro,’ she told him heavily.

‘Fresh air? Of course. Why did I not think of that?’ And before she could react, his hand snaked out to catch her wrist and with a tug he had her out of the lift.

‘W-where are we going?’ she demanded as he began pulling her towards the rear of the apartment block.

‘For fresh air,’ he answered laconically. ‘As the lady requested.’

Then he was pushing open a door that took them outside into the sensually warm dappled sunlight, and a cobbled courtyard, high-walled on three sides with the building itself forming the fourth. In its centre the requisite Italian fountain was sprinkling fine droplets of water into a rippling pond. The walls hung with colour, all brilliant shades, and the sunlight filtered down through the spread branches of a fig tree onto a stone bench seat and table set beneath it.

‘Is this fresh enough for you?’ Sandro enquired lightly as he pulled her over to the bench and virtually forced her to sit down on it before leaning his hips against the table behind him. He folded his arms, then proceeded to view her with enough mockery in his eyes to make her wince and blush furiously.

‘I was not running away from you!’ she tried a second time. ‘I—I was going to,’ she then reluctantly admitted, ‘but then I changed my mind.’