The Marriage Surrender

‘I won’t sleep with you,’ she repeated, turning back to the sauce she had been working on when he came in.

‘Shall I find some wine to go with this, or have you already done it?’

‘No wine,’ she snapped, ‘I don’t want wine—I want you to listen to me!’

‘That pan is non-stick, cara,’ he pointed out gently. ‘You will take its protective coating off if you stir it as violently as that. I’ll go and find a bottle of white, in case you change your mind later...’

He moved off; she spun again. ‘Sandro!’ she called after him, and it was a wretched cry from the heart.

It stopped him, but he didn’t turn. ‘I am not listening to you, Joanna,’ he informed her flatly. ‘It is time to come to terms with what happened to you. Three years of your life is quite long enough to devote to the experience.’ Then, ‘Mamma mia!’ he added with tragic Latin drama as he continued walking. ‘It is more than long enough!’

‘You’re so damned insensitive!’ she sobbed furiously after him. ‘I hate you! If you so much as touch me my skin will shrivel!’

He didn’t even bother to answer that one, disappearing into a utility room off the kitchen, which led through to his impressively well-stocked wine cellar, leaving her standing there feeling bitten through to her very centre with a helpless, anguished frustration. It wasn’t fair! she thought tragically. She had taken enough—more than enough—over the last two days, yet still he wouldn’t listen to reason!

A tear tried to roll down her cheek but she angrily swiped it away, going back to her sauce as if her life depended on it He came back with a bottle of wine, found an ice bucket and emptied a tray of cubes into it before adding the bottle. From her station by the stove Joanna grimly ignored him, while every single sensor she possessed was on full alert to pick up exactly what he was doing and where he was doing it as he moved around the hot kitchen.

‘How long?’ he asked

‘Tw—twenty minutes.’

‘Then you have time to get a quick shower and change,’ he opined. ‘You can safely leave the rest to me.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Don’t argue, Joanna,’ he interrupted, coming to stand behind her and taking the spoon right out of her hand. ‘You are hot,’ he stated, turning her round to face him,

‘you are uptight, and you are not going to close that door on me again,’ he added determinedly. ‘So, be sensible and go and make yourself comfortable before we sit down to eat. You know I am not going to hurt you in any way, amore,’ he tagged on gently. ‘At least let your common sense tell you that.’

She sniffed, her unhappy face bowed, unable to let her common sense tell her anything while he was standing so close. His sleeve-cuffs were still dangling, she noticed inconsequently, which made them dangerous around a hot cooker. Automatically she reached out to fold one up his arm for him. He didn’t say a word but let her tidy him, even holding out the other arm when she’d finished with the first, so she could see to that too.

‘Y

ou can’t possibly begin to understand how I’m feeling right now,’ she said shakily.

‘Then explain it to me.’

But she shook her head, watching his gold Rolex watch appear as she folded back the white cuff of his shirt, seeing brown skin and dark hair, strong muscle and sinew.

She could also picture this man naked, walking towards her, his eyes so black she could see the twin fires of a powerful desire burning brightly behind them.

Sucking in a sharp, shaken gulp of air, she moved around him, away from him, out of the room at the speed of light, that vision one she had not seen in a long time—and it scared her as much now as it had done when it actually happened. Here, in this apartment, in his bedroom, on their wedding night.

He’d been right about the shower and the change of clothes; she did feel more comfortable, though no less uptight, when she went back to find that Sandro had set the table in the small dining room just off the kitchen. Like all of his homes, this apartment had two sides to it its homely side and its formal side. One set of rooms devoted entirely to personal creature comforts, the other for entertaining on a grand scale.

Not that she had ever been present when Sandro had entertained like that, she remembered heavily. She had been too shot through with insecurities for him to dare expose himself to the embarrassment of showing off his neurotic wife.

So they’d spent most of their year living together more or less isolated from other people—except for Molly, of course, who had lived with them for the first six months.

‘Here, take these,’ Sandro said as she walked into the kitchen. He was holding out two warm plates wrapped in a linen teatowel. ‘I want to open the wine before I bring it in...’

All very normal, she noted. Very let’s-pretend-everything-is-fine! Tight-lipped, she took the plates from him and carried them into the small dining room. She found he’d lit candles and wanted to smash the damn china over his head!

Which meant the tension between them had the same effect as nettle rash as they sat down together to eat.

‘Pretty dress,’ he remarked, long lashes sweeping down over his eyes as he took in the simple but classical lines of the royal-blue silk shift dress she had chosen to wear.

‘You should know; you bought it,’ she tossed deflatingly back.