Public Wife, Private Mistress

Feeling like a voyeur, he walked over to the other canvases stacked neatly against one wall of the studio. One by one he went through them, his dark eyes nar­rowed in concentration as he examined each one in si­lence.

As a collector he knew instinctively that he was look­ing at something special. As an investor he knew that he was looking at something that would appreciate in value. But as a man he knew that he was looking at something that was part of the woman. His woman.

How could he ever have expected her to give this up? It was like asking her not to breathe.

A frown touching his dark brows, he settled the paint­ings back against the wall and strode broodingly back to the canvas that she was working on at the moment. How could he have thought that marriage to him would be enough to satisfy her?

The truth was that he'd been so obsessed with her physically that he'd given very little thought to her happiness. He'd been putting in long days at the office and he hadn't asked himself what she was doing with her time. He'd assumed that she'd lunched with his family, gone shopping...

But she'd never once used the credit card he'd given her.

When she'd flown back to England to talk to clients he'd been furious. What was the point of having a wife when you arrived home and the bed was empty?

Dealing with the uncomfortable truth that his own behaviour had done nothing to enhance their relation­ship, he stepped back from the canvas and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

It was true that he hadn't wanted her to work. That he'd wanted her to be home whenever he was. He'd hated coming home to the palazzo and finding her gone.

Which, roughly translated, meant that either he was an egotistical control freak or he just couldn't bear not to be with Stasia—and what did that say about him?

Acknowledging that he was in serious trouble, he strode from the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

The next few days passed in a haze of pleasure and Stasia was forced to remind herself at regular intervals that this wasn't real. That any minute now Chiara was going to regain her memory and her life with Rico would end again.

But for the time being it was perfect.

During the day she painted, lay on the beach or by the pool. And, even though she knew it was for Chiara's benefit, she loved the fact that Rico had become so at­tentive. All of a sudden it seemed that he couldn't dis­cover enough about her. He wanted to know every min­ute detail of her life from the day of her first memory to the moment she'd met him. But if the days were for Chiara, the nights belonged to her and Rico.

Locked in their private world, they made love until they were so exhausted that they slept and when they awoke they did the whole thing again and it was just so right —

They were well into their second week on the island and Stasia was quietly sketching on the terrace when Chiara screwed up her face as if she was in pain. 'Oh—'

Stasia frowned. 'Are you all right?'

Chiara shook her head slightly. 'My head feels funny—I don't know why.'

'Have a lie down,' Stasia urged, taking her arm and leading her into the villa. 'The doctor said that you were going to need lots of rest. You probably haven't been getting enough sleep.'

Chiara walked with her without resisting and sank on to her bed with her eyes closed.

Genuinely concerned, Stasia removed her sandals and closed the blinds. 'There. That should help. Call me if you need anything. I'm only on the terrace.'

Then she tiptoed out of the room, acutely aware that her own happiness would last only as long as Chiara failed to remember the past.

Sooner or later Chiara was going to regain her mem­ory and then the whole facade would fall apart.

She was right.

And it fell apart at midnight—

CHAPTER NINE

The loud sobs woke both of them.

'Dio, that's Chiara—' Rico was out of bed in a flash, responding instantly to the sounds of his sister's dis­tress. He paused only to pull on a robe and then sprinted out of the bedroom with Stasia right behind him.

Chiara's bed looked as though a tornado had struck. The sheets had been dragged from the bed and she was sitting in a heap on the floor, shivering, her face blotched with tears and her eyes wild. She looked ut­terly tormented and Rico gave an exclamation of con­cern and dropped to his haunches beside her. He spoke softly in Italian, his deep voice soothing and reassuring but his sister flinched away from him.

'Don't! Don't touch me!' She shrank away from him, her brief glance full of accusation before she once more covered her face with her hands. 'You lied to me! Both of you lied to me!'