Roccanti's Marriage Revenge (Marriage by Command 1)

Thinking of his destroyed childhood with his cruel stepfather, Vitale barely repressed a shudder of disagreement. ‘If we’re not married, if we stay separate, we will both end up with other partners and it will be much more difficult—’

‘But other people manage it,’ Zara sliced in flatly even as her heart clenched at the very thought of him with another woman.

It was going to happen, possibly had even happened already, she scolded herself angrily. Vitale was going to be with other women and she had to adapt to that idea. That the idea bothered her was just some weird jealous and possessive prompting, most probably because he had become her first lover. On the other hand, a scheming little voice murmured somewhere in the depths of her brain, if you married him, nobody else could have him. She stifled that inner voice, embarrassed by its foolishness.

The following morning Zara attended an appointment with her GP. He confirmed the test results and sent her off to see the practice nurse, who gave her a bunch of leaflets packed with pregnancy advice. They were still clutched in her hand when a man walking past her in the street knocked her shoulder, loosening her grip so that the sheets spun across the pavement in an arc. As the man sped on without noticing Zara stooped to pick up the leaflets.

‘Zara?’ a familiar voice queried and Zara straightened, recognising the elegant brunette. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you round this neighbourhood. Didn’t I hear that you’d moved to another part of town?’

Meeting Ella’s big blue curious eyes, Zara reddened. ‘Yes, I have—’

‘Oh, my goodness, are those for you?’ Ella exclaimed, flicking one of the leaflets, which clearly showed a pregnant woman, with a manicured fingernail and accompanying the question with a delighted squeal. ‘Are you pregnant?’

‘I’m meeting someone in ten minutes. Lovely seeing you again, Ella,’ Zara fielded with a bright smile, stuffing the informative leaflets into her bag and walking on without further comment. Her cheeks were hot as she queried her bad luck at running into one of the biggest gossips she knew at the wrong moment.

Vitale was not having a good day either. He had offered to fall on his sword like a proper little soldier when he had asked her to marry him. The sacrifice had been necessary: she was carrying his baby and he had a deep need to be a genuine part of his child’s life. But it would also entail sharing his life. When had he ever dreamt of sharing his life with another person?

When had he ever longed for a child of his own? He had never wanted those things and his entire life had been devoted to achieving emotional self-sufficiency. He told himself that he should be grateful that she had turned him down. He should walk away while he could, avoid getting personally involved. He should be content to ensure that his only responsibility towards her and the child was financial. Why could he not settle for that eminently practical option? Realistically what were the chances that Zara would some day bring a man into her life as brutal as Vitale’s late stepfather?

Zara was at Blooming Perfect going through the accounts with Rob when Jono phoned her and drew her attention to a paragraph in a gossip column. Although she was grateful for the warning her heart sank and she went out to buy the paper and there it was, clearly the result of a tip-off from Ella or one of her pals, the loaded suggestion that party girl and socialite Zara Blake might be expecting a baby. Her phone rang again: it was her mother asking her to come home for a chat.

Zara knew what she was going to be asked and she definitely didn’t want to go and face the music. Unfortunately being adult and independent demanded that she not avoid the inevitable, no matter how unpleasant it might prove to be. Monty and Ingrid Blake were going to be even more disappointed in her than they already were. An unmarried pregnant daughter was no consolation for one who mere weeks ago had been set to marry a Greek billionaire in the society wedding of the year.

‘Is it true?’ Ingrid Blake demanded the instant her daughter entered the sparsely furnished drawing room where elegance counted for more than comfort.

Her heart beating very fast, Zara glanced nervously at her father standing by the fireplace, his still-handsome face set hard as granite. ‘Yes, I’m pregnant.’

‘We’ll organise a termination for you straight away,’ her mother said without an ounce of hesitation.

Zara straightened her slight shoulders and eased them back. ‘No. I want to have my baby.’

‘Who’s the father?’ Monty Blake growled.

‘I’m sorry but I don’t want to discuss that.’

‘I bet you don’t, you brainless little—’ the older man launched furiously at her, a red flush of rage staining his cheeks.

Her tension palpable, Zara’s mother rested a soothing hand lightly on her husband’s arm. ‘Don’t let her upset you, darling … She’s not worth it—’

‘You’re telling me, she’s not!’ Monty Blake seethed, grinding his teeth as he strode forward, his face a mask of fury. ‘It’s out of the question for you to have this baby.’

Struggling not to back away from her enraged parent as she had so often seen her mother do without any happy result, Zara stood her ground.

‘Listen to your father for once, Zara,’ Ingrid ordered thinly. ‘You simply can’t have this baby! Be reasonable. Once you have a child in tow, your life will be ruined.’

‘Did Tom and I ruin your life?’ Zara asked painfully, deeply hurt that her mother could so immediately dismiss the prospect of her first grandchild being born.

‘Don’t you dare mention your brother’s name, you stupid little cow!’ Monty Blake spat at her, erupting into a white hot rage at that fatal reference and swinging up his hand to slap her hard across one cheekbone.

Eyes filling with fear and pain, Zara was almost unbalanced by the force of that blow and she had to step back to stay upright. Her hand crept up to press against her hot, stinging cheek. ‘Don’t you dare hit me,’ she told her father angrily. ‘I should call the police on you—’

‘Don’t be silly,’ her mother interrupted in alarm at such a threat from her daughter. ‘You asked for it.’

‘The same way you always did?’ Zara prompted shakily before turning scornful eyes on her father. ‘I’ll never set foot in this house again.’

‘We’ll live,’ her father shot back at her with derision. ‘You’re no loss!’

Sick with shock in the aftermath of that traumatic confrontation, Zara returned to her apartment. When she climbed out of her car she could feel something trickling down her face and when she dashed it away saw blood on the side of her hand. In her compact mirror she saw the cut on her cheek where the stone in her father’s signet ring must have broken the skin. She couldn’t still the shaking in her body, but she was asking herself why she was so surprised by what had happened for, although it was the first time that her father had hit her since she had become an adult, it was far from being the first time that he had struck her.