The doctor studied her with narrowed eyes and a frown. Frankie looked with expectant triumph at Santino, but Santino was already lifting something off the enormous dressing table and extending it to the older man.
‘What’s that? What are you showing him?’ Frankie demanded jerkily, falling fast into the grip of nervous paranoia.
‘One of our wedding photographs, cara mia.’ Santino shot her rigid stillness a gleaming glance from beneath luxuriant black lashes and tossed the silver-framed photo onto the bed for her perusal.
Without reaching for it—indeed her finger
s chose to clutch defensively into the bedspread instead—Frankie stared down fulminatingly at that photograph. Her throat closed over, the strangest lump forming round her vocal cords. There she was in all her old-fashioned wedding finery, sweet sixteen and so sickeningly infatuated that she glowed like a torch for all to see, her face turned up to Santino’s adoringly. Shame she hadn’t had the wit to notice that Santino’s smile had more than a suggestion of stoically gritted teeth about it than a similiar romantic fervour!
Quite irrationally, her eyes smarted with tears. Suddenly she appreciated that whether it was fair or not she really did hate Santino! He hadn’t had to go through with the wedding. When he had realised the gravity of the situation they were in, surely he could have smuggled her back out of the village again and sent her home to her mother in London? She refused to believe that he could not have found some other way out of their predicament, rather than simply knuckling down to her grandfather’s outrageous demand that he marry her!
The doctor was opening his bag when she lifted her head again. Throwing Santino an embittered glance, Frankie cleared her throat. ‘This man may once have been my husband but he is not any more. In fact—’
‘Cara...’ Santino chided in a hideously indulgent tone.
‘He stole my car!’ Frankie completed fiercely.
Carefully not looking at her, Dr Orsini said something in a low, concerned undertone to Santino. Santino sighed, contriving to appear more long-suffering than ever.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Frankie’s voice shook.
The older man was too busy shaking his head in wonderment.
Santino strolled to the foot of the bed. ‘Francesca...’ he murmured. ‘I know I am not your favourite person right now, but these wild stories are beginning to sound a little weird.’
Her jaw dropped. She flushed scarlet and experienced such a spasm of frustrated fury that she was dimly surprised that she did not levitate off the bed. She slung Santino a blazing look that would have felled a charging rhino. It washed over him. For the very first time she recalled Santino’s wicked sense of humour. His sensual mouth spread into a teeth-clenchingly forgiving smile, white teeth flashing against his sun-bronzed skin. ‘Grazie, cara...’
‘You will be relieved to learn that the X-rays were completely clear,’ Dr Orsini told her in a bracing voice. He didn’t believe her; the man did not believe a word she had said!
‘X-rays...what X-rays?’ she mumbled.
‘You were X-rayed last night while you were still unconscious,’ Santino informed her.
‘Last night...?’ she stressed in confusion.
Santino nodded in grim confirmation. ‘You didn’t regain consciousness until the early hours of this morning.’
‘Where was I X-rayed?’ she pressed.
‘In the infirmary wing of the Convent of Santa Maria.’
Am I in a convent? Frankie wondered dazedly, her energy level seriously depleted by both injury and shock upon succeeding shock. In a room kept for the use of well-heeled private patients?
‘Your husband was most concerned that every precaution should be exercised,’ the older man explained quietly. ‘Try to keep more calm, signora.’
‘There’s nothing the matter with my nerves,’ Frankie muttered, but she couldn’t help noticing that nobody rushed to agree with her.
Her head was aching and her brain revolving in circles. While she endured a brief examination, and even answered questions with positive meekness, on one level she was actually wondering if she was still unconscious. All this—the strange environment, the peculiar behaviour of her companions—might simply be a dream. It was a most enticing conviction. But there was something horrendously realistic about Santino’s easy conversation with the doctor as he saw him to the door, apologising for keeping him out so late and wishing him a safe journey home. Her Italian was just about good enough to translate that brief dialogue.
As Santino strode back to the foot of the bed, Frankie reluctantly abandoned the idea that she was dreaming. With an unsteady hand, she reached for the glass of water by the bed and slowly sipped.
‘Are you hungry?’ Santino enquired calmly.
Frankie shook her head uneasily. Her stomach felt rather queasy. She snatched in a deep, quivering breath. ‘I want you to tell me what’s going on.’
Santino surveyed her with glittering golden eyes, his eloquent mouth taking on a sardonic curve. ‘I decided that it was time to remind you that you had a husband.’
Frankie froze. ‘For the last time...you are not my husband!’