The Reluctant Husband

‘You blush like a bride,’ Teresa remarked with a wry shake of her head. ‘And so you should. Isn’t it time you gave that husband of yours a son?’

‘Santino wanted Francesca to finish her education,’ Maddalena reminded her sister gently. ‘Gino thinks Santino’s family must all be very educated people.’

Inwardly Francesca shrank, thinking of her humble quota of three GCSEs, until she appreciated that her lack of impressive academic qualifications scarcely mattered, for she would never meet the Vitale family in Rome. In three weeks’ time, possibly even sooner, she would fly back to London and she would never see Santino again. She could not comprehend why that fact should suddenly fill her with the most peculiar sense of panic.

‘When Francesca went to school here, her only interest was Santino. Had he written? Was there a letter for her...a parcel? When would he be visiting again?’ Teresa was recalling with unconcealed disapproval. ‘And when Santino was visiting with his uncle you needed eyes in the back of your head to watch her or she’d be wandering round alone with him like a shameless hussy. Oh, the gossip you gave our neighbours, Francesca! We were very lucky that Santino took you... What other man would have after all the talk there had been?’

Frankie’s face burned hotter than ever. Suddenly she was all of fourteen again, being sat down in a comer by an outraged Teresa and lectured about how improper it was for her to still chase after Santino now that she was growing up.

‘They’re safely married now,’ Maddalena piped up soothingly.

Safe, Frankie thought sickly. There had been nothing safe about a marriage forced on a reluctant bridegroom.

Downstairs again, she was drawn into preparations for an elaborate evening meal. The men stayed out in the courtyard drinking aged Nero wine. By then it had sunk in on her that her great-aunts believed that Santino had followed her back to the UK five years ago and healed the breach between them. They thought she had been living in London with her mother solely so that she could complete her education. But then Santino had believed that too, Frankie reminded herself uncomfortably.

And, thanks to his generosity and support, her family had prospered as never before. That acknowledgement shamed Frankie. Santino hadn’t even sold the farmhouse. He had persuaded her grandfather that his services were needed as a farm manager while his sisters acted as caretakers for the house. Without hurting their pride by offering direct financial help, Santino had given her once desperately poor family the opportunity to improve their lot in life.

From the doorway she found herself watching Santino with compulsive intensity. His luxuriant black hair gleamed in the sunshine. His chiselled profile was hard and hawkish and there was a certain restive edge to his lounging stance by the courtyard wall. Spectacular, sexy, all male. Her husband...?

His dark, imperious head turned, brilliant eyes narrowing and closing in on her like piercing golden arrows. Shock shrilled through Frankie. It was like being thrown on an electric fence. Jolted, her breath caught in her throat. Helplessly she stared back at him. It was Santino who broke that connection first. With a casual word to her grandfather, he straightened and strode forward.

‘I’ll get your case out of the car,’ he murmured huskily.

Frankie’s fingers knotted together. ‘Can’t we go back to the farmhouse for the night?’ she whispered urgently.

‘And refuse your family’s hospitality?’ Santino surveyed her hot face and evasive eyes. He laughed softly, as if he understood exactly what was going through her mind. ‘I think you know very well that that is out of the question.’

‘Santino, please—’

He lifted a lean brown hand and let his fingertips trace the taut angle of her delicate jawbone in a fleeting gesture that made her skin tighten and her tense body jerk. ‘I’ll get your case,’ he repeated softly, and walked away again.

Teresa planted a tablecloth and a basket of cutlery into Frankie’s dazed hold and shooed her out into the courtyard.

‘You have a strong man there,’ Gino Caparelli mused, openly amused dark eyes resting on Frankie’s tense and flushed profile. ‘A strong man for a strong woman makes a good marriage.’

Her wide, full mouth tightened. ‘Possibly.’

‘You have learnt self-discipline. But then Santino would not tolerate tantrums.’

Frankie’s lips compressed even more. When Santino made his mind up about something, he was as unyielding as bars of solid steel. She had come up against that side of Santino the first month they were married, when she had announced that she wanted to spend weekdays in Cagliari with him and he had asserted that he preferred her to stay in Sienta, close to her family. And nothing, not tears, not arguments, not sulks, not even pleas, had moved Santino one inch.

‘You don’t behave like a married couple of more than five years’ standing,’ Gino commented with an unexpected chuckle. ‘That tale may content my sisters, who have never left this village in their lives...but don’t worry, I am so relieved to see you with your husband again that I shall content myself with it too.’

Startled, Frankie had stilled in the act of spreading the tablecloth. Glancing up, she encountered her grandfather’s alarmingly shrewd gaze. ‘I—’

‘You are Santino’s responsibility now, and Santino could always manage you very well. With cunning, not a big stick.’ Gino nodded to himself with unconcealed satisfaction and pride. ‘What a match I made for you, Francesca...I saw his potential as a husband before he saw it himself!’

No truer word had her grandfather ever spoken. Frankie tried not to wince. Five and a half years ago Santino had been entrapped as much by Gino’s expectations and her dependency on him as by his own sense of honour. And that same trait had made Santino assume responsibility not only for her security but for that of her Sard relatives as well. Facing up to those hard facts and setting them beside her mother’s greedy self-interest, Frankie felt as though she was facing a debt that she could never repay.

‘Of course I’m going to help to clear up,’ Frankie protested a second time, an edge of desperation roughening her voice.

Piling up dishes with speedy efficiency, Teresa waved her hands in irritation. ‘What is the matter with you? You always liked to cook, but when did you ever like cleaning up? Bring your husband more wine...attend to his needs,’ she urged in reproof.

The candles were burning low on the table outside and the shadows had drawn in. Tight-mouthed, Frankie hovered with the wine bottle. Santino lounged back, listening to Gino talk but contemplating Frankie with hooded but mercilessly intent dark golden eyes. With a lean hand he covered his wine glass when she would’ve reached for it.

‘You look tired. Go to bed, cara. I’ll be up soon,’ Santino murmured with the most incredible casualness, his deep, dark drawl as smooth as oiled silk.

Frankie set down the bottle and brushed her perspiring palms down over her hips. She went into reluctant retreat, tracked every step of the way by Santino’s predatory gaze. He tipped his arrogant dark head back and a dangerous smile of a very masculine tenor slanted his sensual mouth. Her heart jumped as though he had squeezed