Second Marriage

'I think it is time we were leaving.' Romano smiled as he handed the baby in his arms to Donato and then turned to the nurse, saying something swiftly in quiet Italian which brought a smile to the nurse's somewhat grim face before she shooed them both out after Claire had placed little Romano carefully back in his crib.

'They are beautiful. I just can't believe how beautiful,' Claire said softly as they walked down the corridor in something of a stupor. Grace had hugged her tightly be­fore she had left, and it meant more than any words could have done. 'What a miracle.'

'Sì, it is a miracle.' Romano felt as though every sup­port had been knocked from under him. He would never have believed how the sight of the two tiny babies, prod­ucts of Donato and Grace's unquestionable love, would have affected him, and to combat the growing feeling deep in the essence of his heart his voice was unneces­sarily harsh as he said, 'Grace will be even more glad of your friendship now, for the rest of your short stay in Italy. When are you thinking of going back to England?'

The words in themselves could have been a flattering observation followed by a polite enquiry, but the tone of his voice was neither complimentary or friendly, and as Claire came to an abrupt halt Romano actually walked on a pace or two before he realised she had stopped.

'Claire?' He turned to meet her blank stare. 'Is some­thing wrong?'

The emotional roller coaster that she had been experi­encing ever since arriving in Italy, and which had been far more turbulent in the last few hours, shot the words out of her mouth without any conscious thought on her part. 'I think it should be me who is asking you that, don't you?' she said coldly.

'Meaning?' He raised superior eyebrows, his voice cool.

'Oh, don't give me that line, Romano. I'm not into playing games,' she bit back furiously, the pain and con­fusion of the last few weeks, added to the bitter-sweet poignancy of the time they had shared in the waiting room and then the moments with the babies, making this latest rebuff all the harder to take. 'You were rude just now—admit it.'

'I merely asked—'

'I know what you asked!'

'Then I do not see the need for these…dramatics.' His icy demeanour did not impress her in the least; she was far too enraged to be intimidated this time.

'Don't you? Don't you indeed?' she said grimly, mov­ing close to him now and glaring up at him with furious eyes. 'Well, it may come as something of a surprise to you but when you talk to people as though they are less than the dust under your feet, it hurts. Amazing, I hear you say,' she continued, with deep and savage sarcasm, 'but true, nevertheless. You might be rich and powerful and handsome, Romano Bellini, but a little of the milk of human kindness is worth more than anything you've got.

'And another thing—' she stepped back a pace but without lowering her gaze, which was fixed tightly on his white face '—I shall leave Italy when I'm good and ready, and not before. And no comments from you one way or the other will alter my mind one iota. Got it?'

'I have, as you say, "got it"—crystal-clear.' Dark col­our had flared across the classical cheekbones, but other­wise his face was as white as a sheet, his black eyes glittering with a rage that matched her own. 'I do not know what brought on this little tantrum, but I certainly get the message—along with half the hospital, I should imagine,' he added coldly.

'I really don't care,' she declared wildly, the pain and hurt and sheer unfairness of it all making her see red. 'I don't care what people think, Romano. I don't care that I sound like a fishwife, or that you are making this out to be all my fault, because I know it isn't. You were being nasty back there, after the babies and everything. How could you?'

'Claire—'

But she had stepped back another pace, and his out­stretched hand met thin air as she turned on her heel and ran a few feet down the corridor and into the ladies' cloakroom they had just passed. She shot the bolt on the door with shaking hands before she slid down the hard wood and onto the floor, there to cry until there were no more tears left.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How could she have said all that? It was the thought that had been burning on her mind ever since the night the twins were born, but it was always much stronger when Romano was present and she could actually see his tall, commanding and very austere figure in front of her.

Even now, six weeks later, she still found it difficult to believe that she had actually yelled and screamed at him the way she had, that she had dared to. But he had made her so mad, so angry…

When she had emerged from the ladies' cloakroom a full twenty minutes after she had flown into it, her face washed and clean and her hair brushed into gleaming order, Romano had been waiting on the other side of the corridor, leaning with easy grace against the snow-white wall.

She hadn't known what to expect—recrimination, fury, contempt, outrage—but he had expressed none of these things, merely levering himself away from the wall as she shut the cloakroom door and indicating the cor­ridor with a wave of his hand. 'Shall we?' he had asked levelly, his voice flat. 'I have telephoned Lorenzo and told him the good news so he can now go to bed. I thought it only fair.'

'Yes, of course.' She was surprised at how steady her voice was, considering how she was feeling inside, and the fact that the trembling that was churning her stomach couldn't be seen on the outside was something to be thankful for—especially as Romano resembled a block of stone.

They drove back to Casa Pontina without another word being spoken, and all the way she was deciding what to say when he dropped her off. She shouldn't have said all those things in the circumstances, with Grace and Donato and the babies and everything, it had been stupid—but she couldn't bring herself to apologise either. She wanted to, especially now the initial rage had gone and she was starting to think about all he had said about his childhood. Her heart twisted as though a knife were being plunged in repeatedly, but something inside, something that was raw with hurt and blinding pain, wouldn't let her.

And so, when he drew up ou

tside the magnificent old house, she managed a stiff, 'Thank you—goodnight,' which he answered just as stiffly before slamming her door shut with a savagery that said far more than words could have done and striding back round the bonnet and into the car.

The engine started with a fierce growl and he swung the car round in a violent arc and sped off back down the drive in a blur of screaming metal, leaving her stand­ing on the steps in the quiet of the night, pale and drained.

He rang her the next morning, very early, before the rest of the household, apart from the maids, were awake. Gina tapped on her door, her face apologetic as Claire struggled out of a deep sleep that hadn't come until the dawn had well and truly broken. 'It is Signor Bellini.' The maid had indicated the telephone extension by the side of the bed. 'He wishes to speak with you, signorina.'

'Hello?' Claire spoke gingerly as the maid left the room. 'This is Claire.' The fact that she wasn't really awake enabled her to sound both distant and calm.

'I apologise for calling you at this early hour but I think we cannot leave things as they are. Grace will be home with the children tomorrow and I do not wish her to be upset in any way.' His voice was clipped and terse and her antagonism was instant, banishing the remnants of drowsiness and bringing her to immediate and furious life. 'I would like us to go out to dinner tonight, to get the air cleared, sì?'