The Bride's Awakening - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,69

You didn’t want a lapdog, you said. You rather touchingly referred to our marriage as one of partnership—’

‘A business partnership,’ Vittorio corrected. ‘That is what I meant.’

Ana swallowed, struggling to stay reasonable, as if her heart and soul hadn’t been shredded to pathetic pieces as they spoke. ‘Yet you do not want me to have any concern with your business—’

‘I do not want you to use your influence to put my brother’s concerns forward!’ Vittorio cut her off, his voice rising to a nearshout before he lowered it again to no more than a dark whisper. ‘You have betrayed me, Ana.’

‘I love you,’ Ana returned. Her voice shook; so did her body. ‘Vittorio, I love you—’

He shook his head in flat dismissal. ‘That wasn’t part of our bargain.’

She searched his face, looking for any trace of compassion or even regret. Every line, every angle was hard and implacable. He had become a stranger, a terrible stranger. ‘I know it wasn’t,’ she said quietly. ‘But I fell in love with you anyway, with the man you…you seemed to be. Yet now—’ she took a breath ‘—you are so cold to me. Vittorio, do you not love me at all?’

A muscle jerked in Vittorio’s cheek and he didn’t answer. He gazed down at her, his eyes hard and unrelenting, and suddenly Ana could stand it no more. She’d felt this exposed only once before in her life, when she’d flung herself at Roberto, hoping he would take her into his arms and admit he was attracted to her, to make his love physical as well as emotional. She’d been rejected then, utterly, or so she’d thought. Yet that moment was nothing—nothing—compared to this. Now Vittorio was rejecting her emotionally; he was rejecting her heart rather than her body and it hurt so much more.

It hurt unbearably.

‘I see you don’t,’ she said quietly and, when Vittorio still didn’t answer, Ana did the only thing she could think of doing, the only option left to her. She fled.

In a numb state of grief—the same kind of frozen despair she’d felt when her mother had died—Ana walked away from her office. She didn’t think about where she was going until she found herself on the dirt road back to Villa Rosso, its mellow stone and terracotta tiles gleaming in the afternoon sun.

She was going home.

The villa was quiet when she entered, her footsteps falling softly on the tiled floor of the foyer. She headed for the stairs but heard her father’s voice call out from his study.

‘Hello? Is someone there?’

‘It’s me, Papà.’ Ana paused on the stairs; her father came to the hall. He took one look at her face—Ana could only imagine how terrible she looked—and gasped aloud.

‘Ana! What has happened?’

Ana gave a sad little smile. She felt as if her whole body were breaking, her soul rent into pieces. ‘I discovered you were right, Papà. Love isn’t very comfortable, after all.’

Enrico’s face twisted in sorrow, but Ana knew she could not bear even his sympathy now. She just shook her head and walked with heavy steps upstairs, to the room she had not slept in since she’d got married.

Married. Vittorio was her husband, yet she hardly knew what that meant any more.

She spent the night alone, lying on her bed, watching the moon rise and then descend once more. She didn’t sleep. She found herself reliving the joy of the last few weeks, now made all the sweeter by its brevity. Vittorio kissing her, taking her in his arms. Laughing as they played stecca again; he’d won that time. Talking about the vineyards, and grapes, and wine, gesturing with their hands, shared enthusiasm in their voices. The way he touched her casually, a hand on hers, when they were reading in bed, simply because he wanted to feel her next to him. And then later, the way he touched her so her body cried out in pleasure. So many memories, so many wonderful, sweet, terrible memories, because she was afraid they were all she’d ever have.

Was their marriage actually over? She could hardly believe he had rejected her so utterly; she thought of trying to see him again and then knew she couldn’t. She couldn’t face that hard, blank face again. She couldn’t face the feeling of being so raw, so exposed and rejected again. Not by Vittorio, not by the man—the only man—she’d ever love.

She pressed her face into her pillow and willed the tears to come; crying would bring relief of