It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge

His brows lifted in hauteur. ‘Perhaps you wish to go in my place on the next occasion? You are welcome to do so, although I doubt you will do any better. The good Signora provides a limited choice.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘No garlic, no fresh herbs, no olive oil worthy of the name and no pasta except something in a can.

‘It is little wonder that Marcello and Fiona bring supplies with them and eat out as often as possible,’ he added grimly. ‘But for the weather, we would have done the same.’

How could he talk like that, she wondered with a pang, as if they were a normal couple, enjoying a break together? She lifted her chin. ‘But for the weather, I would be long gone, signore.’

His voice was soft. ‘If it comforts you to think so, signora.’

He began to unpack the bags, producing vegetables, apples, bread rolls, milk and some pallid-looking sausages, along with tins of tomatoes and haricot beans plus a couple of packs of meat.

‘They’re frozen,’ she discovered. ‘How can that be?’

‘The shop operates an emergency generator.’ He took out a packet of very pink ham, fashioned into squares, and looked at it with a faint sigh.

‘However, the Signora tells me the power will be restored by the end of the day and also that a thaw is expected later in the week.’ The firm mouth curled. ‘I refer only to the weather, you understand.’

She said with difficulty, ‘Raf, don’t—please. I—I can’t help the way I am.’

‘I do not agree. I think you have no idea how you could be, mia cara.’ His tone was hard. ‘Nor will you permit yourself to find out. But that is your choice.’

He walked towards the door. ‘Now I am going to dig paths to the log store and the place where the coal is kept in case you need them.’

She tried to say, ‘Thank you,’ but the words wouldn’t come, so she nodded and turned away.

Alone again, she began to put the groceries away, aware that her hands were shaking and that her eyes kept blurring.

But what was there to cry about, she wondered, when, as he’d said, she’d made her choice? And when all she had to do was stick to it.

Because, for him, it was just a game, like chess. He made a move, she blocked it somehow. And even this would pass, she whispered to herself, if she simply—stood firm and waited for him to tire of this perpetual stalemate.

As he surely would, she thought, and tasted the acrid tears in her throat.

It was not the easiest day she had ever spent. Raf busied himself outside, and she made sure she followed his example indoors. Because that was the best way to stop herself from thinking.

She strained the chicken stock, adding potatoes and leeks as well as the remaining meat to the mixture, then let it cook slowly, producing a soup that was thick and surprisingly flavoursome, and heating some of the rolls to go with it.

‘That was excellent,’ Raf said as he finished his second bowl. ‘Working in the air makes you hungry.’

‘Have you finished all your digging?’

‘Not yet. I decided also to clear a path down to the road.’

‘You’ll be exhausted.’ She spoke without thinking and felt the colour storm her face when he laughed, getting to his feet.

‘I am sure you hope so, carissima, but you will be disappointed.’

He paused, then added lightly, ‘At least in that regard.’

Which was an unequivocal declaration of intent, Emily thought, staring after him, her heart beating uncomfortably, as he disappeared outside again. Sending out a clear signal that tonight he would not be satisfied with just a kiss.

In an effort at distraction, she found an elderly pack of cards and spent an hour or so playing solitaire, but without success, finding herself invariably thwarted at the last minute. How very like real life, she thought crossly, pushing the cards together.

She went into the kitchen and began assembling the evening meal. The meat was still frozen, so she decided to use the unpromising sausages instead. Cooking them in batter would disguise their major faults, she thought, measuring flour into a bowl, and an onion gravy would also be a plus.

By the time Raf came in, she’d made up the living room fire and lit the candles. He was sitting on the sofa, pulling off his boots, when she emerged from the kitchen and his brows lifted as he realised she was bringing him a mug of freshly made coffee.

‘You are the perfect wife, carissima,’ he told her lightly and she turned away, biting her lip. Except in one respect, she thought, but no doubt he considered that was merely a matter of time.

While their meal was cooking, she sat opposite him and pretended to read in the intimacy of the flickering light, while he was absorbed in another chess problem, and occasionally stole a glance at him when she felt it was safe to do so.

He’d have fitted well into an earlier century, she thought, wearing silk and velvet, although she was only just becoming used to him in jeans and sweaters rather than the customary elegance of formal designer suits. She could imagine him standing in the shadows of some Renaissance court, his hand on the jewelled hilt of a sword, or riding into a conquered city at the head of his men, his eyes scanning the captive women lined up for his inspection, and his choice.

She caught herself there and halted, because that was rather too apposite, she thought wryly. Yet, at the same time, she found herself wanting to laugh at her own nonsense.

‘What are you thinking?’ The quiet question startled her.

‘Why do you ask?’ she parried.

‘Because you are smiling at your thoughts, cara, and that is something of a novelty in my acquaintance with you.’

So, she thought, he’d been watching her too, which was distinctly unnerving.

She shrugged lightly. ‘But you can’t just ask,’ she said. ‘You have to say—penny for your thoughts. And pay up,’ she added, playing for time.

Raf reached into a pocket and tossed a coin to her. ‘So—tell me.’

‘Ten pence,’ she marvelled. ‘I’m not sure it’s worth such a vast sum. I was just wondering how people managed in the past when candles were all the light they had.’

‘With their eyesight in ruins, perhaps,’ Raf said drily. ‘But they would have used many more, I think. Great, glittering chandeliers and banks of candelabra. It would have been—amazing—spettacoloso.’

‘Also a hell of a fire risk.’

‘That too,’ he agreed. ‘But, I wonder again, bella mia, what you were truly thinking.’

She put her book aside, her smile swift and taut as she rose. ‘Right now, I think I should check on supper.’

Which had turned out far better than she could have hoped, the sausages looking brown and succulent, their surrounding batter golden and well-risen.

‘Toad-in-the-hole,’ she announced as she placed the dish in front of him.

‘Santa Madonna,’ he said with disbelief. ‘Tell me the name again.’

She complied. ‘Also bubble and squeak,’ she added demurely, indicating the bowl of potatoes fried with cabbage and chopped onion.

His eyes were alive with laughter as they met hers across the glow of the candles. ‘I think you are winding me up, carissima.’

‘Not at all.’ She paused. ‘Although it isn’t the gourmet food you’re accustomed to, signore.’

He took a substantial helping. ‘I have no complaints, believe me, signora.’