But Belle was simply putting on an act to save face. She had her pride. She didn’t want him to know how she felt about him. Determined to act normally, she shone a light smile of acceptance in his direction before returning to her own room where her clothes were still kept. While she dressed for lunch, she concentrated her rushing thoughts on the knowledge that her family were arriving within hours. Family, that was what really mattered. There was absolutely no point in tearing herself apart over what went on in Cristo’s dark, complex head because she couldn’t change that.
No doubt, though, he had Betsy on a pedestal. Betsy would always be the unattainable perfect woman in his eyes while Belle would have to settle for being the much more convenient, accessible and real-world wife, who would dutifully help him raise their orphaned brothers and sisters. Well, she could live with that unromantic reality, couldn’t she? Of course she could, she told herself urgently, while in the back of her mind furious objections flared. It wasn’t a matter of being second-best, she told herself. That was a degrading label and she would go insane if she started picturing herself as some kind of martyr.
Keep it simple, she urged herself sternly. She loved her husband. How had that happened? She had once been so afraid of falling in love and getting hurt, yet miraculously those concerns had been overwhelmed by the powerful emotions Cristo drummed up inside her. He was very generous, very attentive and absolutely breathtaking in bed. What’s not to like, she asked herself accusingly. To want or expect more than she was already getting was downright greedy. He couldn’t help what he felt. She should respect his privacy, she reasoned in an even more frantic loop of planning; she shouldn’t concern herself with his emotions. And telling him that he was never to see or even speak to Betsy again would not be a winning move…would it?
Cristo watched Belle across the lunch table, utterly distrusting her demure expression as she fed Franco from her own plate, breaking her own rules and using the child as a distraction every time Cristo spoke. Franco, of course, lapped up the extra attention and would throw a merry tantrum the next time he was refused a selection from someone else’s plate. Cristo was torn between a strong desire to shake Belle and an even stronger desire to drag her back to bed and stamp her as his again. Suspecting that he might strike out in that field, he decided to throw in the towel. Belle was in a mood and she would get over it but he was exasperated by the way she was behaving and the wedge she was driving between them. His chair scraped across the terrace tiles as he pushed it back and plunged upright.
‘I have a couple of calls to make. I’ll see you later,’ he said drily.
Targeted by shrewd dark-as-night eyes, Belle went pink and then parted her lips. ‘I was planning to sleep in my own room tonight. If the article is to be published tomorrow, I want to be really rested so that I can be with my family,’ she muttered uncomfortably.
Cristo gritted his perfect white teeth. It wasn’t as if he kept her up all night every night! Was he a little too demanding in the bedroom? Wouldn’t she have complained before now? Belle was no human sacrifice and indeed had a whole repertoire of delightful approaches calculated to wake him up hot and hard at dawn. It was an unfortunate recollection when every basic instinct he possessed craved a renewal of the very physical connection they shared. Handsome mouth set in a steely stubborn line, Cristo strode away.
‘Now Cristo’s annoyed with me,’ Belle mumbled into Franco’s tousled hair as he sat on her lap. ‘He never says anything. He just gives me this sardonic look and it makes me cross and it makes me sad and for some peculiar reason it makes me want to run after him and say sorry.’
‘Kiss-do,’ Franco slotted with emphasis into that confused flood of confidence and the little boy began wriggling off her lap, suddenly keen to be free.
Belle watched her brother race after Cristo and her mouth down-curved; it promised to be a long and lonely afternoon.
*
In the echoing hall of the palazzo, Tag leapt straight out of his travel box and flung himself in a passionate welcome at Belle, pink tongue lolling, ragged tail wagging like mad, his little white and black body wriggling frantically. No sooner had he achieved that reunion and more than a few hugs of reciprocal affection, he glanced at Cristo and growled long and low in his throat.
‘No, Tag!’ Bruno stepped forward to say forcefully, casting his older sister a look of reproach as he scooped up the little dog and walked to the door with him to let him out to run off his over-excitement. Pietro and Lucia, the eight-year-olds too wound up to stay still after hours of travelling confinement, hurtled back outside in the dog’s wake. ‘You have to be very firm with him, Belle. He doesn’t understand anything else.’
‘She’s the same with Franco,’ Cristo remarked wryly. ‘Lets him get away with murder.’
‘Well, thank you both for that vote of confidence,’ Belle countered as her grandmother laughed and folded her into a warm hug. ‘How have you been, Gran?’
‘I missed you,’ Isa confided, her shrewd gaze searching her granddaughter’s pale face and shadowed eyes with a frown. ‘Missed that little scamp, Franco, as well. We all did.’
‘Bruno says there’s no shops near here.’ Donetta sighed, her pretty face troubled and self-pitying. ‘And I’ve got nothing to wear in this heat.’
‘We’ll go shopping,’ Cristo promised.
‘Well, don’t expect me to come, especially not if Lucia is going as well.’ Bruno winced and shot Cristo a rueful look. ‘Lucia only likes the colour pink and won’t wear anything else. Getting her into a school uniform will be a nightmare.’
‘It’s only a phase. She’ll get over it,’ Belle told him soothingly.
‘Mum never did,’ Bruno reminded her wryly, his mobile face shadowing with a sudden stark grief that he couldn’t hide and which made him hurriedly study the floor with fixed attention.
Belle tensed and tried and failed to think of something comforting to say. Isa grabbed her hand to draw her attention back to her. ‘You can start the official tour by showing me to my room,’ she suggested. ‘And a cup of tea would be even more welcome.’
Isa was tireless in the questions she asked about the Palazzo Maddalena and astonished to be told that Cristo’s aristocratic mother didn’t care for her former family home.
‘The princess grew up here and much prefers life in the city,’ Belle explained. ‘Cristo only comes here for the occasional holiday so the place does need updating, but I don’t like to wade in and start talking about changes when we’re only just married.’
‘You sounded so happy when you phoned me ,’ Isa remarked thoughtfully as she sank with an appreciative sigh into a comfortable wicker armchair on the terrace and reached for the tea Umberto had brought. ‘What’s happened since then?’
Belle forced a smile. ‘Nothing,’ she swore with determination. ‘I am very happy with Cristo.’
‘A man and a woman can find it a challenge to live together at first,’ Isa commented gently. ‘Being part of a couple entails compromise.’
‘Cristo is really, really good to me,’ Belle muttered in a rush, keen to settle any concerns her grandmother might be cherishing. ‘I really do have nothing to complain about.’
‘Then why aren’t you happy?’ Isa prompted bluntly. ‘I can see something’s not right.’
‘But it’s not something I can discuss… It’s something I need to talk about with Cristo,’ Belle declared, recognising in that moment that she had actually spoken the truth. Much as