‘Marriage,’ he interrupted, ‘was the deal that we made. Marriage is the agreement we have slept with for two weeks.’
‘But it’s—’
‘Our son expects it. All of Hannard’s and half of Europe expect it. Are you going to turn away from me and give Luca my head on a pole?’
‘It’s either your head or a scandal,’ she mumbled shakily.
‘Then we will ride the scandal—’
‘But if you believe what he can put out there—what chance have we got of riding out anything?’
That turned off the sexual gleam, Freya noted cynically. It did not take much to turn the seducer into a block of stone.
‘You could try trusting me to resolve this.’
Freya stared aghast at him. ‘What is there to trust?’ she choked out. ‘You are blackmailing me into marrying you and he is blackmailing me not to do it!’
‘Then you have a dilemma,’ he said unsympathetically. ‘I will await your decision at the altar in two days.’
With that he turned his back on her and just walked out! Leaving Freya with the weight of his challenge hanging there.
Within the hour the whole house had been ringed by a circle of security, which did not make her feel safe at all—in fact, it did the opposite. What was it that Enrico was expecting Luca to do that he felt they needed this level of protection?
Or was the ring of security there to keep her in?
Next thing to arrive was the new mobile telephone. Bang up-to-date, state-of-the-art, iced-green in colour and sexily designed, it had all the phone numbers from her old phone saved in it—including the number of Cindy’s new phone. It was only as she held it in her hand that Freya realised that Enrico had not handed her old one back to her.
For the first time in two and a half weeks she slept alone that night.
Or rather she didn’t sleep, but rolled around the huge empty bed, wanting him when she should not be wanting him and despising herself for feeling that way.
Twice she reached out for the mobile phone with an impulsive need to call him and twice she stopped herself short of the deed and tossed the handset aside with a sigh.
Where was he? What was he doing? Had he had his confrontation with his cousin? Had the thick wad of money and what she’d learned was the folder of unpaid debts been enough to silence Luca’s tongue? How much did the tabloids pay these days for a kiss-and-tell exposé?
Did it matter? She was sure that money was not all that Luca wanted—in fact, she knew he was quite capable of taking anything Enrico put on the table and still hitting them with his exposé.
Enrico did not sleep, either. He was pacing the floor in the apartment above.
He wanted her. It was a hard, nagging ache he could not stop. He needed the reassurance that he could still make her melt even while she was hating him.
Should he go down there?
He threw himself on his bed, closed his eyes and imagined her lying downstairs, curled on her side with her wonderful hair spread out behind her.
Was she wearing one of those skimpy silk nightdresses he so loved to relieve her of? What colour was it? She’d purchased a whole range of them: black, white, cream, red, the most sexy ocean-green colour that did amazing things for her eyes…
Freya got up and started pacing. Anxious, restless—agitated. He could have called her. Would it have hurt him to ring and tell her what had happened with Luca? Did he think she deserved to be kept in the dark like this?
Her phone gave a beep. She dived on it greedily. It was a text message from Enrico. ‘Missing me?’ it said.
She typed in an adamant, ‘No,’ and winged it back to him, then wished she’d ignored him because now he knew that she was awake.
Lying there naked other than for the towel he had slung round his hips, Enrico smiled as the message arrived in his inbox. She might think that she hated him, but she was awake and therefore missing him.
The tension eased from his system as he texted a second question.
‘Liar,’ it said. ‘What colour nightdress?’