It was crucifying, knowing that he now knew how she had kept every tiny insignificant thing he had ever given to her. The simple but exquisitely made gold studs for her ears and the fine link gold bracelet with its double heart safety catch. The pretty lace-edged handkerchiefs embroidered with her name and never used because he’d had them made specially during one of his trips abroad and she treasured them too much. Or the stack of postcards, one for every journey he had taken away from her in those months leading up to their wedding day. ‘Missing you’ was all he had written on every one, but—her throat locked—‘Missing you’ had meant so very, very much.
Then there was the silly set of toy cartoon characters, one for each quickly snatched lunch they had shared between his busy working day and her lunch and evening shifts at a fast-food restaurant. But of all those none of them bruised her heart more than the knowledge that Sandro had looked into the very private and personal centre of her, and had seen the leather-bound book, inside which was lovingly pressed the head of a flower from each bouquet he had ever given her.
Hot tears stung across her eyes, then were winked away again. She couldn’t speak, didn’t even try to. Sandro let the knowing silence pulse between them for a while, then reached out with a long gentle set of fingers to her chin, pushing it upwards so she had no choice but to look directly at him.
‘They are safe,’ he assured her. ‘You need not worry.’
The tears came again, and again were winked away, but not before he’d seen them, and not before she had witnessed the expression written in his.
‘Sandro...’ she began unsteadily.
But—no. He was not going to allow her to say anything he did not wish to hear right now.
‘We are going to Heathrow.’ He totally threw her by announcing this, letting go of her chin, letting go of her eyes, and returning to man-on-a-mission mode again. ‘We catch the late afternoon flight for Rome, where we will begin from the very beginning again.’
From the beginning.
Joanna sat there, stunned into total paralysis as the full meaning of those coolly delivered words sank in. Rome, where they had begun their married life three years ago. Rome, where it had all gone so terribly sour for them. Rome, to his beautiful apartment overlooking the Colosseum.
Rome. They were going back to Rome, to begin at the beginning again. Only this time Sandro intended to make sure the outcome was nothing like the last time. She knew that without him having to say so out loud. Knew it because every single thing he had said and done since he arrived back from seeing Arthur Bates had told her as much.
‘I can’t do this...’ she whispered.
‘Put on your rings,’ was all he replied.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY flew out from London’s cold grey skies into the warm blue of the Mediterranean. Joanna barely noticed. She barely spoke, barely focused on anything going on around her. She felt emotionally grid-locked, trapped, with no way to turn, nor any hope of escaping from the coils of control Sandro had smoothly bound about her.
He had done it all within a few short hours of leaving her locked away in his plush penthouse prison. Not a bad achievement, she grudgingly acknowledged. He had dealt with Arthur Bates, gone directly to her flat to clear it out, terminated her lease, made their arrangements to fly to Rome, then returned to deal with her.
Efficient? She’d always known him to be efficient. Stubborn? It went without saying that a man o
f his character must be stubborn or he would not be so effective. Determined? No question about it; the very foundation of his success in life was built on his own steadfast determination to succeed.
But suicidal? She could not bring herself to believe that he was crazy enough to want to set himself up for a second dose of married life with her.
But every time she opened her mouth in an attempt to reason with him he seemed to sense the words coming, and he would reach across the gap between their two seats to pick up her hand and raise it lazily to his lips, where he would keep it, his breath warm against her trembling skin, while he continued reading the business papers he had brought with him on the trip and waited patiently for her to subside again.
Only when she eventually subsided did he let her have her hand back. The man was unassailable when he had his mind set on something, and, right now that something was his failed marriage, and his estranged wife who had been foolish enough to go to him in her hour of need.
Now she rued that decision more than she had ever rued anything else in her entire life—except marrying him in the first place, of course.
‘Sandro...’ She actually managed to get his name out before her took hold of her hand.
‘Not now,’ he said, his attention still fixed on his precious papers. ‘I like privacy when I fight with you, cara. Try to contain yourself until we reach home.’
Home. A short sigh broke from her and she twisted her hand free from his so she could subside again, her eyes bleak, her concerns acting like spurs to her agitated nerve-ends—which were not allowed to appear agitated because Sandro did not like public scenes.
And she adhered to that because—despite every bitter and resentful thing she was feeling—she still, still could not bring herself to show him up in public.
But his Rome apartment would always be the place of her very worst memory. She felt sick to the stomach even thinking about it. The closer they got, the worse she began to feel.
So much so that by the time they had left the plane and made their way to the low black Ferrari that had been parked ready for their arrival she was paler than pale, features drawn, eyes bruised by a deep sense of foreboding that was almost eating her up inside.
Sandro ignored it—of course he ignored it! she noted angrily as she sat beside him on the final leg of this journey down memory lane. He was the man on a mission, focused, blinkered. He didn’t care what it was doing to her, only that he was determined to do it!
‘I hate you,’ she whispered at one point as they ground to a halt in Rome’s famous traffic.