Free Wife in the Shadows by Sara Craven Page A

haired and dark eyed, his lean muscular body hardly concealed by the lion-skin thrown across one shoulder, and bearing a disturbing resemblance to Angelo Manzini. Or was that simply her over-active imagination?
    Whatever, it wasn’t an image she wished to find invading her bedroom all over again, but found to her acute annoyance that it still lingered in her mind, even when she turned over and buried her face in the pillow. Rendering her still more tongue-tied when she encountered the Count in the flesh, as it were, although he was always elegantly covered in some designer suit or other.
    Another potent suggestion that the quicker she got out of there and back to sanity, the better it would be for her.
    And each night she breathed the silent prayer. ‘Oh please—please—let it be soon.’
    Angelo stepped out into the heat of the Roman morning, as the automatic glass doors of the Credito Europa Bank whispered shut behind him. His face was calm as he walked to his car, taking his seat in the back with a murmured acknowledgement to the driver holding the door open for him, but this outward appearance was deceptive.
    Because, underneath, he was blazingly, wickedly angry.
    ‘Does Your Excellency wish to return to the office?’ Mario asked with faint bewilderment as the silence lengthened.
    Angelo pulled his thoughts away from the meeting he’d just attended, and met the chauffeur’s enquiring gaze in the driving mirror. He said curtly, ‘No, take me to my apartment.’
    If Mario found this a strange request in the middle of a working day, it was not his place to argue. He dropped his employer at the main entrance, was told he would not be required again, then watched with a puzzled frown as Angelo strode inside.
    The apartment was cool and silent, Salvatore as usual doing his marketing at that time of day. Which was good because Angelo wanted to be alone.
    He walked into the
salotto,
impatiently stripping off hisjacket and tie, and tossing them over a chair. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, tore open the neck of his shirt, then poured himself a large Scotch, swallowed it, and poured another, even larger. He’d come home with the intention of getting blind, roaring drunk and wasting no time about it.
    The news—no, the ultimatum—that he’d just received at the bank called for nothing less.
    He could still hardly believe it. He thought he’d dealt with the trap that had been set for him at Largossa. Believed that simply going through the motions of courting the girl who’d been used in the snare—this Elena, Silvia’s cousin and so much unlike his former mistress that she might have come from a different planet—would be enough to get him what he wanted, and he could then walk away. And that she would be equally grateful to see the back of him.
    Dio mio,
he thought. He’d almost felt sorry for her, recognising the reluctance of her co-operation. But no longer.
    He walked to the sofa, flinging himself back against the cushions, taking another mouthful of Scotch, eyes narrowed, mouth compressed as he stared into space.
    Now, too late, he recalled someone telling him when he was younger that Cesare Damiano had been nicknamed the Crocodile in banking circles.
    Today the Prince had more than lived up to his name.
    ‘My wife cares deeply for her god-daughter, Count, and is naturally concerned for the immense harm to her reputation if there were—consequences resulting from your liaison with her.’
    He had sat on the other side of his polished desk, hands together, fingertips forming a kind of steeple, his expression grave as he studied the younger man. ‘I am sure you understand me.’
    And I, thought Angelo bitterly, fool that I am, I never saw it coming. Never understood that another trap had been set and was waiting for me. And while, if I’d used an atom of commonsense, I might have avoided the first, there is nothing I can do about the second.
    Holy Madonna, I couldn’t tell him there’d be no consequences as