The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage

Silence. He was breathing hard.

‘Fine!’ he snapped. ‘Then at last we’re agreed on something. It makes a good starting point.’

‘Why do we have to agree on anything? We never did before. Why don’t you just install the new accountant to keep an eye on me when you’ve gone home?’

‘I’m not going home until I’ve taught you how not to bankrupt yourself.’

‘You mean, bankrupt you?’

For once he was shaken. ‘Yes-yes, that’s what I meant.’

‘But you can’t stay here. You should be in Rome this minute, fighting for that partnership.’

He shrugged. ‘I clinched that before I left.’

‘So you’ve got it?’

‘Yes, I’ve got it.’ He was writing something.

‘The youngest partner, just as you wanted. Congratulations!’

‘Thank you!’ he said shortly.

Of course he’d got exactly what he wanted. Everything neat and orderly. He’d sorted out his career, now he would deal with the little matter of his conscience, then he would go home and put her behind him.

But that was what she wanted him to do.

So she had no complaints. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that.

‘How do you buy stock?’ he asked her one day. ‘You can’t always use the internet.’

‘I use it rarely. Travelling the country is better.’

‘When do we go?’

Next day they set off for a country house south of London. The owner had fallen on hard times, had sold the house to the local council, and was raising what he could from the contents.

‘He won’t get much for these, I’m afraid,’ Harriet said regretfully as she examined the rather dull collection of items. ‘And he’s such a sweet little man.’ She looked sympathetically across at the owner, a plump, white-haired man with a sad face.

‘Anything of interest to us?’ Marco asked.

‘Well, this vase looks-’ she stopped, examining an ornate glass vase. Marco saw her flicker of interest, quickly suppressed, like the professional she was.

‘What?’ he said.

‘Genuine Venetian twelfth century,’ she said quietly. ‘Worth about fifty grand.’

‘But the reserve price is only two grand.’

‘I know. The owner can’t have any idea what it’s worth.’

‘So you’ve spotted a real bargain. I’m impressed.’

The auctioneer banged his gavel. ‘Take your places please, ladies and gentlemen.’

Marco bagged two seats in the front and looked around for Harriet. After a moment he saw her talking earnestly to the owner while the auctioneer stood listening, wide-eyed.

I don’t believe this, he thought. I simply don’t believe it, not even of her.

The auctioneer banged his gavel again.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have to announce that Lot 43 now has a reserve price of fifty thousand…’

From the groan that went up behind him Marco judged that other dealers had spotted the same thing, and had kept quiet.

But they weren’t Harriet, Marco thought with a private smile.

She was hailing him from the door, indicating that they should leave.

‘We’re not interested in anything else here,’ she said as he joined her outside.

‘Aren’t we?’

‘No, we’re not.’

‘I gather you told him?’

‘I had to. That dear little old man, he was almost crying. He said it’ll make all the difference to his retirement. Hey, what are you doing?’ she protested as he grabbed her arm and began to hustle her.

‘Getting you to safety before one of the other dealers murders you.’

‘Or doing it yourself?’

He didn’t answer this, except with a look.

When they were out in the sun she faced him, half-sheepish, half-defiant.

‘I couldn’t do anything else, don’t you see? He’s such an innocent, I couldn’t just take the money when he needs it so much-’

‘But Harriet, dear crazy Harriet, that’s not how you do business.’

‘It’s how I do business. So you’d better fire me.’

‘No, I’m glad you told him,’ he said with a strange smile. ‘If you’d done anything else, you wouldn’t have been Harriet.’

It was early evening as they drove back to London.

‘Now we need something to eat,’ Marco said. ‘I suppose I can’t suggest that you invite me to your home for beans on toast. Since I’m your employer that might be “sexual harassment”.

‘I’ll risk it. After one taste of my cooking you won’t be up to anything.’

‘Witty lady!’ he said admiringly. ‘Come on, give me directions.’

Her home was a tiny one-bedroomed apartment an hour away, in a cheaper part of town. Harriet wondered how it appeared to Marco who’d grown up in the luxury of the Villa Calvani. She saw him looking about the cramped rooms, but he said nothing.

She spared him beans on toast and made spaghetti, letting him create the sauce. Conversation was spasmodic and about nothing in particular. It had been a good day, and now neither of them knew how to end it.

He’d been very unfair to her, she thought. She’d meant to be strong, but that was when she’d thought he would be far away. How was she supposed to be strong when she was seeing him day after day, close to him, hearing his voice? And when she looked up to find him watching her, only to see him turn away without words, leaving the memory of the look in his eyes and a torturing feeling of delight-there had to be a way to defend herself against that, if only she could find it.

It wasn’t fair that her love for him should flower more strongly than ever before. But love wasn’t fair. If he went away now and left her to struggle with her misery that wouldn’t be fair either. But it could happen.

She was on edge, wondering what he would do and how she would react. Why was he really here?

In the end he did something totally unexpected. As she was putting dishes into the sink he came up behind her and laid his hands on her shoulders. She waited, half hoping, half-unsure. After staying like that a moment, not moving, he slid one arm across her chest, drawing her back against him, and dropping his head to lay it gently against the side of her neck. She could feel his lips, lightly touching her skin, but he didn’t kiss her. It was neither a passionate nor even a very romantic movement. He simply looked weary and disheartened, and she suddenly remembered when she’d found him sleeping rough in the garden, and he’d put his arms around her and rested his head, as though in her he found a refuge.

Slowly she put up her hand to touch his and they stayed like that for a long moment. Then he released her and went away. When she went to find him he was kneeling before her bookcase, reading the titles.

After that she made them both coffee, he exclaimed about the time, and went home.

Marco didn’t come into the shop every day, and she supposed he was using the time to keep up with his work in Rome. One morning when she was alone she went into her cubby-hole to make some tea. Above the clatter of china she didn’t hear the shop door open and someone come in, and emerged to find a young woman standing there. She was expensively dressed, about thirty, dark-haired, dark-eyed, pretty in a lush way, and about six months pregnant. She had the smile of someone who was deeply content with her life.

‘You are la Signorina d’Estino?’ She had a strong Italian accent and spoke carefully, like someone feeling her way in the language.

‘Yes, I’m Harriet d’Estino. Can I show you something?’

‘Oh, no, I do not come to buy, but to talk. About Marco.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘My name is Alessandra,’ the young woman said simply. ‘And I come to tell you how important it is that you