The Marriage Contract Read online

  Unconscious of admiring glances from several pairs of dark eyes on the shimmering blonde of her hair, Rosanna wandered, a curious contentment relaxing her mind and slowing her steps. She breathed in the cooling air, her attention held by the dazzling displays in the shop windows she passed.

  There were soft elegant leather goods in shades of deepest burgundy to palest greys; flowers exquisitely arranged behind plate glass windows awash with sprays of water keeping the atmosphere fresh and moist; and lacy underwear in silks, satins and chiffons, from carnation pink to mint greens and the deepest black of frothy nightgowns widely edged with lace.

  Engrossed in what she saw, it was a moment before Rosanna became aware of a face close to hers. Turning her head, she watched a young man in the act of cutting the straps of her handbag. Before she had fully grasped what he was doing, he had severed the bag from the strap and, with a quick impudent smile, melted away into the crowd, leaving Rosanna with the strap still firmly clutched in her hand.

  'Oh, no…!' her cry was involuntary. The bag contained everything—her money, passport, papers… 'Stop, thief!' she called loudly in Italian, and several people turned to look. The thief, too, halted a moment, surprised at her knowledge of Italian. 'Please… stop him!' she begged as he began to run and she struggled along the crowded pavement in his wake.

  Someone tried to halt him and caught his arm. A woman shouted and a clamour of voices erupted as Rosanna stepped off the pavement and began to run.

  Suddenly there was a high-pitched scream, a screech of brakes, and she felt something hard pushing into the middle of her back. She turned, reaching out blindly to catch at anything to break her fall, but there was nothing there. Plunging forward across the bonnet of a car, she slid senseless to the ground.

  Rosanna opened her eyes to find herself lying in the road. Faces loomed above, all looking down at her, a babel of voices raised in argument. Weakly she tried to get up, but a hard hand pushed her back.

  'Please, signorina, do not move,' a forceful masculine voice reached her as her head began to swim, and she lay back. 'Now,' the same voice continued, 'stand back, please…' The voices receded slightly and Rosanna tried to open her eyes, but the lids felt oddly leaden and wouldn't move.

  Then she felt hands on her, capable, impersonal, feeling her all over, probing her neck, across her shoulders and down her legs. 'I am Dottore Albini, signorina,' a quiet voice said. 'In a moment we will move you. Please keep quite still.'

  She was lifted in strong arms, her head pressed against a silk shirt through which she could feel a hard masculine chest and smell a faintly astringent cologne. She ached all over and was relieved when the arms put her down on to soft cushions and covered her with a rug as she began to tremble with cold.

  She must have slept, because the next thing she felt was being lifted again.

  'I can walk,' she said crossly in English. And then she fainted.

  The next time she opened her eyes it was to an unfamiliar room and the murmur of masculine voices. Carefully she raised her head and pain shot across her shoulders and down her arms. Weakly she lay back, allowing her gaze to wander round the room.

  She was lying on a couch covered with a duvet. Opposite was a large picture window running the length of one wall, and beyond it she could make out stone balcony railings and the Palermo skyline. Inside she glimpsed whitewashed walls, terracotta tiles on the floor and light modern furniture. At her side a large round glass-topped coffee table and several deep tubular-framed leather chairs were grouped round a brick fireplace, its brass fittings gleaming in the light from several ceiling spot lamps casting a soft glow over the room. Against one wall was a pale pine unit with stereo equipment and above it hung two rather arresting wild seascapes mounted and unframed in the modern idiom.

  Moving more slowly, she tried again to sit up. The voices stopped and a man came towards her.

  'That's better,' he said in careful English. Putting a hand against her forehead, he laid her gently back on to the cushions. 'I'm Doctor Albini,' he went on in English, drawing up a stool to sit at her side. 'I've brought you here because the roads to the hospital are jammed with traffic. I believe there's nothing broken, but I want to examine you properly tomorrow at the hospital.' He looked down into her face. 'Do you understand what I'm saying?'

  She nodded and he reached for her wrist to take a pulse reading. He was around fifty with a long, clever, rather serious face, a heavy dark jowl, black eyes and a receding hairline. His fingers were cool on her skin.

  'When you get home,' he went on easily, 'I wish you to go directly to bed. You are in shock and the best thing is sleep. I have to leave you now. A drink is being prepared and then you'll be driven to your hotel.'

  He stood up and waited irresolutely as though there was something else he wished to say, his warm eyes strangely concerned. Then he seemed to come to a decision. 'Questions can wait until tomorrow. Arrivederci.' He turned and left.

  Rosanna closed her eyes. Oh, God, she thought, why did this have to happen? Would her grandfather hear of it? Would there be trouble? Had anyone else been hurt?

  'Drink this,' a quiet masculine voice commanded, and she opened her eyes to see a hand place a cup on the table beside her. The sweet liquid cleared her head and dispersed the giddiness.

  'Thank you.' She placed the cup carefully back on to the table. Looking up, she saw the man pouring himself a drink, his back to her at the other side of the room. Unusually tall for a Sicilian, he was broad-shouldered but of slender build, with slim hips and long straight legs, his cream linen suit formally styled.

  Suddenly he turned, and a shock flashed through Rosanna at the unexpected savagery of his face. Thick black hair, heavily streaked with grey, swept back from a widely boned forehead. Straight black brows jutted thickly above deep set eyes, their intense hard blue just visible below heavy lids, the colour vivid against the darkly tanned skin. A slender, almost patrician nose gave an aristocratic air to the head, in contrast to the powerful jaw and deeply clefted chin below a wide mouth so tightly compressed it denied any natural shape to the lips.

  Rosanna stared in fascination. She had never seen a face like it. In its way handsome and compelling, but all masculine strength and arrogance, with no hint of kindness or compassion.

  Suddenly she was conscious of his gaze on her face as his eyes travelled across the wide forehead, the tracery of blonde eyebrows over black-lashed dark eyes, pale, creamy skin, high cheekbones and a slender nose. His eyes lingered for a moment on her mouth, the soft outline of firmly moulded lips, and the round determined chin below.

  'Well?' he drawled. 'Do you think you'd recognise me again?'

  Rosanna blushed furiously as he laughed softly, but she noticed his smile was mechanical, leaving the eyes hard with boredom. She looked away. Who was he? Had he been the driver of the car that ran her down? Or merely a passer-by? His next words enlightened her.

  'Like a child,' he said grimly, his smile dying, 'just wandering into the road, heedless of everything but its own immediate concern. Had I not been slowing for a corner you would be dead and I a murderer.' The voice was quiet and low-pitched, so that for a moment Rosanna didn't take in what he had said.

  'I'm sorry,' she began hesitantly, 'I do realise… no blame attaches to you. I ran into the road to stop a thief.'

  He didn't respond, and an uneasy silence settled between them. Painfully she pushed herself forward on the deep sofa and bent to retrieve her sandals. After a moment she cast aside the duvet and rose unsteadily to her feet.

  'May I ask you to order me a taxi?' She leaned heavily against the arm of the sofa. Ignoring her request, he turned away to stand at the window facing out on to the darkening skyline. Still he said nothing, and she wondered if she should just go.

  'If you'll let me know how much I owe you for… your trouble and any damage to… your car…' she began.

  'Money,' he interrupted, his voice still soft, barely raised above a murmur, but Rosanna sensed an undertone of anger that vibrated in the silent room. 'Is that all you tourists ever think about? You come to our island in your thousands, to admire its beauties and treasures. But once you're here you ignore our traditions, trample on our customs, and your only obsession is what your precious money can buy more cheaply here than in your own country. And if that money is threatened, you become hysterical, causing accidents to life and limb.'

  There was a stunned silence and Rosanna began to tremble with weakness. She ignored what he had said and tried again. 'I can only repeat, signore, I'm sorry. And now I must go…'

  She moved towards the door, but his voice stopped her. 'Tell me,' he asked softly, 'why do you choose our island? What do you hope to find here that the tourist resorts of other countries don't supply?'

  Rosanna wondered at his anger. She had apologised. It had been an accident and she had offered him damages. What more could she do?'

  'Perhaps it is the stories that your countrywomen carry back to their homes,' his voice was silky now, 'of our young men who wait at the airports for unaccompanied women looking for adventure that is not included in their package tours?'

  She froze as she realised what he was saying in that deceptively quiet voice.

  'Little do they realise,' he drawled, the bored indifference back in his tone, 'our men have no respect for such women and use them in a way not permitted by our own girls, who are taught from an early age to guard their virtue as a gift to the man who weds them.' Rosanna forgot her weakness in a sudden spurt of anger. 'You have no right to talk in this way of my countrywomen!' she snapped, her voice chilled with pride. 'I could as easily criticise Sicilian men for keeping their women in bondage a hundred years out of date. Where women have no choice, all men are masters.' She turned away and opened the door. 'Please excuse me now. I'll find my own way out.'

  'Just a moment…'

  'No, signore, you mistake. I will not stay to be insulted!'

  He turned to face her and she looked across the room at him, head up, eyes defiant, tears of weakness glistening on her lashes.

  'Forgive me.' His smile was sudden and devastating, white teeth flashing, mobile lips revealed in sudden contrition. 'I'm guilty of bad manners. Please… I have no wish to insult. Much rather, I would you permit me, signorina, to make amends for your injury today.'

  The abrupt change of manner was so surprising, Rosanna looked at him in total astonishment, wondering for one ghastly moment if he was going to offer her money. She opened her mouth to refuse, stepping back involuntarily as he moved towards her. It was then she saw the deadly boredom in those blue eyes. Before she could reply he spoke again.

  'Will you allow me to show you something of Palermo during your stay something that is perhaps not on your tourist programme?' he asked silkily.

  She saw in his face the arrogant assurance that she would accept his very doubtful invitation. No thought crossed his mind that she might refuse. She had never met anyone with such colossal conceit and was tempted to laugh in his face. But he was by now too near for comfort and waiting for her reply.

  'Thank you,' she said indifferently, 'but as you pointed out, it is the young men at the airports who supply the services you offer. There's no need to burden yourself with my needs.'

  In the stunned silence that followed her words, he halted in his stride, only the tightly clenched jaw revealing the fury she had aroused. The hush lengthened, and she guessed he wouldn't speak until he had complete control over his anger.

  'Your face has innocence, signorina,' he said at last, 'and your hands are ringless, but the authority in your voice reveals experience of men.' He had recovered and the smooth voice purred. 'I must suppose I'm to be denied your company because an escort—a friend awaits you.'

  'You may suppose what you wish, signore,' she snapped. 'My private life is not open for discussion with strangers.'

  'Emancipation is rife in your country, signorina,' he commented coldly, 'and I'm well acquainted with those of your sex who enjoy it. But you will permit me to suggest your women lose a great deal of feminine dignity and charm in their deadly pursuit of equality with men.'

  'How dare you!' Rosanna was roused to fury and lashed out. 'We may not be in purdah, but we are respected by our men and taught from an early age to recognise those of your sex who wish to take advantage of our freedom to degrade us for their amusement. From their insults we learn to protect ourselves.'

  His smile was mocking, devoid of all amusement. 'So you can protect yourself?' he asked softly with a small laugh. 'You speak like a child. No woman can protect herself from a man determined to take her. That is something too easily forgotten by your liberated sex.'

  In two strides he was at her side, his hands gripping her shoulders, his fingers biting into the soft skin of her bare arms. She felt the steel of his embrace a moment before he bent his head to her mouth and her breath caught in her throat at the brutal onslaught of that kiss. Without desire, seeking only to punish, he forced her lips apart and ravaged her mouth to assuage his anger and wounded pride.

  Faintness hit her and she went limp in his arms, desperate for air. At last he lifted his head and she gulped deeply, fighting to collect her senses. Looking up into his face, she saw a flash of surprise in those blue eyes before they were veiled with heavy lids.

  For a moment they were both motionless and her eyes widened as she saw the grim mouth relaxed, revealing firmly moulded lips, full and sensual. Then his arms fell away from her and she was free.

  'My chauffeur will drive you home,' he said tonelessly, and strode from the room.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rosanna leaned forward to peer more closely into the mirror. No, she thought, the bruise didn't show. She had dressed her hair carefully to fall across the livid purple mark where she must have hit the bonnet of the car.

  Her thoughts returned to the previous evening. Left alone by her host, she had panicked. In spite of weakness and pain she had stumbled out of the house, frightened that she might be followed. With no money to pay for a taxi, the return journey had been a nightmare, and it was nearly an hour before she found herself back at the Villa Orsini, relieved that the footman who let her in hadn't seen her before.

  Unobserved, she had slipped to her own rooms and locked herself in to collapse on the bed. During the night she had woken to the aches and pains of her bruised body and immersed herself in a hot bath, then, falling back into bed, she had slept dreamlessly till woken by the maid with her breakfast.

  And now downstairs waited the final act of the drama she had started so many months before. And from somewhere she would have to find the courage to take the last irrevocable step.

  She knew, whatever it cost, she would go through with it. Here in Sicily, a thousand miles away from her mother, Rosanna could feel her presence. This house was, after all, her mother's childhood home on the island she adored. Long ago Rosanna's commitment to her mother had been made. As a child she had sensed her mother's loneliness in the country of her adoption, and had listened eagerly to stories of Sicily, its warmth, its beauty and its heritage—stories her mother never tired of repeating. As Rosanna had learned from infancy to speak Italian, so she came to know all about the pampered wealth and seclusion in which her mother had been reared—an heiress to a vast fortune, an arranged marriage before her and a widowed father her only companion.

  Her mother had been just eighteen when she had met Captain Dunham, resplendent in his officer's uniform, and had fallen irrevocably in love. Silvana Orsini was the most beautiful thing Harry Dunham had ever seen—small, exquisite, with a pale oval face, the melting dark Orsini eyes and gleaming midnight black hair. With his tall blond, slim good looks they made a stunning couple, and for months Silvana had tried to persuade her father at least to meet the young English officer. But in the end the young couple became desperate, with the date of Silvana's arranged marriage approaching. And so Silvana had eloped from her father's house one dark winter afternoon, taking nothing and destined never to return.

  At first things had gone well. They were in love, and two years later when Rosanna had been born, she knew her parents had both adored her. But then her father had become restless. Forced to leave his family behind when he was posted, he was lonely and decided to leave the Army, try civilian life.

  Sadly things hadn't turned out as he'd hoped. He missed the social life with his brother officers the security and privileges the Army offered. And he couldn't seem to find his feet in civilian jobs. They moved into the country, renting a small cottage on an isolated farm, and her father was rarely in work. He began to feel more and more guilty that he couldn't provide for his family, while her mother was convinced she was the cause of his changed circumstances.

  Rosanna never knew when her father began to drink, because her mother kept it from her in the early years. All she knew was that he was often ill and money was scarce, although her mother never complained. As Rosanna grew into a leggy teenager she learnt what her father's illness really was. And then her nightmares began. When he had been drinking he often became violent and couldn't control his rages—at fate, at the Army and at Silvana's father who steadfastly refused to help them.

  Her mother had written to Roberto Orsini, asking for forgiveness and begging for help to have her husband cured. A letter came back from the Orsini family solicitors setting out the terms for her grandfather's help. Harry Dunham would have to enter a clinic and Silvana would have to agree to return to Sicily with her daughter, promising never to return to England or see her husband again.