Once a Ferrara Wife... by Sarah Morgan

closer, to flirt, to attract his attention, to try and take a piece of him. And he didn’t consider it strange because this had been his experience for all of his adult life.
    She still remembered the shock on his face when he’d asked her out and she’d turned him down.
    Almost as great as his shock when she’d walked out on their marriage.
    Driven to the edge of her tolerance by those long red nails and that look of promise, Laurel turned to walk away but Cristiano was faster. With a smooth, decisive movement, hishand shot out and he closed his fingers around her wrist, preventing her escape with a grip as secure as any handcuff. ‘Adele, I don’t believe you’ve met Laurel.’
    ‘Oh.’ The girl’s smile slipped slightly, her cool response revealing just where Laurel ranked in her list of influential social contacts. ‘Hi.’
    ‘My wife,’ Cristiano said in a firm voice and the smile vanished altogether.
    Laurel stood still, aware only of the blood pounding in her ears and his iron hold on her wrist.
    It was too little, too late and she didn’t understand it.
    Why would he emphasize a relationship that was over?
    The girl’s eyes narrowed slightly and her hand slipped from Cristiano’s arm. ‘Ah. I’m sure you two have lots to talk about.’ With a smile at Laurel that clearly said,
I can wait until you’re off the scene,
the girl sashayed away to talk to Santo, who was laughing at the far end of the terrace.
    ‘You see?’ His voice was harsh. ‘I
can
be sensitive.’ It was a blatant reference to the occasion when she’d lost her cool, upset by the continuous stream of women who seemed to consider a wife no impediment to flirtation. She’d accused him of insensitivity. He’d accused her of overreacting.
    For him to finally acknowledge her feelings on the subject only when they were this close to divorce bordered on the
insensitive,
she thought numbly. All he’d done was prove that he could have made the effort if he’d wanted to.
    ‘I no longer care who flirts with you.’ She wanted that to be true, but her mind had other ideas and tortured her with questions about which of the girls Cristiano was seeing. Because of course he had to be seeing someone. It had been two years. A man like him wasn’t going to be on his own for long once word got around that his wife had left him.
    ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ He took absolutely no notice of the women glancing at him across the sunlitterrace. Soon the sun would fade and the twinkling bulbs wound around the trees would send sparkles of light across the water. It was a breathtakingly romantic setting, the beauty of the surroundings a cruel backdrop for playing out the final scenes of a dying marriage.
    ‘I don’t really care if you believe it. I’m not saying it to challenge you.’ Did he realise that he was still holding her wrist? And why wasn’t she pulling her arm away? Across the terrace the dark-haired girl was holding court, every exaggerated toss of her head designed to draw the attention of the only man who interested her. ‘I really don’t care if you have yourself a harem.’
    ‘Would it make you feel better if I had? Ease your conscience?’ They were standing close to each other, his hand still locked on her arm in a proprietorial gesture that made no sense.
    ‘I have nothing on my conscience.’
    She knew from the sudden defensive flash in his eyes that he’d picked up her implication that his own conscience was the one that should be hurting. No one could accuse Cristiano Ferrara of being slow. His mind was as sharp as a blade.
    Which made his refusal to apologise all the more hurtful.
    He breathed deeply and she wondered whether this was the moment he’d finally admit his contribution to their break up. ‘We stood together in the little chapel that has been part of my family’s estate for generations, and I made you a promise. For better, for worse. In sickness and in health.’ His anger was no less dangerous