Marriage In Peril

Leo took her tearstained face in his hands.

She couldn’t say a word. How could you do this to me? she wanted to wail at him. I gave you everything!

He stroked her hair and, speaking softly, gently, said, “I know I haven’t been much of a husband lately, but the past three weeks have been…difficult. My brother’s death has caused all sorts of problems, problems too complex and numerous to explain. Suffice to say I’ve sorted them out now.”

Brooke listened to this subtly worded confession without a shred of reassurance or forgiveness. How smooth he was, she realized. How clever. How patronizing! “I probably haven’t told you this often enough,” he went on, bending to press his lips into her hair, “but I do love you, Brooke….”

Brooke stopped breathing. How could words so longed for strike like daggers into her heart? For she knew who her husband really loved….

Mamma Mia!

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The Sicilian’s Wife

by

Kate Walker

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Miranda Lee

Marriage in Peril

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

BROOKE steeled herself for her mother’s reaction to her news. It wouldn’t be good. But there again, she reminded herself ruefully, her mother never approved of any of her decisions.

Not that Brooke was in the habit of being all that assertive. She’d only crossed her mother’s will a few times in her twenty-two years, and most of those had been secret transgressions, like reading with a torch under the bedclothes at night. And putting on lipstick the moment she turned the corner on her way to school.

Her only major openly defiant decisions had been taking an apprenticeship in the hospitality industry with a large Sydney hotel rather than doing law at university, followed by her move out of home last year to live by herself in a small bedsit at Bondi.

But neither of those decisions had been as mammoth as planning to marry at a register office ceremony tomorrow morning, without breathing a word to her mother about either her husband-to-be or the marriage till this very moment.

Tension built within Brooke while she waited for her mother to say something. But Phyllis Freeman just sat there at the green garden table, smoking. Silent.

The silent treatment was not a tactic her mother adopted very often. She was a highly intelligent and assertive woman, with a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue, who used argument and ruthless logic to get her way. She had definite ideas about everything, but especially the role and rights of the modern woman.

A lawyer who specialised in discrimination cases, Phyllis was an expert in arguing the feminist cause. At forty-two, and with two divorces behind her, she had become a dedicated man-hater, plus the most difficult of mothers.

Brooke had no idea why she loved her. The woman was impossible. She’d driven away two good husbands, and driven Brooke herself to distraction ever since she’d started dating. No boyfriend had ever found favour with Phyllis Freeman. There’d always been something wrong with them.

No wonder when Brooke had met Leo she’d never brought him home to meet her mother. Brooke hadn’t wanted to risk spoiling what she knew was the greatest love of her life.

But things had progressed beyond that now—now her mother had to be acquainted with the facts. Her marriage to Leo was about to become a fait accompli.

Brook had toyed with the idea of not telling her mother till after the event, but had decided that would be too cruel. At the moment, however, she thought it might have been the lesser of two evils.

Brooke’s stomach tightened as she watched her mother finally stab out her cigarette in the ceramic ashtray and look up at her with icy blue eyes.

‘Was marriage your idea, Brooke?’ she asked coldly. ‘Or his?’

‘His, actually,’ Brooke took pleasure in announcing. She’d been over the moon when Leo had proposed straight away on knowing about the baby. Because then she’d known he really loved her, and wasn’t just out for a good time.

Her mother had always said actions spoke louder than words. Well, marriage equated with love and commitment in Brooke’s mind. It wasn’t just her so-called beautiful face and body Leo wanted—something her mother had always gone to great pains to point out about her previous boyfriends.

Brooke wondered if that was what her mother had believed about herself in the past. That the men in her life had been blinded by her looks, that none had ever really loved Phyllis the person. As a young woman Phyllis had been a stunner, with long blonde hair, creamy skin, big blue eyes, full, pouty lips and a body just made for sin. Brooke was often told she was the spitting image of her mother at the same age.

The years, however, had wrought many changes in Phyllis Freeman. Chain-smoking had aged her skin and bitterness had thinned her mouth. Her once lovely long blonde hair was now cut ruthlessly short and going grey at the roots. A dedicated feminist, Brooke’s mother never went to the hairdresser’s, or wore make-up. She was too thin as well, in Brooke’s opinion, living on cigarettes and coffee.

Brooke worried about her mother’s health.

‘I suppose you refused to consider an abortion,’ Phyllis scorned, ‘being the hopeless romantic you are.’

Brooke almost hated her at that moment. ‘I didn’t consider it for a moment,’ she said indignantly. ‘I love Leo, Mum. With all my heart.’

‘I have no doubt you do, darling,’ Phyllis returned, though her eyes remained cynical. ‘Why else would an intelligent girl sleep with a man without using protection unless she was in love? But why did he, I wonder?’ she mused.

Brooke refused to say a word on that subject. No way was she going to admit to being so instantly besotted with Leo that she’d been quite shameless in her swift surrender to his impassioned pursuit of her. Not to mention totally reckless. She’d stupidly deceived him in matters of contraception that first night because she hadn’t wanted him to stop, even for a second, and she had genuinely thought it was a safe time. The same thing had applied each night over the following week.

But it hadn’t been safe at all. When her period hadn’t arrived at the end of that first marvellous week, she hadn’t panicked. But when it hadn’t made an appearance by the end of another fortnight, and a pregnancy test had confirmed she was going to have a baby, Brooke had been too afraid to confess everything, so she’d pretended that she’d forgotten to take the pill on one of those first tempestuous nights together. At the time she hadn’t been trying to trap Leo into marriage. She’d just been unbelievably stupid!

But he’d been so wonderful when she’d confessed her pregnant state. And not at all angry. Comforting and caring when she’d cried. Solid and strong when she’d said she didn’t know what to do.

‘Don’t worry, mi micetta,’ he’d murmured soothingly as he held her close. He always called her that. It meant little kitten. He said she was like a kitten after they’d made love, practically purring as he stroked her as he liked to do afterwards. ‘We’ll get married as soon as it can be arranged. But not a big wedding. And no honeymoon, I’m afraid. I do not have time for that right now.’

Only occasionally did she feel a stab of guilt over deceiving Leo, but never when in his arms, never when he called her his micetta.

She felt a bit guilty now. Not over Leo. Over her mother. She was probably very hurt by being kept in the dark like this.

But Brooke refused to apologise. Or back down. Once you took a backward step with Phyllis Freeman she went for the jugular.

‘So what does your husband-to-be do for a living?’ her mother asked abruptly.

‘He’s a businessman. His family company imports Italian goods into countries all over the world. Leo’s in the process of opening an office and warehouse here in Sydney.’

‘How enterprising of him,’ Phyllis drawled. ‘And where did you meet this…Leo? He doesn’t sound like your usual style of boyfriend.’

‘He’s been living in a suite at the Majestic till he can buy a house,’ Brooke said, and watched that information sink in.

The Majestic was one of Sydney’s most expensive hotels, a lavish, luxurious concern which overlooked the Harbour and the Opera House, and boasted pop stars and presidents amongst its clientele. Brooke had been working on the main desk for just over six months, and it had been there, on a warm summer evening back in February, just over two months ago, that she’d looked up from the computer and straight into Leo’s incredibly sexy black eyes.

‘So what’s his full name?’ Phyllis asked sourly. ‘This fine, successful businessman called Leo, who’s impregnated my daughter but doesn’t have the courage to face me himself.’

‘He did want to face you,’ Brooke defended. ‘It’s me who insisted on coming in alone first.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really. His full name is Leonardo Giuseppe Parini,’ she said proudly, thinking it was a wonderful name, with a wonderful heritage. Leo had told her his family could trace its ancestors back for generations. In the eighteenth century one of his forefathers had been a famous poet.

‘He’s Italian?’ Phyllis exclaimed, horrified.

Brooke was taken aback by her mother’s reaction. ‘Well…yes. He was born in Milan. But he speaks English perfectly,’ she hurried on, full of pride and praise for her handsome and clever husband-to-be. ‘He travelled a lot with his parents as a child. And he studied business at Harvard. He spent a few years working in New York, then London and Paris. And now he’s here in Sydney. He hardly has any accent at all.’ Just enough to be very, very sexy.

‘His accent isn’t the problem, Brooke,’ her mother bit out. ‘Accent or no accent, he’s a born and bred Italian.’

‘What’s the problem with that?’

‘At least I now understand why he’s marrying you,’ her mother muttered. ‘An Australian man would probably have run a mile. Italian men have this thing about their offspring, especially sons. I hope you realise, Brooke, how Italians treat their wives once a wedding ring is on their finger and they have them under lock and key at home. Like second-class citizens. Chattels. Italian wives are never partners. Just possessions and producers of children.’

‘Leo’s not like that!’ Brooke defended, her face instantly hot with resentment and fury. Trust her mother to start criticising before she’d even met the man. ‘And you’re wrong about Italian men. That’s an ignorant and very offensive opinion!’

Why, her best friend in high school had been Italian, and her father had been a wonderful man. Brooke had loved going over to Antonia’s house. It had been so much warmer than her own. No tension or arguments. Just a whole lot of warmth, and closeness, and love.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Phyllis snapped. ‘All men are like that, given the opportunity. But chauvinism is bred into Italian men. They think they’re gods within their own family circles and demand to be treated as such, no questions asked. Italian women seem to be able to cope. They’re brought up with different values and expectations. But you’re not Italian, Brooke. You’re Australian. You’re also my daughter. There’s more of me in you than you realise, whether you admit it or not. He’ll make you miserable. You mark my words.’

‘You’re wrong!’ Brooke lashed back. ‘He won’t make me miserable because I won’t make him miserable. And I’m not like you. Not in any way. In my eyes, Leo is a god. Nothing is too good for him. I’m never going to drive him away like you did Dad, with your constant arguing and criticising. No wonder he left you. I’m going to give my husband whatever he wants. I’m going to be there for him whenever he needs me.’

‘Become a doormat, you mean.’

‘Not a doormat. A wife!’

‘Same thing, in some men’s eyes.’

Brooke shook her head in despair and frustration. ‘You have no idea how to make a man happy. You never did.’

‘Not if it meant suppressing every thought, wish and opinion in my head! You’re an intelligent girl, Brooke. And you’re quite stubborn and wilful in your own way. If you think squashing everything you are will bring you lasting happiness, then you’re in for a shock one day.’

Brooke said nothing, gritted her teeth and just counted to ten. ‘Are you going to come to my wedding or not?’

‘Would it make any difference?’

Brooke sighed a weary sigh. ‘Of course it would make a difference. I want you there at my wedding. You’re my mother.’

‘Then I’ll be there, I suppose. Just like I’ll be there to pick up the pieces when the honeymoon is over. And it will be over one day, Brooke. I hope you realise that.’

‘Leo and I are never getting a divorce, no matter what!’

‘You say that now,’ Phyllis said as she lit up another cigarette. ‘I wonder what you might say in five years’ time.’

‘The answer will be the same.’

‘I truly hope so, darling. Now…’ She dragged deeply on the cigarette and let it out slowly. ‘Am I going to meet this handsome Italian of yours or not?’ The corner of her mouth lifted in a knowing little smirk. ‘He is handsome, I presume? Never known you to go out with an ugly bloke. Not you, Brooke.’

Brooke’s chin lifted. ‘He’s very handsome.’

‘Then go get him. I’m beginning to be just a little bit curious about Leonardo Giuseppe Parini.’

Brooke was the one smiling when she led Leo back into her mother’s presence, her arms linked tightly around his. For she knew her lover of two months and imminent husband-to-be wasn’t just handsome. He was simply magnificent. In every way.

A mature and sophisticated thirty-two, he was tall for an Italian, at six foot two, with an elegant but well-shaped body and a face Valentino would have envied. It combined the best of all things Latin, with slightly hooded and absolutely riveting black eyes, a classic nose and a highly sensual mouth. His hair was even blacker than his eyes, its glossy thickness giving added style and shape to its up-to-date fashion of being cut quite short. Brooke thought him the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

But it was his presentation which really impressed. His utter perfection in matters of dress and grooming. His coolly confident bearing. His grace of movement.

Brooke’s smile broadened as she watched her mother’s eyes widen and her mouth fall rather inelegantly open.

‘This is Leo, Mum,’ Brooke said smugly, and ran a possessive hand down his sleekly suited arm.

Phyllis Freeman was rendered totally speechless for the first time in her life.

CHAPTER ONE

Italy…five years later.

BROOKE stretched out on top of the bed and tried to go to sleep, as everyone else was doing that warm, sultry afternoon. But it was impossible. She’d never been a sleeper during the day. On top of that, she was feeling restless and edgy.

Her gaze drifted agitatedly around the huge and very lavish bedroom, then up at the ornate frescoed ceiling and the elaborate crystal and gold chandelier which hung from its centre.

This was the main guest room, where she and Leo always stayed during their annual visit to the Parini family villa on Lake Como.

‘Only the best for my son and his lovely wife,’ his mother had said the first time Leo had brought Brooke and their baby son home, just on four years ago.

Brooke sighed at the memory of that first visit, and their subsequent yearly visits. What heaven they always were! With an English-speaking Italian girl to help mind the children, and more time to relax, it was almost like being on a honeymoon each year—the one they’d never had.

Their sex life had always been good—fantastic to start with!—and it was still pretty good. Leo would probably say it was very good. But Leo wasn’t a stay-at-home mother with two children under five.

Many was the night Brooke just didn’t feel like sex.

But she never refused Leo, not unless she was really sick. Of course, that meant faking an orgasm every once in a while. But she did it. For him.

Brooke frowned at the thought she’d been doing that quite a bit lately.

During their Italian stays, however, faking anything was never required. No longer tired from continuous child-minding, Brooke was more easily put in the mood. As for Leo…he would become practically insatiable, wanting her not just at night but during the day as well.

Four years ago, when he’d first suggested they take an afternoon nap at the same time as Alessandro was sleeping—he’d been their only child back then—she’d thought he’d gone crazy. The idea of Leo having an afternoon nap had been just plain ridiculous. The man was a dynamo, needing very little sleep at the best of times.

But he’d insisted, despite her blank look, and she’d finally twigged—courtesy of the knowing gleam in Leo’s father’s eyes. She’d blushed madly as Leo had practically dragged her up to the bedroom for a couple of hours’ torrid lovemaking.

Brooke had been a bit stunned at first. Leo hadn’t made love to her like that since before they were married. He’d been gentle and considerate during her whole pregnancy, and hadn’t complained at all during the six weeks after Alessandro’s birth when the doctor had vetoed any sex. Even when Leo had been given the green light he’d still been tender with her, which she’d appreciated. She’d had stitches and been pretty sore and sorry for herself for a while. He’d also seemed to appreciate the fact she was tired most of the time during Alessandro’s first six months. Far too tired for lovemaking marathons.

But that afternoon, although not rough with her, he’d been incredibly demanding. Whilst Brooke had found everything slightly shocking in broad daylight—plus in his parents’ house—it had been exciting, and she hadn’t needed dragging upstairs the next day. Or any day afterwards.

Claudia had been born eight and a half months after their return to Sydney.

But this visit was entirely different in every way. It wasn’t their annual holiday which had brought them to Como a little earlier than usual this year, but a funeral. Leo’s only sibling, Lorenzo, had been killed in a car accident, losing control of his prized Ferrari on one of the hairpin bends around the lake and crashing to a watery death.

Fortunately, Lorenzo’s wife, Francesca, had not been in the car at the time, although maybe she didn’t think she was fortunate. The poor woman had been almost comatose with grief at the funeral, unable to function at all. With Francesca’s own parents long dead, Leo’s mum and dad had brought Lorenzo’s widow home to the villa for some tender loving care, and everyone had done their best to offer comfort, despite their own unhappiness.

But it was difficult to know what to say to her. Brooke thought it was a shame the marriage had never produced children. Children would have given Francesca something to live for.

Brooke had tried to talk to her on one occasion, but the woman had just burst into tears and run back to her room, where she’d stayed for the rest of the day. Brooke had felt terrible, and had told Leo’s mum about it. Sophia had just patted her hand and smiled a sad smile, telling her not to worry, it wasn’t her fault. Francesca was just being Francesca.

Brooke knew exactly what she meant. Francesca was a weak kind of woman, in her opinion. Very beautiful in a dark-eyed, lush-figured way. But she never said much, or exuded much personality.

Not that Brooke had been in their company all that often over their four-year acquaintance. Just the occasional family dinner party, sometimes here at the villa, and sometimes in Lorenzo’s plush apartment in Milan.

Francesca would sit silently beside her husband on such occasions, her eyes darting nervously to him all the time, as though waiting to be told what to do, or say. Brooke could never work out if she adored the man or was afraid of him.

Two years older than Leonardo, Lorenzo had been a handsome and charming man on the surface, but Brooke hadn’t been able to stand him. He’d given her the creeps. Once, during a party at his place, she’d gone to the powder room. She’d been in there, washing her hands, when he’d come in unexpectedly and made the most disgusting suggestion. She’d been so shocked she hadn’t known what to do, except run out of the room and hurry back downstairs.

She hadn’t told Leo about the incident. No way.

Brooke wasn’t stupid, and she’d sensed there was some angst between the two brothers. They’d been civil on the surface, but nothing more. Brooke had got the impression Leo didn’t like his brother’s wife much, either, an opinion reinforced by his coldly indifferent stance when Francesca had suddenly upped and gone back to Milan a week ago. To be by herself, she’d said. Everyone had objected, thinking it a potentially dangerous idea; everyone except Leo.

To be honest, Brooke hadn’t really been sorry to see Francesca go. Her presence had hung like a pall over the house, bringing tensions she didn’t quite understand, not being one of the family.

Leo was actually the lucky one, in her opinion, since he was out of the house most days. He’d been driving back and forth to the Milan office during the working week, going through his brother’s desk and sorting out who was going to take charge there now. Brooke had worried his father might ask him to come back and do the job Lorenzo had been doing—Giuseppe had retired with heart problems the previous year—but this hadn’t eventuated, thank God.

She was grateful for that, but beginning to resent the amount of time Leo was spending away from her and the children. This past week, the situation had worsened, with her husband getting home later and later each night. After a quick supper and a shower, he would fall into bed, too tired to make love, a most unusual situation for Leo.

If there was one thing Brooke could rely upon with her husband, it was the unfailing regularity of his need for sex. Yet he hadn’t laid a hand on her since the funeral, almost three weeks ago.

Brooke was beginning to miss the feelings of love and intimacy Leo’s lovemaking always left her with, even when she was faking things. Every woman liked to be wanted that way.

Sighing, Brooke swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood up. Flicking her long fair hair back over her shoulder, she picked up the novel she kept by the bed and padded across the huge Persian rug towards the sliding glass doors which led out onto the balcony. Once outside, in the cooler air, she settled herself in one of the comfy deckchairs and opened her book at the page she’d reached the previous night.

After several minutes scanning the page without a single word sinking in, Brooke closed the book and just sat there, doing her best to relax and enjoy a view coveted the world over.

The first time she’d seen Lake Como she’d been wide-eyed over the scenic beauty of the mountains rising up from the crystalline lake; at the magnificence of the huge villas clinging to the hillsides; at the number of luxury yachts in the water, plus the all-round postcard perfection of the place.