Isobel frowned. Desertion was such a damning word and, ironically, it contained more emotion than Constantin had ever revealed during the one year of their marriage they had spent together.

Who was she kidding? When she pictured his hard, sculpted features it was impossible to believe he had a vulnerable side. Constantin did not do emotions. It was far more likely that the reason he had given for seeking a divorce had been coldly calculated.

But she would not take all the blame for the failure of their marriage, Isobel thought fiercely. Constantin needed to realise that she was not a push-over, as she had been when he had married her, and he couldn’t have things all his way. Once she had been overawed by him. But she was determined to end their marriage as his equal.

CHANTELLE SHAW lives on the Kent coast and thinks up her stories while walking on the beach. She has been married for over thirty years and has six children. Her love affair with reading and writing Mills & Boon® began as a teenager, and her first book was published in 2006. She likes strong-willed, slightly unusual characters. Chantelle also loves gardening, walking, and wine!

To Wear His Ring Again

Chantelle Shaw

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

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

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘THIS IS THE address you asked for. Grosvenor Square W1.’ The taxi driver glanced over his shoulder at his passenger, who was still sitting on the back seat, puzzled that she hadn’t climbed out of the car. ‘Is this where you want to go, love? Or do you want me to take you somewhere else?’

Butterflies danced in Isobel’s stomach as she stared out of the black cab, and for a moment she was tempted to ask the cabbie to drive on. The Georgian town house looked exactly the same as she remembered; the four storeys of mullioned windows gleamed in the spring sunshine, reflecting the trees in the park opposite. She had loved the house when she had lived there with Constantin, but now its elegant grandeur seemed to mock her.

She was surprised by how emotional she felt to return, two years after she had walked out of the front door for the last time and turned her back on her marriage. Perhaps she should just sign the divorce petition burning a hole in her handbag and post it back to Constantin’s lawyer. What was the point in seeing him again after all this time and dredging up the past?

The truth was that she had never really known her husband. When they had met three years ago, she had been dazzled by his charm and seduced by his smouldering sexuality. At first, their relationship had been a roller coaster of sizzling passion, but after their wedding Constantin had changed into a remote stranger. With hindsight, she realised that she had never truly understood the enigmatic Italian who went by the exotic title of Marchese Constantin De Severino.

She visualised the legal document in her handbag with the heading in stark black typeface: Affidavit in support of divorce—desertion, and felt a rush of anger at the reason Constantin had given for seeking a divorce. It was true that she had been the one to leave the marriage, and so technically she supposed she had deserted him. But he had given her no option but to leave him. He had driven her away with his coldness and his uncompromising attitude towards her career.

She frowned. Desertion was such a damning word and, ironically, it contained more emotion than Constantin had ever revealed during the one year of the marriage that they had spent together.

Who was she kidding? When she pictured his hard, sculpted features it was impossible to believe he had a vulnerable side. Constantin did not do emotions. It was far more likely that the reason he had given for seeking a divorce had been coldly calculated. But she would not take all the blame for the failure of their marriage, Isobel thought fiercely. Constantin needed to realise that she was not a pushover as she had been when he had married her, and he couldn’t have things all his way. Once, she had been overawed by him. But she was determined to end their marriage as his equal.

‘This is fine, thanks,’ she told the taxi driver as she stepped onto the pavement and leaned down to the cab window to pay the fare. The breeze lifted her honey-blonde hair from her shoulders.

Recognition dawned on the cabbie’s face. ‘I know who you are! You’re that singer Izzy Blake from the Stone Ladies. My daughter is a big fan.’ He thrust a notepad into Isobel’s hand. ‘Can I be cheeky and ask for your autograph for my Lily?’

She took the pen he handed her and signed her name. Being recognised by the public was something Isobel doubted she would ever be entirely comfortable with, but she never forgot that the band owed their success to their many thousands of fans worldwide.

‘Are you in London to give a concert?’ the cabbie asked her.

‘No, we finished our European tour in Berlin last week, but I think we’re due to play in London in the autumn.’ She had given up trying to remember the exact details of the band’s hectic schedule. For the past two years, her life had been a blur of airport lounges and hotel lobbies in whichever town, state, continent where the band was performing. She tore a page out of the cabbie’s notebook. ‘Give me your email address and I’ll make sure you’re sent a couple of tickets so you can take your daughter to the Stone Ladies’ next concert.’

The taxi driver thanked her, and when he drove away Isobel unconsciously clenched her fingers around the strap of her bag as she climbed the front steps of the house and rang the doorbell. Despite her determination to remain cool and calm, she could feel her heart thudding painfully hard beneath her ribs. She was not nervous at the prospect of seeing Constantin again, she assured herself. She thought of the divorce petition he had sent her, and the accusatory, condemning word desertion had the same effect on her temper as a red rag to a bull.

‘Damn you, Constantin,’ she muttered beneath her breath, just before the door was opened by a familiar figure.

‘Madam,’ Constantin’s butler greeted her gravely, his measured tone and imperturbable features revealing no hint of surprise at her sudden reappearance after two years.

‘Hello, Whittaker. Is my...husband...at home?’ She was annoyed by the huskiness in her voice as she stumbled over the word husband. He wouldn’t be for much longer and she would be free to move on with her life.

She had read in a newspaper that Constantin was in London to attend the opening of a new De Severino Eccellenza store—more commonly known by the company’s logo DSE—in Oxford Street, and she had planned her visit for Sunday morning because, even though he was a workaholic, it was unlikely that Constantin would have gone to the office on a Sunday.

‘The Marquis is downstairs in the gymnasium.’ The butler stepped back to allow her to enter the house. ‘I will inform him on the internal phone that you are here.’

‘No!’ Isobel stopped him. She wanted to retain the element of surprise. As Whittaker’s brow pleated in a faint frown she added quickly, ‘He...he’s expecting me.’ It was the truth of sorts, she assured herself. No doubt Constantin was waiting for her to meekly sign the divorce petition, but he probably did not expect her to deliver the document in person. She hurried along the hall towards the stairs that led down to the basement.

Constantin had had the gym installed soon after their marriage so that he could work out at home rather than stop off at his private health club after he’d spent all day at the office. Descending the stairs, Isobel could hear a rhythmic pounding noise. The door to the gym was open, and she had a clear view of him slamming his fists into a punchbag. He was totally focused on what he was doing and did not notice her.

Her mouth ran dry as she stood in the corridor and studied him. She had forgotten how big he was! He owed his six-feet-plus height to his American mother, who—on one of the rare occasions when he had spoken about his family—Constantin had told Isobel had been a successful model before she had married his father.

She guessed his slashing cheekbones and classically sculpted features were also a result of his mother’s genes, but in every other way he was pure Italian male, with exotic olive skin and dark, almost black, glossy hair that grew in luxuriant waves and refused to be completely tamed by the barber’s scissors. His shorts and gym vest revealed his powerful thigh and shoulder muscles, and the curling black hairs on his chest were damp with sweat as he powered his fists into the punchbag.

He would need to take a shower after his punishing workout, Isobel mused. An unbidden memory slid into her mind of the early days of their marriage when she had often come down to the gym to watch Constantin work out, and afterwards they had shared a shower. The two years that they had been apart melted away as she remembered running her hands over his naked, muscular thighs and stretching her fingers around his powerful erection while he smoothed a bar of soap over her breasts and continued down her quivering, shivering body until she begged him to end the torment and take her hard and fast, leaning against the wall of the shower cubicle.

Dear heaven! Scalding heat swept through her veins, and she could not repress a choked sound in her throat that immediately alerted Constantin to her presence. His head shot round, and for perhaps thirty seconds Isobel saw a stunned expression on his face before his chiselled features hardened and became unreadable. He pulled off his boxing gloves and strolled towards her.

‘Isabella!’

His deep voice was as sensuous as bittersweet chocolate, and his use of the Italian version of her name evoked a flood of molten desire in the pit of Isobel’s stomach. How could he have such a devastating effect on her after all this time? Working in the music industry, she was often in the company of good-looking men, but she’d never felt a spark of desire for anyone she’d met. She had put her lack of interest down to the fact that she was still legally married—for although she and Constantin had parted on bad terms she believed in fidelity within marriage. But with a flash of near despair she realised that no other man excited her as her husband did. For the past two years her sexual desires had lain dormant, but one look at Constantin was all it had taken to arouse her body to a fever pitch of lustful longing.

Utterly thrown by her reaction to him, she felt an urge to turn and flee back up the stairs. But it was too late; he halted in front of her, standing unnervingly close so that she inhaled the sensual musk of his maleness.

Beads of sweat glistened on his skin. Isobel found herself wanting to run her fingers through the lock of sable hair that had fallen forwards onto his brow and trace the close-trimmed black stubble that shaded his jaw and upper lip. Every muscle in her body tautened defensively as she fought the effect he had on her. She was unaware that she reminded Constantin of a nervous colt who might bolt at any second.

‘Don’t hide in the shadows, cara,’ he drawled. ‘I don’t know why you’re here, but I assume you have a very good reason to let yourself into the house, two years after you ran away.’

His cynical tone hurtled Isobel back in time to the dying days of their marriage when they had been at constant loggerheads.

‘I didn’t run away,’ she snapped.

His heavy black brows rose, but it was his eyes that held her spellbound. The first time Isobel had met him—when she had been a temporary secretary sent by the agency to work for the CEO at the London office of the exclusive jewellery and luxury goods company, De Severino Eccellenza—she had been mesmerised by Constantin’s brilliant blue eyes that were such an unexpected contrast to his swarthy, Latin looks.

He shrugged. ‘All right, you didn’t run. You sneaked out while I was on a business trip. I came home to find your note informing me that you had gone on tour with the band and wouldn’t be coming back.’

Isobel gritted her teeth. ‘You knew I was going to go with the Stone Ladies—we had discussed it. I left because, if I hadn’t, we would have destroyed each other. Don’t you remember the row we had the morning before you went to France, or the argument we’d had the day before, or the day before that? I couldn’t take it any more.’ Her voice shook. ‘We couldn’t even be together in the same room without tension flaring. It was time to end our train wreck of a marriage.’

A throb of pain shot across her brow, causing her to draw a sharp breath and reminding her of the tension headaches she’d suffered during her marriage. She and Constantin were arguing already, mere moments after meeting each other again.

‘Besides, I didn’t let myself into the house,’ she said in a carefully controlled voice. ‘I left my door key with my wedding ring on your desk two years ago.’ The symbolic gesture of pulling her gold wedding band from her finger had dealt the final devastating blow to her heart, Isobel remembered painfully. ‘Whittaker let me in.’ She opened her handbag and pulled out the divorce petition. ‘I came to return this.’

Constantin flicked his eyes to the document. ‘You must be in a desperate hurry to officially end our marriage, if you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to put the paperwork in the post.’

Riled by his mocking tone, she opened her mouth to agree that she was impatient to sever the final links between them. She was wearing four-inch heels but Constantin towered over her and she had to tilt her head to meet his cobalt-blue gaze. It was an unwise move, she realised as her eyes dropped to his sensual, full-lipped mouth and her pulse quickened. Her tongue darted out to moisten her suddenly dry lips, and she glimpsed a dangerous glitter in his eyes as he followed the betraying gesture before he roamed his gaze over her in a leisurely inspection that made Isobel’s skin tingle.

‘You’re looking good, Isabella,’ he drawled.

Her stupid heart performed a somersault, but she managed to respond coolly, ‘Thank you.’ The old Isobel had struggled to accept compliments graciously, but maturity had given her the self-assurance to be able to look in a mirror and acknowledge that she was attractive.

That did not mean she hadn’t spent ages debating what to wear for her meeting with Constantin. Her aim had been to look sophisticated yet give the impression that she hadn’t tried too hard and she had eventually settled on dark blue jeans from her favourite designer, teamed with a plain white tee shirt and—for a confidence booster—a pillar-box-red jacket. She had left her long, layered hair loose, and wore minimum make-up—just mascara to emphasise her hazel eyes, and a slick of rose-coloured gloss on her lips.

She saw Constantin glance at her handbag. ‘From the new De Severino Eccellenza collection,’ he noted. ‘Rather ironic, seeing that you always made a fuss when I gave you DSE items while we were together. When you bought your bag I hope you explained that you are my wife, and asked for a discount.’

‘Of course I didn’t,’ Isobel said stiffly. ‘I can afford to pay the full price.’

There seemed no point trying to explain that when they had been together she had felt guilty when Constantin had given her DSE jewellery and accessories because everything in the collection was incredibly expensive, and she hadn’t wanted to seem like a gold-digger who had married him for his money.

In the last two years her successful singing career had earned her an income that was unbelievable to a girl who had grown up in an ex-colliery village in the north of England, where poverty and deprivation had sucked the life and soul out of the men who had been unemployed since the pit had closed a decade ago. She doubted Constantin would understand how good it made her feel to be able to pay for her own clothes and jewellery after the shame she’d felt as a teenager, knowing that her family relied on handouts from the state.

She glanced at his autocratic features and her heart sank. She had always been conscious of the social divide between them. Constantin was a member of the Italian aristocracy, a man of noble birth and incredible wealth and sophistication, and it was perhaps unsurprising that a miner’s daughter had struggled to fit into his exclusive lifestyle. But she was no longer plagued by the insecurities of her youth. Her successful career had given her a sense of self-assurance and pride.

‘I don’t want to rake up the past,’ she told him firmly.

His eyes narrowed appraisingly on her face, and she sensed he was surprised by her new confidence. ‘What do you want?’

Isobel’s intention had been to make it clear that she would not accept responsibility for the collapse of their marriage. But her fiery words were replaced by a different kind of fire in her belly as she watched him pick up a towel and rub it over his arms and shoulders. He pulled off his gym vest and dragged the towel across the whorls of sweat-damp dark hairs that grew thickly on his chest and arrowed down over his flat abdomen.

She jerked her eyes guiltily from where the fuzz of hairs disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts, and clenched her hand to prevent herself from reaching out and skimming her fingers over his rock-hard abdominal muscles. She had often thought about him in the past two years, but her memory had not done him justice. He was so gorgeous he made her insides melt.

Her skin prickled as every nerve-ending on her body became acutely attuned to Constantin’s raw sex appeal. Something primitive and purely instinctive stirred in the pit of her stomach. Her brain sensed that he represented danger, but the alarm bells ringing inside her head were obliterated by the sound of her blood thundering in her ears.

Silence quivered between them like an overstretched elastic band. Constantin frowned when she failed to respond to his question, but he glimpsed the unguarded expression in her eyes and his lips curled into a predatory smile.

‘Ah, I think I understand, cara. Were you hoping we could get together for old times’ sake, before we make our separation legal?’

‘Get together?’ For a moment Isobel didn’t understand. She could not control the heat that surged through her when Constantin’s gaze lingered on her breasts, and to her horror she felt her nipples harden and prayed he could not see their jutting points outlined beneath her clingy tee shirt.

‘There were no problems with one aspect of our marriage,’ he murmured. ‘Our sex life was so explosive it was off the Richter scale.’

He was talking about sex! Her eyes clashed with his glittering gaze and her fingers itched to wipe the mockery from his face. ‘You think I came here to...proposition you? In your dreams,’ she told him furiously.

Her blood boiled. How dared Constantin suggest that the reason for her visit was because she wanted to sleep with him—for old times’ sake? But her treacherous mind responded to his provocative suggestion and she visualised them naked and writhing on the gym mat, limbs entangled and their skin damp with sweat as he drove his body into hers in a relentless rhythm.

Heat scalded her cheeks, and she did not trust herself to say anything else to him that wouldn’t result in them having one of the vicious arguments that had been a regular feature of the last months of their marriage. Dignified silence seemed her best strategy, but as she swung away from him his gravelly, accented voice stopped her from marching up the stairs.

‘You have often been in my dreams these past two years, Isabella. The nights can be long and lonely...can’t they?’

Could she possibly have heard regret in his voice? Was there any chance that he had missed her even half as much as she had missed him? Slowly, she turned back to face him, and immediately realised that she had indulged in wishful thinking. He was lounging in the doorway, bare-chested, beautiful and totally aware that he turned her on.

How could she have thought that Constantin might hide a vulnerable side beneath his arrogance? The idea that she had hurt him when she had left two years ago was laughable, Isobel thought bitterly. If he had a heart, he kept it locked behind a wall of impenetrable steel that nothing and no one could breach.

‘I don’t imagine you have spent many nights alone,’ she said tautly, ‘not if the stories in the tabloids linking you with numerous beautiful models and socialites are to be believed.’

He shrugged. ‘There were occasions when it was necessary for me to invite women to social events—’ he sent her a piercing glance ‘—since my wife wasn’t around to accompany me. Unfortunately the gutter press thrive on scandal and intrigue, and if none exist they fabricate lies.’

‘Are you saying that you didn’t have affairs with those women?’

His mocking expression gave nothing away. ‘If you’re trying to lead me into admitting adultery as a reason for us to divorce—forget it,’ he said coolly. ‘You’re the one who walked out of our marriage.’

Frustration surged through Isobel and she wanted to demand a straight answer from him. The idea that he had slept with the women he had been photographed with made her feel sick with jealousy. But as Constantin had pointed out, she had been the one to leave, and she had no right to ask him about his personal life. He was a red-blooded male with a high sex drive, and common sense told her that he was unlikely to have remained celibate for the past two years.

The adrenalin that had pumped through her veins when she had psyched herself up to see Constantin drained away, and she suddenly felt weary and strangely deflated. It had been a stupid idea to come here.

She looked down at the divorce petition in her hand and calmly ripped it in half.

‘I want a divorce as much as you do, but for the reason that we have lived apart for more than two years. If you continue to state my desertion as a reason, I’ll begin divorce proceedings against you, citing your unreasonable behaviour.’

He jerked his head back as if she had slapped him and his eyes glittered with anger. ‘My behaviour? What about how you behaved? You were hardly a devoted wife, were you, cara?’ He made the endearment sound like an insult. ‘In fact you went out with your friends so often that I almost forgot I had a wife.’

‘I saw my friends because, for some reason that I have never understood, you had turned into the ice man. We were two strangers who happened to live in the same house. But I needed more, Constantin. I needed you...’

Isobel broke off as the hard gleam in Constantin’s eyes told her she was wasting her breath. ‘I refuse to take part in a slanging match,’ she muttered. She gave a hollow laugh. ‘It’s a telling indictment of our marriage that we can’t even agree on how we’re going to end it.’

She swung away from him and marched up the stairs, her back ramrod-straight. Reaching the ground-floor level, she hurried towards the front door but was forced to halt as the butler finished speaking on the house phone and moved to stand in front of her.

Whittaker held open the door to the sitting room. ‘The Marquis requested that you wait in here while he takes a shower, and he will join you shortly.’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m leaving.’

Whittaker’s polite smile did not falter. ‘Mr De Severino hopes that you will stay and continue the discussion you began a few minutes ago. Shall I bring you some tea, madam?’

Before she could argue, Isobel found that she had been steered into the sitting room, and there was a faint click as Whittaker departed and shut the door behind him. She didn’t understand what Constantin was playing at. It was clear they had nothing to discuss that could not be dealt with by their respective divorce lawyers. Her immediate thought was that she was not going to be a puppet controlled by the master puppeteer as had so often happened during their marriage.

She reached for the door handle just as the door opened and the butler entered carrying a tray with a silver teapot and a cafetière.

‘I remembered that you prefer Earl Grey tea, madam,’ he said, smiling as he held out a cup and saucer.

Good manners prevented Isobel from storming out of the house. She had always got on well with Whittaker, and her problems with her marriage were not the elderly butler’s fault. Suppressing her irritation that Constantin had got his own way as he had so often done in the past, she wandered over to the window. The view of the park was familiar and evoked painful memories.

‘I’ve just spoken to my lawyer and instructed him to send a new divorce petition for you to sign. You’ll also have to give a written statement saying that we have lived apart for two years.’

At the sound of Constantin’s clipped voice Isobel jolted and slopped tea into her saucer. She spun round, disconcerted to find him standing close to her. For such a big man he moved with the silent menace of a panther stalking its prey, she thought ruefully. The black jeans and polo shirt he had changed into emphasised his lethal good looks. His hair was still damp from his recent shower and the citrusy fragrance of soap mixed with his spicy cologne teased her senses.

‘Giles still thinks I have good grounds to divorce you for desertion.’ Constantin’s anger that she had thwarted him was evident in his harsh tone. ‘But the legal advice is that it will be quicker to go with the fact that we have been separated for two years. The one thing we can both agree on is that we want a swift end to our marriage,’ he drawled sardonically.

Determined to hide the pang of hurt that his words evoked, Isobel turned her gaze back to the window and stared once more at the pretty park at the centre of Grosvenor Square.

‘When I was pregnant, I often used to stand here and imagine pushing our baby in a pram around the gardens,’ she said softly. ‘Our little girl would have been almost two and a half now.’

The shaft of pain in her chest was not as sharp as it had once been, but it was enough to make her catch her breath. Coming back to the house where she had lived when she had been pregnant had opened up the wound in her heart that would never completely heal. She had chosen one of the bedrooms at the back of the house for a nursery, and had been busy planning the colour scheme before she and Constantin had made that fateful trip to Italy.

She watched him pour himself a cup of coffee and felt a surge of anger that he had not reacted to the mention of their daughter. Nothing had changed, Isobel thought grimly. When she had lost their baby, twenty weeks into her pregnancy, she had been numb with grief. A few times she had tried to talk about the miscarriage with Constantin, but he had rebuffed her and become even more distant, and eventually she had stopped trying to reach him.

‘Do you ever think about Arianna?’ The nurse at the hospital had advised them to choose a name for their baby, even though she had been born too early to survive.

He sipped his coffee, and Isobel noted that he did not meet her gaze. ‘There’s no point dwelling on the past,’ he said shortly. ‘Nothing can change what happened. All we can do is move forwards.’

Two years ago, she had been chilled by his lack of emotion, but as she looked closely at him and saw a nerve flicker in his cheek she realised that he was tenser than he appeared.

‘Is that why you’ve begun divorce proceedings? You want to bury the past?’

He winced at her deliberate use of the word bury, and Isobel wondered if his mind pictured, as hers did, the small white marble tombstone in the grounds of the chapel at Casa Celeste—the De Severino family’s historic home on the shores of Lake Albano—where they had laid Arianna to rest.

Constantin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is there a point to this conversation? I haven’t heard a word from you in two years. Why have you turned up out of the blue?’

He did not try to disguise his frustration. He had not anticipated this meeting with his soon-to-be ex-wife, and Constantin hated surprises. His shock when he had caught sight of Isobel standing in the doorway of the gym had sparked his anger that she had left him—even though he acknowledged that he had driven her away. She had a hell of a nerve to stroll back into the house, looking so beautiful that he’d been instantly and embarrassingly aroused.

His temper was not improved when he felt his hand shake as he lifted his cup to his lips and gulped down his coffee, scalding the back of his throat in the process. He did not want her here, stirring up memories of the past that he had successfully kept locked away. An image flashed into his mind of their tiny, perfectly formed baby girl who had never lived. Pain flared inside him, but he controlled it as he always did, by force of will, and blocked out the memories.

Harder to control was his body’s reaction to Isobel. Unwanted memories were not the only thing she was stirring, Constantin acknowledged self-derisively as he shifted position in an effort to hide the bulge of his arousal. No other woman had ever turned him on as hard and fast as Isobel.

He remembered the first time he had met her. She had hurtled into his office half an hour late for work, a flurry of honey-blonde hair framing a strikingly beautiful face, and announced that she had been sent by the temp agency to cover for his office assistant who was on maternity leave. He’d cut short her explanation of why she was late, but his impatience had died when he had looked into her wide hazel eyes and felt a shaft of desire so strong that it had literally taken his breath away.

From that moment his sole aim had been to take her to bed, a feat he’d achieved within the month. Discovering that he was her first lover had elicited emotions he had not believed himself capable of. The weekend they had spent together in Rome had been the best—and worst—of his life.

It had been the beginning of the nightmares that had haunted him ever since he’d woken in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking, and utterly appalled by the truth that his dream had revealed. He had looked at Isobel sleeping innocently beside him, and realised that for her safety he could not allow their relationship to continue.

CHAPTER TWO

THE SUN GLINTING through the windows turned Isobel’s hair to spun gold. A sensation he could not define tugged in Constantin’s chest, but he ignored it and forced himself to study her objectively.

Her clothes bore the hallmarks of superb design; the close-fitting jeans drew his attention to her endlessly long legs and her tee shirt snugly moulded her firm breasts. A gold chain around her neck was her only item of jewellery. His mouth thinned as he glanced at her bare left hand and pictured her wedding ring and diamond engagement ring that she had left behind when she had abandoned their marriage to pursue her career.

Her physical appearance had changed little in two years. Her face, with its high cheekbones and firm jaw that gave a clue to her determined character, was as beautiful as he remembered, and her hazel eyes fringed with long lashes were clear and intelligent. Her natural blonde hair was sexily tousled, and the just-got-out-of-bed style made him want to run his fingers through the silky layers.

His eyes sought hers, and he was intrigued when she met his gaze with calm self-assurance where once she would have blushed and looked away. There was something very alluring about a woman who was comfortable in her own skin and Constantin felt an ache of desire in his groin, but, perversely he was irritated by the self-confidence that she had developed after she had left him.

‘I’m not the only one of us to have featured in the press,’ he said abruptly. ‘The Stone Ladies’ success has been meteoric and the band has won a raft of music awards. How does it feel to be a famous star?’

Isobel shrugged. ‘Frankly, it seems unreal. In two years the band has gone from playing small gigs in pubs to performing in huge arenas in front of thousands of people. Success is amazing, of course, but if I’m honest I find the media interest in my private life hard to deal with.’

‘Particularly as the paparazzi are fascinated by your relationship with one of the male band members,’ Constantin said sardonically. ‘I’m guessing the record company want the band’s image to be squeaky clean for your teenage fans, which is why your profile on social media sites makes no mention of the fact that you are married.’

Isobel sighed, sensing that they were heading towards an old argument. ‘I’ve explained that Ryan is just a friend. I’m close to everyone in the band. We grew up together and Ben, Carly and Ryan are like my family. You never understood how important they are to me and I know you resented my friendships, but the truth was that the more you pushed me away, the more I needed to be with people who cared about me, people I could trust.’

Constantin frowned. ‘I never gave you any reason not to trust me.’

‘I don’t mean I suspected you of seeing other women behind my back.’ In a way, if he had been unfaithful it would have been easier to understand, Isobel thought painfully. She would have been hurt, but she would have accepted that she’d made a mistake by marrying a notorious playboy, and eventually she would have got over him.

She stared at his handsome face and her heart clenched. She had written songs about falling in love at first sight but she’d never really believed it could happen—until she’d met Constantin.

When she had hurried into his office on her first day at her new job, her eyes had crashed with his cobalt-blue gaze, and the world had tilted on its axis. She had expected the CEO of a world-famous company to be older, possibly with thinning hair and a thickening waistline, but Constantin was a superb example of masculine perfection, with exotic film-star looks and the commanding presence of a world leader. She had felt intimidated by his height and powerful build, by his smouldering sensuality that made her acutely aware of her femininity. But then he had smiled and she had felt a yearning ache in the pit of her stomach that she had instinctively known only he could assuage.

Constantin put his coffee cup on the tray, and his eyes narrowed on Isobel’s flushed face as he wondered what thoughts she was trying to hide behind the sweep of her long eyelashes. She looked amazing, he acknowledged. Following the miscarriage she had barely eaten and had lost weight dramatically, but now her slim figure was firm and toned. Did she have a lover? The thought oozed its poison into his head. She was a beautiful, sensual woman, and it was difficult to believe she had lived like a nun for the past two years.

He had seen her photograph on posters advertising the Stone Ladies’ new album. There were pictures of her on giant billboards around London wearing a skirt that was barely more than a wide belt, which showed off her lissom thighs. She was a pin-up girl, a male fantasy, but he had no need of fantasies when he had X-rated memories of making love to her.

Those memories crowded his mind and his arousal became a potent, throbbing force. The atmosphere in the sitting room altered subtly. He heard the quickening sound of his breathing, or was it Isobel’s? He looked into her eyes and watched them darken as her pupils dilated, and he knew she was remembering the white-hot hunger that had consumed them in the past and was simmering between them now.

Goosebumps prickled on the back of Isobel’s neck when she saw the hard glitter in Constantin’s eyes. The realisation that he still desired her filled her with panic and undeniable excitement. She tore her gaze from him and stared desperately at the empty teacup and saucer in her hand, suddenly realising that she was gripping the delicate bone china so tightly it was in danger of breaking. She took a step towards the coffee table, intending to put the cup and saucer on the tray, but her heel caught on the edge of the rug and she stumbled. Immediately two strong arms caught her, and when she regained her balance she found herself standing so close to Constantin that the tips of her breasts grazed his chest.

‘Thanks.’ She groaned inwardly when her voice emerged as a husky whisper. Her throat felt dry and her senses were swamped by the evocative scent of the spicy aftershave that he always wore. Her common sense told her to move away from him but she seemed to have lost control of her limbs as her mind flew back to the first time he had kissed her.

He had given her a lift home from work. Sitting next to him in his sleek sports car, she had felt even more overwhelmed by him than she did at the office. Her position as an assistant to his PA meant that her conversations with him had been mainly work related, and she had assumed that he barely noticed her. His request as they drove across the city for her to tell him about herself had thrown her into a panic, but he was her boss so she had obediently related the unexciting details of her life growing up in a small Derbyshire village.

When he had finally parked outside her flat, he’d turned to her, and his smile had made her heart skip a beat. ‘You’re very sweet,’ he’d murmured.

His words had rankled. She hadn’t wanted him to think she was a sweet, silly girl; she’d wanted him to think of her as a woman. Perhaps her feelings had shown in her eyes, because he had given a faint sigh before he’d lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.

Her body had come alive instantly. It was as if he had pressed a switch and awoken her sensuality that had been untested until that moment. Constantin had kissed her as she had imagined a man would kiss a woman, as she had dreamed of being kissed. She had been intoxicated by his mastery, and responded to his passionate demands with a fervency that had made him groan.

‘Very soon I will make you mine, Isabella,’ he’d warned her softly.

‘How soon?’ she’d replied, not caring that her eagerness revealed her lack of sophistication.

Now Isobel was three years older, but she was trapped by Constantin’s sexual magnetism and felt as though she had flown back in time to when she had been a shy junior secretary who had been kissed senseless by the most exciting man she had ever met. Her heart jerked against her ribs as she watched his head descend, but her stomach plummeted with disappointment when he halted with his lips centimetres from hers.

‘Why did you walk out on me?’ he said harshly. ‘You didn’t even have the decency to tell me to my face that you were clearing out. All I got was an insultingly brief note to say that you had decided we should end our marriage.’

Isobel swallowed. It was impossible to think properly when his lips were tantalisingly close, and even more impossible to believe that she had heard a note of hurt in his voice. She longed to close the gap between them, to slide her hand into the silky dark hair at his nape and urge his mouth down on hers. It took all her will power to step away from him.

‘Why did you marry me?’ She countered his question with one of her own. ‘I’ve often wondered. Was it only because I was pregnant with your child? I believed our relationship was based on more than sexual attraction, but after I had the miscarriage you were so distant. I couldn’t get close to you, and you never wanted to talk about...about what had happened. Your coldness seemed to indicate that you wished I wasn’t your wife.’

Constantin had always been able to read the emotions on Isobel’s expressive features and the pain reflected in her hazel eyes caused him a pang of guilt. He knew he had not given her the support she had needed when she’d lost the baby. He’d been unable to talk about it, and had dealt with his emotions the way he always did, by burying them deep inside and concentrating on running a global business empire. He could hardly blame her for turning to her friends, but he had felt jealous of her closeness to the other members of the band, and in particular her obvious affection for the guitarist, Ryan Fellows.

The cover of the Stone Ladies’ new album was an arty black and white picture of the two most photogenic band members—Isobel and Fellows—riding a unicorn. No doubt the romantic image would appeal to the band’s thousands of fans, but when Constantin had seen the album cover he’d felt an overwhelming desire to rearrange the guitarist’s pretty-boy features with his fist.

The idea that Isobel and Fellows might be lovers evoked a corrosive acid burn in his gut. Isobel had accused him of resenting her friends, and he acknowledged it was the truth. He had been unable to control his possessive feelings, which in turn had made him afraid that he had inherited his father’s dangerous jealousy.

He looked at her tense face. It must have taken a lot of guts for her to have come back to the house that he knew held poignant memories for her. He thought of the mural of farm animals that she had been painting on the walls of the nursery. The mural was unfinished and the room was empty. He’d sent the cot and nursery equipment back to the shop and never went into the room that had been destined for their daughter.

The miscarriage had broken Isobel, and it was a measure of her strength of will that she had recovered to be this beautiful, self-assured woman—although close scrutiny revealed faint shadows in her eyes that Constantin guessed would never completely fade. One thing was certain. She deserved his honesty.

‘Three years ago we were lovers briefly. The weekend we spent at my apartment in Rome was fun, but...’ he shrugged ‘...I had no desire for a prolonged relationship—and I thought you understood that.’ When he had ended the affair shortly after they had returned to London he had assured himself it was for the best to call a halt before things got out of hand. Isobel had needed to understand that the words long-term and commitment were not in his vocabulary.

He exhaled heavily. ‘But then fate dealt an unexpected card. When you told me you were pregnant you must have realised that I would not allow my child to be born illegitimate. Marriage was the only option. I could not neglect my duty to my child or to you.’

Isobel flinched. Duty was an ugly little word. The realisation that Constantin had proposed marriage because he had felt responsible for her evoked a bitter taste in her mouth. She had told Constantin she was pregnant with his baby because she’d believed he had the right to know. She had been stunned when he’d asked her to marry him. After all, it was the twenty-first century, and being a single mother was no longer regarded as unusual or shameful. When he had proposed, she had convinced herself that he must have some feelings for her. But the stark truth was that she had seen what she had wanted to see.

Yet her stubborn nature still refused to give up the idea that they had shared something meaningful. ‘We had some good times in the beginning,’ she reminded him.

‘I don’t deny it. We were going to be parents, and for our child’s sake it was important to build an amicable relationship with each other, additional to our sexual compatibility.’

Isobel swallowed the golf ball that had become lodged in her throat. Had Constantin simply been building an amicable relationship with her when he had filled the house with yellow roses after she had mentioned that they were her favourite flower? Had she imagined the closeness between them that had grown stronger every day of their three-week honeymoon in the Seychelles?

She stared at his chiselled features and wondered why she had ever believed she had seen warmth in his eyes that glittered as hard and bright as sapphires. What a fool she had been. Despite everything that happened, his coldness to her in the last months of their marriage, deep down she had believed there was a chance that they might one day get back together. That fragile sense of hope had now gone and she was shocked by how badly it hurt.

She turned her head towards the window. The sun streaming through the glass was so bright, and surely it was the glare that was making her eyes water? As if she were looking through a kaleidoscope, she saw the fractured images of a woman pushing a pram through the park with a tall, handsome man at her side. But when she blinked, the vision disappeared, just as her dreams had done.

Somehow she marshalled her thoughts and emotions, and even managed a cool smile when she looked back at Constantin.

‘In that case there’s nothing more to be said. I’ll wait to receive a new divorce petition from your solicitor, which I will sign and return immediately. I understand that the legal proceedings are straightforward in an uncontested divorce.’

‘I’ve instructed my lawyer to offer you a financial settlement.’ Constantin frowned when she shook her head. ‘I don’t understand why you insisted on signing a prenuptial agreement that awarded you absolutely nothing.’

‘Because I want nothing from you,’ Isobel told him fiercely. ‘I’m lucky to be able to earn a high income, but even if the band hadn’t become successful I wouldn’t have accepted a handout from you.’

Impatience glittered in his eyes. ‘I see you’ve lost none of your prickly independence. You’re the only woman I’ve ever known who got annoyed if I bought you presents.’

She hadn’t wanted expensive gifts. What she had wanted he had been unable or unwilling to give her—love, his heart in exchange for hers, a marriage that was a true partnership. Did such a thing even exist? She’d seen little evidence of it in her parents’ marriage, Isobel thought wryly. Perhaps her father had been right during one of their many rows about her doing homework rather than writing songs, when he had accused her of wasting her time chasing rainbows. Maybe happy-ever-after only happened in fairy tales.

Of their own volition her eyes fixed on Constantin’s face as she committed his sculpted features to her memory. The faintly cynical curve of his lips evoked a visceral ache in her belly.

She had to get out of the house now, before her wafer-thin composure cracked. Never had she been more thankful for the illusion of supreme confidence that performing with the band had given her. She walked unhurriedly across the room and glanced back at Constantin from the doorway. ‘I’ll instruct my lawyer to reject any financial offer from you.’

‘Per l’amor di Dio!’ He swore beneath his breath as he crossed the room with long strides. ‘Dammit, Isobel, you are entitled to receive a settlement from me. The music industry can be fickle, and, although the band is riding high at the moment, no one can say what the future holds.’

Wasn’t that the truth? Isobel thought emotively as the image of her tiny baby daughter flashed into her mind. Coming back to the house where she had dreamed of living as a happy family with Constantin and their child, she felt as though a protective layer had been scraped away from the scar tissue surrounding her heart.

‘There’s no reason any more for you to feel responsible for me,’ she said tautly.

Her eyes clashed with his, and something in his brilliant blue gaze sent a warning signal to her brain. She sensed that he was mentally stripping her naked, and she was furious with her treacherous body as heat stole through her veins. He had always had the ability to decimate her equilibrium with one killer glance.

The sound of her phone ringing from the depths of her handbag was a welcome distraction. She retrieved the phone and glanced at the caller display before shooting an apologetic glance at Constantin. ‘Do you mind if I answer this? It’s Carly, probably calling to remind me that we’d arranged a shopping trip this afternoon.’

Her friend’s cheerful voice greeted her. ‘The photographer from Rock Style magazine wants to do the shoot tomorrow instead of midweek. Does that suit you? Okay, I’ll let him know,’ Carly said when Isobel confirmed she was free the next day. She cut the call and was about to drop her phone into her bag when it rang again. Assuming it was Carly with a second message, she lifted the phone to her ear and her heart jumped when a frighteningly familiar voice spoke.

‘Hello, Izzy. It’s David, your darling. Remember you wrote “To my darling David” when you gave me your autograph? I know you are in London and I hoped we could have dinner together.’

‘How did you get my mobile number?’ The instant Isobel blurted out the question she cursed herself. The police had advised her to stay calm and not reveal any emotion or engage in conversation with the man who had been stalking her for the past two months, but hearing David’s voice filled her with panic. Her eyes jerked to the window and she scanned the pavement outside. Did he know her exact location in London? Her common sense told her it was unlikely that he had followed her here. But how on earth had he got hold of her mobile-phone number?

Without saying another word she cut the call and then checked the number of the last caller. The number had been withheld. She switched off her phone and dropped it into her handbag as if she feared it were an explosive device.

‘What was that about?’

She met Constantin’s curious gaze, unaware of the unease reflected in her eyes.

‘Nothing.’ Her response was automatic. There was no reason to involve Constantin. She would make a note of the call and file it with the other nuisance calls she had received from David as the police had advised her to do. More importantly, she would contact her network provider and change her mobile-phone number.

Constantin frowned. ‘Your reaction suggested it was more than nothing. When you answered the call, you looked worried.’ He placed his hand on Isobel’s arm to prevent her from sidling out of the door. ‘Do you have a problem with whoever called you?’

‘No—it was just someone playing a joke.’ She quickly thought up the excuse. Her problem right now was the way her body was reacting to Constantin’s nearness. Her heart was racing and she could feel the pulse at the base of her throat beating erratically. She fought a crazy temptation to tell him about David—a fan who had developed an unhealthy obsession with her. The police were aware of the situation and everything was under control, she reassured herself. There was no point in involving her soon-to-be ex-husband.

In a matter of weeks she and Constantin would be divorced and it was likely that she would never see him again. The knowledge felt like a knife-blade through her heart. She pulled her arm free and stumbled into the hall. Her stiletto heels sounded like staccato gunfire on the marble floor as she half ran towards the front door.

‘Goodbye, Constantin.’ She could not resist one final glance over her shoulder at him. ‘I hope one day you’ll meet someone who can give you whatever it is you’re looking for.’

* * *

‘The role of Chairman of DSE has historically always passed to the eldest son of the next generation of the family. It is my birthright, dammit!’

Constantin paced around his uncle’s office at the Rome headquarters of DSE, his body taut with suppressed fury like a caged tiger enraged by its captivity. His eyes glittered as he stared at Alonso sitting calmly behind his desk. ‘If I had been a year older when my father died I would have become Chairman a decade ago, but because I was seventeen, company rules dictated that the chairmanship must go to the next De Severino male who was of age—in this case, you, my father’s brother. But now you wish to retire, and the chairmanship should revert to me. I intend to combine the role of Chairman with that of CEO, as my father did.’

Alonso cleared his throat. ‘It is the belief among many members of the board that the two roles should be separated. An independent board chairman can better protect shareholder interests, leaving the CEO free to concentrate on running the business—which you do extremely well, Constantin.’

‘Profits have risen year on year since I became CEO, but many times I have felt that I am working against the board rather than with their backing.’ Constantin could barely contain his frustration. ‘It is crucial for our continuing success that DSE takes advantage of emerging markets in Asia and South America. The board are slow to embrace change, but we must move fast to keep ahead of our competitors.’

‘There is a concern that in your rush to take the company forwards, you have forgotten the standards and moral ethics of DSE that have been the backbone of the company since it was established by your great-grandfather nearly a century ago.’

Constantin slammed his hands down on his uncle’s desk. ‘I have forgotten nothing. I have lived and breathed DSE since I was a small boy, in the expectation that I would one day be fully responsible for the company. In what way have I forgotten the company’s moral ethics?’

Instead of replying, Alonso looked pointedly at a copy of a popular gossip magazine lying on his desk. The front cover carried a photo of his nephew and an Italian glamour model, Lia Gerodi, emerging from a casino. From the amount of naked flesh on display, Miss Gerodi appeared to be experiencing a wardrobe malfunction, Alonso noted cynically.

Constantin shrugged as he glanced at the picture that had been taken a week ago. The only reason he remembered that particular evening was because it had been the night he had returned to Rome from London after his unexpected visit from Isobel. He had been in a foul mood, he recalled. The image of her walking out of the house in Grosvenor Square and climbing into a taxi, without once looking back, had been stuck in his mind. He’d felt churned up inside and, unusually for him, unable to rationalise his thoughts.

Lia had been phoning him for weeks, ever since they had met at a social event the details of which he did not remember. When he’d received a call from her as his jet had landed in Rome he had agreed to have dinner with her purely to take his mind off Isobel. The trip to the casino had been Lia’s idea, and he suspected that she had tipped off the paparazzi, knowing that a picture of her with one of Italy’s wealthiest businessmen would give her valuable media exposure that might boost her modelling career.

‘This is not the image of the company that the board wishes to see advertised around the world,’ Alonso said, tapping the photo with his forefinger. ‘The public’s perception of DSE must be of a company that delivers excellence, reliability and honesty. But how can the public trust that the company believes in those values, when the CEO, despite being married, leads a playboy lifestyle?’

‘My private life has no bearing on my ability to run DSE,’ Constantin growled. ‘Shareholders are only interested in profits, not in my personal affairs.’

‘Unfortunately that is not true, especially as you seem to have so many affairs.’

‘You know how the press like to exaggerate.’ Constantin’s jaw clenched. ‘If you are seriously considering not appointing me Chairman, who else do you have in mind?’

‘My sister’s son, Maurio. Since I have no son of my own,’ Alonso continued when it became evident that Constantin was too stunned to comment, ‘I have taken great interest in your younger cousin. I believe Maurio has many qualities that make him suitable for the role of Chairman, not least the fact that he is a happily married family man who is never likely to be photographed staggering out of a casino, clutching a bottle of Scotch in one hand and a half-naked bimbo in the other.’

‘Maurio is spineless. He would be completely out of his depth as Chairman,’ Constantin said harshly.

He swung away to stare out of the window while he fought the temptation to shake some sense into his uncle. He was the best person to take on the combined role of CEO and Chairman. It was what he had been born to do.

DSE was more than a business; it was his life, his identity. After he had witnessed the deaths of his father and stepmother when he was seventeen, Constantin had focused exclusively on the company as a way of preventing himself from thinking about the shocking tragedy. For ten years he had planned for the day when he took absolute control of DSE, but now there was a real danger that his destiny was going to be snatched away from him.

The hell it was, he thought grimly. DSE was his, and he was not going to lose it. He turned back to his uncle. ‘So, if the only problem you and the board have is with my image, I’ll change it. I’ll become a recluse. I’ll live the life of a hermit if that’s what it takes for you to choose me as your successor.’

Alonso looked at him steadily. ‘I don’t expect anything quite so drastic, Constantin. I simply ask that details of your love life are not a matter of media curiosity and titivation. I suggest that you resume your marriage. Prove that you can uphold the personal commitment you made when you married, and you may convince me that I can entrust complete control of DSE to you rather than your cousin.’

Constantin’s eyes narrowed. ‘That sounds like blackmail.’

His uncle’s gaze did not falter. ‘I don’t care what it sounds like. The responsibility of appointing the next chairman is mine and mine alone, and unless I see you change your lifestyle to reflect the core values of DSE, I cannot be certain you are the right man for the job.’

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