Page 155 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

She looked at him, swallowing. ‘We’re not married in that sense.’

He made no answer. He could not deny her words. That had been the intention, right from the start. An outward marriage only.

And it had to stay like that.

Otherwise, I will be changing the basis of our marriage simply to suit myself, to indulge myself in the desire she has kindled in me. Taking advantage of her—

His eyes went to her now. She had looked away and was staring out of her window, her profile etched against the intermittent streetlights as the car traversed the city. The same response that had filled him after dining at the Falcone now filled him again. Almost…almost he felt his hand move to take hers, to see her turn her face to his, to see her gaze at him with her beautiful, luminous eyes.

Kiss her again.

With sheer effort of will he held still. With sheer effort of will he made himself make desultory conversation—something, anything, to get them back to his apartment, just as he’d had to do that previous time, repeating itself excruciatingly. Yet when they were finally there and he steeled himself to say an effortful, so reluctant goodnight to her, forcibly holding himself in check, it seemed to him that she went on standing there, a mere metre away from him in the hallway, the scent of her perfume still catching him, looking so beautiful, her eyes holding his. Her lips softly parted.

As if she wanted…

No—he must not. No! He took a breath, a ragged one.

‘Well, I’ll say goodnight too,’ he said. His voice was staccato. It was an effort to speak. An effort, as if his limbs had turned to lead, to turn away, lift a hand in a casual gesture, to head into the reception room. As he did, he heard the sound of her bedroom door opening, then closing.

He headed for the drinks cabinet like a homing missile on target. He needed a whisky.

Badly.

* * *

For a second time Eleanora peeled off the beautiful dress that Sanzio had given her. Another beautiful dress for the trophy wife he wanted her to be.

And nothing else.

She could feel an ache twist inside her. Back there, in the hallway, for a moment she had thought, hoped, yearned. Felt that there was something about the way he was looking at her—something that might make him want to step towards her, do what she so longed for.

But it won’t happen because he does not want it to happen.

It didn’t matter how beautiful the dress she wore, how she made up her face or styled her hair, Sanzio still did not—could not—desire her.

Impossible to want me.

Just impossible.

* * *

Sanzio stood out on the terrace, whisky glass in his hand, his expression set. For the second time he’d had to exert every ounce of self-control as he bade Eleanora goodnight. Looking so, so beautiful.

He knocked back another mouthful of his whisky. It burned his throat. But there was more burning inside him than whisky. More even than desire. More even than frustration.

A fire he could not quench.

He had tried. Dio, he had tried! But he could not do it. The fire still burned inside him. The fire of desire.

Desire he must quench.

His grip on his glass tightened suddenly. Protest rising in him. Surging past his iron self-control. Breaking through it.

Why shouldn’t he quench it? Oh, he knew all the reasons why, he’d reeled them off to himself endlessly, telling himself he must not do what his aching body was urging him to do.

But he didn’t want to hear them. Didn’t want them to exist.

But do they?