Page 3 of Public Wife, Private Mistress

He'd fully intended to end the entire fiasco of their marriage through lawyers and there was no reason why this couldn't still happen, he assured himself swiftly. This was just a temporary stasis in proceedings. He could fly her out and she could do whatever needed to be done and then he could have her flown home again.

It was entirely possible that they could avoid all but the briefest of conversations. Which would suit him per­fectly. He had no desire whatsoever to indulge in any reminiscence of the past. And even less desire to spend time with the woman.

He gave a grim smile, knowing that the irony of the situation wouldn't be lost on Stasia. Dazzling, uncon­ventional Stasia. The woman who had never conformed to his family's perceptions of the perfect Sicilian wife.

Or his.

He'd given her everything. Had done everything a husband should do. And still, apparently, it had not been enough.

The doctor cleared his throat discreetly and Rico stirred, making the only decision that he was in a po­sition to make.

'I will send for her.' He turned to Gio, his head of security. 'Contact her and make arrangements for her to be flown out immediately.'

He caught the startled glance of the man who'd known him from childhood, heard the shocked gasp of his mother and gritted his teeth as he battled to come to terms with the fact that he was going to have to do the one thing he'd promised himself that he'd never have to do again. Come face to face with Stasia.

One day soon he was going to put her behind him, he vowed. One day soon he'd be able to think of her without feeling an instantaneous reaction in every male part of himself. And the sooner that day came the better.

Anastasia put the finishing touches to the painting, stepped back with her eyes narrowed and gave a nod of satisfaction.

Finally. Finally it was ready.

Mark would be pleased.

With a final glance at the canvas, she cleaned her brush and then wandered out of her studio into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle and reaching for a pile of post that had been accumulating over the past two weeks while she'd been concentrating on her painting.

Still leafing through her post, she reached across to switch on her mobile and it rang immediately.

Knowing that it would be her mother, she answered the phone with a smile. 'How's business?'

'Business is booming.' Her mother sounded excited. And confident. Miles removed from the terrified, mouse-like woman she'd been, after Stasia's father had walked out with a blonde half his age, six years earlier.

Stasia gritted her teeth, trying not to remember that awful time. She'd been in her first year at university and if ever she'd needed evidence that depending on a man, any man, was not a good idea, she'd been given it in spades. Her mother had relied on her father for everything, and when he left she'd been totally unable to cope. Had lost all belief in herself.

It had been Stasia who had pointed out that her mother knew a great deal about antiques. Stasia who had helped her put that knowledge to commercial use by opening a small antiques business. Gradually the word had spread and soon her mother wasn't just selling antiques, she was advising clients on furnishing entire houses. And six months ago, thanks to a generous busi­ness loan, they'd expanded their premises and business was booming.

'We're going to have to employ more help. Stasia,' her mother was saying briskly. 'I need to go on a buying trip and I've been invited to a stately home in Yorkshire to advise on restoring some of their antiques and ob­viously I can't just close the shop. People travel from all over the country to visit. It wouldn't be fair on them if we closed. And you're too busy painting to help.'

Stasia smiled. It was wonderful to hear her mother so animated. 'You're running the show, Mum,' she said lightly, throwing a pile of junk mail into the bin. 'Em­ploy away. The painting is finished, by the way. Mark can collect it whenever he likes.'

'Marvellous. I'll tell him. if I see him before you do. And how are you, darling? Are you eating?'

'Yes.' It was a lie. She hadn't done much eating at all in the last year. Since leaving Italy, her emotions had been so disrupted that eating no longer seemed im­portant. But she didn't want her mother to worry. 'I'm fine. Mum. Truly.'

Her mother sighed. 'Which means you're still pining after that Sicilian.' Her voice took on a hard edge. 'Take it from me, Stasia, men like him never change. I should know. I lived with your father for all those years and he was exactly the same. I was just a possession and when he got bored with me he purchased something new.'

Stasia heard a car negotiating the potholes in the lane outside the cottage and snatched at the excuse to end the conversation. 'I can't talk now, Mum—I've got a visitor. It's probably Mark about the painting. I'll call you later.'

Without giving her mother time to protest, she hung up and switched off the phone, releasing a long breath. She adored her mother but that was one conversation she wasn't prepared to have with anyone.

The car came to a halt and Stasia pulled a face. She didn't really want to see Mark. He made no secret of the fact that he wanted more from her than her paintings and she wasn't ready for that. Maybe she never would be.

Glancing down at her paint-spattered jeans, she gave a rueful smile. She looked a mess. But if Mark insisted on dropping in without phoning first, what could he expect?

Anticipating the knock before it came, she opened her front door and froze in shock as she saw who stood there.

Rico Crisanti.

Billionaire and bastard.

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