The Passionate Italian 11 DECEMBER EPUB Read Online Free Page B

will be sharing a bedroom. You are my wife after all.”
    “In name only.”
    She couldn’t read the complex message in his eyes.
    “Eat. You’ll need your strength.” He pushed a plate of risotto over to her and, despite herself, her mouth watered. He was right, it had been a long time since she’d eaten such an exquisitely prepared meal.  

    By the time Rose had finished eating, she had also had enough of the questions.
    Giovanni had eaten little during dinner, preferring to interrogate her about her time in New Zealand. To begin with she’d attempted to answer his questions. Then she’d resorted to one-syllable answers. Then, to silence.
    She pushed away her empty plate and placed her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her steepled fingers
    “Giovanni. I’ll put this as plainly as possible. We were separated for two years and what I did, in the little time that you can’t possibly have information about, is my affair. Mine. I have had enough of your jealousies.”
    “I was merely protecting what was mine.”
    “I am not your possession.”
    He was silent for a moment. “I know.” His words were as quiet as they were shocking to her. “But I do not feel that way.”
    “No, you don’t. And it’s impossible. Do you remember at the Scala party when you hit that man for talking to me?”
    “He deserved it.”  
    “That was the first time. I should have known then that you couldn’t be trusted.”
    He turned from her to pour more wine.
    When he faced her once more his expression was cool. Her words seemed to have had no effect on him.
    “Of course I hit him. He deserved it for trying to seduce you. I don’t know why you were so upset—why you left in anger.”
    “Because I was tired of it all.”
    “So you hid in the church.”
    “I did not ‘hide’. And, anyway, I never did understand how you knew where to find me.”  
    “Instinct. That’s how I live. The church moved you once and you were drawn to it again. It was a place of refuge for you in some way.” He shrugged.  
    She shook her head. She didn’t want to admit that it wasn’t a refuge—anything but—it was where she felt closest to him. Where she could remember him as he truly was: no jealousy, no issues of control. Where she could gain strength by reminding herself how much she loved him.  
    “It was peaceful. And it held good memories for me: of our first night together when, oddly, you decided to show me the sights. Strange, we didn’t get to see any more sights after the church.”
    “I’d asked you to marry me. It would have been strange indeed to continue our tour of Milan after that.”
    “I thought you were crazy. We’d known each other for, what? Four hours?”
    “It was enough.”
    The silence extended around them as they both remembered. It had also been silent that night in the Santa Maria presso San Satiro: a haven of calm amidst the bustle and humid warmth of a Lombard summer evening.
    Even now Rose could smell the candle wax and incense that had filled the air. The scent and the jewel-like decorations were inextricably linked with her realization that she loved Giovanni, more deeply and more profoundly than she had ever have thought possible.  
    “It was a very special night,” she admitted.
    “The medieval fresco is reputed to have special powers. Anything magical enough to make the Madonna bleed is surely powerful enough to make two people know they should be together.”
    “Miracles, magic—it’s not the real world.”
    “You say that as if you do not believe in miracles.”
    She laughed. “Of course I don’t. There are no such things. Only people fooling themselves.”
    “Is that what you believe we were doing? Fooling ourselves?” He leant towards her, insisting that she look him in the eye. “Miele, if people have faith enough in something then it can become real. Why do you not believe this?”
    Rose’s mouth went dry. “Because—” The thought of her child flitted through her