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decade in less than a year.
    The first time she had been in this room she’d been on top of the world, the happiest woman in existence. At the time she could never have foreseen that the beautiful walls would start to suffocate her. She certainly could not have foretold that the man she would marry would change with such speed, and that the gun she assumed he carried around for personal protection would take on a completely different meaning.
    And now she was little more than his prisoner.
    Donatella had removed Lily from her car seat and was cradling her, a look of pure bliss on her perfectly made-up face.
    Lily’s eyes were open. If she was perturbed to be held in the arms of a stranger, she made no show of it.
    Donatella’s shrewd eyes flickered to Grace. ‘She is beautiful.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘And Lily; such a beautiful name.’
    ‘Thank you,’ she repeated, wondering if there had been a more excruciating, incongruous experience in the history of the world.
    Luca’s warning played over and over in her mind. Under no circumstances could she intimate she was there for any reason other than devotion. But it would help if she knew exactly what he had told his mother about her sudden reappearance in their lives and about the fact of Lily.
    ‘It’s getting late. I need to get Lily settled and into bed,’ Grace said, not wanting to be stuck in an interrogation that was surely forthcoming and for which she didn’t know the correct answers.
    Her mother-in-law’s eyes flashed before the lines around her mouth softened. ‘Please, Grace, let me enjoy my first grandchild for a little longer. I have only just learned of her existence.’
    A big stab of guilt twisted in her stomach. Reluctantly, she nodded. ‘How about if I go and get our stuff unpacked and then come back for her?’
    Donatella’s grateful smile twisted the guilt a little more. ‘That sounds perfect.’
    Traipsing back up the corridor, Grace opened the door that led into the wing she had shared with Luca and took another step into the past.
    This time all traces of the past really had been eradicated.
    The only familiar item was a large family portrait on the wall, the last photo of the Mastrangelos taken before Pietro, Luca’s father, had so tragically died. It had been taken at Luca’s graduation. The pride shining on Pietro Mastrangelo’s face was palpable. And who, she reflected, would not be proud of such a family? There was Luca, the eldest son, whose serious expression was countered by the amusement in his eyes. Next to him was Pepe, Luca’s younger brother, whose air of mischief was not countered by anything. Then there was the composed, elegant Donatella. There was no pride on her face. Donatella radiated serenity. These men were her pride.
    A mere two months after the picture had been taken, Pietro had died of a heart attack. The mantle of head-of-family had passed to his eldest son, Luca, a role he had now held for sixteen years.
    Slowly she walked through the reception room and began opening the doors of all the rooms that made up their quarters. The vivid colours and delicate murals she had painted in each of the rooms had been painted over in drab, muted tones; the furniture they had chosen together replaced with bland, masculine replicas.
    It was not until she opened the door to the master bedroom that her throat closed.
    The walls she had spent literally scores of hours painting to create an erotic woodland, filled with beautiful cupids and lovers entwined, had been painted over. The walls she had been so proud of and conceived with such love and hope were now covered in a drab cream. They might never have existed.
    Out of everything that had happened that day, this was the one thing that brought her closest to tears.
    ‘You appear shocked.’
    She hadn’t heard Luca approach.
    Her chest rose and she blinked rapidly, fighting the burn in her eyes before turning to face him. ‘Not shocked,’ she lied. ‘More