Harlequin Presents--April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2

by Dani Collins

  The landscape beneath his navy helicopter was familiar. A lattice of bare vines weaved across the hills and down into the valley but, deep in winter, the poppy fields were bare and silver with ice. The lake, beside which Rafael was to be buried, was at first a black, uninviting mirror, but now rippled as his helicopter neared its location.

  It was to be a private burial, for Rafael’s wife and children only, and Gian was there just for the church service.

  The family would now all be at the house, and though Dante had invited him to have his pilot land there, without Rafael, Gian felt he would be invading on this solemn day.

  A driver had been arranged to meet him and as he took the steps down from the helicopter Gian felt a blast of bitterly cold air: the weather in Luctano was always more extreme than in Rome. He wore a long black wool coat over his tailored black suit. His thick black hair had not quite been due for a trim, but his barber had come to his apartment that morning to ensure a perfect cut and he was particularly close shaven.

  With good reason.

  As a car took him to the church, he recalled Rafael’s words from long ago. ‘Look immaculate,’ Rafael had once told him. ‘You are not a university student any more but the owner-manager of a five-star hotel. Get your hair cut, and for God’s sake, shave.’ His advice had not ended there. ‘See a tailor, buy fine shoes...’

  At the age of twenty, Gian had been studying architecture and living in the residences, having turned his back on his family two years previously. His scholarship had covered accommodation and his bar work funded books and food, but barely stretched to a haircut, let alone designer clothes. ‘I can’t afford to,’ a proud Gian had dared to admit.

  ‘You can’t afford not to. Now, listen to me, it is imperative that you look the part...’

  But Gian had held firm. After the tragic death of his family, he’d discovered the financial chaos his parents had left behind and the many jobs that depended on him. ‘No, the accounts are a disaster. Before the fancy suits, first the staff are to be paid.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  Rafael had taken a reluctant Gian to Via dei Condotti—a fashionable street in Rome—where he had met with artisan tailors and been fitted for bespoke Italian shoes in the only true handout that Gian had ever received. But better than the trip had been the glimpse of having if not a father then a mentor to advise him.

  The day had ended at a Middle Eastern barbershop, with hot towels and a close shave. Rafael continued with the sage advice: ‘You need to attract only the best clients.’

  ‘How, though?’ Gian had asked, staring at his groomed reflection and barely recognising himself. ‘La Fiordelise’s reputation is in tatters and the building is in disrepair.’ Gian loathed the destruction of history—how there were only a few decent areas remaining in the once elegant building. The rest was cordoned off and for the most part the hotel was faded and unkempt.

  But Rafael remained upbeat. ‘La Fiordelise has survived worse. It has a new owner now and its reputation will recover: all we need is a plan.’

  A couple of weeks later they had contrived one.

  A plan that, to this day, few knew about.

  Yes, Rafael Romano had been far more of a father to Gian than his own, and Gian would miss him very much indeed.

  Arriving at the church, he could feel eyes on him as the absent Duke made a rare return. Gian declined the offer of being guided to a pew and instead stood at the back of the small church and did his level best to keep from recalling the last time he’d been here—at his own family’s funeral. He pondered his handling of Ariana when she had tried to tell him her father had died. Of course he had tried to call her back and apologise, but had been sent straight to voicemail...

  * * *

  Gian’s words, though, had been an unwitting lifeline.

  It was Gian’s deep, calm voice on this terrible morning that brought Ariana a little solace.

  ‘Ariana,’ Dante snapped as they all stood in the entrance hall of their father’s home, preparing to head out for the funeral procession. It was exquisitely awkward as of course it was Mia’s home too. Her older brother was in a particularly picky mood. ‘Surely you can get off your phone for five minutes?’

  But Ariana ignored him as she listened again to Gian’s message.

  ‘I should have let you speak. Ariana, I apologise and I am so deeply sorry for your loss. Call me if you want to, if not...’ His deep voice halted for a few seconds. ‘You will get through this, Ariana. You are strong. Remember that.’

  Ariana didn’t feel very strong, though.

  She was weak from having to comfort her mother through the day, and at night, though exhausted, she could barely sleep. She felt as if she were holding a million balls in the air and that at any moment one might drop, for her family, scattered by Mia’s presence, had not been under one roof since the divorce, let alone the roof of a church.

  Surely her mother would not create a scene?

  Or her aunts or uncles...

  As well as the worry of that, as she headed out to the waiting cars, the loneliest morning of her life felt even more desolate when Dante decided to take a seat in the front vehicle with Mia, rather than make her travel to the church by herself. That left Ariana with Stefano and Eloa, which lately felt like the equivalent of being alone.

  As the cortège moved through the hills to the village, Ariana tried to come to grips with a world without her father while acknowledging a disquieting truth.

  Since her father had found Mia, he too had pushed her aside.

  For two years, she had felt like a visitor in the family home and later at his hospital bedside. Perhaps she could have accepted Mia more readily if they had accepted her more into their world. Yes, she regretted now not going to the wedding, but the truth was her father hadn’t exactly pushed for her to attend.

  In fact, he’d seemed a touch relieved when Ariana had declined.

  Once she had been the apple of her father’s eye and they would talk and laugh. They would fly to the London office together, and she had felt there was a real place for her on the Romano board, but since Dante had taken over all she had felt was supernumerary.

  Ariana didn’t just miss her father today; she had missed him for the last two years of his life. And now she would miss him for ever, with no time left to put things to rights.

  ‘We’re here,’ Eloa announced, breaking into her thoughts, and Ariana looked up and saw they were at the church.

  The doors were opened and the trio stepped out. Her legs felt as if they had been spun in brittle steel wool, and might snap as she walked over the cobbles and into the church. Her heart felt like a fish flopping in her chest that might jump out of her throat if she let out the wail she held in. The sight of her father’s coffin at the front of the church, though expected, was so confronting that she wanted to turn around and flee, unsure whether she was capable of getting through the ceremony.

  But then, just as she felt like panic would surely take over, came an unexpected moment of solace.

  Gian was here.

  Of course he was, but it was the actual sight of him, the glimpse of him, that allowed Ariana to draw a deeper breath.

  He looked more polished and immaculate than she had ever seen; his black hair was brushed back from his face and she could see both the compassion and authority in his grey eyes.

  Yes, authority, for him standing at the back with a full view of proceedings instantly calmed Ariana.

  Gian would not let things get out of hand.

  He would keep things under control.

  And then she knew that it wasn’t the hotel, or the haven in Rome that Gian had created, that calmed her.

  It was Gian himself who made the world safe.

  The look they shared lasted less than a moment—Gian gave her a small, grim smile of sympathy, a nod of his no
ble head, more by way of understanding than greeting—but time had taken on a different meaning, for the velvet of his eyes and the quiet comfort they gave would sustain her through the service.

  You are strong.

  He had told her so.

  And so she did her best to get through the eulogy and the hymns and the hell.

  Gian had been through this before, Ariana reminded herself as she did her level best not to stare at the coffin.

  There had been three coffins in this church when his family had died. Pink peonies on his mother’s, white lilies on his father’s and a huge spray of red poppies on his brother’s.

  ‘I don’t like this, Papà,’ she had whispered, for she’d been ten years old and the chants and scent of incense had made her feel a little ill.

  ‘I know, bella, but we are here today for Gian,’ her papà had said.

  ‘Shouldn’t we sit with him, then?’ Ariana had asked, for even beside his aunts and such he had looked so completely alone.

  ‘We are not family,’ her papà had said. ‘Hold my hand.’

  His warm hand had closed around hers and imbued her with strength, but she had looked over at Gian and seen that there was no one holding his.

  And there was no one holding Ariana’s today.

  It was an emotional service, but Gian refused to let it move him and stood dry-eyed even as the coffin was carried out to the haunting strains of his favourite aria—Puccini’s ‘O Mio Babbino Caro’. Oh, my dear Papà...

  * * *

  Ariana looked close to fainting, but her damned mother was too busy beating at her chest to see.

  ‘Hey,’ Gian said. To the frowns of the congregation, he broke protocol and joined the family on the way out. ‘You are doing so well,’ he murmured quietly.

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘You are, you are.’ He could feel her tremble. As the family lined up outside the church, instead of guiding her to join them, he took Ariana aside and held her.

  She leaned on him for a moment, a blissful moment that smelt of Gian, and she learned something more about him. There were no tears in his eyes, he looked a little pale but unmoved, yet his heart beat rapidly in his chest and she could feel his grief as he held her in his arms.

  As they held each other.

  ‘You’ll miss him too,’ she whispered.

  ‘Ever so.’

  It was the closest she had ever been to him, this blissful place on a terrible day, and she wanted to cling on, to rest in his arms a while longer, but he was pulling her back and returning to his usual distant form.

  ‘Gian.’ It was so cold to stand without him, especially when she wanted the shield of his arms. ‘I don’t think I can face the burial.’

  ‘Yes, Ariana, you can.’

  But hysteria was mounting. ‘No. I really don’t think so...’

  ‘Would it help if I came with you?’

  It would, but... ‘You can’t.’ She gave a black laugh. ‘Stefano practically had to put in a written request to Dante to have Eloa attend, and she’s his fiancée. Mamma has been denied. God, Gian, I don’t...’

  ‘Take this.’

  From deep in his coat pocket he handed her a cornicello...a small gold amulet. ‘Your father gave me this to hold when I buried my family. You can do this, Ariana; you will regret it if you don’t.’

  * * *

  It was the most private of burials.

  Mia, who could barely stand, held a single lily.

  And Dante, who loathed Mia possibly the most of all Rafael’s children, was the one who had to take her to the graveside so she could throw the flower in.

  Stefano wept and was comforted by Eloa, and that left Ariana standing alone, holding onto the little sliver of gold.

  Ariana had never felt so cold as when she returned to the house and stood by a huge fire, grateful for the large cognac someone placed in her hands. Looking up, she saw it was Gian. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How was it?’ Gian gently enquired.

  ‘It is done,’ Ariana responded, without really answering and then held out the amulet. ‘Here, I should give this back to you. Thank you.’

  ‘Keep it.’

  ‘He gave it to you,’ Ariana said, suddenly angry at his lack of sentiment. This man who would sell a priceless ring, this man who would let go of a gift from her father. ‘Why would you give it away?’

  ‘Did it help?’ he asked, and she nodded. ‘Then you yourself might pass it on someday when someone else needs your father’s strength.’

  Never, she thought.

  Never, ever.

  For it was her first gift from Gian and it almost scared her how much that meant.

  ‘It seems strange to be here without him,’ Gian admitted, trying to gauge how she felt, but for once the effusive Ariana was a closed book. She gave a tired shrug and her black lashes closed on violet eyes highlighting the dark shadows beneath them.

  ‘It has felt strange to be here for quite some time.’ Her eyes opened then and came to rest on Rafael’s widow, and Gian followed her gaze as she spoke. ‘My father and I used to be so close.’

  ‘You were always close,’ Gian refuted.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It fell away at the end.’

  He would like to take her arm and walk her away from the funeral crowd, to walk in the grounds and gently tell her the difficult truth—the real reason her father had pulled away from his family and from the daughter he had loved so very much.

  It was not his place to do so, though.

  Oh, today he loathed being the keeper of secrets, for the truth would surely help her to heal.

  ‘How long are you here for?’ Ariana asked, determinedly changing the subject, then wishing she hadn’t for the answer was not one she liked.

  ‘I’ll be leaving shortly. I just wanted to see the house one last time and...’ He hesitated but then admitted the deeper truth. ‘To see how you were after the burial.’

  Stay longer, she wanted to say, yet she dared not.

  ‘And,’ he added, ‘I wanted to properly apologise for how I spoke to you on the day you called. I was completely out of line.’

  ‘Not completely,’ Ariana said, and he watched her strained lips part into a brief glimpse of her impish smile. ‘Not to come in because of a board meeting was inexcusable on my first day...’

  ‘Oh!’ Her burst of honesty and the explanation surprised him. ‘I thought you must have had word that your father was ill.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t till later.’

  ‘Well, even so, I’m very sorry for the way I spoke to you.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Ariana said. ‘I would have been annoyed with me too.’

  He watched the dart of anxiety in her eyes as he looked around the room, filled with low murmurs of conversation and her veiled mamma, sitting weeping on a chair against the wall surrounded by aunts. ‘Mamma and Mia have never been under the same roof...’

  ‘Everyone is behaving,’ Gian pointed out.

  ‘For now they are,’ Ariana said, and let out a nervous breath, unsure how long the civility might last. ‘There is the reading of the will soon.’

  ‘It will be fine,’ Gian assured her, though he quietly thought Ariana’s concerns might be merited and she didn’t even know the half of it! Roberto, the family lawyer, had also been Rafael’s long-term lover and he was reading the will. With the current wife and widow in the room, one could be forgiven for expecting fireworks.

  ‘Do you want me to stay until afterwards?’ he offered.

  ‘I would like that,’ Ariana admitted. She looked up at the man she always ran to, always turned to, yet the moment was broken by the sound of her mother’s voice.

  ‘Gian, I was hoping that you’d come back to the house...’ She placed an overly familiar hand on his arm, and Gian would hav
e liked to shrug it off. He loathed the sudden fake friendliness from Angela, although of course it was for a reason. ‘Could I ask you to take me back to Rome with you? I simply cannot stand to be here.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure,’ Gian politely agreed, for even if he did not particularly want Angela’s company, he would do the right thing.

  ‘I have to stay for the reading of the will,’ Angela explained, ‘but if we could leave after that? Ariana will be coming with us also...’

  ‘But, Mamma, Stefano and Eloa are heading back to Zio Luigi’s...’ Ariana started, but clearly her desires had no importance here and Gian watched her shoulders slump as she acquiesced. ‘If that is what you want.’

  Naturally, Gian did not enter the study for the reading of the will. Instead, he poured himself a brandy from Rafael’s decanter, as his friend had often done for him, and silently toasted his portrait.

  What a mess.

  He looked at the portrait and wondered if Rafael’s truth would be revealed in the will.

  Of course Angela had long since known the truth about her husband, and had fought like a cat to prevent it getting out, more than happy to let the blame for the end of their marriage land on Mia.

  He looked at the pictures above the fireplace—family shots. There was a surge that felt almost like a sob building when he saw his own image there, for he had never considered he might appear on anyone’s mantelpiece. Certainly there had been no images of him at his childhood home.

  Yet here he was, fourteen or fifteen years old, on horseback, with Dante.

  Good times.

  Not great times, of course, because the end of the holidays had always meant it would be time to head back to Rome and his chaotic existence there.

  The door of the study opened and the subdued gathering trooped out; Gian quickly realised that Rafael’s truth had not been revealed.

  ‘How was it?’ he asked Dante, who was the first to approach him.

  ‘Fine. No real surprises.’

  And then came Ariana. She looked pale and drained, as if all the exuberance and arrogance that he was coming to adore had simply been leached from her.

  ‘How did it go?’ Gian asked.