“So this Richard didn’t sour the idea of marriage for you?”
She shook her head. “No. It just made me more careful.” She felt nervous suddenly. “I mean, I don’t want to marry the wrong man, and—” She stopped. She wasn’t making this any better. He probably thought she’d been pushing him away because she considered him not good husband material, but then he wasn’t, was he? “What about you?” she said quickly. “I suppose you’re not interested in having children. I understand you don’t want to marry again.”
He’d never mentioned it himself, but she supposed the information wasn’t much of a secret, and living in a household with two women who’d known him for years and years it should not surprise him that the word was out.
He arched his brow. “Women always talk too much,” he said mildly.
“How long were you married?” she ventured.
“Three years. And no, I’m not planning to marry again.” She caught something dark and desperate in his eyes.
“Do you miss her?” she asked.
“It’s been a long time.” He put his glass on the table and stood up. “We’d better get going.”
She stood up, too. They faced each other on the small balcony.
“Why don’t you want to talk about her?” she asked, amazing herself by asking the question about a subject so sensitive. Yet she wanted to know.
His face grew hard. “What would you like me to say?”
She shrugged, trying to remember what Valentina had said. “I don’t know…that she was beautiful, that you loved her, that you planned to have children and…you know, the regular stuff people say.”
“All right. All that.” His voice was hard and cold. “She was beautiful. I loved her. We planned—” He stopped himself, made a dismissive gesture. “What the hell use is this? It’s over. It’s done.”
Her heart was beating fast. It disturbed her to see the anger in his eyes, the hard set of his chin.
“Why are you so angry?” And as she heard herself ask the question she wondered if she were stupid or dense. He was angry because fate had taken his wife from him, the wife he had loved. It was a normal reaction, wasn’t it? It was one more reason not to get involved with him—she didn’t want to have to compete with a dead wife.
“I’m not angry.” His voice was cold and controlled, the heat suddenly suppressed. His face was expressionless.
An uneasy doubt wriggled in her mind. Something wasn’t right, but she had no idea what it was.
He moved abruptly. “Let’s go.”
She picked up the bottles and glasses and followed him inside.
That night Charli dreamed of a baby, of Massimo looking angry, telling her he didn’t want any babies and that she should stop asking questions.
She awoke, feeling the wetness of tears on her cheeks. She stared at the ceiling, recalling the dream. How strange.
She felt a sudden deep yearning to know him better. To see what sadness lay hidden behind that anger in his eyes—eyes dark and deep as a wintry sea. What wrecks lay below the stormy surface? What treasures lost?
And for a fleeting moment she wondered what would happen if she got up and opened the door, walked down the hall and went into the room where Massimo lay sleeping.
What would he say if she slipped into his bed and told him, Please, Massimo, I don’t want you to be unhappy.
He’d make love to her, that was what would happen. And that was all that would happen because Massimo wasn’t giving his heart away again. She shouldn’t have any illusions.
CHAPTER TEN
IT WAS a gorgeous late-summer evening in Rome, the ancient buildings washed in the golden light of the setting sun. Massimo crossed the Corso Rinascimento and strode toward home. The company office was a mere ten-minute walk from his city-center apartment and the walk did him good. He was working harder than normal these days, in an effort to keep Charli out of his thoughts, which appeared to be a losing battle. He’d decided that he’d wait for her to change her mind about having an affair, but waiting wasn’t something he did well. Patience was not one of his virtues.
The cellphone in his pocket started to ring and he reached for it as irritation swept over him. He’d had a long stressful day and he wanted to be left alone. The display read Valentina’s number and he flipped open the phone. “Pronto,” he said.
Valentina’s excited voice rushed into his ear like a waterfall, begging him, please, would he collect Melissa from school and bring her home to the villa for the weekend?
It was a terrible idea. It was a great idea.
Why had he not thought of it? Guilt softened his annoyance. Valentina needed her friends, and most of them were right here in school in Rome. Having Melissa staying for the weekend was a small price to pay for Valentina’s happiness.
He turned a corner, moved around two double-parked cars and passed a flower shop. He smelled the sweet scent of roses and Charli’s smile flashed through his mind. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on Valentina’s voice trying to persuade him.
“She has permission from her parents and you’ll have to sign a paper or something,” Valentina was saying, trying to make sure he knew all obstacles had been considered and conquered and all he had to do was pick her up.
“All right,” he heard himself say. “I’ll call the school and tell them what time I’ll collect her.”
Flipping his phone shut, he narrowly missed stepping on a tiny dog on a leash. The bejeweled matron holding the leash gave him an evil look out of heavily made-up eyes.
He crossed the street and entered the ancient palazzo where his apartment was located. He greeted the portinaia and took the lift to the top floor. Blessed quietude greeted him as he opened the ornately carved wooden door to his residence. No pop music throbbed in the air, no women of any sort rushed out to demand his attention.
He was exhausted.
He took off his tie and jacket, poured himself a glass of San Pellegrino and sat down in his favorite chair. He glanced at his watch. He had an hour before he’d meet the Argentinians at the restaurant. He didn’t normally go home before going out to dinner, usually did the customary thing and spent time with friends in a bar before eating, but he’d had a hellish day and he’d been around people every minute of it and he wanted a little solitude.
He picked up the remote and turned on some quiet jazz. He drank his mineral water and studied the large painting on the wall across the room. The serene dark eyes of an Asian beauty looked back at him. Dressed in a traditional costume of some ethnic minority, the young woman sat straight and poised, looking calmly ahead, her delicate hands folded in her lap. He had acquired the painting in Myanmar and it had cost him a small fortune. It was exquisite. The girl’s face was flawless, her hair smoothed back shiny and glossy as silk, not a hair out of order. He’d been enchanted by the painting, yet there had always been something about it that had niggled at his awareness and he’d never been able to pinpoint what it was.
He sighed and closed his eyes.
And what he saw in his mind’s eye was Charli.
He opened his eyes. He knew exactly what was wrong with the painting.
The problem was that there was nothing wrong with the painting. Nothing wrong with the skill and talent of the artist. Nothing wrong with the serene beauty.
It was all too perfect.
What he wished he were looking at right now was Charli. Charli with the freckles on her nose, her bouncy curls free and unrestrained, her generous smiling mouth, a little too large for her face, her eyes that sometimes were not serene at all, but stormy with emotion.
He came to his feet, restless, and moved through the rooms, looking at all the art he had collected over the years, taken home from his travels to exotic places—paintings and wood carvings and sculptures and handmade rugs, and he wondered what Charli would think of them. Damn, he was thinking of her too much. And he’d be home for the weekend again and it would be hell keeping his amorous impulses under control. All
he wanted when she was anywhere in the neighborhood was to haul her into his arms, bury his face in her hair, press her against him and let the passion take over.
He was an idiot. With a woman like Charli, he knew where this would lead and he didn’t want to go even near it. What the hell was wrong with him? He wanted no emotional entanglements, for God’s sake.
He finished his water, paced around the house, stopped in front of the window and stared unseeingly down into the narrow street below.
He turned. Put his glass down. Picked up the phone. Called Charli’s number.
“Pronto,” she said, answering like a true Italian.
“Just checking you haven’t run away,” he said.
She laughed. “Why would I do that?”
“My sweet sister might have driven you to it.”
“Not at all. I’m trying to keep her entertained. She’s teaching me Italian, which she finds quite a hilarious enterprise.”
“Let’s hope she’s teaching you something you can use in polite company,” he said with a voice full of doom.
“It’s a risk I’m aware of. Let’s check it out. Ask me something.”
“Would you like to go out to dinner with me on Saturday night?” he said promptly.
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “I mean, in Italian.”
He repeated the question in Italian.
“Non capisco,” she said, not missing a beat and he laughed.
“You understand perfectly.”
She chuckled. “So how’s my Italian?”
“Very good. You can even lie in Italian.”
“I’m so proud of myself,” she said dryly. “Oh, by the way, Valentina tells me you are bringing her friend Melissa to spend the weekend. She’s so happy.”
“Good. And while they watch those horrid movies Melissa will no doubt bring along and talk about whatever teenagers talk about, we could escape and have dinner out on Saturday night.”
There was a pause and he wondered if she might turn him down, convinced he was just like that maiale, that swine, Richard. The thought caused a flash of anger and he pushed it aside.
“Thank you, I’d like that,” she said then, and to his surprise it sounded as if she meant it.
Charli hunted through the closet for something to wear. She had a date with Massimo, which seemed odd, having been in his house for weeks now and having had dinner with him for many nights.
But this time they were going out and they’d be alone.
She felt a little nervous about it, which seemed ridiculous, especially since they’d be in a public place where he’d hardly have a chance to seduce her. Then again, he’d made no such attempts lately, so what was she worried about?
You know what you’re worried about, a little voice said in her head. You’re scared because this man is making you feel things you’ve never felt before.
She pulled out a blue-green silk dress and held it in front of her. It looked cheerful, cool and summery, perfect for a warm Italian evening.
A romantic evening with a sexy Italian. She groaned in frustration at her own thought and slipped the dress on over her head.
She’d been thinking about him too much, wondering about his life, his feelings. Wondering why he had been so angry the time she’d asked about his wife.
She smoothed the fabric over her hips and looked in the mirror.
She was curious, that was all.
Oh, sure, said the little voice.
She slipped on her sandals, picked up her handbag and went in search of Massimo. He was in the living room waiting for her.
“We’ll take the car,” he stated. “Unless, of course, you prefer to walk,” he added quickly.
Charli glanced down at her high-heeled sandals and considered the options. “If I tried walking down the hill in these you might well end up with two women with broken legs in your house.”
“The car it is,” he said and she laughed.
He took her to his favorite eatery in town, a small cozy restaurant hidden away in a tiny arched alley. He told her he knew the chef, had gone to school with him as a young boy.
“I would never have found this on my own,” Charli said as he held the door open for her. “This town is amazing. It’s full of nooks and crannies. I keep discovering new places every time I walk around.”
They were seated at a table in the small courtyard and ordered wine. Potted palms and flowering bushes created a garden ambience and the soft light of many candles added romance. Languid guitar music drifted through the warm evening air.
“The owner is his own chef,” Massimo explained. “He’ll be here in a moment and discuss what he has available and what our choices are. Don’t worry, the food is always excellent.”
She laughed. “I am not going to worry about food here, believe me. You decide and I’ll eat.”
“You want me to decide what you should eat?” He sounded surprised.
“Why not? You’re the Italian here and I trust your food choices.”
“I thought you got away from that Richard because he was deciding everything for you.”
She stared at him, digesting his comment. “This is not the same thing. I’m asking you to do it. You’re not telling me what to eat because you want to impose your choices on me.”
He nodded. “You’re right. I wouldn’t dream of imposing my choices on you.”
“Good,” she said, thinking he most surely was imposing his choices on his sister, but deciding it was better not to bring that up.
A handsome man dressed in blinding white appeared at the table, all smiles and charm. Massimo introduced him as Paolo, the owner and chef.
The two men briefly discussed family and friends, and then Paolo described the various marvels he’d be able to create for them this evening, which included cozze ripiene, stuffed mussels, and fagiano arrosto, roast pheasant, both favorites of Massimo’s.
And of course the food was excellent, and Paolo was charming when she asked him questions about the dishes served and he spent quite a bit of time at their table.
“You found yourself an admirer,” Massimo said as Paolo retreated to the kitchen after serving them their secondi.
She gave a casual little shrug. Did he think she was naive? “He’s married. I’m only interested in his cooking. Besides, I assume he flirts with all his female clients. Good for business.” Taking knife and fork, she eagerly began to eat her roasted pheasant. She’d never had pheasant before.
“Oh, this is so good,” she said after taking the first bite. “I never understand people who are afraid to try what they’ve never had before.” Memories stirred and she caught herself smiling. “My mother is a terrible cook. Maybe that’s why I got adventurous, out of self-defense.”
“You’ve had a deprived childhood, then.”
She grinned. “Yeah, lots of love, lots of fun, lots of terrible food.”
“What about your brother? Is he interested in food now?”
“Ryan? Oh, he’s hopeless. He forgets to eat. And if he does eat, it’s take-out or something frozen he can heat up in the microwave.”
“You said he was still at university. What does he study?”
“Physics. He’s a real science nut. His hair is rather wild and wavy because he forgets to get it cut. He has no time for that either because all he does is study and work on research projects. They call him Ryanstein.”
He laughed and asked more questions, and she wondered why he suddenly wanted to know more about her background. Maybe he was just making conversation. Anyway, she was happy to sit here in the warm summer night telling him the stories of her life if that was what he wanted to hear.
Then he started talking about Valentina, saying that he had overheard her saying to Melissa that he was unbending in his resolve to send her to university in England.
“I know you think I’m too controlling with Valentina,” he said, “and you were right about my reaction to her hair. It was…how do you say? Over the top.”
She
nodded helpfully. “Over the top.”
“And what you said was true. It does frighten me to see her growing up, to see her looking so…like a woman.”
“A woman the men would go after.” She decided she might as well say it clearly.
“She’s only seventeen,” he said. “These days at seventeen…I don’t want to think about it.”
“You’ll have to think about it. And seventeen isn’t twelve, Massimo.” In his mind that was probably what she still was.
He stared down at his plate. “I don’t want her to get hurt. She’s had a lot of hurt already with our parents dying when she was so young. I just want her to be happy, get herself a decent education and find a good man to love and cherish her when she’s older.”
“But you can’t protect her forever, Massimo.”
He sighed wearily. “I know.”
She put her knife and fork down, leaned forward a little and looked straight at him.
“She’s smart, Massimo. I talk to her about boys and sex and all that stuff and she’s fine. She will be fine.”
He reached out and took her hand. “I want you to know how much I appreciate that you’re staying with her. I know it was a big favor to ask you, but—”
“It’s all right, Massimo. I like Valentina, you know that. Being with her is sort of like being with the younger sister I never had.”
Dessert arrived and he let go of her hand, and she wished he hadn’t. The lemon cake was a piece of art as it lay displayed on the plate, a green sprig of mint a contrasting garnish.
Slowly she savored the first bite. “So, you worry about Valentina’s future, but tell me, what do you want for yourself in the future?” She surprised herself. The question somehow had popped out.
He looked a bit surprised too, then frowned, as if he’d never considered the question. He answered by telling her about the plans he had for the company, and she listened with attention, taking small bites from her dessert. It was interesting enough, but not what she’d intended as an answer.
“Actually,” she said, “I was wondering about your personal life. How do you see your future?”
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