The Costanzo Baby Secret

by Catherine Spencer

  All comfort and luxury aside, though, the most interesting item, at least to Maeve, was a silver-framed photograph she found on a bureau. It showed her and Dario at some social function that required them both to wear evening dress. Although the camera had captured only their heads and shoulders, his black bow tie, starched white dress shirt with its pointy collar and the silk lapels of his dinner jacket were visible, as was the opal and silver or platinum filigree pendant nestled in the vee-shaped neck of her off-the-shoulder dark blue gown. Dario was suave sophistication personified, his smile dazzling and assured. Maeve wore the look of a deer caught in the headlights.

  “I had a lot more cleavage in those days,” she mused, taking a closer look at the picture, “and a lot more hair.”

  A quick survey of her dressing room told another story. Numerous famous designers were represented in all their expensive glory, filling the mirrored closets with outfits to suit every occasion. Stiletto-heeled shoes, jeweled evening sandals and limited-edition ankle boots lined the shoe racks, with handbags to match on a shelf above. All were designer labels she’d long admired and even coveted, but never expected to own. That she did so now was, she recognized, entirely thanks to Dario.

  Overwhelmed by his unstinting generosity, she retraced her steps through the various rooms. His largesse went much farther than the contents of her wardrobe. The opulence surrounding her exceeded anything she could have imagined and quite how she’d managed to wipe all memory of it from her mind defied explanation. The girl who’d grown up in a tidy little rancher in east Vancouver had come a long way, and once upon a time such splendor would have intimidated her. Now the rich, warm colors and sumptuous textures seemed to fold themselves around her and welcome her in a manner that the cool blues and grays of the villa on Pantelleria never had. She felt at home. Safe and secure. Mistress of her own house, with no dark shadows peering over her shoulder.

  Grateful beyond words for Dario having agreed to let her come here and for giving their marriage another boost, she racked her brains, trying to come up with a way to show her appreciation. She wanted to present him with something that didn’t depend on wealth or position, both of which he had in abundance, but with a simple gift that came straight from her heart.

  Finding herself back in the kitchen again, inspiration struck. As a teenager her other great interest, apart from designing and sewing her own clothes, had been cooking. Many a time she’d helped her mother make the big Sunday dinner, learning the importance of a light hand with pastry, the art of folding ingredients to create the perfect cake, and the secret of using herbs and spices to turn an otherwise bland sauce into a treat for the tastebuds. But as the wife of Dario Costanzo, multimillionaire and international business magnate, she’d never so much as made toast. At least, not in recent weeks. But as of today that was about to change.

  Dario had mentioned having the maid service stock up on supplies, but a quick inspection of the refrigerator revealed only wine, cheese, grapes and coffee beans. Granted, there were oranges and bananas in a bowl on the granite counter, and a selection of crackers and biscotti in the cupboards, but that didn’t exactly amount to what she’d call a well-stocked pantry, so she grabbed her purse and went shopping.

  She found what she was looking for tucked into a narrow street behind the Plaza Duomo. A delicatessen with a few iron tables and chairs under an awning outside lured her over the threshold with the astonishing selection of gourmet foods she glimpsed through its open door. Braids of garlic hung from the ceiling. Olive oils, aromatic vinegars, foie gras, truffles and preserves lined one shelf; chocolates, another. Baskets of fresh bread stood on the counter. Trays of cooked poultry, smoked meats, cheeses and other dairy products were arranged in refrigerated display cases.

  She made her choices and within the hour was home again, which, by her reckoning, left her exactly one hour more in which to whip together a meal and set the scene. She managed it all with minutes to spare before Dario showed up at half past one.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, stepping out to the terrace and surveying the table she’d set with dark green linens, white china and a small arrangement of white roses she’d bought from a street flower seller.

  She handed him a glass of chilled white wine. “I made us lunch,” she said, so proud of herself she was fit to burst. “I thought, seeing that it’s such a lovely day, it would be nice to eat here.”

  “But I said I’d take you out.”

  “I decided to save you the trouble.”

  Mystified, he shook his head. “Costanzo wives don’t cook for their husbands.”

  “This one does.” She ushered him to the table. “Sit and enjoy your wine while I serve.”

  “We hire maids to do that.”

  “Not today,” she said, and hurried back to the kitchen to put the finishing touches to the main dish.

  Following her, he leaned against the center island and watched, bemused as she drizzled toasted almond slivers over chicken breasts coated with tarragon-flavored cream sauce. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  “Unlike you, I didn’t grow up surrounded by servants, Dario. I can cook and clean house if I have to.”

  “Not our house, you can’t. I draw the line at that.”

  “Really?” She angled a smile his way. “Were you always this bossy, or is it because I’m showing some independence that you’re suddenly oozing testosterone from every pore?”

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “Well, let’s just say you’re being very much the macho Italian. It wouldn’t surprise if, any minute how, you started beating your chest.”

  He lowered his lashes and favored her with an outrageously lascivious leer. “I’d rather beat yours.”

  “Behave yourself,” she said severely. “And if you insist on getting in my way, make yourself useful and slice the bread.”

  “You’ll be making me wear an apron next,” he grumbled, brandishing the bread knife with an expertise that told her he wasn’t quite as averse to the domestic arts as he’d like her to believe.

  “An excellent idea.” Not missing a beat, she took off her apron, a pretty flowered affair with a ruffle along the hem, which she’d picked up in an open-air market near the delicatessen, and tied it around his waist.

  Abandoning the bread, he pinned her between him and the center island. “Now you’ve gone too far, principessa. It’s time I taught you a lesson.”

  She tried to wriggle free, at which his pupils flared and a splash of color stained the skin along his cheekbones. “Know what it’s like to make love on a kitchen counter, Maeve?” he inquired, his voice raw and dangerous with desire.

  Breathless herself, she whispered. “I don’t imagine it’d be very comfortable.”

  He kissed her so hard she went weak at the knees. “Then stop tempting fate and serve me my lunch. Your punishment can wait until later.”

  The uninhibited banter and passion of that day left its mark on those that followed. With no household staff to monitor their comings and goings, they lived like ordinary people.

  She wore her bathrobe to make him breakfast, and if he sometimes pulled her onto his lap when she went to serve him his espresso, and the coffee grew cold as a result, she didn’t complain. He came home for lunch and often didn’t return to his office until late in the afternoon, again because, somehow or other, he became distracted.

  Occasionally they went out for dinner, once to a restaurant at the top of a building so tall that it brought them face-to-face with the gargoyles on the Duomo. Another time he took her to an elegant place in the Piazza Republica where they enjoyed an exquisite five-course meal.

  On the Thursday she went shopping for something to wear to the benefit. Despite the selection in her dressing room, the evening dresses were more suited for winter or spring wear, and the October weather was still mild. “Use it to buy whatever you want,” Dario instructed, pressing a credit card into her hand before he left for the office that morning.


  “You’re spoiling me.”

  “It pleases me to do so, amore mio,” he returned.

  She found the perfect gown in an atelier showroom on the Via Montenapoleone. Made from yard upon yard of ivory chiffon lined in silk, it fell from a strapless bodice nipped in at the waist to a cloud of airy swirls at her feet. Given her fair skin, she’d normally have chosen a deeper shade of fabric, but the delicate color complemented the golden tan she’d acquired on Pantelleria.

  She didn’t need accessories. She had the bejewelled sandals in her closet and enough evening purses to stock her own boutique. But her hair needed attention, and upon Dario’s insistence, she made a Saturday-morning appointment at a very exclusive salon spa. Massage, facial, manicure, pedicure and hairdo, she had them all, with champagne served on the side, along with a tray of little appetizers to keep up her strength.

  Such pampering! she thought, amused. In the old days she’d have fixed her own hair and painted her own nails, and done a creditable enough job of both. But tonight was too important for amateur efforts. She wanted so badly to be beautiful for Dario, and was desperate to win favor with his family.

  When she emerged from her dressing room a few minutes before they were to leave for the benefit, she knew all the effort had been worthwhile. For once he was speechless and simply stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.

  “Look at you,” he finally said, his gaze roaming from the top of her head where the stylist had coaxed her hair into a smooth, upswept golden coil, to the jeweled sandals on her feet. “Una signora cosi bella and all mine.”

  “Does that mean you won’t be embarrassed to introduce me to your family again?”

  “Embarrassed?” He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and dropped a reverent kiss on her mouth. “Maeve, innamorata, I could not be more proud.”

  His approval buoyed her up during the drive to the hotel where the benefit was being held. It sustained her when he offered his elbow and escorted her into the room adjacent to the ballroom, where a well-dressed crowd was enjoying pre-dinner cocktails. It gave her the courage to meet the discreet stares of strangers, and fortified her enough that she was able to smile when he led her to a group gathered off to one side.

  At their approach, an older man with thick silver hair and dark gray eyes like Dario’s stepped forward.

  “My father, Edmondo,” Dario murmured.

  “Buona sera, signor,” she said, horribly aware of being the center of attention of just about everyone in the room, most particularly Dario’s mother, whose expression suggested she’d been assaulted by an unpleasant odor.

  “What is this signor all about?” his father exclaimed, embracing Maeve warmly. “You might have forgotten that you once called me Papa, but I have not.”

  His kindness, especially in the face of his wife’s overt hostility, made Maeve’s eyes sting with incipient tears. “Oh,” she said, and cringed at her inane response.

  “And my sister, Giuliana,” Dario continued, bracing her with an arm at her waist.

  “Maeve, cara!” His sister swept her into a hug that pretty much squeezed the breath from her lungs, but went a long way toward restoring her equilibrium. “I am so happy to see you again. You look wonderful, doesn’t she, Lorenzo?”

  “Sì,” the tall man who was with her agreed, and brushed a kiss over both Maeve’s cheeks. “Ciao, Maeve. We have all missed you.”

  Throughout the introductions, Dario’s mother continued to observe her disdainfully. “This is an unexpected turn of events, Dario,” she finally announced, in a stage whisper that probably carried as far as Pantelleria. “Are you sure it was wise to bring her here?”

  “And you’ve met my mother, of course,” he said smoothly, the chilly glare he bestowed on Celeste enough to turn her to stone.

  “Yes.” Rallying her pride, Maeve extended her hand. “How very nice to see you again, Signora Costanzo.”

  No affectionate hug from that quarter, or offer to call her Madre. Not that Maeve wanted to. Celeste Costanzo was about as far removed from the mother she’d loved so dearly as chalk was from cheese.

  “Indeed,” Celeste replied. “And may I say how very nice it is to see you more appropriately attired than when we last crossed paths.”

  The rest of Dario’s family might have been happy to see her again, but any hope Maeve had nursed that she and her mother-in-law might make a fresh start died at that. Before the evening so much as got underway, the battle lines had been drawn.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  KEEPING an eye on Maeve, who went into dinner on his father’s arm, Dario pulled Giuliana aside and, under cover of the general buzz of conversation surrounding them, asked, “How’s Sebastiano? It’s been over a week since I last saw him, but it feels more like months.”

  “He’s fine, Dario. As I told you when we spoke this morning, we left him and Cristina with Marietta because we saw no point in dragging them all the way from the island just for one night. But earlier this evening, Lorenzo phoned her to find out how they were doing, and both children were already in bed and asleep. They’ll hardly have time to miss us before we’re home again.”

  “While his mother continues to live in ignorance of his very existence.” Dario ground his teeth in frustration. “I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this, Giuliana. I miss my son.”

  “But you have your wife back, and that’s progress, surely?”

  “I tell myself it is and certainly she’s seemed much happier this last week. If it weren’t for the fact that we have a child, I could let the past go and build on what we’ve got now. As it is, we’re in a holding pattern, waiting for something to jog her memory, and who’s to say what that might mean? She could decide she wants no part of me or our marriage.”

  “I seriously doubt that’ll ever happen. She wears the look of a woman in love with her husband.”

  “Even assuming you’re right, love based on misconceptions doesn’t stand much chance of surviving, once the truth comes out. I’m deliberately keeping her from her baby. If the situation were reversed, I would find that impossible to forgive.”

  “You’re following her doctor’s advice, Dario.”

  “Barely. Sometimes I come so close to ignoring everything Peruzzi believes is the right way to go about things that it’s all I can do not to simply tell her exactly how the accident came about, and let the chips fall where they may.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “Because it could destroy her. You and I both know self-esteem isn’t her strong suit. Unfortunately, patience isn’t one of mine.”

  His sister touched his arm sympathetically. “You must be doing something right, Dario. She’s positively glowing.”

  “For now,” he said. “But who knows how long that will last, once her memory returns?”

  Weaving his way deftly through the crowd, Edmondo led Maeve to a table at the far end of the ballroom and handed her into her chair with courtly, old-world charm. “Here we are, cara mia. I’m putting you next to me in order for us to get to know each other again.”

  “And I,” Lorenzo announced, taking the seat on her other side, “intend to do the same.”

  “I’m flattered,” she said, and scanned the room, trying not to betray how jittery she felt. She was out of her element in this smart, sophisticated crowd. “Where’s Dario?”

  “Mingling with his guests for a change,” Celeste informed her loftily. “In his position, he can scarcely remain so frequently absent from the social scene and not expect to perform double duty when he does choose to appear.”

  “I’m afraid it’s my fault he’s spent so much time away, Signora Costanzo.”

  “We are well aware of the reason, my dear,” Edmondo said, patting her hand kindly. “His first duty was, and is, to you, his wife, something we all understand.”

  All except for Celeste, Maeve thought, silently berating Dario for suggesting she attend this blasted affair, then leaving her to his mother’s untender m
ercies.

  Some of her dismay must have been apparent to Lorenzo because he leaned close and murmured, “Don’t take Celeste’s words to heart, Maeve. Her bark, as they say in English, is much worse than her bite.”

  “I’m not inclined to put the theory to the test.”

  Giuliana arrived at the table in time to overhear their exchange and laughed. “Smart lady,” she said. “It takes most people years to arrive at that conclusion.”

  Following close behind, Dario stopped long enough to trace a discreetly intimate finger over the exposed skin of Maeve’s back. “Sorry I left you to fend for yourself, amore. How are you doing?”

  “Better now that you’re here,” she told him, her annoyance evaporating in the warmth of his touch.

  “I’m yours for the rest of the night,” he promised, giving her shoulder a squeeze before taking his place between his mother and sister as a hovering waiter began to pour the wine.

  When all the glasses were filled, Edmondo stood up, cleared his throat and turned a benign glance Maeve’s way. “This date has long held special meaning for me because it was my grandfather’s birthday. I have always been proud of him for his efforts to improve the lot of those less fortunate than himself, and prouder still that my children continue to support the work he began. But I don’t know that I’ve ever been prouder than I am tonight, when I look around this table and see my grown-up family complete again.” He raised his glass. “I therefore ask you to join me in a toast to a very special young woman. To you, Maeve, and a full recovery very soon, cara mia. We have missed you.”

  Her father-in-law meant well, she knew, but the last thing Maeve wanted was to be the focus of everyone’s attention. She hadn’t liked it when she’d been singled out in high school, and she didn’t like it now. In an agony of embarrassment she looked across the table to Dario, silently begging him to deflect the spotlight elsewhere.