by Lynne Graham
‘Brooke? I’m Marge,’ the middle-aged woman said comfortably as she moved out from behind the counter. ‘When I get a better look at you, the resemblance isn’t as striking as I first thought it was. But Milly had the same long curly hair and the same colour of eyes. Look, come and see the photo of her.’
Brooke crossed the café to scrutinise the small staff group photo on the wall, but it wasn’t a very clear picture and she peered at the smiling image with a frown because she could see the extraordinary similarity of their features and colouring. ‘When she was working here, did she ever mention me? I’m wondering now if she could be some distant relation, a cousin or something?’
‘Milly didn’t ever mention you,’ Marge told her apologetically. ‘She was a quiet girl. To be honest, I don’t think she had much of a life outside work and she only worked here for a couple of months. I got the impression that she had moved around quite a bit, but I was still surprised that morning when she chucked her job in, because she had seemed content here. She said she had to quit because she had a family crisis.’ Marge made a face. ‘She seemed to forget that according to what she had once told me, she didn’t have a family.’
‘Oh...’ Brooke breathed, acknowledging that she was no further on in her need to know who her companion had been and why they had been in the limousine together. The resemblance, though, that was a new fact, something that hadn’t come out before, possibly because Marge wasn’t in the right age group even to know who Brooke Tassini was or what she looked like, she reasoned while thanking the woman for her time.
As she walked to the door to leave, a startling image shot through her brain and for a split second it froze her in her tracks. In the flashback a man was standing over her where she sat in the café and shouting drunkenly at her while Marge flung the door wide to persuade him to leave. Brooke tried to hang onto that snapshot back in time, frantic to see more, know more. But nothing else came to her and embarrassment at the time she had already taken out of Marge’s working day—Marge, who was already serving a new queue of customers at the counter—pushed her back out onto the street again in a daze.
Why did she never remember anything useful? she asked herself in frustration. Obviously she had visited the café at some point, presumably to see Milly, and Marge hadn’t remembered her, which wasn’t that surprising in a busy enterprise. What did still nag at Brooke, though, was the resemblance that Marge had remarked on and she had seen for herself. That was a rather strange coincidence, wasn’t it? But how could it relate in any way to why that woman had been with her in the car?
CHAPTER SEVEN
BROOKE WAS RELAXED and calm on the drive from the airport in Florence.
Even the crack of dawn flight had failed to irritate her because the change of scene was a relief and an escape from her repetitive and anxious thoughts. Those exact same thoughts had threatened to send her out in search of more gossipy magazines that would enable her to find out additional stuff about her marriage. Aware of that temptation and the futility of such an exercise, when she already knew as much as she needed to know for the present, she had made herself concentrate instead on the selection of a capsule wardrobe with the stylist, who had arrived at Madrigal Court the previous afternoon. It had been a disappointment, though, that Lorenzo had come home so late that he had evidently chosen to sleep in his own room.
The crisp white and blue sundress she wore was comfortable in the heat of an Italian summer. It was neither edgy nor trendy but it was elegant and flattering, skimming nicely over those curvy parts of her that she was beginning to suspect were a little too curvy. Was a tendency to gain why she had once watched her diet with such zeal? But she had been too thin when she emerged from the coma and was now content to be a healthy weight, she reasoned. In any case, Lorenzo had been with her when she was flawless in figure and physically perfect and, clearly, it had done nothing to save their marriage. Now she had scars and more curves and neither seemed to bother him, although, to be fair, the scarring was minimal, thanks to the expert cosmetic surgery she had received, she acknowledged gratefully.
‘Have I ever been to this house of yours before?’ she asked Lorenzo.
‘No. I tried to bring you here a couple of times, but it never fitted your schedule. There was always some event, some opening or fashion show that you couldn’t miss.’
‘Did you grow up in this house?’ she prompted with curiosity.
Lorenzo surprised her by laughing, amusement gleaming in his lustrous dark golden eyes. ‘No. I bought and renovated it. Sometimes, I forget how little you know about me now. I grew up in a splendid Venetian palazzo on the Grand Canal with my father.’
‘No mother around?’ she pressed in surprise.
‘No, sadly she died bringing me into the world. She had a weak heart,’ Lorenzo volunteered. ‘And I don’t think my father ever forgave me for being the cause of her death. He told me more than once that she was the only woman he had ever loved and that I had taken her from him.’
‘But that’s so unjust. I mean—’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Lorenzo sent her a wryly amused glance at her bias in his defence. ‘He was a self-centred man. My mother wanted a baby and took the risk of getting pregnant against doctor’s orders and I got the blame for it. I believe my father could have adjusted quite happily to not having a son and heir. Maybe a daughter would’ve brought out a softer side to him...who knows? He died last year, and we never had a close relationship.’
‘That’s so sad, such a waste.’ Brooke sighed regretfully. ‘I wish my parents had lived long enough for you to meet them and then you could have told me something about them.’
‘Being without family never seemed to bother you. I think that it was natural for you to be a loner.’
‘Is that why you think I didn’t want children?’ she asked abruptly.
Lorenzo expelled his breath in a measured hiss. ‘No, you had multiple reasons for that. The effect on your body, the risk to your potential career, the responsibilities that would eat into your ability to come and go as you pleased.’
Brooke nodded, getting the message that in the past she had definitely not wanted a child. Evidently, her career had meant everything to her and that tough decision surprised her because she had found herself watching young children visiting their relatives in the clinic and had easily and quickly warmed to their presence. But Lorenzo had to know the woman he had married best, particularly now that he was no longer glossing over the more sensitive subjects simply to keep her in the dark and supposedly protect her from herself. But how on earth was anyone to tell her how to cope with a self that she, increasingly, didn’t like very much?
‘Did I tell you that I didn’t want a family before we got married?’ she pressed.
‘No,’ Lorenzo framed succinctly. ‘Knowing that I wouldn’t have married you but, to be fair, you didn’t lie about it either. Later, I realised that you had merely avoided saying anything that would’ve committed you.’
Brooke still saw that as sly, just as he had once labelled her, but she said nothing because the picture of their marriage she was getting was still better than the blank she had had before, even if the more she learned, the more she suspected that saving such a troubled relationship could be a steeper challenge than even she had imagined.
‘Why are we even talking about this?’ Lorenzo demanded with wry amusement. ‘The last complication we need now is a child.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed a little stiffly because it was true: they had quite enough on their plate with her amnesia. ‘So, what happened to the Venetian palazzo you grew up in? Or didn’t you inherit it?’
‘I did inherit. I converted it into an exclusive boutique hotel. I had no personal attachment to the place. My childhood memories aren’t warm or fluffy,’ he admitted.
‘I wonder if mine are,’ she murmured ruefully.
‘I should think so. T
he way you told it, you were an adored only child.’ Lorenzo closed a hand over her restive hands where they were twisting together on her lap. ‘Stop fretting about what you don’t know and can’t help.’
‘I’ve had a couple of flashbacks!’ she heard herself admit rather abruptly. ‘Mr Selby thinks that’s very hopeful.’
Lorenzo frowned in disconcertion, annoyed that she hadn’t told him first. ‘What did you remember?’
‘Only an image of me seated in a limo and one of me in that café where Milly Taylor worked and where I must have gone to meet her. Not very helpful or interesting,’ she remarked with a sigh.
‘But promising,’ Lorenzo commented, wondering why he didn’t feel more excited over the prospect of her reclaiming her memory and, consequently, her life. Was it possible that after so many months he had reached some stage of compassion fatigue and disappointed hopes where he was simply guilty of secretly wishing that his life would return to normal?
Dannazione, why didn’t he just admit the truth to himself? This current version of Brooke was his unparalleled favourite. He was in no hurry to reclaim the original version. As she was now, she was likeable, desirable and surprisingly appealing. Naturally he preferred her this way, he conceded with gritty inner honesty, no great mystery there. Only a masochist would have craved the old Brooke. What was wrong with being truthful about that? The woman he was with now was neither the woman he had married nor the woman he had been divorcing.
Brooke peered out of the windows as the limo drove up a steep twisting lane hedged in by dense trees and her eyes widened with appreciation as the lane opened out to frame the rambling farmhouse that sat on top of a gentle hill, presiding, she suspected, over a spectacular view of the Tuscan countryside. ‘It’s a beautiful site,’ she remarked.
‘It’s remote,’ Lorenzo warned her as he climbed out of the car. ‘You may find it quite isolated here while I’m away on business.’
‘I think I’ll be fine,’ Brooke declared, waiting for the driver to open the car and bring Topsy’s travelling carrier out. She bent down to release the little animal, accepting the frantic affection coming her way with a wide grin. ‘I can go for walks with Topsy, sit out and read, maybe even do a little exploring.’
‘I’m not planning to work every day,’ Lorenzo told her with a sudden flashing smile. ‘I don’t want you going too far on your own, so save the exploration until I’m here and it will be much more comfortable for you.’
Topsy bouncing at her heels, Brooke walked into the house, violet eyes sparkling with pleasure at everything she saw. Her hand stretched out to brush the weathered pale sun-warmed stone of the house as if she couldn’t resist its appeal. ‘I love old things,’ she told him cheerfully.
Lorenzo stoically resisted the urge to contradict her with his superior knowledge of her tastes. ‘She’s discovering herself again,’ the psychiatrist had told him. ‘Give her that freedom.’
‘When did you buy this place?’ she asked.
‘Long before I met you. I wanted a home base in Italy, and I assumed I would use it for holidays but, to be frank, I’ve hardly been here since the renovation project was completed.’
Brooke gave his shoulder a playful mock punch. ‘Because you work too hard,’ she pointed out, gazing around the rustic hallway and caressing the smooth bannister of the old wooden staircase that led up to the next floor.
‘You used a designer, didn’t you?’ she guessed, moving from doorway to doorway to study the pale drapes and the subtle palate of colours employed to provide a charming and tranquil backdrop to antique rustic furniture and comfortable contemporary sofas.
Lorenzo laughed, his lean dark features extraordinarily handsome in that moment as he stood in the sunshine flooding through the open front door. ‘How did you guess?’ he mocked.
‘Whoever you used was really good,’ Brooke was saying appreciatively when a sparely built older man appeared in the hallway and greeted them in a flood of Italian.
‘This is Jacopo. He and his wife, Sofia, look after us here,’ Lorenzo informed her, closing a hand round hers to urge her towards the stairs. ‘When would you like lunch?’
‘Midday? After our early start, I’m quite hungry.’ She shot an uncertain glance up at his lean dark face, ensnared by vibrant and lustrous black-lashed golden eyes that left her breathless.
Lorenzo informed Jacopo and led her upstairs. ‘Sofia likes a schedule to work to. She’s a great cook.’
‘Did I ever cook for you?’ Brooke enquired.
‘Never.’
Her brows lifted in surprise. ‘I wonder why not. I like reading recipes, which makes me think that I must’ve enjoyed cooking at some stage of my life,’ she told him, walking into a breathtaking bedroom as complete in charm and appeal as the ground-floor reception areas. Turning round, her head tilted back to appreciate the vaulted ceiling above, she sped through the door into the corner turret room to laugh in delight when her suspicions proved correct and she discovered a deftly arranged circular bathroom. ‘It’s a wonderful house, Lorenzo. Was it a wreck when you found it?’
‘A complete ruin,’ he confirmed. ‘I loved the views and the old courtyard out the back, which was completely overgrown. I didn’t really appreciate how much potential the house itself had or, indeed, how large it was. We certainly don’t require the half-dozen bedrooms we have here.’
The doors had been secured back on a balcony on the opposite wall and she strolled out, relieved the ironwork was thick enough to prevent a nosy little dog from sliding between bars and falling, because there was no use pretending, she thought fondly, Topsy wasn’t the brightest or most cautious spark on the planet. Seconds later she was so enthralled by the view of the Tuscan landscape, she simply stared.
A hint of early morning mist still hung over the picturesque walled stone village on a nearby hilltop and somehow it almost magically enhanced the lush green of the vines and fruit orchards in the valley below. Ancient spreading chestnut trees marked the boundary of the garden, the turning colour of their leaves hinting that autumn was on its way. ‘It’s really beautiful,’ she sighed.
The only outstandingly beautiful object in his vision at that moment, Lorenzo acknowledged abstractedly, was her, a foam of curls falling naturally across her bare shoulders in a white-blonde mass, the pretty, surprisingly simple blue dress only adding to the fragile femininity that she exuded and the slender, shapely legs on view. Hunger stabbed through him as sharp and immediate in its penetration as a knife and he strode forward.
Brooke relaxed back into the warmth of his lean powerful frame as his hand came down on her shoulder, a roaring readiness within her taut body to do whatever it took to ensure that their relationship had a fighting chance of survival. His sensual mouth dropped a kiss down on her other shoulder and she trembled, her body coming alive as though he had pressed a magic switch, and by the time he shifted his lips to the considerably more sensitive flesh of the slope leading up to her neck, her hips were pushing back against his in helpless response.
The zip of her dress eased slowly down and he spread the parted edges to run his mouth down over her slender back and she wriggled and jerked, learning that she had tender spots she had not known she possessed. The snap of her bra being released unnerved her when she was standing out in the fresh air, in public, as she saw it, even though it was a very rural area. She spun in his arms.
‘I don’t want anyone to see me,’ she mumbled nervously, suddenly wondering if that reaction was a passion killer as he looked down at her in seeming surprise at her inhibitions. ‘I mean, there might be...er...workers in the vines or something.’
Lorenzo laughed soft and low and swept her up into his arms as if she were a lightweight, when she knew she was not, and carried her over to the bed. He skimmed off her bra with almost daunting expertise. Her violet eyes shot up to lock to his lean bronzed face. ‘You must’ve been with an awful
lot of women,’ she heard herself say, and five seconds later cringed at that revealing observation, her face burning as hot as hellfire.
Taken aback, Lorenzo looked down at her in surprise. ‘The usual number before we married,’ he conceded.
‘And not...er...since?’ Brooke prompted, unable to stifle that question. ‘I mean...we were separated...and then I was in a coma for well over a year...’
‘I haven’t been with anyone else since the day I married you,’ Lorenzo spelt out with a level of precision that disconcerted her even more. ‘I don’t break my promises.’
A controversial topic, she recognised uneasily, but she was impressed nonetheless by that steadfast fidelity that many men would surely have forsaken during a legal separation. It was one more gift to appreciate, wasn’t it? In one statement he had both surprised and delighted her, affirming her conviction that they might still have a marriage worth saving. He had not turned to another woman for either sex or consolation and that said so much about the sort of guy he was. She wanted to tell him that she loved him again, but she swallowed the words, which would strike him as empty when she didn’t have the luxury of even recalling their past relationship.
‘We’re getting too serious,’ Lorenzo told her with a sudden flashing smile that didn’t quite reach his gorgeous eyes.
‘Blame me,’ she muttered ruefully. ‘I was the one asking awkward questions.’
‘You should feel free to say whatever you like to me,’ Lorenzo told her, backing away from the bed to slam the door shut and shed his jacket, his tie and his shoes in rapid succession.
Brooke swallowed hard, wondering why she always felt so shy with him, wondering why she wanted to cover her bared breasts from view. She had to be accustomed to such intimacy. That she could be innately shy in the bedroom, after all, went against everything she had so far learned about herself. Women who were shy or modest about showing their bodies didn’t wear teeny-tiny shorts and incredibly short skirts, she reminded herself impatiently.