The Italian Match. Kay Thorpe
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Carandente spoke in rapid Italian, despatching the older man with a final ‘Subito!’
‘Please take a seat,’ he told Gina, indicating the nearest of the deep club chairs.
He didn’t sit down himself, but leaned against the desk edge as she complied, placing her at a distinct and probably intentional disadvantage. No matter, she thought resolutely; she could always stand up again if she felt the need.
‘You have yet to give me your name,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she proffered once more. ‘I’m Gina Redman.’
‘You are here on vacation?’
It was easier at the moment to say yes, Gina decided, not yet convinced that the name wasn’t just a coincidence. Other than the obvious characteristics, this man bore no great resemblance to the photograph in her handbag.
‘I’m touring,’ she acknowledged. ‘I’ve driven all the way through France and Switzerland without a single mishap. If your sister hadn’t been going so fast…’
Lucius held up a hand. ‘It would be better that we wait until she is available to speak for herself, I think. She arrived home, I know, so it should not be long before she joins us. Until then,’ he added in the same courteous tones, ‘we will talk of other matters. The colour of your hair does not suggest the English rose. Is it possible, perhaps, that you have mixed parentage?’
Short of telling him to mind his own business, Gina was left with no choice but to answer. ‘My father was Italian.’
‘Was?’
‘He died before I was born.’ She forestalled the next question, hoping he would leave it at that until she had time to consider just how she was going to find out if he was indeed one of the Carandentes she had come so far to find. ‘I was adopted by my English stepfather.’
‘I see.’
To her relief he refrained from asking the name discarded for Redman. He probably assumed that her mother had never held title to it to start with.
The opening of the door heralded the entry of a girl whose appearance was totally at odds with her surroundings. Multilayered and finger-raked into a rough tumble about her tempestuous young face, her hair looked more like a bird’s nest than the crowning glory it must once have been. She was clad in black leather, the trousers skin-tight about rounded hips, the jacket outlining a well-endowed figure.
It was apparent at once that she recognised Gina, though she gave no sign of discomfiture. She addressed her brother in Italian, switching to English with no more effort than he had displayed himself when told to do so—and with even greater fluency.
‘The blame wasn’t mine,’ she declared flatly, without glancing in Gina’s direction. ‘There’s no damage to my car.’
‘Only because I managed to avoid what would have been a head-on crash!’ Gina asserted before Lucius could respond. ‘You were going too fast to stop. You didn’t even attempt to stop! Even to see if I was all right!’ She was sitting bolt upright in the chair, not about to let the girl get away with her denials. ‘Leaving the scene of an accident is against the law where I come from—especially where there are possible injuries to either party.’
‘If you’d been injured you wouldn’t be sitting here,’ Donata returned.
Gina kept a tight rein on her temper. ‘That’s not the point. I’m going to be stuck in Vernici until my car can be repaired—with a hefty bill at the end of it. At the very least, I need your insurance details to pass on to mine.’
‘But what you really want is for Lucius to give you money now!’ flashed the younger girl.
Her brother said something short and sharp in Italian, increasing the mutinous set of her jaw. When she spoke again it was with sullen intonation. ‘I’m sorry.’
Lucius made no attempt to stop her from leaving the room. His mouth tautened as the door slammed in her wake.
‘I add my apologies for the way Donata spoke to you,’ he said. ‘I also apologise for her appearance. She returned last week from her school in Switzerland…’ He broke off, shaking his head as if in acknowledgement that whatever he had been about to say was irrelevant to the present matter. ‘I believe it best that I take responsibility for the financial affairs,’ he said instead. ‘You have accommodation already arranged?’
Gina shook her head, the wind taken completely out of her sails.
‘So where is your luggage?’
‘I left it locked in the boot of the car,’ she said. ‘My car, not the one I came here in. I hired that from the garage.’
‘It will be returned, and your luggage brought here. If you give me your car keys I will make the necessary arrangements.’
‘Here?’ Gina looked at him in some confusion. ‘I don’t—’
‘You will naturally stay at Cotone until your car is repaired,’ he stated. ‘That will be done in Siena.’
‘I can’t let you…’ she began again, voice petering out as he lifted a staying hand.
‘You must allow me to make what reparation I can for my sister’s lack of care. It would be most discourteous of you to reject my hospitality.’
‘Then I must of course accept,’ she said after a moment. ‘Thank you, signor.’
His smile sent a further quiver down her spine. ‘You will please call me Lucius. And I may address you by your first name?’
‘Of course,’ she said, bemused by the totally unexpected turn of events. ‘You’re very kind.’
The dark eyes roved the face upturned to him, coming to rest on the curve of her mouth. ‘I find it difficult to be otherwise with a beautiful woman. A weakness, I know.’
Gina gave a laugh, doing her best to ignore the curling stomach muscles. ‘I doubt you’d allow anyone, male or female, to get the better of you!’
‘I said difficult, not impossible,’ came the smooth return.
His gaze shifted from her as the door opened again to admit a young maidservant. He must, Gina surmised, have summoned her via some hidden bell press.
‘Crispina will show you to your room,’ he said, having spoken to the girl. ‘Your bags will be brought to you. Until then, you would be advised to rest. An ordeal such as the one you experienced can produce delayed shock.’
Gina didn’t doubt it; she felt in the grip of it right now. She got to her feet, vitally aware of his eyes following her as she crossed to the door. Crispina answered her greeting smile with a somewhat tentative one of her own. She shook her head when Gina asked if she spoke English, which left the pair of them with very little to say as they climbed the grand staircase to the upper storey.
The bedroom to which she was shown was every bit as grand as the rest of the house, with glass doors opening onto a balcony that overlooked the magnificent view. The spacious en suite bathroom had fittings Gina was pretty sure were solid gold, the walls lined in mirror glass. She eyed her multireflection in wry acknowledgement of a less than pristine appearance. Clambering from a car halfway down a hole in the ground had left its mark in more ways then the one.
Back in the bedroom, she extracted the long envelope from her bag, and sat down on the bed edge to study the photograph afresh. Arms about each other, the young couple portrayed looked so blissfully happy, the girl’s fair skin and pale gold hair a total contrast to her partner’s Latin looks—both of them scarcely out of their teen years.
Gina had come across the photograph while browsing in the attic one rainy afternoon when she was fifteen. The accompanying marriage licence had tilted her world on its axis, the explanations reluctantly furnished by her mother when confronted with the evidence even more so.
Her