The Italian's Rags-To-Riches Wife. Julia James
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‘It is too late for Stefano, but I ask—I ask if it will not be too late for me. You are my only kin. All I have. Give me a little, just a little of your time. I shall not ask for much. Only the chance, poor as it is, to pass a little time with you.’
His eyes were holding hers, as if they were cast upon a lifeline. Slowly, very slowly, not sure what she was doing, let alone why, or whether she should turn, and walk on heavy, rapid feet, as far away as possible, Laura reached out and touched the tips of his fingers held out towards her. Then she dropped her arm to her side.
‘Thank you,’ said Tomaso quietly.
Laura was silent on the way back to the villa, staring out of the car window. Allesandro let his gaze rest on her from time to time. She’d closed herself up, like a clam. But there was something different about her. Something…softer.
He frowned. Could that really be true? Surely not. It was an absurd word to use about Laura Stowe. She was as hard and as unyielding as granite, her manner as abrasive. Harsh and unlovely.
His eyes studied her as she stared out of the window, locked in on herself. Yes, it was there still, that change in her expression. Almost imperceptible, but there all the same.
And there was something else about her, he realised frowningly, trying to put his finger on what else had changed about her.
Then it came to him.
Somehow—he didn’t know how—with that slightly, oh, so slightly softer expression—she didn’t look quite so awful.
He shook the thought aside. It was nothing to do with him what she looked like—only whether she was going to make good on what she had said to Tomaso or not. He needed to know. If she were staying, then at last the way would be clear for Tomaso to make good on his promise to him and hand over the chairmanship.
‘So,’ he heard himself ask abruptly, ‘what are you going to do now? Bolt back to England? Or give your grandfather some of your precious time?’
His voice sounded brusque in the confines of the car. Brusquer than he’d meant. Laura turned her head.
‘I’ll…’ She swallowed. ‘I’ll stay for a bit. Till he’s better. I suppose I don’t have to go home right away.’
Any time would be too soon to go back to that rain-sodden dump, thought Allesandro, thinking unpleasurably about the wreck she lived in. What on earth did she want to keep it for? Anyway, if she made her peace with Tomaso, as she might just have done now, she wouldn’t need it any more.
Just as Tomaso would not need the chairmanship of Viale-Vincenzo any more.
A spurt of impatience went through Allesandro. He wanted to be off, back to Rome. Away from all this. Preparing to take full control of the company.
Enjoying Delia Dellatore.
Deliberately, he let his thoughts conjure her image in his mind. Chic, fashionable, sensual.
His eyes flickered sideways one last time.
The contrast between the woman in his mind and the female sitting there like a sack of potatoes couldn’t have been more different.
He looked away. She was nothing to do with him. And now he was done with her. The moment they were back at the villa he’d return to Rome. He slid out his mobile, phoning his PA to let her know his plans. Relief washed through him. He was getting out of here, prontissimo.
CHAPTER FOUR
ALLESANDRO must have left the villa at some point that afternoon, but Laura did not pay his departure any attention. Her mind was too full of other things.
What had she done? Emotion twisted inside her. She had dropped her guard against a man she had been determined to stonewall, to deny any place in her life. Her hands knotted against each other, fingers crushing.
What have I done? she thought again, agitated and unhappy, heart stormy.
But she knew. She knew in her heart of hearts what she had done. She had acknowledged Tomaso Viale as her grandfather.
And she would stay with him—just for a while. Until he was better. It wouldn’t kill her to do that, would it?
When he was brought home the following day, carried in on a stretcher, she hurried out of the music room, where she had incarcerated herself, and felt again that strange pang go through her at the sight of his frail figure. As his eyes went to her, they lit at the sight of her.
‘You didn’t leave,’ he said.
She shook her head. There was a thickness in her throat.
‘No,’ she managed to say. Then, ‘How…how are you feeling?’
He gave a wry smile. ‘The better for seeing you, my child.’
She gave an uncertain smile, and watched as he was borne aloft up the wide marble stairs.
He asked for her, later on in the day, and she went. He’d been installed in what seemed to her a palatial room, with a vast tester bed and ornate antique furniture. She personally found it very overdone, but it was obviously what he liked. She felt a strange sense of indulgence tug at her. Tomaso saw her smile to herself as she glanced around the room.
‘You think it a little too much, no?’ he said.
‘It’s the opposite of my grandfather—my…’ She paused awkwardly. ‘My other grandfather. He was Spartan in his tastes. He thought only foreigners went in for fancy décor.’
Tomaso looked ruefully humorous. ‘Well, I am foreign, so that must account for it.’ He patted the side of the huge bed he was propped up in, and without thinking Laura found herself crossing to sit on it. ‘When I was a boy we were very poor. We lived in a bleak, post-war concrete apartment block in a grim suburb of Torino, with cheap utility furniture. I always promised myself the good things in life.’
He glanced around, and Laura could see the satisfaction in his face at all he had. And the pride, too.
‘Did you really start from nothing?’ she asked.
‘Nothing but my nerve and my confidence,’ he replied promptly.
He was looking better, Laura thought, his colour stronger, and he was no longer wired up, although a mobile heart monitor station stood beside the bed.
‘I was determined to make money—a lot of money!—and I did!’ he went on.
‘My grandfather—my other one—’ it was easier to say this time, she found ‘—never talked about money. It was one of those things that was never mentioned.’
‘Ah,’ said Tomaso shrewdly. ‘That is always the way of those who were born to it. Never the way of those who have to make it themselves. Allesandro’s father was the same—he thought profit a dirty word.’ His voice edged slightly. ‘But he enjoyed the money we made, all the same.’
‘Why did he go into trade?’ Laura asked, unconsciously curious to discover more about Allesandro’s family background.
‘He was broke. That was why,’ Tomaso said bluntly. ‘So he graciously consented to be my partner when I approached him to join forces. For me, he was very useful—he could open doors that were closed to me with all his high-society friends, especially those in banking and finance. But he was never interested in business the way I was. Now, young Allesandro…’ Tomaso’s voice changed suddenly. ‘He is very different.’
‘He seems to work all the time,’ Laura said. ‘His nose is always buried in his laptop or in papers.’
‘He wants my job. And the company to go with it.’ Tomaso’s voice was even blunter now. ‘He is completely different from his father. He could see how his father had little real power in the company—did not want it, did not seek it!—but Allesandro always resented that. He felt it as a slight to his father. But he also acknowledged