Second Marriage. HELEN BROOKS
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but hoping to divert further questions, but the moment she paused he seized the opportunity to speak, his voice smoky and cool.
‘And is there someone in England waiting patiently for your return?’
‘A boyfriend, you mean?’ she asked carefully.
‘Just so.’
‘No,’ she said flatly.
‘No?’ She shook her head and the dark eyes brushed her face again for a moment before he said, ‘And you are not going to elaborate further on that...enigmatic statement?’
‘Enigmatic?’ She forced a laugh that she hoped sounded derisory. ‘Hardly.’
‘But, yes. When a beautiful young woman of twenty-four speaks so determinedly—’
‘I wasn’t speaking determinedly, just factually, and you know as well as I do that I am not beautiful, Signor Bellini—’
‘Now that I have to take issue with.’ He interrupted her angry retort swiftly, and before she could say anything more continued, ‘And please, no more of the Signor Bellini? It is Romano, as you well know, and if you are going to stay at Casa Pontina for some time it will be more harmonious for everyone if we address each other by the Christian names, sì? It will make our relationship appear more civil when we meet.’
‘When we meet?’ This time the naked dismay in her voice was not met with the amusement it had provoked before, and his tone was icy when he said, ‘Donato and Grace are my friends, Claire.’
‘I know. I know they are—’
‘And one visits one’s friends, sì? Even in England I would have thought this pleasant pastime was still alive and well?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘So there will be occasions when we meet, share a meal and so on,’ he continued in a clipped, terse voice. ‘With Donato and Grace, of course, that is all I meant. I was not—what is the word?—propositioning you.’
‘I didn’t think for a minute you were,’ she said, aghast.
‘Good. The air is then clear.’ The mercurial change was complete; he had returned to suave, cool playboy again with a swiftness that left her open-mouthed and gasping as the powerful car pulled off the road and through a large flower-bedecked arched opening into a quiet courtyard.
‘However...’ he turned to her as he cut the engine, a slightly cruel smile curving the firm, distinctly sensual mouth and doing nothing to soften the power of his harsh bone structure ‘...I meant what I said. You are a beautiful young woman, Claire, as any male with discernment would tell you. I admire beauty, even if it is the most corruptive force known to man, as much as I abhor its potential treachery.’
‘Its treachery?’ she whispered faintly, unnerved by the stony glitter in the black eyes and aware that in a strange way his remark on her appearance was not complimentary.
‘But of course.’ A veil came down over the handsome face, and she knew he had made a conscious effort to hide all emotion as he smiled again, his eyes revealing nothing more than warm amusement. ‘Beauty is a wonderful lure which nature uses to full advantage, sì?
‘The belladonna—deadly nightshade—with its fragile mauve flowers and dainty poisonous berries, for example, or hemlock’s clusters of exquisite white blooms. And then something as enchanting as the flower-like sea anemone, which attracts fish and other animals to their doom, as does the translucent beauty of the Portuguese man-of-war, whose stinging tentacles beneath its shimmering charm paralyse its prey with deadly accuracy. Nature makes full use of illusion, Claire.’
But he hadn’t really been talking about plants and animals, she thought suddenly. She was sure of it.
‘Yes, I suppose it does.’ She stared into the dark cold face as her mind raced. ‘But beauty can be wonderful too—something to be marvelled at, to share, something that lifts the soul of man, like a magnificent sunset for example.’
‘But within a short time it has faded and is dead, and one is left with the blackness of the night,’ he said quietly. ‘Nothing lasts. Nothing is what it seems.’
He was talking about his wife being taken from him so tragically. As realisation dawned she stared at him in consternation, not knowing what to say. Bianca had been breathtakingly, wildly beautiful, and they had only had a few short years together before she had died. He still loved her... ‘But memories can be precious things, can’t they?’ she asked softly. ‘The sunset might die but the serenity and peace it gives can still live on.’
‘I have not found that to be the case,’ he said, with a dismissive coldness that told her this strange and disturbing conversation was at an end. ‘Now, shall we?’ He indicated the charming honey-coloured building in front of them with a wave of his hand. ‘You will find Aldonez has a variety of dishes to suit all appetites, so do not be perturbed if you are not hungry. I think it would be nice to sit outside, sì? There is a delightful garden at the back of the restaurant.’
He had left the car as he spoke the last words, walking swiftly round the bonnet and helping her to alight with a naturalness that told her his good manners were normal behaviour. She remembered Donato had had the same inherent courtesy when she had stayed with them for her two-week holiday in the summer, treating the female race as a whole with a gentleness and protective regard that was wonderfully refreshing in this modern age. But whereas she had just thought Grace’s husband a gentleman, somehow with his best friend the whole procedure took on a seductive quality that was more than a little unsettling.
Romano took her arm as they walked across the cobbled courtyard and into the quaint and colourful little restaurant, and immediately she was aware that he was known to the plump and burly little proprietor, who gave them a welcome that could only be described as rapturous.
The greetings over, of which Claire didn’t understand a word, Aldonez led them through the main room and out onto a covered veranda where several tables had been placed to catch the full benefit of the weak sunlight. It was surprisingly warm, the veranda being something of a sun-trap, and once she was seated Claire looked around her appreciatively.
The pretty square garden was small, but the lacy perimeter fence was entwined with luxuriant foliage and sweet-smelling flowers. Small shrubs and bushes were scattered between old stone slabs that paved most of the area, with a large magnolia tree in one corner to provide a spot of shade in the summer. ‘From March onwards Aldonez packs tables and chairs on every inch of ground,’ Romano said with a distant smile as he watched her absorb her surroundings. ‘He knows most of the tourists like to eat alfresco.’
‘It’s very pretty.’ She suddenly felt unbearably shy as she glanced at him over the small table, his startling good looks and arrogant masculinity seemingly enhanced by the intimacy of sharing a meal. On the short journey from the airport she had barely noticed the scenery outside the car, her senses briefly registering the southern earthy charm Naples exuded but most of her conscious thought held by the magnetic pull of the man opposite.
Crazy. She lowered her eyes to the menu Aldonez had placed in front of her a couple of minutes before. Absolutely crazy to allow her senses to be dominated like that—and wouldn’t he just love it if he knew how she was thinking? When all was said and done, even if he did still love his wife, he didn’t have to be so arrogant, did he? So impossible to communicate with, so abrasive?
‘Would you like me to translate?’
‘What?’ As she raised her head and met the hard gaze she would have given the world to be able to say she spoke fluent Italian, but she didn’t, and, infuriating man that he was, he knew it.
The fact that she was forced to acknowledge she had been gazing at the squiggles on the card in front of her without even seeing them didn’t help either—but that, at least, he didn’t know.
‘The menu? Would you like me to translate for you?’ he asked again, his voice patient but with the kind of long-suffering tone one might adopt