Mistress for a Month. Miranda Lee
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sensed an odd note in his voice whenever he mentioned her.
And he mentioned her quite a bit.
Teresa would have liked to ask him about her but suspected that the direct approach would be a waste of time. At thirty-four, her youngest son was long past the age that he confided matters concerning his personal and private life to his mother. Which was a pity. If he’d consulted her before he’d become tangled up with that Jasmine creature, she could have saved her son a lot of heartache.
Now, there was a nasty piece of work if ever there was one. Clever, though. Butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth around the Mandrettis till the wedding, after which she’d gradually stopped coming to family functions, making poorer and poorer excuses till there weren’t any left to be made.
Fortunately, she was now past history. Though not generally believing in divorce, Teresa was a realist. Some divorces were like taking the Pill. A necessity. Still, Teresa didn’t want Enrico repeating his mistake by getting tangled up with another unsuitable woman.
‘Did you play cards last night?’ she asked as she bent to pull a few sprigs of mint.
‘Of course,’ came her son’s less than enlightening reply.
‘Charles well, is he?’ Charles was the only one of Enrico’s three poker-playing friends whom Teresa had actually met, despite her having invited the trio to several parties over the years. That Renée woman was a bit like Jasmine, always having some excuse not to come. The other man, the Arab sheikh, had also always declined, though his refusals Teresa understood.
Enrico had explained that Prince Ali kept very much to himself, because of his huge wealth and family connections. Apparently, the poor man could never go anywhere in public without having a bodyguard accompany him. Sometimes two.
What a terrible way to live!
Enrico had to cope with a degree of harassment from the Press and photographers himself, but he could still come and go as he pleased without feeling he was in any physical danger.
‘Charles is very well,’ her son answered. ‘He and his wife are going to have a baby. In about six months time, I gather.’
‘How lovely for them,’ Teresa enthused as she straightened, all the while wondering if that was what had upset Enrico. He’d always wanted children of his own. Most Italian men did. It was part of their culture, to father sons to proudly carry on their name, and daughters to dote upon.
Teresa had no doubt Enrico would make a wonderful father. He was marvellous with all his nephews and nieces. It pained Teresa sometimes to see how they always gravitated towards their uncle Rico, who was never too busy to play with them. He should be playing with children of his own.
If only she could say so.
Teresa suddenly decided that she was too old and too Italian for the tactful, indirect approach.
‘When are you going to stop being silly and get married again, Enrico?’
He laughed. ‘Please don’t hold back, Mum. Say it like you see it.’
‘I do not mean any disrespect, Enrico, but someone has to say something. You’re thirty-four years old and not getting any younger. You need a wife, one who will be more than happy to stay home and have your children. A man of your looks and success should have no trouble finding a suitable young lady. If you like, we could ask the family at home to look around for a nice Italian girl.’
That should spur him on to do the looking around for himself! Enrico might have Italian blood flowing in his veins but he was very Australian in many ways. Look at the way he always called her Mum and his father Dad, whereas his older brothers and sisters always called them Mama and Papa.
Naturally, arranged marriages were anathema to her youngest son. He believed in marrying for love, and, up to a point, so did Teresa.
But best not to tell him that.
Her son’s look of horror was very satisfying.
‘Don’t start that old-fashioned nonsense, Mum. When and if I marry again, it will be to a lady of my choosing. And it will be for love.’
‘That’s what you said the first time, and look where it got you!’
‘Hopefully, not every woman is like Jasmine.’
‘I still can’t understand what you saw in that girl.’
He laughed. ‘That’s because you’re not a man.’
Teresa shook her head at her son. Did he think she was so old that she had no memory of sex? She was only seventy-three, not a hundred and three.
‘She might have had a pretty face and a good body but she was vain and selfish,’ Teresa pronounced firmly. ‘You’d have to be a fool not to see that.’
‘Men in love are fools, Mum,’ he retorted with a self-mocking edge which Teresa immediately picked up on.
She stared up at Enrico but he wasn’t looking at her. He was off in another world. It came to her that he wasn’t thinking of Jasmine, but some other woman. Teresa’s heart lurched at the realisation that her youngest son, the apple of her eye, was in love with a new woman.
Dear God, she hoped and prayed that it wasn’t his card-playing friend. Despite never having met the lady, Teresa had gleaned quite a few facts about her from Enrico’s various comments. She was a widow for starters, a wealthy widow, whose late husband had been a much older man. An ex-model, she was also a highly astute businesswoman who ran a modelling agency in the city. To cap it all off, she was in her mid-thirties and had never had any children. Probably hadn’t wanted any. A lot of career women didn’t.
In other words, she was not good daughter-in-law material for Teresa Mandretti.
‘I won’t be coming home for lunch tomorrow, Mum,’ Enrico said abruptly. ‘I have somewhere else I have to go.’
‘Where?’
‘The man who trains our horses is having a special open day at his place for all his owners to celebrate the arrival of spring, and presumably get everyone in the right mood for the imminent spring racing carnivals.’
‘Like a party,’ his mother said.
‘Yes. I suppose you could call it that,’ Rico agreed.
Earlier this year, Ward’s very savvy personal assistant, a smart little piece called Lisa, had instigated the increasingly popular tradition amongst horse trainers of having an open day for the owners every Sunday where they could visit their horses, discuss their valuable charges’ prospects with the trainer or his stable foreman, then enjoy each other’s company afterwards over a buffet lunch. But tomorrow was going to be extra-special, with the best of champagne and food.
Rico hadn’t been going to attend, the same way he never attended any open day which fell on the first Sunday of the month, because it clashed with his monthly family get-together, an occasion which was far more important to him than socialising with the rich and famous, or having another clash with Renée.
But tomorrow was different. Tomorrow was D day. Desperation day.
‘I see,’ his mother said thoughtfully. ‘Will Charles be there?’
‘Probably not. He’s not as interested in the horses as he once was.’
‘That is understandable, Enrico. He has more to think about now that he has a wife and a little bambino on the way. What about your sheikh friend? He’s not married. Will he be there?’
‘No. You know Ali rarely goes to functions like that.’
Which left…the widow, Teresa deduced. Unless this horse trainer had a blonde girl jockey in his employ.
Enrico was partial to blondes. But tall, curvy ones, come to think of it, not teenie-weenie skinny ones. Which begged the question of what this Renée looked like.
She had