Summer At Villa Rosa Collection. Kate Hardy
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onto the pavement. Pedestrian-only streets lined with what had once been palazzos, built in some golden age when the island was a crossroads for trade, but which now housed elegant boutiques.
And perched above it was the castle, dominating the city and protecting its ancient harbour far below.
‘I can’t believe this place isn’t overrun by tourists,’ Andie said. ‘It has everything.’
‘Everything except an airport.’
‘Why don’t they build one?’
‘Maybe they like it the way it is.’
‘If I lived here I think I might, too,’ she admitted. ‘It’s tough on the young people who have to leave to make a living, though.’ She mimed a stab through the heart.
‘Not many tourists but there is an information office,’ he said, crossing the piazza. ‘With luck they can direct us to a notary.’
An hour later they had sworn statements, paid to have them translated into Italian and were told they could pick them up the following afternoon.
‘Well, that was easy,’ Andie said. ‘Now for the tough bit.’
‘Tough bit?’
‘I hate shopping for clothes. One of the great things about my job is the uniform. I don’t have to think about what to wear. Immi got all the power dressing and high heels genes.’
‘Come and help me find a suit and I’ll help you pick out a dress. And high heels.’
‘You can’t do that,’ she said, aghast at the thought.
‘I can’t? Why?’
‘It’s...you know... Unlucky.’ She felt an idiot just saying it.
‘Unlucky?’ Cleve stopped. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, grinning broadly. ‘And what have you done with the efficient, totally focused and thoroughly down-to-earth Miranda Marlowe?’
‘That’s the work me. This is the me me.’
‘Are you saying that you don’t walk under ladders?’
‘Only an idiot would do that.’
‘You toss spilled salt over your shoulder? Believe a broken mirror brings seven years’ bad luck, bow to a magpie... I wouldn’t have thought you had a superstitious bone in your body.’
‘I don’t.’ Cursing herself for making a mountain out of a molehill, she said, ‘I never bow to magpies but some things are ingrained. Part of the DNA.’
‘Like the groom seeing the bride in her dress before the wedding.’
‘There’s always something behind these old superstitions,’ she said. ‘I can imagine some poor lad, being forced to marry the next-door neighbour’s middle-aged daughter in a land grab, catching sight of his bride before the vows were sworn and taking to the hills.’
‘So you’ll be wearing something old, something new, something borrowed?’
Stuck with her stupid superstition, she said, ‘I’m sure I can find something amongst Sofia’s things.’
‘What about blue?’
Oh, good grief... ‘Of course.’
‘But not a sapphire. Your eyes are hazel. Green and gold.’ He took her hand in his so that her fingers were laid across his palm. ‘Maybe a yellow diamond?’
‘What? No...’
He indicated the building behind her and when she turned she was looking into a jeweller’s window. That it was a very expensive jeweller you could tell by the fact that there were only a few stunning pieces on display in the window.
‘We’re going to need rings. You could leave it to me but you’ll be wearing them for a lot longer than the dress and no doubt you’d rather choose your own.’
‘Ring singular, Cleve.’ Something plain like the one her mother wore.
‘And have everyone think we had a hole-in-the-wall wedding because you’re pregnant?’ he said as, still holding her hand, he pushed open the door and ushered her in ahead of him.
Inside, in the kind of hush provided by deep carpets and serious reverence accorded to expensive objects of desire, they were met by a man so exquisitely tailored that he had to be the manager. He showed them to gilt chairs placed before an ornate desk, before taking the seat opposite them.
‘Signor, signora. Benvenuto. How may I be of service?’
‘We would like to see engagement and wedding rings,’ Cleve said.
‘Of course.’ He turned to her. ‘Have you a stone in mind, signora, or do you prefer a classic white diamond?’
Signora wished she hadn’t made a fuss about the dress and was safely ensconced in a boutique changing room right now.
‘The signora has hazel eyes with a predominance of gold,’ Cleve said, before she could begin to think of an answer. ‘I thought a yellow diamond.’
‘Perfetto. A deep yellow.’ He nodded to a man standing beside him, who disappeared and a few moments later returned with a tray of rings that gleamed in the soft concealed lighting.
‘These are paired rings. The wedding ring has matching stones and is shaped so that the engagement ring will sit perfectly against it. Your hand, signora? So that I can measure your finger?’ he prompted when they remained in her lap.
She looked at Cleve, sending a desperate message that this was crazy. These rings cost a fortune...
His response was to take her hand, pick a ring from the tray and slide it onto her finger. ‘How is that?’
She cleared her throat. ‘It’s a little loose.’
‘Try these, signor.’
Cleve removed the ring and replaced it with a pair of rings handed to him by the clerk. First the wedding ring, in which yellow and white diamonds had been set alternately into a plain polished white gold channel, and curved so that when he placed it on her finger the simple yellow diamond of the engagement ring sat snugly against it. It fitted perfectly and was so unbelievably beautiful that she was unable to suppress a sigh.
‘È molto bella.’
‘Cleve, no...’
She made a move to slip the rings from her finger but Cleve stopped her. ‘These rings could have been created just for you, Miranda.’ He was looking at her rather than the diamonds glittering on her finger. ‘Beauty without frills, designed for strength, made to last a lifetime.’
She swallowed in an attempt to shift the rock in her throat but in the end simply shook her head, unable to meet his gaze.
‘You think it is too much?’
When she didn’t answer he touched her chin, forcing her to look at him, and she said, ‘You know it is.’
‘Would it help if I told you that I followed you to L’Isola dei Fiori with only one thought in my head? To ask you to marry me.’
‘But you didn’t know...’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t.’ He turned to the manager, who was doing his best to appear oblivious to their conversation. ‘This pair for the signora,’ he said, allowing her to remove the rings and place them on the velvet mat in front of them. ‘And something plain for me.’
For him? Andie looked at his hand and realised he wasn’t wearing the ring that Rachel had put on his finger. He’d been wearing it when he broke down but there was no mark, no telltale whiteness, to suggest he’d worn it recently.
The manager clicked his fingers and a tray of men’s white-gold wedding rings appeared.
Cleve picked up a plain, polished