by Dani Collins
He felt a stab of frustration that their arrival had silenced Miss Ayrton. Then, mindful of the moment, he thanked the maid as she placed the tray on the table and bade Amelie to take her seat.
There was a pot of tea for Miss Ayrton, strong coffee for himself, and a jug of fresh orange juice for Amelie, together with another of iced water for them all, and a plate of biscotti.
He watched as Miss Ayrton poured some orange juice for her pupil, diluting it heavily with water. ‘Very healthy,’ he observed, reaching for his coffee.
‘Signorina Jenna says too many fizzy drinks make your teeth fall out,’ Amelie informed him with an air of virtue as she took a gulp of her juice.
Evandro nodded. ‘Quite true,’ he said, straight-faced. ‘I knew of someone whose teeth fell out—all of them, all at once—right in the middle of his making a speech at a grand dinner. The audience was very glad, as his speech was very boring. He’s had to wear false teeth ever since—and because they don’t fit properly they click when he speaks. Like this...’
He made the appropriate noise, and Amelie giggled. It felt good to hear. Of their own accord, his eyes went past the little girl to her teacher, as if seeking her approval, and he caught the slight smile on her face as she poured herself a cup of tea. He noticed how some colour had tinged her pale cheeks, and how a smile, however slight, seemed to improve her nondescript appearance.
He found himself wanting to see her smile again. And then wondered why. Jenna Ayrton was here to teach Amelie. That was all.
He turned back to her pupil. ‘I am pleased to hear that you are making progress so you can be ready for school in the autumn. How much are you learning about your new home country of Italy?’ He smiled at Amelie, wanting to draw her out. Wanting to show her teacher he was making the effort to do so.
‘We are doing lots of history and learning about the mountains and rivers. And where the cities are,’ Amelie answered, and then reeled off the names, in English and Italian, of half a dozen.
‘Very good.’ Evandro nodded approvingly. ‘What about the city I work in?’
‘Turin,’ Amelie supplied. ‘Torino in Italian.’
‘Esattamente!’
He went on to ask her about Italy’s mountains, telling her he liked to go skiing on them in winter, and saying she might like to come too next time, after Christmas.
‘Would you like that?’ he asked. ‘You could try skiing, or snowboarding, or just stick to tobogganing.’ His gaze flicked to Miss Ayrton, sipping her tea quietly, and suddenly he wanted to draw her out as well. ‘Do you enjoy winter sports, Miss Ayrton?’ he asked.
She looked startled at his suddenly addressing her, but then replied in the quiet way he was becoming used to.
‘I’ve never done any,’ she answered.
Amelie turned to her teacher, her expression animated. ‘You could come with us!’ she said.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll be gone by winter, Amelie,’ she replied. ‘As soon as you’ve started school I’ll be going back to England.’
Evandro saw Amelie’s face fall. Unease welled in him.
Amelie must never grow close to any woman—it’s too dangerous.
In his head, his lawyer’s warning echoed yet again, carrying with it Berenice’s final venom. He, too, must never grow close to any woman in his life...
He shook away his uneasy thoughts. That warning might be true in general, but it was utterly irrelevant to the current situation. Jenna Ayrton—a woman no man would even notice was in the room—was Amelie’s temporary teacher, nothing more.
And once Amelie was settled into school she’d soon forget all about her.
And so, obviously, would he.
CHAPTER FOUR
JENNA CHECKED HER appearance in the elegant cheval glass in her bedroom. Somewhat to her surprise, she had been summoned to accompany Amelie to dinner with Signor Rocceforte. Amelie was here, now, dubiously looking her teacher over.
‘Have you not got any cocktail frocks?’ Amelie asked her, eyeing the plain navy-blue long-sleeved dress critically.
Jenna shook her head. ‘No—and even if I had, I wouldn’t dream of wearing one. I’m your teacher, Amelie—an employee—not your father’s guest.’
Her eyes went to the little girl, and she tried to keep her expression more neutral than her opinion. It was obvious to Jenna that the child had been treated like a fashion doll by her socialite mother, and tonight Amelie had gone to town. And not in a good way.
Out of her huge designer wardrobe she had chosen a miniature version of an adult cocktail dress, in a vivid fuchsia satin, patterned with gold and black swirls making the initials of the designer—who was known, even to Jenna, for his gaudy, overblown designs. It was completely unsuitable for a child her age, but as Amelie twirled happily about Jenna did not have the heart to say so.
Amelie’s father, however, clearly had no such compunction. As his eyes lit upon his daughter when they entered the dining room Jenna saw his dark brows snap together in instant condemnation of her oversophisticated dress.
‘Amelie wanted to wear a party dress to look particularly nice for you tonight,’ she interjected swiftly, and was relieved that he said nothing, switching his glance to her instead.
‘Unlike yourself, I see, Miss Ayrton,’ he replied, his tone sardonic, his slate-dark eyes flicking over her modest attire.
She made no answer, for none was required, but Amelie spoke up instead.
‘If I were taller I would lend you one of my frocks!’ she said, rising to her defence, and Jenna was touched by it.
‘She may thank the good Lord you are not, then,’ Evandro observed mordantly.
Then, apparently done with the controversial subject, he bade them both to sit down at the table, its polished mahogany surface now graced with silver cutlery and crystal glasses.
Despite the formality of the setting in the grandly appointed dining room, her employer’s manner and appearance were more casual. He’d changed into elegantly cut dark trousers and a grey cashmere sweater. Even casually dressed, however, he’d lost none of his imposing presence, nor his disturbing ability to draw her eyes to him—which was irrelevant, Jenna reminded herself trenchantly.
He reached to put a strong, square-palmed hand around the bottle of wine that was breathing in a silver holder.
‘Do you drink wine, Miss Ayrton, or is that against your principles when in the company of your students?’ he enquired, with a lift of one dark brow. There seemed to be a quizzical, almost challenging note to his voice, and a mordant glint in his dark eyes.
‘If you have no objection, then nor do I,’ she returned equably, not rising to his taunt.
He filled a wine glass, passed it to her, then filled a glass with juice for his daughter. Once done, he lifted his own glass, bidding Jenna and Amelie to do likewise.
‘Saluti!’ he announced, then glanced at his daughter. ‘That is what we say here in Italy, instead of Santé, as they do in France, or Cheers, as they do in England. Isn’t that right, Miss Ayrton?’
His dark glance came Jenna’s way, and she nodded.
‘Good,’ he pronounced. ‘Then drink up!’
He took a draught from his glass, and Jenna took a more modest sip from hers. The wine was rich and heady, and out of nowhere Jenna felt herself relax, realising only as she did so that there had been a tension in her that was a combination of concern for Amelie and—yet again—a sense of self-consciousness about being in the company of her employer.
I can’t make him out, with that mix of acerbic wit and good humour, she thought, lowering her wine glass, flicking her eyes towards him as he greeted the arrival of their dinner, served by the two maids. He thanked them, and Jenna suspected that the two young women were as conscious of his brooding, powerful masculinity as she was. As probably all females were.
It was a disquieting thought.
She had no business being aware of her employer in any terms other than just that—her employer. Nothing more.
Then a familiar, if bleak, reassurance came to her. It didn’t matter a jot what she thought about Evandro Rocceforte—or any other man. Men never really saw her and she was used to that. It was safer that way.
She’d tried, long ago, to be noticed, to be regarded as someone worth noticing, worth paying attention to—and had failed miserably. So it was safer never to try.
Her eyes went to Amelie, the little girl she felt so drawn to. Amelie was glancing at her father, and Jenna could tell she was not entirely at ease. Her father was still such an unknown quantity to her, and it was understandable that she should be uncertain in his company.
I don’t want her ever to hunger for her father’s attention. To know the hurt of rejection, the kind of loneliness it once condemned me to.
The loneliness she was still condemned to...
She gave herself a mental shake. Self-pity was both objectionable and pointless. She had accepted long ago that she had no appeal to men—and if that made for loneliness, then it was, in its way, protective.
‘Buon appetito!’
The deep voice from the head of the table banished her introspective thoughts and she made a start on the beautifully cooked first course—a layered terrine of salmon and seafood bathed in a lobster bisque, garnished with radicchio and rocket, and served with curling melba toast. She glanced towards Amelie, in case the sophisticated dish was more than she could cope with—she had much plainer fare for her meals with Jenna, her teacher. But the little girl seemed undaunted, daintily using the correct fork, neatly demolishing the terrine without question or objection.
‘You must bear in mind, Miss Ayrton,’ Evandro informed her, as if he’d noticed Jenna’s covert observation of his daughter, ‘that in Italy—as in France—children are not packed off to bed early, but spend the evenings with their parents, including going out to restaurants.’
‘Sometimes Maman let me go out with her and her friends,’ Amelie put in. ‘I had to wear my best dresses and not chatter, and not make a mess when I ate, or she would get cross with me...’
Her little voice, which had started out brightly, trailed off unhappily, as it so often did when she was recalling her life with her capricious and demanding mother, and Jenna’s heart squeezed for her. Automatically she began to say something reassuring, but Evandro was there before her.
‘Well, I can see, mignonne, that your table manners...’ he swapped to Amelie’s mother tongue, French, his voice warming approvingly, ‘...sont par excellence!’
Amelie beamed in pleasure at the praise, and Jenna smiled, too, glad for the little girl’s sake, and yet feeling a strange pang inside her as well. She could remember no instances of her own father ever praising her for anything at all, however much she’d longed for a kindly word from him.
Knowing such memories were as useless as they were painful, she refocused, becoming aware that the slate-grey gaze from the head of the table was once more directed at her.
‘You approve?’ he asked pointedly.
‘I approve of your approval,’ Jenna answered, less pointedly.
If he was asking if she approved of his praising his daughter, in the way he just had, then of course she did. Though why he should seek her approval she did not know.
‘I shall take that as a singular compliment,’ came the reply.
Then he moved the conversation on, speaking to Amelie again, his tone encouraging.
‘Miss Jenna tells me you enjoy art, mignonne. She showed me some of your pieces this morning. I would like to see more of them. Will you do a painting for me, hmm?’
Amelie’s face lit up, all trace of uncertainty gone. ‘Oh, yes! I’ll do my favourite kind. Signorina Jenna likes me to paint things like flowers, and things that I imagine, but what I like doing best,’ she announced boldly, ‘is making fashion pictures. Because fashion is so important,’ she finished portentously. ‘Maman says it’s essential to be toujours à la mode!’
Jenna saw her employer’s face tighten, and poised herself to intervene with a mediatory comment. She did not want Amelie to be slapped down for her remark, or for the child’s father to undo the good work he’d done in praising her.
But, despite his tightened expression, she was relieved when all her employer said was, ‘Well, in fashion-conscious places like Paris and Milan, yes...’
Jenna could tell he was trying to modulate the tone of his voice so it would have the best effect on Amelie.
‘But only when you’re grown up. Or at least a teenager,’ he finished repressively.
A confused look crossed Amelie’s face, as if what he’d said went against everything her mother had taught her. This time, Jenna found herself interjecting. Yes, Amelie had a precociously unhealthy obsession with designer fashion, thanks to her mother’s influence, but that could easily be channelled into something far more harmless and far more appropriate for a little girl.
‘But what is fun at your age,’ she said decisively, ‘is dressing up! At the school I taught at in London,’ she went on, ‘every year there was a World Book Day, and all the children dressed up as someone out of a book or story they’d read. Who would you dress up as, Amelie?’ she asked, wanting the little girl diverted from the subject of haute couture.
‘A medieval princess!’ she said immediately, not surprising Jenna in the least. ‘Like Sleeping Beauty—but after she’s woken up!’
‘Perfetto!’ her father pronounced, and Amelie looked pleased.
Then his dark gaze went to Jenna, and that caustic expression, increasingly familiar to her now, was back on his face as he addressed her, reaching for his wine glass. But there was humour in his expression too. Dark, but definitely there.
‘So, tell me, if you will, Miss Ayrton, as the strict teacher that you are, what character would you recommend for me? Should I expect the worst? Or hope for the best?’
There was a decided glint in his eyes that told Jenna this was one of his ironically voiced remarks she was beginning to get the measure of. Calmly she replied, ‘Well, I think any ogre would be far too harsh, so perhaps one of the stern kings in a fairy tale, despatching knights in armour on perilous quests?’
He gave a bark of laughter, his mouth twisting. ‘And there I was, hoping you might cast me as Prince Charming!’
Jenna frowned slightly as the twist of his mouth increased, becoming almost bitter... She watched as he took yet another drink from his wine glass.
‘Perhaps you are,’ she heard herself saying quietly, the words seeming to form themselves, ‘but in the story you are under a malign spell.’
Something moved in his slate eyes, and the lines around his mouth deepened.
‘Cast by an evil enchantress?’ he supplied.
Jenna felt in his gaze a weight that was suddenly crushing.
‘Can such a spell ever be broken, do you think?’ he asked.
‘All such spells can be broken,’ she answered.
For a moment—nothing more than a moment—her eyes held his. ‘But how?’ he asked, his voice low, and there was something in it that chilled her, for all this fanciful talk of fairy tales.
Then a new voice spoke up. Amelie’s. ‘The good fairy always breaks the spell, Papà!’
The dark gaze that had pressed upon her suddenly switched to the little girl, and Jenna felt herself breathe again.
‘So, where do I find this good fairy, hmm?’ he quizzed, addressing his daughter.
‘She floats down in a silver bubble,’ Amelie informed him. ‘With silver hair and silver wings and a silver wand and a silver dress.’
Jenna saw her charge’s face become animated as she described the vision. ‘Why don’t you paint a picture of her for your papà?’ she suggested.
‘An excellent idea!’ Evandro agreed. His voice
was jocular once more. ‘I shall look forward to seeing it. Now,’ he went on, ‘if we are all finished with our primo, we shall proceed to the secondo.’
He pressed a discreet buzzer by his place setting, and within moments the maids had arrived to clear their plates and replace them with lamb fillet in a rich sauce.
Again, Amelie seemed undaunted by the gourmet fare. And also increasingly undaunted, Jenna was glad to observe, by her father’s presence. She could see the little girl relaxing, being assiduously drawn out by her father, who was now asking her what she knew of Italy’s long history.
Jenna herself said very little, only prompting Amelie from time to time if she sounded unsure, and listening with interest as Evandro elaborated on what his daughter knew, telling tales from history in a calculatedly dramatic fashion to hold Amelie’s interest.
The subject lasted through their final course, a delicate pear parfait—which, although delicious, Jenna could see Amelie was struggling to finish.
Her father saw it too. ‘Piccolina, you are falling asleep!’ he pronounced. ‘Time for your bed!’
Jenna made to rise, but he stayed her.
‘No—Loretta or Maria can see to Amelie. I would like adult company with my formaggio,’ he declared.
When Loretta appeared at his summons, and led a sleepy Amelie away, he bade her goodnight in a gentler voice than Jenna had yet heard him use, speaking in Italian.
‘Dormi bene, piccolina...’ He smiled. ‘And dream of silver fairies.’
Then, with Amelie gone, and an extensive cheese platter placed on the table by one of the maids, he turned back to Jenna. For a moment his eyes rested on her, their expression unreadable, and Jenna felt a spurt of awkwardness. It was one thing to dine with her employer in order to keep his daughter company, but to sit here at the table with only him seemed quite different.
His next words made her realise why he’d sent Amelie upstairs with Loretta.
‘So,’ he said, pushing the cheese board towards her and indicating that she should help herself, ‘your judgement, if you please, Miss Ayrton. How have I done so far? Am I anywhere close to meeting your stipulations as regards Amelie?’
