by Dani Collins
Did he actually want to know her thoughts, or was this another of his ironic challenges? It was hard to tell. Hard to know just how to read this darkly enigmatic man, the likes of whom she had never encountered in all her life.
But he was putting her on the spot, and she must answer as required.
‘If my opinion holds any validity, Signor Rocceforte, then I would say, very readily, that you are well on the way to building a good relationship with your daughter,’ Jenna replied. Her voice warmed. ‘I could see Amelie relaxing more and more—especially when you praised her.’
‘There is much to praise,’ came the reply. Then his expression tightened. ‘Except her choice of dress.’
Carefully, Jenna made her selection from the array of formaggi, and even more carefully gave her answer.
‘I do realise that the majority of Amelie’s wardrobe is...unsuitable, but...’ she eyed him cautiously ‘...if fashion is what Amelie’s mother was most interested in, then it is only to be expected that her daughter will have sought to gain her mother’s favour and approval by copying that interest. It would be unfair to condemn Amelie for—’
‘For her mother’s sins.’
The voice cutting across hers was harsh, silencing Jenna. She saw him move restlessly in his chair, refilling his wine glass and swirling it moodily. His eyes dropped from Jenna, as if his thoughts were many miles away. Then, abruptly, his gaze lifted to her again, darker than ever.
‘My ex-wife’s predilection for squandering obscene amounts of money on couture clothes was the least of her sins,’ he bit out.
He moved restlessly again, taking another draught from his wine. Jenna got the impression he was exerting a formidable control over himself now, to curb his outburst. Deep emotions were playing beneath that carapace of control. Just how bitter had his divorce been? Jenna found herself wondering.
Then, as if banishing thoughts that brought him displeasure, he said, ‘Well, one thing is obvious—a new wardrobe must be purchased for Amelie.’ He looked directly at Jenna. ‘You must help in the selection—I know nothing about children’s clothes.’
‘If you wish,’ she answered.
‘I do wish,’ he said imperiously, helping himself to several wedges from the cheese board, and crackers to go with them. A frown creased his brow. ‘You were telling me something this afternoon on the terrace,’ he said in his abrupt way. ‘About the children of divorced parents. Continue, if you please.’
Slowly, she buttered a cracker, not in the least sure that she wanted to do as he bade. But he was clearly waiting for her answer. An answer that might help Amelie if she could make the little girl’s father understand it.
Tentatively, she began, feeling her way as she spoke. ‘Children can get...lost...in the divide between warring parents. They can become, as I said, invisible. And sometimes...’ her voice changed, she could not stop it ‘...that becomes exactly what the child begins to want—’
She broke off, conscious that she had veered into territory she did not want to give voice to. But Evandro, it seemed, was not a man to permit evasion.
‘You speak of yourself, I assume?’ he said. His gaze narrowed, arrowing down the table at her. ‘But why should you want to be invisible?’ His expression hardened.
Jenna shook her head. An air of unreality was swirling about her. Perhaps it was the late hour, or the quietness around them, and the fact that no one else was present. Perhaps that was what made it easier to say what she said now, her voice low, but unflinching.
‘When my mother was killed in a car crash I was sent to live with my father and the woman he’d left my mother for. My presence was...not welcomed. Neither by my stepmother and her children—nor by my father.’
His dark, unreadable gaze rested on her. ‘How old were you?’
‘Younger than Amelie—just six years old.’
She saw his mouth twist.
‘I held on, continuing to hope that one day...’ she swallowed ‘...one day my father would...would see me. That one day I would stop being invisible to him. But it never happened. And after a while it seemed better to accept that. Safer.’
His dark brows drew together. ‘Safer?’
She felt her grip tighten on the cheese knife in her hand. ‘Safer not to want what could not be. Safer to stay invisible.’
He nodded, but slowly, his heavy gaze never leaving her. ‘And you are still invisible,’ he said softly.
She felt it like a blow, which was odd, because she knew very well that she was invisible. Knew she could walk into any room and no one would notice. It was the way she’d come to want it, because it was safer than the alternative. Being condemned for her very existence, as she had when a child.
She sought to clear her head—clear the emotion that had risen up within her at remembering the unhappy childhood she had endured.
As if surfacing from beneath a deep sea, she realised he was speaking again. His voice had changed, become decisive.
‘Well, if that is your concern for Amelie, you may set your anxiety at rest. Amelie is very, very visible to me, I assure you. And I will be doing all in my power, as you admonished me to do this morning, to make her feel wanted and valued. Because, Miss Ayrton, I promise you that nothing will take her from me. Nothing.’
There was a vehemence in his voice and a grim determination in his face that made her look at him, setting aside her own troubling recollections.
His avowal should surely be welcome to her, dissipating her fears for Amelie, the little girl uprooted to a new home, a new parent. Yet for a moment, nothing more than a moment, his vehemence and determination seemed to chill her.
Then, in the abrupt fashion she was beginning to get used to, his mood changed.
‘But enough of grim topics,’ he said. ‘Tell me, if you please—for you doubtless know better than I—does Amelie like swimming? The weather is getting warm enough to start enjoying the pool. And what else have you discovered that she enjoys—or does not?’
Grateful for the return to easier topics, Jenna provided what answers she could to his questions, continuing until the maid returned, saying Amelie was tucked up in bed, and asking for the signorina to come and say goodnight to her.
Jenna took it as an excuse to withdraw. And as she bade her employer goodnight she saw his dark gaze flicker over her as he nodded his reply, as enigmatic as it was brief.
Only later, back in her sitting room after Amelie was asleep, did she find herself wondering how on earth she had come to say what she had to him about her childhood, about what ran so very deep within her. Things she had never spoken about before—let alone to a man like him.
A man whose softly spoken words echoed anew in her head...
Still invisible.
She gave a dismissive shake of her head—as dismissive as his words—and reminded herself of the home truths she should not forget.
Of course she was invisible to him. A man not only of wealth and power, but of formidable dark good looks, who surely would expect—and receive—the eager attentions of the most beautiful and beguiling of women. Women to whom she was the very antithesis.
To such a man as that, what else could she be but invisible?
What else could she want to be...?
Memory rose in her head of how she’d lain in that sensuous, too-relaxing bath last night, entertaining fantasies she’d had no business entertaining. Fantasies of slate-dark eyes resting on her...
She pushed the memory forcibly from her head. It was as inappropriate as it was pointless to think like that about a man who was like none she had ever encountered before.
* * *
In the elegant dining room, Evandro sat back in his chair, poured himself a cognac and, his eyelids half closed, rested his gaze on the foot of the table, where Miss Ayrton had been sitting.
Invisible, she’d called herself.
<
br /> He pondered the word. It was the very opposite of what Berenice was. She was no more capable of being invisible than a peacock. But then, of course, a preening peacock was exactly what she was. A self-obsessed narcissist who required everyone to indulge her, to desire her, to fall under her malign spell.
A malevolent enchantress, indeed. She had destroyed whatever he’d been of a youthful Prince Charming.
He reached for his glass, stretching out his long legs and recalling that exchange over dinner about fairy-tale characters, hearing his own voice asking how evil spells could be broken.
Amelie’s piping voice played in his head. ‘The good fairy always breaks the spell, Papà.’
His expression changed. Did such a being exist?
More memories flickered in the tawny cognac, fuelling his senses, playing out myths and legends, fairy tales and folklore. Then into his head came the throwaway remark he’d made to the woman who had appeared out of nowhere in front of his speeding car.
‘You look more like some kind of woodland sprite...’
He frowned. She had been foolhardy indeed to risk her life like that—but she seemed to have thought nothing of it.
Just as she thought nothing of standing up to me and telling me my responsibilities to Amelie—not with bombast or vehemence, but with quietly spoken, intent determination that I should hear what she was telling me.
And now he knew why. He could understand now, after the sorry tale of her own childhood, why she felt so strongly about what she had urged him to do.
His meandering thoughts came full circle.
Invisible—is that what she is?
It was hard not to concur. There was nothing about her to draw his eye, his interest. He ran a catalogue of items through his head, recalling her nondescript appearance.
Mid-brown hair, drawn back into a plait, no make-up to enhance her face, and nor did that plain dress and those low-heeled shoes enhance her figure.
She purposely did nothing to draw any attention to herself. Wanting, indeed, to be invisible.
As he took a slow mouthful of the rich cognac he thought again that there was something about her—not just the self-effacing way she looked, but something in the way she spoke to him, answered him, and looked at him with those clear hazel eyes of hers. Something that—
That what?
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
CHAPTER FIVE
JUST AS HE had told Jenna he would, Evandro took time every day to be with Amelie.
He did so unapologetically, interrupting lessons to whisk Amelie off with him—sometimes down to the pool for swimming, sometimes off in his monster of a car to see the latest children’s movie in the nearby town, or to go sightseeing, or to a store to add to the growing toy collection in the little girl’s playroom. One expedition had seen them return with a pink bicycle, upon which Amelie had proceeded to hurtle along the terrace and the garden paths, much to her delight.
Jenna could only be glad for her, however disrupted her lessons were. Before her eyes she could see Amelie gaining in confidence with her father—and he with her. It warmed her to see it, and to see the efforts he was making to build a loving relationship with his daughter.
A little catch formed in her throat. She must not be envious of Amelie... And yet when she watched the little girl run happily to her father and be caught up by him in a hug, then set off with him for another outing, she was aware that envy was, indeed, what she was feeling.
And something else too. Something she had not expected. Could not explain. Had never felt the force of before.
All her life she had made herself content with her own company—yet now, as she waved Amelie off on another excursion with her father, she could feel the pluck of loneliness inside her.
She should not be feeling it, she knew—had no business to feel this way. Amelie was her pupil and Evandro was her employer. This beautiful palazzo was only her temporary place of work. And yet for all her reminders of how she was only passing through, she was aware that, however occupied she kept herself—swimming lengths in the pool when Amelie and Evandro were away, going for walks in the woods and planning her pupil’s next set of lessons—her customary solitude was not welcome any more.
It was a strange, unsettling feeling to be unsatisfied with her own company. To wonder what Amelie and her father were doing together. To miss the little girl’s constant company. To realise—and this was most unsettling of all—that the highlight of her day was coming to be the brief exchanges she had with Evandro on the evenings when she accompanied her pupil to dine with him.
She found herself looking forward to those times. Looking forward to that mix of outspoken directness and sometimes caustic, sometimes straight-faced humour that he could bring to any exchange. Found that as the days passed she was becoming more and more at ease in his company.
She wondered at it, trying to find an explanation. After all, a man like Evandro Rocceforte was utterly removed from her own world—wealthy, cosmopolitan, a man of high corporate affairs. A man who surely could find little to interest him in a woman like herself.
And yet after they had dined, and Amelie had been despatched upstairs to be put to bed, Evandro would lean back in his chair, extend his long legs under the dining table, refill their glasses and start a conversation with Jenna that had nothing to do with his daughter. It might be about current affairs, or Italian art, or works of literature—or any other topic of his choosing.
‘Speak plainly, if you please, Miss Ayrton,’ he would say, reaching for his wine glass and levelling his mordant gaze at her. ‘I would have your honest opinion. Come, I know that you have one—and very likely a trenchant one at that. However quietly you speak, you will skewer the subject. I have come to expect nothing less.’
It was curious, Jenna thought. As perpetually aware as she was of the formidable presence of Evandro, when it came to conversing with him she was finding it a heady experience. One she was not used to at all.
Evandro, when his unnerving slate-dark gaze settled on her and his deep-timbred voice addressed her, required her to respond to him. He would not let her be reticent, and she—and this was the most unsettling thing of all—was becoming increasingly and disquietingly aware that perhaps she did not wish to be reticent. She found it mentally stimulating—invigorating, even—to have her opinions sought and listened to.
The days passed, and although Jenna was no longer needed to act as any kind of bridge between Amelie and her father, Evandro repeatedly invited her to join them for lunch, as well as dinner, or on another nature walk, or a ramble through the woods, or—much to Amelie’s excitement—to help when he set the ornamental fountain working.
Another realisation slowly built up in her—a realisation that changed all her boundaries, all her expectations, and created, in their place, a hunger to behave differently from the way she had always lived her life. To reject all that she was familiar with, comfortable with, safe with.
She was wishing, for the first time in her life, something she had never wished before.
I don’t want to be invisible any more.
Not to Evandro Rocceforte.
* * *
‘Piccola, Signora Farrafacci says she is going to teach you to make cookies this afternoon,’ Evandro announced at lunchtime. He turned to Miss Ayrton. ‘So you and I,’ he said, ‘shall go for an energetic walk through the woods. You dawdle, mignonne,’ he threw at Amelie with a smile. ‘Enjoy your cookie-making instead.’
Jenna started to make some protest about the proposed walk, but he overrode her.
‘No—no retreating to your sitting room, if you please. I require both exercise and good conversation, and only you will do for both.’
Just why only she would do he was not prepared, at this juncture, to waste time examining. Jenna Ayrton might be badly dressed, determined to downplay her app
earance, and altogether devoid of any obvious sex appeal, but that had nothing to do with why he wanted to spend time with her. However much he was prioritising time with Amelie, he was also deriving a surprising degree of enjoyment from the company of her teacher—company he was increasingly seeking.
He found he was looking forward to such times—to conversing with a woman the likes of whom he had never encountered before. A woman who, self-effacing as her nature was, he could see was becoming more easy in his company day by day. And he was glad to see it—glad to see her reticence ebbing away under his refusal to let her retreat behind it, glad to see her manner relaxing more and more when she was with him, glad that her smile was readier.
Not everyone found him easy company. His years with Berenice had scarred him, he knew, with a stab of bitterness. Prince Charming had been lost long ago. Now he knew he could be brusque and impatient, peremptory and cynical. But somehow—and he did not really know why, only that it was so—with Jenna Ayrton he seemed to be lifted and lightened.
Perhaps it was because she’d shown she was unfazed by it—perfectly prepared to stand up to him for what she thought was right when it came to Amelie, wanting to guard her against the misery she’d endured in her own sad childhood. Perhaps, too, it was because she seemed to instinctively understand his sardonic sense of humour, responding to it with limpid ripostes of her own that always drew a satisfied smile of acknowledgement from him.
And perhaps most of all, he was coming to realise with a growing awareness, it was because she never answered him without honesty, sincerity or candour. He knew he could trust that what she said, she meant. She never trimmed her answers to fit his views, nor sought to alter his, just accepted the differences between them with untroubled tranquillity.
She holds her own—stands her ground. She answers me rationally, yet with a quiet conviction that can silence me. Just as she silenced me that first morning with her impassioned plea for Amelie. She says what she feels, what to her is right. She puts nothing on—there isn’t a shred of artifice about her. With her, what I see is what she is.
