by Helen Brooks
'You're staying for dinner, Romano?' Grace asked as the cook and maids left the room. 'Lorenzo is at a friend's house but Donato is picking him up on his way back,' she added as she half turned to Claire, to include her in the conversation. 'And he left express instructions this morning that he wanted his favourite uncle to be here.'
'Did he indeed?' Romano had removed his beautifully cut jacket before sitting down, and now, as he stretched back in his chair, the movement emphasising the hard, muscled chest under the black silk shirt he was wearing, Claire felt herself almost choke on a mouthful of salmon sandwich. Dynamite. With the same destructive power of that particular explosive for blowing the inexperienced into oblivion! 'Well, I think it is rather up to Claire, do you not agree? This is her first evening here. Perhaps she would prefer to spend it with just the family?'
'You are family—'
'Of course I don't mind if you stay—'
The two women had spoken together, and although Grace's subsequent laugh was easy, Claire's was forced. She didn't want him to stay, in fact there was nothing she wanted less, but he knew, and she knew, that she couldn't very well say so.
'That's fine, then—a nice, cosy dinner party with all the people I love most,' Grace said with an air of satisfaction.
Donato and Lorenzo arrived home just after seven o'clock—the former full of apologies for being unable to meet her as arranged. And although Claire made all the right noises she was vitally aware of Romano's sardonic gaze as she said how well he had looked after her, and how nice lunch had been.
'This "nice", this is another word you English favour, is it not?' Romano said softly in her ear as she rose to go and see Benito, Lorenzo's parrot, at the boy's request 'With Grace too, the weather is "nice", the meal is "nice". I find the word singularly unimaginative.'
'Oh.' She was dismayed to find he had chosen to walk with her through the hall to the back of the house, where Lorenzo's own large sitting room was situated and where Benito resided most of the time. 'What would you prefer me to say, then?'
'The truth?' The dark eyes looked down at her, daring her to respond, even as the man behind the mask asked himself why he was doing this, provoking her, trying to get a reaction. She seemed to have taken an instant dislike to him—well, so what? he thought grimly. She was Grace's friend, over here for a few months to help out, that was all. He didn't have to see her above half a dozen times if he didn't want to.
'Which is?' Claire asked carefully, willing herself with all her heart to keep to the pledge she had made in the cloakroom of the restaurant and not let him get under her skin.
He shrugged slowly, his eyes narrowing, and again the sexual magnetism that was as much a part of the man as breathing had Claire's breath catching in her throat. Did he know the effect he had on women? she thought weakly, before answering herself immediately with a curt, Of course he did. How could he not? He must have women throwing themselves at him every day of the week. There wasn't a woman born who wouldn't wonder what it would feel like to be in his arms, to have him make love to her, to have him want her. She didn't like where her thoughts were leading and slammed the door shut on her mind before they could continue on such a dangerous path.
The Romano Bellinis of this world and the Claire Wilsons had no meeting point; she knew that. He was one of the beautiful people—rich, powerful, with a little black book that was no doubt bursting at the seams with the names of willing females ready to jump when he clicked his fingers. She had seen such women in the summer, when she had been here and the jet set had been in full residence—elegant, sophisticated beauties with model-like figures and dazzling smiles, all legs and teeth and glittering like Christmas trees with the amount of diamonds strewn about their persons. Women like his late wife, in fact.
'Come on, Claire.' Lorenzo, who had been a good few paces in front of them, turned at the door to his room and beckoned to her. 'I told Benito this morning that you were coming and he does not like to be kept waiting.'
She didn't doubt it, Claire thought wryly as she gratefully seized the excuse to finish her conversation with Romano, moving ahead of him as she hurried to Lorenzo's side. Benito was a formidable bird in every sense of the word, but for some reason he had taken to her from the instant his bright, beady eyes had met hers, nuzzling his head, with its wickedly hooked bill, against her fingers whenever she petted him and ruffling his exotic plumage in obvious pleasure at her presence.
It was clear the bird had heard Lorenzo speak her name the second she stepped into the room. His eyes had been fixed on the doorway and the moment he saw her he began to dance clumsily on his perch, screeching her name. 'Claire! Claire! Who's a clever bird, then? Nice old fellow. Nice old bird.' They were the words she had used to pet him in the summer, but she wished he had said something else, anything else, as she walked over to him. She could just sense Romano's satisfaction at his point being emphasised so adroitly.
'Hello, Benito. Who's a clever bird, then?' The big, compact body was as smooth as silk under her fingers as she stroked the beautiful feathers, his head immediately nuzzling into her hand as he continued to mutter his ecstasy at her presence.
'You are not frightened of this old villain?' Romano joined her, his words slightly disparaging, but as she glanced up at him, ready to defend the parrot's cause, she surprised a look of real affection on his face as he gazed at the bird, before he became aware of her glance and his expression became blank.
'Benito? Of course not, we're friends—aren't we, old fellow?' she said quietly, returning her eyes to the parrot, who glanced up at her cheekily before setting Romano in his sights.
'Romano…Claire, hmm?' It was said with an air of consideration that was terribly human, further underlined by the fact that the irascible old bird glanced from one to the other enquiringly, like a benevolent matchmaking uncle. 'Claire e Romano. Nice old fellows…'
'You are getting a little confused, Benito.' Romano's voice was quite without embarrassment, as though he had no idea what the bird was getting at—something Claire hoped fervently wasn't just good manners on his part. Her own face had turned a vivid and she was sure unattractive shade of crimson. 'Claire is not a fellow, nice or otherwise; she is a lady.'
'Lady, lady.' Benito was revelling in the attention he was getting; he liked nothing more than to show off to all and sundry. 'Frutta? Frutta?' he asked hopefully, never one to miss an opportunity to ask for food. 'Nice old bird,' he added for good measure, giving an imitation of a heartfelt human sigh as he finished speaking.
'Greedy old bird, more like.' Claire couldn't help laughing, in spite of her awkwardness, at the bird's roguish manner. She knew all the family were devoted to him—Grace especially crediting him with almost human powers and spoiling him outrageously—and she had to admit that the parrot's mischievous antics and wicked sense of humour were very endearing. But there were times, like a few moments ago, when he was too human for comfort.
'Claire, come and see the new games I had for Christmas for my computer.' Lorenzo saved the day again as he called to her across the room from where he was seated at his desk. 'There is a two-player one,' he added expectantly, augmenting the veiled request with an engaging grin.
'I will leave you to it.' Romano smiled that detached smile as he spoke, turning in the same instant, and as she stood for a moment, watching him leave the room, she found herself reflecting on the power in his male body before she realised what she was doing. A wave of fiery red burnt across her pale skin for the second time in as many minutes, but still the lithe, muscled body under the black silk shirt and casual but expensive black cotton trousers held her attention.
For goodness' sake, had she completely lost reason? she scolded herself as the door closed and she and Lorenzo were alone. She had never in all her life ogled a man, she had never even wanted to, and she certainly wasn't going to start now, and with Romano Bellini of all people. He was arrogant enough without her adding to his inflated ego.
Beside
s which—her mouth tightened as the little voice in her mind spoke with devastating honesty—she could just imagine his reaction to her body if he saw her partly undressed. Her hand made an involuntary protective movement over the flat surface of her stomach before Lorenzo's, 'Come on, Claire, it's all set up,' jerked her out of the brief fall into the black abyss all thoughts of her accident still produced.
Nevertheless, as she battled with Lorenzo for domination of the jungle, her Tyrannosaurus Rex versus his King Kong, her mind was only partly on the game.
It had all been so different before the accident, she thought painfully. She had been happy, confident, content in a job she loved and engaged to a man she was sure was the one and only. And then, in just a few moments of time, her whole life had changed irrevocably. She shut her eyes for a second as a stab of anguish made her heart thud.
It hadn't been her fault. Everyone—the police, her family, the witnesses at the scene—had said the young driver of the flashy sports car had shot out at the junction into the side of her estate car without any warning whatsoever, but the end result had been two grieving parents when he had died in surgery. She had spent weeks in hospital recovering from her own injuries, torturing herself with the terrifying realisation that the three children who had been in the car with her, whom she had been nannying at the time, could so easily have died. As it was, their injuries had been minor, necessitating just an overnight stay, but she could still hear their terror-stricken screams, the moans of the other driver in the tangled wreckage of his vehicle, and the sound of her own voice as she had tried to reassure the children whilst being unable to reach them, trapped as she was within the crumpled car.
She had replayed the incident continuously on the screen of her mind for months afterwards in a desperate effort to reassure herself that she had had no chance to avoid the other car, but still she was left feeling that if she had reacted more quickly, been more observant, a better driver, a young man, eighteen years of age, might not have been wiped out. It had emerged that the sports car had been a present for his eighteenth birthday the day before from over-indulgent and wealthy parents, and that at the time of the accident he hadn't even been wearing a seat belt…
'Claire?' Lorenzo's indignant voice told her she wasn't concentrating, and she made an effort to force her mind from the horrors of the past and into the present.
No one would have been able to prevent the tragedy, given the circumstances that had prevailed, had they been a veteran driver of fifty years' motoring or a young twenty-year-old, as she had been. She knew that, she knew it…in her head. Her heart was a different matter. Her heart still had to cope with the feelings of horror and remorse, even though the latter emotion wasn't even pertinent to the incident, according to everyone else. But she felt it. She felt it. And her fear and diffidence at being in charge of small precious human beings, who would trust her implicitly the way children do—that was inescapably real too.
The physical scars of the accident might only be faint silvery lines on her stomach, unseen by anyone but herself, but the mental disfiguration was something else, something she knew she had to triumph over, but as yet she was powerless to do so. Would the accident have affected her so adversely if Jeff hadn't deserted her at a time when she had needed him most? Well, she'd never know, would she…?
The death throes of her Tyrannosaurus and Lorenzo's exasperated sigh told her she hadn't been a worthy opponent, and after making her apologies she sat and watched the boy load another game, her mind still worrying at her last thought like a dog with a bone.
Jeff had only visited her in the hospital a handful of times, but, knowing his aversion to illness and disease in general and to hospitals in particular, she hadn't pressured him to come more often—although she had missed him unbearably, and visiting times had become something of a subtle torture as other patients were engulfed by their husbands or boyfriends. Her parents had visited every day, of course, and her brothers and her wide circle of friends had been marvellous. But somehow it hadn't been quite the same.
And then, when she had been in hospital eight weeks, and two days before she was due to come home, she had received the letter, every word of which was imprinted on her mind, on her very soul.
'Dear Claire…' The formality should have warned her of what was to follow. Before then his letters had always begun 'Darling' or 'My precious Claire'.
I don't know quite how to write this letter but I know I must. It wouldn't be fair to either of us if I didn't. This time apart has made me look at our relationship in a new way, has brought certain issues to the fore, if you know what I mean.
No, she hadn't, but she had read on anyway, with her heart pounding so violently it had made her feel sick.
I think it would be better if we had a break, Claire, for six months or so, became free agents again with no commitments. I feel I've tied you down too early and it's far better that we part now than at some time in the future, when we've got children and so on. Please keep the ring and I hope you can understand why I had to do this.
Goodbye. Jeff.
Oh, the hypocrisy of it. But, yes, she had understood then and she did now why he had done it. She was just amazed that she hadn't clicked on to the way his mind was working that first time he had visited her, when the expression on his face as he had looked at her had been one of horror and revulsion at her injuries compounded by a weird sort of panic and disgust.
She had wept, of course, helplessly, hopelessly, for most of the day, and then her eldest brother, Charlie, had come to visit her in the evening and the full truth had come out. It appeared Jeff had been seeing someone else for the last month, a leggy blonde he worked with who was a keep-fit fanatic like him and attended his gym.
'I got those sort of details after I'd hit him,' Charlie had told her, with a measure of satisfaction, 'and if I'm not mistaken he'll need to see a dentist to replace a couple of teeth—unless he picked them up off the pub floor, of course. I was just hoping you'd never have to know about her, sis.'
She had sent the ring back the next day.
'Ready, Claire?' Lorenzo's voice was very long suffering, and she grinned at him, thrusting the memories back under lock and key in that closed room in her mind.
'Ready—and I'm going to paste you this time.'
'You wish!'
She spent just over half an hour with Lorenzo before racing up to the room Anna had shown her to earlier. Her suitcases had been unpacked, her clothes put away in the massive walk-in wardrobe and her toiletries placed neatly in the en suite bathroom. It was a beautiful room—the whole house was beautiful, she reflected appreciatively. But she had no time now to gaze out over the sprawling gardens below from the balcony window. She needed to wash away the grime of the day, change into something suitable for dinner and be back downstairs for eight o'clock.
Grace had called by Lorenzo's sitting room ten minutes earlier to say that they were changing for dinner as it was something of an occasion-Claire's first night—that she wanted it to be special and that drinks before dinner would be ready at eight.
At the time it had been a crucial moment in the battle of the planets—she had been defending Earth against Lorenzo's war probes from Venus—but now she wished she had taken a moment or two to ask Grace how dressy it was going to be. Grace and Donato lived in a massive private wing of the house, which Donato had had built once he and Grace had become engaged, and although access was easy it wasn't quite the same as popping along the corridor to ask advice.
She eyed her clothes, hanging in somewhat meagre splendour at one end of the huge wardrobe, for some precious minutes before realising she couldn't hesitate any longer and quickly pulling the traditional life-saver, a little black dress, from one silk-embossed hanger, teaming it with a pair of elegant black satin court shoes.
After a hasty shower she towelled herself dry with the huge fluffy bath-sheet that smelt of flowers and summer days, and then, with the towel wrapped round he
r torso, walked through to the bedroom and sat down in front of the long, ornate dressing table.
Should she have her hair up or down? And what about earrings? Little crystal studs or the big gold hoops her parents had bought her for Christmas? And eyeshadow—green or blue? Which would look best? She caught herself abruptly, gazing at her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes with a little grimace of disgust.
Stop it,—stop it, Claire. The words were fierce in her head. He wouldn't look at you twice and you don't want him to. You don't. He was married to one stunningly beautiful woman for some years and it's clear he hasn't recovered from her death. If anyone is going to help him forget his pain it isn't a little nobody from England who on top of everything else is damaged goods.
The phrase bit into her consciousness, but it had been with her for the last four years—ever since the day she had read Jeff's letter, in fact. That same terrible evening in the hospital, once Charlie and her parents had left and she was alone, she had remembered Jeff saying the words some months earlier as they had watched a TV documentary on a cancer patient who was getting married after a series of skin grafts.
'How could he marry her?' Jeff had been genuinely amazed. 'I mean, she doesn't even look like the girl he once knew. He could have anyone. He doesn't have to have damaged goods.'
'That's awful, Jeff.' She had been horrified, and he had immediately covered his words with an explanation that had deceived her at the time—or maybe it hadn't, she amended painfully. Perhaps she had just believed what she'd wanted to believe, she'd loved him so much. It had taken the accident to show her that the man she had loved had never existed in the first place.
