Second Marriage

by Helen Brooks

  'Dead right,' she agreed sharply.

  'So. You are not looking for the good time, the brief Italian romance to carry home with you when you go back to England, sì? This is good. Now we both know where we stand, do we not?' It was said with that smooth assurance he was so good at, but there was the merest inflexion in the velvet voice that told her he wasn't quite so pleased as he seemed.

  So the dynamic Romano Bellini didn't like being told exactly how things were by a mere slip of an English girl he wouldn't normally look at twice? she thought perceptively, a warm glow of satisfaction making her lower her eyes quickly before it was reflected in her expression. Tough.

  'Shall we go?' She kept her face and voice bland as she raised her head and looked at him again, but then her eyes were caught and held by the magnetic power that was so completely natural and all the more lethal because of it.

  'But of course.' He rose with animal-like grace, and in spite of all her determination to remain cool and calm her heart thudded crazily as he walked over to her. 'Here, let me.'

  He took her jacket from her unresisting fingers and helped her in to it with an easy charm that was seductive in itself, turning her round with a light touch on her shoulders once she was ready and looking down at her with a strange expression softening the hard, handsome features.

  'I hope you will enjoy visiting my home, Claire,' he said quietly, all mockery and amusement gone from his face, 'and that our evening together will be an enjoyable one. You are a guest in Donato's home, but more than that you are a dear friend of Grace's, and as such I would like us, too, to be friends. You understand this?'

  She suddenly found she couldn't quite meet his eyes and didn't know what to say, but after a moment she forced herself to reply in as normal a tone as she could manage. 'I'm sure we will be friends, Romano,' she said brightly, half turning towards the door. 'Donato and Grace look on you as part of the family.'

  She had expected him to loosen his hold, but instead she found herself turned round again, and without quite knowing how it had happened she was looking up into his dark face, held within the circle of his arms. 'Sì, this is true,' he said softly, his ebony eyes with their thick black lashes hypnotic as they captured her golden-brown gaze. 'Perhaps I am not quite such a monster as you believe?'

  As his head lowered she stood quite still in his arms, and then his warm, firm lips had brushed hers in a fleet­ing kiss that was repeated on her forehead before he straightened, letting her go and turning away in the same movement.

  He was halfway across the room before her senses returned sufficiently for her legs to move, and then she followed him hastily, her head spinning and her nerves pounding. It was the Italian way, she told herself des­perately as he stopped and let her precede him through the doorway. Like his impeccable manners, his protec­tive and undeniably charming way with women, it was all part of the Latin culture that was so different from the English way of doing things. An Englishman would shake hands, Italians would kiss; it was just a social habit, nothing more.

  He had just made it perfectly clear he wanted them to be friends for the sake of harmony with Donato and Grace—he had spelt it out, in fact. The moment of ten­derness, the way he had made her feel for a split second, that was nothing, not really. She had to keep a grip on herself. She couldn't misconstrue a friendly gesture as something else just because it had affected her so deeply.

  No, it hadn't! As the thought struck she denied it harshly. Of course it hadn't. He just confused her, that was all, disturbed her. It was the different culture, the different way of doing things. That was all it—

  'Goodnight, Gina.' Romano's deep, dark voice brought her out of the maelstrom of panic in time for her to realise she had walked straight past the little maid without seeing her.

  'Oh, I'm sorry, Gina.' She turned with a warm smile, reaching out and touching the young woman's shoulder. 'I didn't see you there. I've promised Lorenzo I'll see to Benito when I get home, cover him up and so on, so don't worry about him, OK?' Lorenzo was spending the night with a friend, and as always Benito had been his prime concern before he had left the house.

  'Sì, signorina.' Gina looked relieved. The love-hate relationship between the maids and the indomitable par­rot provided much secret amusement for the others in the house. Benito was quite aware they were frightened of him and used the knowledge to his advantage un­mercifully.

  'You go to bed when you're ready, and tell Anna and Cecilia to do the same. Goodnight.'

  'Goodnight, signorina, signore.'

  As Gina opened the door for them and they stepped into the mild February night the air was cool and moist, and scented with the faint perfume of sleeping vegetation and lemon. It all seemed a million miles away from England, which only that day had been caught in the worst winter blizzards for years. The moon was sailing high in the black expanse above, the whispering dark­ness punctured by a myriad of stars glittering like dia­monds on a bed of velvet.

  'What a wonderful night sky.' She spoke without thinking, her face lifted upwards and her eyes half closed as the magic of the Italian night surrounded her, blan­keting her troubled mind for a few precious moments. 'It seems too beautiful to be real, doesn't it?' she said dreamily.

  'Far too beautiful,' Romano agreed softly, his gaze on the pure outline of her profile before he continued walk­ing to the red Ferrari, parked at the bottom of the steps, where he opened the passenger door for her to slide in­side.

  'This isn't the car you used to pick me up from the airport.' As she descended the steps she stared at the gleaming sports car as though it would bite her.

  'I have two.' His voice was very dry as he added, 'You do not like it?'

  'Oh, no, I like it,' she said hastily. 'It's very—' She stopped the word 'nice' just in time, sensing he would be mortally offended if she applied that particular de­scription to the elegant vehicle. 'Very impressive,' she finished weakly.

  'I like cars.' He gestured for her to slide in, which she did with more haste than panache, more than a little thrown by the predatory, prowling look of the vehicle, whose commanding lines and smooth arrogance seemed like an extension of the man himself. 'And this one is beautiful and eager to obey my slightest command— very much like the ideal woman, wouldn't you say?' he added silkily.

  Her head shot up as she prepared to do verbal battle, but she caught the gleam of wicked amusement in the dark eyes before he could hide it, and said instead, 'You missed "fast" out of your list of desirable attributes, didn't you? I would have thought that would feature highly on your list of priorities for…cars?'

  'Just so,' he drawled, with a wry intonation that told her that her point had been received and understood.

  As he slid in beside her Claire suddenly understood the sensual content of all the advertising for such cars. The thing was a metal aphrodisiac, she thought weakly, glancing sideways at him through her thick silky lashes.

  He drove slowly along the wide, curving drive sur­rounded on either side by the magnificent gardens burst­ing with tropical trees and shrubs, and once through the large wrought-iron gates waited a moment before pulling out onto the road beyond.

  Claire had fallen in love with Sorrento, situated high above the clear blue waters of the Bay of Naples, on her visit in the summer. The majesty of the scenic splendour, the fascinating Italian lanes and alleyways, the pretty piazzas and shops had captured her heart, but now the earthy southern charm of the town passed her by as she concentrated very hard on not letting her feelings show.

  Control, control… She repeated the word silently all the way to Romano's villa, willing herself to appear cool and collected as she returned his easy conversation with­out having any clear memory thereafter of what they had talked about.

  Grace had told her that the Bellini villa was situated in the Sant Agnello district of Sorrento, among the vast orange groves Romano's ancestors had planted hundreds of years before, which had been the crux of the Bellini fortune for many years. Now Romano, after
his father and grandfather before him, had diversified into many lucrative business interests, which virtually amounted to a small empire of which Romano was sole heir, his par­ents having died in a yachting accident when Romano was still a teenager.

  The full moon in the clear, tranquil sky lit up the night almost like day as the Ferrari approached the gates to the villa, and Claire found herself leaning forward ex­pectantly for her first glimpse of Romano's home. She didn't know quite what to expect—something along the lines of the magnificence of Casa Pontina, she sup­posed—but then they were through the gates and Romano brought the car to a standstill in the courtyard at the front of the house.

  'Oh, Romano…' The villa was quite different from Casa Pontina's imposing splendour, but in Claire's eyes was much more beautiful, being built more in the low, sprawling style of the old days than with Casa Pontina's regal formality. The noble old walls were painted in soft mellow cream, with trailing bougainvillaea and rich red ivy providing vibrant colour, and the leaded windows and black wrought-iron balconies gave the feel of a more tranquil and graceful time, long since gone.

  The Ferrari had nosed round a gently cascading stone fountain which stood in the middle of the courtyard, and Claire was enchanted to see a white dovecot, complete with resident doves, in one corner, which further en­hanced the air of timelessness. It was beautiful—beau­tiful, magical and utterly lovely. And for a moment she could hardly speak.

  'You like it?' But he had known she would like it, Romano told himself silently. That was why he had brought her here, wasn't it? To impress her, to let her know he was something more than the heartless philan­derer and ruthless businessman she had got him down as. But what was he?

  He stared for a moment at Claire's profile in the quiet of the car as she gazed at the house. He didn't know. He didn't know what he was any more, or just what he wanted for the future. But he knew it didn't include com­mitment or ties or ever again being responsible for some­one else. That had all finished one summer's day nearly three years ago.

  His thoughts moved him out of the car without wait­ing for Claire's reply, and as he opened the passenger door and helped her to alight he didn't smile, even when she said, 'Of course I like it, Romano. I should think it's got to be the most perfect place on earth.'

  'How you English like to exaggerate.' Now he did smile, but it was the cool, distant smile with which he had greeted her at the airport, the air of cold reserve very firmly in place.

  What had she said? Claire felt the rebuff register in her solar plexus even as a spurt of anger brought her chin high and made her voice firm. 'I don't think so.' She walked past him towards the front door, which was a work of art in itself, the fine old wood carved with hundreds of flowers and leaves, each one perfect in its detail.

  The atmosphere was tense as Claire stepped into the house, the interior of which matched the outside in its tranquil charm. The polished golden wood of the floor and plain white-painted walls were relieved by just one or two fine old paintings, pure Italian beauty at its best.

  'Come through to the sitting room.' He didn't attempt to touch her as he led her past the open winding staircase and into a long, beautifully furnished room that seemed to stretch the length of the house. One wall of it was mostly glass, with massive French windows in the mid­dle overlooking the carefully lighted garden beyond. 'What would you like to drink?' he asked, his voice in neutral. 'Wine, sherry, something stronger?'

  'Have I done something wrong, Romano? Offended you in some way?' she asked quietly.

  She hadn't intended to say it but somehow the words had just popped out, and now he stared at her for a long moment before he said, 'What makes you think that?'

  'You.' She didn't want to antagonise him. She was going to be in Italy for some time and their paths were going to cross more frequently than she would like, but she was blowed if she was going to endure an evening of treading on eggshells. 'You, actually,' she said bravely.

  'Claire—' He stopped abruptly, shaking his head slightly as he looked at her standing so small and defiant in front of him, her eyes wide and golden and trying to hide her apprehension, her mouth betraying the vulner­ability she was trying to conceal. 'I think it was a mis­take, my bringing you here tonight. It is not fair. I am not an easy man to be with. Since my wife died—' He broke off, indicating for her to be seated, and she obeyed without speaking. 'Since my wife died I have preferred to keep my life simple, uncluttered. I like it that way.'

  'And having someone for dinner makes it cluttered and complicated?' she asked tightly, hardly able to be­lieve what she was hearing.

  Damn it, she was right. What on earth was he thinking of? Romano asked himself savagely. She had made it quite clear that she wanted as little to do with him as possible—it had been he who had pressurised her into coming here. So what was he doing now? She didn't like him and that suited him fine, just fine, but the least he could do was make the evening enjoyable in the knowledge that it was a definite one-off. He just hadn't reckoned on how seeing her here, in his home, would affect him.

  'Scusi,' Suddenly, as though with the click of a switch, the charmingly remote, wry, arrogant individual was back, the cool, wealthy businessman with the world at his feet. 'You are quite right, Claire, please forgive me,' he said smoothly. 'And now, that drink? What would you like?'

  'Dry white wine, please.' She watched him as he poured the drinks, her face outwardly calm but her mind racing. She had told him she had no designs on him, hadn't she? And if that hadn't been a clear warning, stating hands off, she didn't know what was. How dared he? How dared he presume she was interested in him and warn her off in that way?

  Cool and uninterested, Claire, cool and uninterested. Her earlier resolution returned tenfold, and she forced the hurt and indignation into a recess of her mind to examine later when she was alone, determined she wouldn't allow him to get under her skin. He might be wealthy and powerful, with film star good looks and the sort of home that could have come straight off the pages of a Hollywood magazine, but he was everything she despised in a man: a cold, conceited egotist who thought he was God's gift to womankind. She pitied his late wife, she really did. It must have been hell to live with him—

  'Will you excuse me a moment while I see to the dinner?' As his voice cut into her thoughts she suddenly realised he was standing in front of her holding the glass of wine, and she almost knocked it out of his hand in her haste to take it.

  'The dinner?' She stared at him vacantly. He was see­ing to the dinner? But what about the cook…? 'Yes, of course. But isn't there someone…?' Her voice trailed away uncertainly.

  To cook and serve for me?' he asked quietly, a thread of something dark in his voice now. 'No, I am afraid you are quite alone here, Claire. There is no one to chap­eron you.'

  It wasn't what she had meant, but in view of their earlier conversation she didn't mind at all if he put that interpretation on her words.

  'We had a succession of housekeepers and maids when my wife was alive,' he said flatly, 'none of whom lasted more than a few months. My wife was…difficult to please in that department. She tended to compare everyone with the excellent staff at Casa Pontina and find them wanting, and once she had died I really didn't feel like going through it all again. It seemed far simpler to look after myself, with the help of a lady in Sorrento who comes in to clean and launder for a few hours every other day.'

  'I see.' She stared at him in astonishment. 'So you can cook, then?' This didn't quite fit the image somehow.

  'Perhaps you had better be the judge of that once you have eaten?' he parried smoothly.

  'Yes, right…'

  Dinner turned out to be excellent. The soup, risi e bisi, was home-made Romano assured her with a glitter in his dark eyes when she said how delicious it was. The mixture of rice and new peas cooked with onion, ham and butter in chicken stock and eaten with a fork could have been a meal in itself. The lobster that followed was cooked to perfection and melted in the mouth, t
he ac­companying vegetables were succulent and tasty, and the arance caramellata—caramel oranges—another home­made work of art.

  OK, so he could cook, Claire thought with a slight touch of despair, the two enormous glasses of flowery white wine she had consumed along with the meal mak­ing her head swim slightly as she looked into the dark, handsome face opposite her. So what? It should be com­pulsory for men anyway!

  'Coffee?' Romano's voice was deep and soft and did something indescribable to her hormones. 'Or perhaps you would prefer a glass of grappa?'

  'No, thank you, just coffee.' Donato always had grappa served at the end of a meal—a spirit distilled from grapeskins made in Bassano which was alleged to help digestion—but, like Grace, she didn't care for it. 'And that was a lovely meal, Romano. I have to say you are a very good cook.'

  'Thank you.' He bowed his head slightly and then his mouth twisted in a crooked smile as he said, 'And you did not like having to say it, did you? It slightly spoils the neat little picture you have tucked away in your brainbox, that of male chauvinist pig, eh? But you will find many Italian men know how to cook, Claire, I am not unique.'

  You aren't far off, she thought glumly as she smiled carefully and hoped he didn't realise she was very slightly tipsy.

  He had kept refilling her glass every few minutes throughout the long, leisurely meal, keeping her enter­tained with amusing light stories that didn't betray for one moment anything of the man beneath the outward shell, and she had drunk far more than she realised. Not enough to betray any intoxication, but just enough to feel slightly mellow and relaxed. And she couldn't afford to feel relaxed around Romano; she needed to keep her wits sharp and her head clear.

  'We will have coffee in the sitting room.' He moved her chair back as he spoke so she was forced to rise and accompany him to the room she had first seen, to leave the more formal splendour of the dining room where she had felt things were under control, sitting as they had been on either side of the large polished dining table with plenty of hard wood between them.