A flurry of introductions followed, under cover of which Stephanie hastily revised her notions of what the term “widow” meant, as it applied to their hostess. Signora Russo’s white strapless sundress showed off an extraordinary amount of skin, all of it so evenly tanned that she might have been dipped in molten gold. Add to that, gleaming black hair swinging around her perfect shoulders, exotic topaz eyes, a wide, dazzling smile, and long, shapely legs, and the result was so far removed from the stereotypical drab Italian widow that it was laughable.
Or perhaps not, Stephanie thought with a stab of dismay, unobtrusively scrutinizing Corinna as she ushered everyone to the terrace. This stunning, sophisticated, fortyish widow also happened to be Matteo’s employer and very close neighbor.
As if allowing him entry to her thoughts was all it took to conjure him up in the flesh, a tall—and to Stephanie at least—instantly recognizable figure materialized from inside the villa. and strolled across the terrace to greet them. Well, so much for looking the other way when she’d passed his cottage!
“Buon giorno!” he said, seeming so entirely comfortable in the role of host that Stephanie was instantly suspicious.
Looking good enough to eat in khaki shorts and an open-necked short-sleeved blue shirt, he bent to kiss her grandmother’s cheek. “It’s been too long since I did that, Signora Anna,” he murmured, before turning to shake Stephanie’s grandfather’s hand. “Signor Brandon, what a pleasure to find you looking so well.”
“I see no introductions are necessary here,” Corinna cooed, altogether too fondly for Stephanie’s liking. “It has been many years perhaps since you were last together with Matteo, but I’m sure you will agree with me that he is an unforgettable acquaintance.”
Acquaintance, my left foot! Stephanie thought savagely, noting the easy intimacy with which Corinna slipped her arm through Matteo’s and leaned against him.
What was it he’d said last night? Just because a man is single and chooses to live alone doesn’t mean he’s without companionship…. Well, if she hadn’t figured out what he meant at the time, she was certainly getting the message loud and clear now!
Unaware of his sister’s turmoil, Drew nodded amiably. “Nice to see you again, Matt.”
“De Luca.” Although he offered Matteo his hand, Stephanie’s father wrinkled his nose, as if he’d just been presented with a fillet of very stale fish.
Ever the carbon copy of his father, Victor shook hands also. “Hardly expected to find you here, De Luca,” he said, sounding so absurdly pompous that Stephanie would have laughed aloud if she hadn’t been so mortified. “Wouldn’t have thought it was your kind of party.”
“Well, you know what we Italian peasants are like,” Matteo drawled, giving a beaming Simon a high-five. “Any chance for a free meal, and we’re the first in line.”
Stephanie could have smacked him for provoking Victor to more insults, but Corinna seemed to find Matteo’s reply highly entertaining. Nudging him with one bare, sun-kissed shoulder, she chirped, “Caro, you are such a tease! Behave and be a good host. It’ll be a few minutes yet before Baptiste serves lunch, but a glass of wine would sit well in the meantime, sì?”
He bathed her in a slow, appreciative smile. “Sì.”
He’d smiled at Stephanie just the same way last night—as if she were the only woman in the world, when clearly she was but one of many, and she swung her gaze aside now, unable to stomach the scene unfolding before her.
“Pour for us, then, won’t you?” Corinna crooned winsomely.
From the corner of her eye, Stephanie watched as, with the alacrity of a well-trained dog, Matteo leaped to do the widow’s bidding. She, meanwhile, settled on a chaise longue and beckoned to Simon. To Stephanie’s utter disgust, he went willingly, and curled up next to her when Corinna made room for him on the chaise.
“So, my handsome young friend,” she purred, idly stroking the hair from his forehead, “I think perhaps you’re a little young for wine, but Matteo tells me you enjoy limonata—lemonade, you call it in Canada, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And in such hot weather, you would like a glass now?”
“Yes,” Simon said again, then before his grandfather could cut in with a sharp reminder, quickly added, “Please.”
Sidling up to where Stephanie remained standing at the edge of the terrace with Drew, Victor inquired in a low voice, “How the devil does De Luca know what Simon likes?”
Clearly out of patience, Drew rolled his eyes. “Probably because, like me, he’s yet to meet a kid who doesn’t like lemonade. For crying out loud, Victor, stop being so almighty stiff-necked, and try giving someone the benefit of the doubt, for a change!”
After delivering that salvo of unsolicited advice, he left Stephanie to deal with the repercussions, and went to help Matteo, who was uncorking bottles of wine at an outdoor bar.
“I don’t buy his line of reasoning for a minute,” Victor said, staring after him. “But then, Drew’s never been much of a judge of character. Take it from me, Stephanie, De Luca’s a pushy opportunist, and you’d be doing yourself and that boy a favor if you were a bit more selective about the company you keep.”
He continued droning on at some length, but Stephanie barely heard a word. Instead, she stood frozen at the edge of the terrace as Corinna smiled and, cupping Simon’s cheek, tipped his face up to hers and studied it closely.
Finally, after several long seconds, she murmured thoughtfully, “So biondo, yet somehow so…familiare…. What is it about you, my sweet Simon Matthew, that leaves me feeling we have met before?”
At that, Stephanie’s blood ran cold. She hadn’t a clue what biondo meant, but familiare needed no translation, and she’d have had to be brain dead not to recognize that, although she had searched for a resemblance between Simon and Matteo and been certain she’d seen none, Corinna had unwittingly found something.
Oh, the woman had no idea the trouble she could stir up by poking her elegant nose into matters which were none of her concern!
Mind your own business, please! Stephanie tried telegraphing. But Corinna’s glance shifted to Matteo, and lingered on him speculatively as he and Drew loaded a tray with long-stemmed glasses.
Stephanie tensed, appalled at what might happen next. But, shaking her head so that her glossy hair shimmied about her shoulders in sultry waves, Corinna turned her attention back to Simon and said only, “Here comes your uncle with your limonata, mio bello ragazzo—my beautiful boy! When you have drunk it, go sit by the fishpond, if you like, or visit my bird and butterfly garden down there beyond Guido’s cage. I feel you growing restless here, keeping company with a woman so much older and duller than you are.”
Older and duller? In a pig’s eye! Stephanie thought numbly. Corinna gave even the incomparable Sophia Loren a run for her money!
As for the suave, sophisticated Matteo, he’d certainly come a long way from his humble beginnings. Little remained of the quarry worker she’d known, except for his simmering sex appeal, and even that had undergone subtle change. He exercised it now with a finesse which made it all the more tantalizing.
Had Corinna been his tutor?
Simon, meanwhile, seeming as glad to escape as Stephanie was to see him leave, slid off the chaise and ran off to explore the gardens. At once, Corinna became the gracious hostess again and, as Matteo began handing out glasses, said, “We are serving you Biancolella, one of our fine local white wines. We hope you enjoy it.”
We are serving…we hope you enjoy…! Floored by the surge of jealousy unleashing its poison into her bloodstream, Stephanie accepted a glass of wine from Drew, and sank into a chair on the fringe of the crowd.
Why didn’t Corinna just stick a Sold sign on Matteo’s forehead, and have done with it? she wondered, sick to the stomach as she watched the woman incline her dark, glossy head to his, and lay a possessive hand against his chest. Why bother perpetuating the myth that he lived in the gardener’s cottage, when Stephanie would
have bet money on it that he spent most nights in the widow’s bed?
“There’s something unpleasant in your glass, Stephanie? A fly, perhaps?”
Buried in her own private world of misery, she didn’t realize Matteo had approached until he spoke. “No,” she said, realizing he’d positioned himself so that his body acted as privacy screen between her and the rest of the party. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“Because of the disapproving expression on your face. Do you not care for the wine?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t tasted it yet.”
“Why not? Are you afraid it might soften your mood? Make you look more kindly on the world in general, and me in particular?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing wrong with my mood.”
“Try again, cara,” he said softly. “The perma-pout is impossible to miss and suits you no better than that outfit you’re wearing.” He stepped closer, and had the audacity to brace his calf against her, just below where the hem of her dress ended. “What exactly have I done, that has you looking as if you’d like to see me hanging by the neck from the nearest tree?”
The texture of his warm, hair-roughened skin against her bare knees stole her breath away. She wanted to let her legs fall apart until he was touching her inner thighs, and no sooner had such a shocking thought taken shape than her body responded with a ripple of longing. Oh, he was bad for her!
“The fact that you’re taking unpardonable liberties, for a start!” she said weakly. “Remove your leg at once.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. It’s attached to the rest of me.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean, Matteo,” she said, with a fraction more starch. “Stop behaving like a naughty child.”
“Stop behaving like a Victorian governess.” His gaze caressed her face, slid down her throat. “Did you think that, by dressing as you have, I would forget what lies underneath all that concealing fabric?’
“This might come as a shock, Matteo, but you actually had nothing to do with my choice of clothing. I had no idea you were going to be here today.”
“Yet here I am, anyway, and you can’t ignore the fact, no matter how much you try.” He pressed a little closer until the length of his shin was aligned against hers. “Shall I tell you what I want to do with your virginal little dress?”
“No,” she said, fighting to quell the hot flash of sensation he’d sent streaking through her body.
“I want to undo each of its prim little buttons until it falls open to reveal your beautiful breasts. I want to lift its skirt, bury my fingers in your warm, soft flesh, and stroke you until you whimper against my mouth and beg me to make love to you.”
He was already making love to her! She was quivering all over with anticipation, and she was afraid to stand up because she was sure the rush of heat between her legs would leave its damp imprint on her skirt for everyone to see!
“Stop it!” she begged. “What if the others hear you?”
“They won’t. Look at them. They’ve forgotten we’re here.”
He angled his body in such a way that she could see Corinna holding court. Your grandfather’s quite smitten, Stephanie remembered her grandmother saying, and it was pretty clear he wasn’t the only one. Her father was hanging on the widow’s every word, and Victor was just about drooling. Even Drew had fallen under her spell.
“Just as well nobody’s paying any mind to us,” Stephanie said with a hard-won attempt at indifference. “I don’t imagine your…girlfriend would care to know you’re trying to seduce another woman on her turf.”
Matteo stepped back, just enough to leave her knees so bereft of his warmth that a shiver stole over her. “I don’t much like your choice of words,” he stated coolly. “Corinna would be the first to admit she is long past the age where anyone could mistake her for a girl. But she is a lady, she is very much my friend, and I demand that you respect that. If you are jealous of her—and it would appear from your vitriolic tone that you are—it must be because she is such a generous and accomplished hostess who would never dream of belittling a guest in the way that you seem determined to belittle her.”
Smarting, Stephanie said, “You’re in no position to demand anything of me, Matteo. And just for the record, I am not jealous of Signora Russo. Frankly, I don’t care how you define your relationship with her. Call her whatever you like. But a person would have to be blind not to see that she acts as if she owns you!”
“Perhaps she does,” he said enigmatically. “The question is, why do you care?”
“Because I hoped you aspired to be something more than a rich woman’s resident gigolo!”
The blood drained from his face and, aghast at what she’d said, at the venom and insult which had tripped so glibly from her lips, she clapped a hand to her mouth.
What in the world had possessed her?
She raised her eyes to meet his, mutely begging for forgiveness. But, unmoved by her consternation, he stepped even farther back and pierced her with a look so loaded with disgust that she withered inside.
She wanted to apologize, to tell him she’d spoken without thought and didn’t mean a word she’d uttered. But as though sensing her intent, he forestalled her. “Enough!” he said with deadly, controlled emphasis. “You have said enough!”
The chill he left behind, as he stalked back to the rest of the group, invaded Stephanie from head to toe. Feeling positively ill, she staggered to her feet and went in the opposite direction, toward the steps, desperate to escape before anyone noticed. She couldn’t possibly face Matteo or Corinna with any sort of equanimity—not then, and perhaps not ever.
Shading her eyes, she stared down at the pool, at the dizzying panorama of lawn and flowers, of sea and sky. Where was Simon? She could not, dare not, leave without him.
A narrow, elegant hand closed over her arm. “Your little boy is safe, Stephanie,” Corinna said. “He cannot wander far. Come sit with me, and let us get to know one another a little.”
“I’d rather…I don’t think…!” Dangerously close to tears, Stephanie stopped, pressed her fingers to her lips, and took a deep breath before trying again. “I don’t think I can relax until I find him.”
“Then we will go searching together.”
“No, please!” She couldn’t look at the other woman, couldn’t bear the kindness and warmth she heard in her voice. “I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from your other guests.”
“But you are my guest, also, and are, it would appear, distressed. And that, in turn, distresses me.”
“I’m just a little…on edge. The cliff is very steep, and Simon isn’t used to—”
“Enough,” Corinna said—the very same word Matteo had used, but spoken with such a wealth of compassion that Stephanie was filled with new shame. “First, we look for your son, then you and I will sit quietly and enjoy another glass of wine together, and leave the others to keep an eye on Simon until lunch is served. Come, cara. The butterfly garden is this way, and that’s undoubtedly where we will find him.”
She led the way down the steps and past Guido’s cage. “Ciao! E sposato?” the parrot inquired coyly.
“We are neither of us married anymore,” Corinna observed, directing Stephanie through a gap in the hedge next to the cage. “We are both alone, which gives us much in common, Stephanie. But unlike me, you have your son.” Corinna lifted her shoulders in a regretful shrug. “Alas, my husband was not able to give me a child.”
Mine, either! Stephanie thought, a pang of guilty fear slicing through her. If Corinna discovered that the boy she was helping to find was really Matteo’s son, would she keep the secret, or would loyalty to Matteo compel her to share the news with him?
As though divining something of Stephanie’s thoughts, Corinna said, “You met Matteo when he came to Canada, and yet you did not remain in contact with him. Did you not consider him your friend, Stephanie?”
“We knew each other for only a v
ery short time—hardly long enough to form a friendship.”
“Then you missed a rare opportunity. I cannot conceive of life without his friendship. He has been such a source of comfort and strength to me in the years since I lost my husband.”
No doubt! Stephanie glanced across a swath of emerald lawn to where the car Matteo had driven the night before stood outside an open garage. “When did your husband die?”
“Eight years ago,” Corinna said, following her gaze. “Do you see your son up there? If so, he misunderstood my directions.”
“No, I was admiring the car,” she said. “Is it yours?”
“Yes. If you would like to drive it while you are here—”
So he used her car! And what else? “No, thank you.” She shied away from the offer as if Corinna had suggested she swim with man-eating sharks. “I wouldn’t be comfortable driving in such unfamiliar territory.”
The widow laughed and led the way through another opening in the elaborately carved hedge. “I understand! Our traffic on Ischia is a little matto—crazy, as you’d say in English. Look, there is your son, exactly where I expected we’d find him.”
They’d entered an enclosed garden alive with movement and birdsong. Butterflies hovered in the lavender-scented air, and flitted among a profusion of bright flowers. Simon crouched on the pedestal of a stone birdbath, half dozing in the sunshine.
“I should have made him wear a hat,” Stephanie said, worriedly. “He’s not used to such heat.”
“You’re lucky that he tans quickly and doesn’t burn,” Corinna remarked, as he ran over to join them. “He could pass for an Italian with such skin.”
In many other ways, too, if truth be known! And Corinna, with her sharp eye, seemed the kind to notice details someone less observant might miss, which was reason enough for Stephanie to avoid her in the future. She’d worked too hard protecting her son’s true paternity, to allow a passing stranger to uncover it.
“It’s good that we found you,” the widow teased, catching Simon by the hand. “Your poor mama was worried that you’d fallen into the sea. Are you hungry, signor?”
The Italian's Secret Child Page 6
