The way you made Marcia’s? Eve wondered. Because the luxury evident throughout the villa, the sublime Mediterranean setting, the stunning good looks and simmering sensuality of the man seated opposite her—not to mention the charm he could turn on at will—exactly suited Marcia’s exotic tastes. Which could only mean that there had to have been something seriously amiss in the marriage, not only for Marcia to walk away from it in the first place, but for her to so adamantly refuse ever to come back or to face Gabriel again.
“I rather doubt anyone could make you miserable without your consent,” she said, breaking open a roll and buttering it. “You strike me as being quite…invincible.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to talk me out of taking you sightseeing later on?”
“Would it do me any good to try?”
“Not in the least,” he said, laughter brimming in his voice. “It’s exactly as you suspect: I’m used to having things my way.”
And therein, perhaps, lay the answer to why the marriage had gone wrong, because Marcia was obstinate as a mule. “Neither you nor my cousin seems to understand the concept of compromise,” she observed. “And I don’t mind telling you, just how your hard-nosed attitude will ultimately affect Nicola frightens me.”
His fingers brushed against hers and grew still. “Don’t be afraid, Eve,” he said gently. “We’re on the same side in this. We both want what’s best for my daughter.”
She found herself reacting oddly to his touch, with part of her yearning toward his warmth and strength, and another part shrinking from the subtle danger of him. He could say what he liked, but it was what he didn’t say that troubled her the most. He wasn’t nearly as guileless as he’d like her to believe, and for reasons based on nothing but instinct, she couldn’t shake the feeling that if she didn’t keep him at arm’s length, she’d end up becoming his victim.
“If that’s true,” she replied, “then you’ll agree it would be best if I stayed home with her today. She’s had a very rough week of it since she arrived here, and I’d feel better if I were around to keep an eye on her.”
He’d decided on the Lamborghini, believing that her seeing the sights from the comfort and vantage point of a convertible would coax her into forgiving him for having dragged her out against her will, and insisting they leave the baby with Beryl.
He should have known better. Stiff with resentment, she sat poker straight, her hands clenched in her lap, her eyes focused directly ahead, even though the city bastions rose up on her right, impressive enough in their age and magnificent engineering grandeur to stop most tourists dead in their tracks.
Already, she’d seen St. John’s Cathedral, the harbor, the Grand Master’s Palace and the City Gate Bridge, and responded with much the same stony indifference she showed now. No doubt about it: she was sulking!
Undeterred, he continued his running commentary, but admitted to himself that he was beginning to revise his plan of attack. Slow seduction just might not work with a woman like her. She was too disciplined; too sensible. Sweeping her off her feet, quickly before she had time to talk herself out of it, offered a greater chance of success.
“Valletta’s known by a number of other names,” he recited, swerving the car to avoid a street vendor escaping the heat by pushing his cartload of fruit into the shade of the city walls. “Citta` Umilissima, a gentleman’s city, the Fortress City, to name but a few.”
“Really,” she said, without a flicker of expression. “How interesting.”
Certamente! About as interesting as watching paint dry! Frustrated, he swung a sideways glance at her. Before they’d left the villa, she’d changed from the fetching lemon sundress she’d worn at breakfast into a modest flowered skirt which came midway down her calf, and a white cotton blouse. With her hair secured in a long scarf whose ends fluttered behind her like the tails of a kite, and big round sunglasses covering her eyes, she could, if she’d shown an iota of animation, have passed for another Audrey Hepburn. Instead she better resembled a frozen-faced Greta Garbo.
“The so-called ‘modern’ version of the city was built by the Knights of St. John,” he continued doggedly, dragging his attention back to the road. “The architecture, as you’ve no doubt noticed, is primarily baroque, although there’s ample evidence of a much earlier period. It’s said that the islands are one big open-air museum dating back seven thousand years.”
“Fascinating,” she said, which was an outright lie because she was steadfastly refusing to take in a word he said.
“Si. Molto affascinante!” He grimaced. “Almost as fascinating as the fact that I keep all my other ex-wives chained up in the cellar. Your cousin is the only one to have escaped which, of course, explains her eagerness to have you come here in her stead.”
“I see.”
“You’ll probably be next. I’ve never been able to resist blond American women.”
She swung her head to face him, her attention caught at last. “What did you say?”
“Trovaro bionde Americane irresistibile.”
“I don’t understand Italian.”
“Nor English, it would seem.” He reached across and removed her sunglasses, which startled her into looking him in the face. “Look, I know you’re ticked off because we didn’t bring Nicola along, but what was the point when, as you yourself said, she’s suffered enough upheaval lately? She’ll be perfectly safe with Beryl.”
“Beryl doesn’t know her routine.”
“Nor do you, if what you’ve told me is true. You met her for the first time little more than a week ago.”
“At least I’m used to babies. But Beryl—”
“Will let us know if a problem arises.” He patted her knee lightly. “There’s such a thing as telephones, cara mia, and unlike Marcia, Beryl knows how to use one.”
If he’d touched her with a cattle prod, she couldn’t have reacted more violently. Snapping her knees together, she sent him a scorching glare. “Do you mind!”
“Per carita, will you loosen up? I’m trying to show you a good time, not seduce you in full view of every Dick, Tom and Harry who happens to be looking our way.”
“It’s Tom, Dick and Harry. If you’re going to use colloquialisms, get them right.”
“Si, Signorina! Whatever you say, signorina! Either way, your virtue’s safe—” he let his gaze drift over her, and deliberately dropped his voice to a husky murmur “—al meno al momento.”
At least for the moment, la mia bella!
“What did you say?”
“The menu,” he improvised, not about to translate, and gave her the benefit of his most ingenuous smile. “How is it you say it in English—what shall we put on our lunch menu?”
She regarded him with all the suspicion of a woman confronting a scorpion. “I don’t believe that was it, at all— and I don’t trust you.”
“Che peccato! I am crushed!” He shrugged and swung the car down an alley so narrow, neighbors on either side could have leaned out of their windows and shaken hands with one another.
“You car’s likely to be crushed, too, if we meet another vehicle. Slow down, for heaven’s sake!”
“It’s a one-way thoroughfare, cara. We’re perfectly safe.” He shifted gears, zoomed through an ancient gateway leading to a shady piazza and parked in the shadow of the bastion walls. “Do you like Sicilian food?”
“I don’t know that I’ve ever tried it.”
“Then you’re in for a treat.” He helped her from the car and, cupping her elbow, led her across the piazza to where four tables were set out under dark green umbrellas. “I’ve been coming to this trattoria for years. It’s one of the smallest on the island, and arguably one of the best.”
She slid into the chair he held out for her, unwound the scarf from her head, and combed her fingers through her hair. “In that case, I’ll let you order for me.”
“Buono!” He nodded to the waiter approaching their table. “Ciao, Gismondo! Come sta?”
“B
ene, grazie, Signor Brabanti.” He nodded at Eve, including her in his reply. “E lei?”
“We’re ready for one of your excellent lunches—something special for my guest. This is her first experience with authentic Sicilian food. Cosa raccomanda lei?”
“Seppia e linguine, fresca stamani.” He joined thumb to forefinger and kissed them exuberantly. “Di prima qualitya`!”
“He recommends the cuttlefish, caught fresh this morning,” Gabriel translated for Eve. “It’s served in its own black sauce, with pasta. Think you can handle it?”
“I’ll try anything once.”
He grinned. She was an uptight pain in the neck much of the time, he wasn’t sure he trusted her any more than she trusted him, but he found himself liking her anyway. “Good for you. We’ll end up friends yet.”
He turned back to the waiter, ordered the cuttlefish, with caponata to start, and a carafe of Sicilian Pinot Bianco.
“What’s caponata?” she wanted to know, the minute the wine was poured and they were alone. “Something to do with the Mafia?”
For a moment, he stared at her speechless, at a complete loss to make the connection between organized crime, and aubergine salad. Finally recovering, he said, “Have you had too much sun?”
“No,” she muttered, looking embarrassed and wriggling around in her chair in a way that he found far too distracting, “but you have to admit, it sounds a bit like Capone— you know, Al…Capone….”
“You think the chef here is serving him marinated, as an appetizer?”
“Of course not!” She blushed delicately, something else he found altogether too pleasant a diversion. “Stop making fun of me.”
“I should take you seriously?”
“You forget, I come from Chicago. I cut my teeth on stories of the lawless gangsters who overran the city during Prohibition. Now, here I am in a country with strong ties to Sicily, the home of the Mafia, eating at a restaurant specializing in Sicilian food, and about to sample caponata…”
Bemused, he inspected the contents of his glass. “Cara,” he said, “you have the wildest imagination of any woman I’ve ever met—and no wonder, if gangland exploits made up your childhood reading material. Remind me to supply you with something more suitable, just in case you decide to entertain my daughter with a bedtime story.”
“She’s a bit too young for that.”
“For which I find myself rather grateful!” He toasted her with his glass. “Salute!”
“Cheers.”
“The wine meets with your approval?”
“It’s perfect,” she said, taking a sip. “Very light and refreshing.”
“Goes well with gangster antipasti, too.”
She made a face. “I’m glad you find me so entertaining.”
“Actually,” he said, deciding she’d given him the opening he needed to pursue his investigation of her more thoroughly, “I find you utterly intriguing. I’d never have guessed you and Marcia were cousins. You’re nothing alike. Do you get along well?”
“Yes,” she replied. “But only because we don’t spend much time together. A day or two in each other’s company is about all we can stand before we start bickering. Give us a week together, and we’d be tearing each other limb from limb.”
“Why is that?”
Her glance slid sideways, and she took another slow sip of wine to give herself time to come up with an appropriate answer. “We don’t see eye to eye on…life.”
“In what way?”
“Well, you were married to her, and you’ve just spent the morning with me. I’d have thought the differences between us would be pretty apparent.”
“On the surface, you’re less flamboyant than she is.”
“She’s prettier, you mean.” She shrugged. “It’s okay, you can come out and say it. It’s something I’ve known all my life.”
Then you’ve been sadly misinformed, he thought. At first glance, Marcia was more striking, more vivid in every way—until a man became aware of the avarice in her rather beady eyes so artfully disguised with makeup, and realized that the full curve of her lower lip sprang less from sensuality than sullenness. At forty, she’d look exactly like what she really was: an overblown, discontented virago, long past her best.
Eve’s features, on the other hand, possessed a refinement which age would never steal. Her delicate jaw and high cheekbones alone redeemed her from plainness. Her eyes, large and long-lashed, reflected a compassionate and gentle spirit. As for her mouth…he looked away, disturbed to discover how very kissable he found her mouth.
Of course, in time he did plan to kiss her, but becoming enamored of doing so was not part of his plan. “It has nothing to do with looks,” he said, topping up her glass. “She is less inhibited, less cool and distant. You I find to be very…repressed.”
Sampling the wine seemed to give her the courage to speak her mind. “That’s because I’m very uncomfortable around you,” she said, raising her eyes to meet his.
“Why is that?”
Another wave of color washed over her face, deeper than the last. “Never mind.”
“Ah,” he said, knowing very well why. “You are referring to being caught spying on me from your balcony, this morning.”
She lifted her chin and speared him with a lofty glance. “I wasn’t spying.” She paused just long enough to bury a hiccup. “But I’d appreciate it if, in future, you wouldn’t… flaunt yourself so blatantly.”
“Consider me thoroughly chastised,” he said, keeping a straight face with difficulty. “It won’t happen again. In future when I feel the need for exercise, I’ll swim in the pool.”
“You have a pool?”
“Not the kind you’re used to. The shoreline on the south side of the property has a natural rock basin which I’ve modified to accommodate a saltwater pool.”
“Then why don’t you use it?”
“Because I enjoy the open sea. I can cover more distance and enjoy the challenge of swimming against the current. But the only place that gives easy access is the beach below your windows.”
“Well, please don’t feel you have to give that up because I’m staying here. Just be more…circumspect.”
“I could do that, Eve,” he said wryly. “Or you could agree not to look.”
She set her glass down on the table with a thump. “Since we’re obviously not going to agree on the subject, can we please talk about something else?”
“Of course. Let’s go back to Marcia and why you don’t see eye to eye on life. What, in particular, do you disagree on?”
“Becoming involved with one man while she’s carrying another man’s baby, for a start!”
“Exactly when did the new husband come on the scene,” he asked, doing his damnedest not to appear too interested.
“I can’t say for sure.” She wrinkled her brow in thought and pursed her delicious mouth. “I guess I first heard about him just before Nicola was born. I think the fact that I was so critical of the whole arrangement is one reason she didn’t invite me to the wedding, or let me know about the birth until Nicola was nearly a month old.”
“You, too?” He couldn’t quite contain his surprise at that. “Didn’t it strike you as odd that she’d wait so long to let her family know she’d had a baby?”
“Well, you know Marcia,” she said, dipping into her wine again. “Once she goes off into one of her sulks, it takes a while for her to come out again.”
“Oh, yes! I lived through enough of those to last me a lifetime. But I wonder if, in this instance, her actions had more to do with resentment that she was pregnant in the first place. It’s not easy to make a fresh start with someone new if you’re dragging along a lot of old baggage from a previous relationship.” He leaned back and regarded her thoughtfully. “How would you describe her attitude to Nicola? Would you call her a devoted mother?”
Eve stared at him, and he thought she looked a little glassy-eyed. A long way from drunk, certainly, since she’d had little mo
re than one glass of wine, but that was just enough to make her less cautious in what she said.
“Well, yes! Very devoted. She even initiated a day-care nursery at the agency so that she can keep Nicola close while she’s working.”
“Very commendable of her, I’m sure! And how does the new husband deal with all of this?”
“He seems very accepting of the fact that, in marrying her, he took on an instant family.” She frowned again. “Although, now that I come to think about it, he wasn’t very keen on you going to New York.”
“He probably didn’t like the idea of his predecessor showing up at the front door.”
“Probably not,” she said, giving him a frank once-over. “I imagine most men would find you a very tough act to follow.”
He laughed. “Did you just give me a compliment, signorina?”
“Don’t let it go to your head! All I meant is, you’re successful, and he’s not—at least, not yet. But that doesn’t make him any less of a man.”
Genuinely curious, Gabriel asked, “What, in your opinion, does it take for a man to measure up?”
“Certainly not how much money he makes or how much power he wields,” she said without hesitation.
“Then what?”
“His capacity to love. His kindness, his loyalty, his inner strength. His willingness to share all of himself with a woman. Being brave enough and big enough to let her know when he’s hurting or afraid.”
“Most men find that difficult. It goes against the grain for us to admit to weakness.”
“I don’t see it as weak. I think it takes enormous courage to acknowledge you’re not always in charge, that you can’t wrestle every circumstance to suit your ends.”
Her answer disturbed him more than he cared to admit. She’d identified aspects of his own character which he couldn’t deny. He did hold his emotions in check. Did find it difficult to share his innermost thoughts.
The Brabanti Baby Page 5
