Which leaves you with what? she asked herself as she poured a second coffee. All of these people discussing you as if you didn’t have a voice of your own? When all it would take is for you to face the man and tell him everything, warts and all, then stand back and see what the full truth brings you back by return.
Maybe she would. Maybe she would wait around after all, do just that, and tell Marco everything.
Carlotta appeared. ‘A Signor Gabrielli is in the foyer, signorina,’ she informed her. ‘He is asking if you can spare him a few minutes of your time?’
Signor Gabrielli. Her stomach turned over. The coffee suddenly lost flavour. He couldn’t know—could he? No, she told herself firmly. He couldn’t know. He was here to ask about Anastasia, probably. Wanting to find out how his ex-mistress had faired in the twenty-five years since they’d last met!
Well, she was ready to tell him that, Antonia resolved, and came to her feet. ‘Let him come up and show him into the small sitting room, Carlotta, if you please.’
The sheer formality of her words set the housekeeper frowning. The way Antonia’s face had suddenly turned so cold caused a hesitation before Carlotta turned away without saying whatever had been on her mind.
Alone again, Antonia made herself sit down, made herself sip at the coffee and eat a piece of toast. And she made herself ready for a meeting that was coming twenty-five years too late.
CHAPTER NINE
HE WAS wearing a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. And Antonia’s first impression as she stepped into the room was—stiff. In the single grainy newspaper cutting she had of him he didn’t look stiff. He looked young and vital—very much as Marco looked.
But that had been taken twenty years ago. In twenty years maybe cynicism with life could change Marco into this man’s image. Though she hoped to goodness that it didn’t, she thought with a distinct shiver.
‘Good morning, signor,’ she greeted him in cool English. ‘I believe you wanted to see me?’
Gracious, polite, giving no hint that she knew anything at all about him. She was leaving it up to him to give away as much—or as little—as he knew about her.
He didn’t return the greeting. In fact he didn’t do anything but narrow his eyes and look her over like something in a specimen jar. Her nerve-ends began to tighten. He had a face cast from iron and a thin-lipped mouth that appeared to have forgotten how to smile. Already predisposed to dislike him, what she was feeling bouncing back from him gave her no reason to alter that view.
‘You are Anastasia’s daughter,’ he eventually announced, as if he’d needed that detailed scrutiny to make absolutely sure before he committed himself to the statement.
‘Yes,’ she confirmed. ‘Is it about my mother that you wish to see me?’
He shifted his stance. It wasn’t by much but it was enough for her to know that he was intensely uncomfortable at being here. ‘Si,’ he replied. ‘And—no,’ he added. ‘By your response, I have to assume that you know about me?’
‘Your affair with my mother? Yes.’ She saw no reason to hide it.
He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘It was perhaps unfortunate that we should meet as we did last night.’
Unfortunate? ‘I think I shocked you,’ she allowed. ‘And I’m sorry for doing that.’
His eyes contained a distinctly cynical glint at her apology. ‘Until I saw you I believed the Stefan Kranst paintings were your mother. But then,’ he said curtly, ‘I did not know that you existed.’
For the first time someone had made the correct assumption about Stefan’s model. It was ironic that he was now changing his mind to suit what everyone else believed.
‘We were extremely alike,’ she said. ‘Few people could tell the difference.’
‘Were—?’ he picked up sharply.
‘My mother died two years ago,’ she explained.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he murmured politely.
‘Thank you,’ she replied. This couldn’t become any more formal if they tried.
Shouldn’t she be feeling something? Antonia asked herself curiously. Shouldn’t she at least sense a genetic bond, even if it was only a small one? Realising she was still standing by the door, she began to walk forwards, gauging his tensing response as a man very much on his guard. What did he think she was going to do—physically attack him?
‘You even walk like her,’ he uttered.
Antonia just offered a brief smile. He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know. She looked like her mother. She moved like her mother.
‘Would you care to sit down?’ she invited politely. ‘Can I offer you a drink—espresso or—?’