What sort of basis was that for bringing a child into the world?
* * *
‘There you are.’
Rafael was jangling his car keys in his hand when Lottie finally came downstairs. He wore casual jeans and a white tee shirt with a beautifully cut grey linen jacket over the top, a grey cashmere scarf draped around his neck. That unmistakable Italian style he epitomised so well.
‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’
She’d expected a growled reply but instead was startled to see that he was staring at her, his eyes moving over her in a most disconcerting way.
‘What?’ She shifted uncomfortably.
Still he didn’t say anything, his mouth a tight line, his jaw firmly closed.
Lottie looked down at herself. Why was he staring at her like that?
When Rafael had announced at breakfast that he was taking them out for a meal that evening Lottie’s heart had sunk. Was this going to be another torturous evening together, only worse because there would be no escape?
But, conceding that he was trying to make an effort, she’d decided she had to do the same. Maybe between them they could try and improve the brittle atmosphere that had pervaded the villa over the last few days. And, besides, it might be nice to get dressed up for once—swap her paint-splattered jeans for one of the dresses swinging in her wardrobe.
She had been shocked, that first day in the villa, to find along with her own small suitcase, sent over from the palazzo, another much larger case, containing several cocktail dresses: vestiges of her previous life with Rafael. The life she had been thrown into so suddenly on the death of Rafael’s father and the role she had never been given time to adjust to: the role of Contessa di Monterrato.
Somehow she had assumed Rafael would have got rid of all these clothes—given them away or tossed them into a pile and set light to them. She wouldn’t have blamed him. Pulling them out of the rustling tissue paper one by one, she had held them up against herself, remembering the woman she had been when she had worn those dresses, standing beside Rafael at tedious functions, watching the way he could work the room, knowing that every event, no matter what it was called, was simply another public relations exercise—a business meeting in all but name.
They weren’t happy memories, and Lottie had quickly selected one garment before pushing the rest, along with the memories, to the back of the closet again.
The dress she had chosen was simple and elegant, made of a deep blue silk that had an iridescent quality that caught the light as she turned. And, despite its past, it made her feel good. At least it had done until she had been subjected to the full force of Rafael’s raking gaze.
Now might have been a time for Rafael to say something complimentary—tell her how nice she looked. Even an appreciative nod would have done.
‘You’ll be cold.’
So much for that. His deepening frown and the tight pull of his lips suggested nothing but irritation.
‘Don’t you have a stole or something?’
A stole? What century was he living in? They were travelling to a restaurant in his luxury sports car, not a horse and carriage.
‘I’m fine.’
She inhaled sharply, suddenly cross with herself. Why had she spent hours trying to make herself attractive to him? Fiddling about with her hair until she perfected the loose bun at the nape of her neck, carefully applying subtle make-up, slithering this dress over her scrubbed and moisturised body. Why the hell had she bothered?
‘Put this on, anyway’ Stepping towards her, he took off his scarf and, carefully looping it over her hairstyle, arranged it, still warm from his body, around her shoulders.
‘Thanks.’ Lottie had to move back from him before she could breathe.
Something told her this evening was going to be awful.
But she was wrong. The local restaurant was small and informal, and after the usual amount of fussing and flapping from the staff that always accompanied Rafael wherever he went they were soon seated in a quiet corner, with a single candle flickering on the table between them.
The food was delicious—a selection of freshwater fish served with aromatic sauces and big bowls of fresh pasta. They both ate hungrily and the conversation flowed surprisingly easily. Rafael started, as he always did, by asking about her day’s painting, then actually answered her questions about his day, telling her about his plans for a new marina that was about to start construction, about the vineyards that had to be monitored closely at this time of year, the local elections that had just taken place.
He looked so composed, so handsome, so like the old Rafael she had fallen quite madly in love with.
Lottie tried to concentrate, to focus on the many and varied problems and opportunities obviously involved in being head of a principality like Monterrato. But mostly she found herself being drawn into the hypnotic spell of his deep voice, the way his Italian accent imbued the most mundane of English words with a mantle of sensuality. She watched the way his beautiful mouth moved as he spoke, the bottom lip just that bit fuller than the top one, both biteably, irresistibly kissable. The bruising on his face had faded to almost nothing now, and the scar on his forehead was hidden by a dark twist of hair but still visible where it sliced down the top of his cheekbone. A shadow of stubble darkened his jawline and upper lip; she remembered the feel of that stubble against her cheek, against other parts of her body too...