Lottie watched as he flicked off the controls, removing his headset and seatbelt, then turned to wait for her to do the same. It was stupid, but she was reluctant to get out. She would have liked their journey to go on for ever, to be cocooned in the glass bubble of happiness that she’d shared with her handsome pilot. But end it had, and as they walked up the long driveway towards the palazzo Rafael cleared his throat, obviously building up to saying something.
‘So, about this charity dinner...’ He stared straight ahead as he strode beside her. ‘Obviously I want everything to go perfectly.’
‘Charity dinner?’ Lottie turned to look at him. ‘What charity dinner?’
‘The one I told you about earlier.’
Lottie frowned, trying to recall. ‘I don’t remember. When is it?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? Here at the palazzo?’
‘Of course.’
She waited, but no more information was forthcoming, the only sound coming from the gravel that crunched beneath their feet.
‘So what are you saying? That you want me to make myself scarce?’
‘Why would I want you to do that?’ He glanced at her quickly before fixing his gaze straight ahead again.
‘I don’t know.’ Suddenly unsure of herself, Lottie faltered.
‘What I would like is for you to play the role of hostess.’
‘Oh.’ She hated these things, and the unfriendly way he was suggesting it didn’t make it any more appealing. ‘Are you sure? Won’t people think it a bit odd—I don’t know—get the wrong impression about us.’
‘I don’t give a damn about what people think.’ Rafael’s tone went from cold to harsh. ‘And I said play the role, Lottie. It’s not as if I am expecting you to actually believe in it. I merely feel it would be fitting to have you by my side for the evening.’ He came to an abrupt halt outside the villa. ‘Especially in view of the charity concerned.’
‘So what is this charity?’ Lottie stared up at him, her breath short as she matched his sudden hostility.
‘The Seraphina Foundation.’
‘The Seraphina Foundation?’ Lottie’s eyes widened, and her heart contracted with the pain of hearing their daughter’s name. ‘I didn’t even know there was such a thing.’
‘Well, you’ve hardly been here to know, have you?’ He shot her a withering look. ‘It has actually raised a great deal of money for intensive neonatal care.’
‘That’s good...’
But it didn’t make her feel good. The more she thought about it the more hurt and excluded and resentful she felt that this charity bearing her daughter’s name existed and yet she had known nothing about it. It was as if Seraphina had been taken from her, stolen away by Rafael and his team of accountants.
She brushed past Rafael and started up the steps to the palazzo. She was being ridiculous—she knew that. How could she be resentful about something that was saving the lives of tiny premature babies? Giving them the chance of life that Seraphina had never had? How could she be so unutterably selfish?
Once inside, Rafael closed the door behind them. ‘I imagine you must be tired after the journey.’
It was a statement—something not to be argued with—and certainly no attempt to appease the swing of her mood. His tone of voice made it quite clear that he had no intention of pandering to her obvious strop.
‘I have work to do now but I’ll let the kitchens know we will need something to eat. Where would you like yours?’
* * *
What was it about this place? Palazzo Monterrato? It seemed to Lottie that it refused to let her be happy, that something in the very bricks of the building made it sit up a bit straighter whenever she was around. Like the bored bully in the playground it stubbed out its fag, pushed itself off the wall and decided there was some sport to be had. And Lottie was its favourite target.
It had been raining when she’d woken that morning, splattering against the shuttered windows. And she had been back in ‘her’ half of their enormous bedroom, alone again in the bed. Only this time she’d felt more alone than ever.
Rafael had not emerged from his office for the rest of the night after their conversation, abandoning her with nothing but a cold supper and a sub-zero mood. She had tried not to be upset—had run herself a bath, taken her book to bed and propped herself up against the pillows, still thinking that he might tap on the door, creep into the room and slide his warm body in next to hers. But she had been deluding herself—as the grey light of this morning pointed out so heartlessly. The bed beside her was still empty, her book was on the floor, where it had slipped from her grasp, and she had nothing but a crick in her neck to show for her misplaced optimism.