The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ of the global recession—indeed, they were planning expansion—but for that they needed extra finance for more new machinery at the Milan factory, as well as buying another site for workshops near Verona.

      Which was principally why he had accepted Silvia’s dinner invitation, because he’d learned that Prince Cesare Damiano, head of the Credito Europa bank would be present, and not because he liked to live dangerously.

      He and Prince Damiano had spoken briefly but constructively, and negotiations were now proceeding. And while the banker was a charming, cultivated man with a passion for rose growing, he was also known to be a stickler for old-fashioned morality.

      Any overt lapse on Angelo’s part could well blow the deal out of the water, and delay would be costly in all kinds of ways.

      So a period of celibacy was indicated. Irritating, he decided cynically, but a necessity. As, it now seemed, was his marriage, which would provide a safeguard as well as an expedient.

      He drove into the security parking of his apartment block, and rode the lift up to the top floor. As he stepped through his front door, his manservant, Salvatore, was waiting to take his briefcase and discarded jacket.

      ‘There have been two phone calls for Your Excellency,’ he announced, lowering his eyes discreetly. ‘Also a note has been delivered.’ He paused. ‘Will your signoria be dining out this evening?’

      ‘No,’ Angelo returned, looking moodily at the unmistakable pale mauve envelope on the hall table. ‘I shall eat here. Something light, Salvatore. I am not very hungry.’

      The other’s eyes lit up. ‘I have some good veal—which I will cook in a little Marsala, perhaps?’

      ‘With a green salad,’ Angelo agreed. He ran a weary hand round the nape of his neck. ‘In the meantime, I think I’ll take a sauna. Get rid of some of the kinks of the day.’

      In his bedroom, he stripped then walked into the bathroom, grabbing a towel on the way, to the wooden cabin that opened off it. He poured a dipper of water scented with aromatic herbs on to the coals and, spreading his towel on the slatted wooden bench, stretched out, closed his eyes and let his mind drift.

      If he was going to marry, he mused, there were a number of practical matters to take into consideration, the most urgent being living accommodation, because, convenient as it was to the Via Veneto and the Rome headquarters of Galantana, this apartment was also his bachelor pad, and due to its past associations, not a suitable place to bring his bride, although he had no intention of getting rid of it.

      No, he thought, she would be far happier living on his estate in the hills just outside the capital, and it would be a better environment for the son he hoped for. Or it would be once the air of melancholy following the loss of his mother, which had dulled his own memories of a happy childhood and caused him to avoid the place in recent years, had been banished forever.

      His father, turned by grief into a virtual recluse, had suddenly and quite unexpectedly begun a refurbishment programme on the villa itself three years before. It had gone into abeyance on his death, but the time had come, Angelo decided, for it to be revived and completed.

      It was odd, he admitted to himself, to be making plans for a woman he didn’t even know as yet, but, as the Contessa Manzini, she would soon learn the duties and responsibilities of her new status and, he hoped, the pleasures of it too as he had every intention of being both generous and considerate.

      She might not have his love, the sweet and passionate emotion that had held his parents steadfastly in thrall to each other, because he doubted whether he was capable of such feelings, but he could and would offer her, at the very least, respect along with every material comfort she could wish for. And a decent show of ardour should not be too difficult to feign. Besides, if she was pretty enough, he might not have to pretend, he told himself, grimacing inwardly.

      He’d stayed with friends in Tuscany the previous weekend, and partnered a girl called Lucia in an impromptu tennis match. Good legs, he thought judiciously, a figure that curved in all the right places, and dark eyes that had gleamed in his direction more than once. He had not asked for her telephone number but that was an omission that could easily be rectified with an email to his host.

      On the other hand, each time she’d played a bad shot, she’d giggled and he’d begun to find this irritating. The thought of having to listen to it morning, noon and even night was not appealing.

      He sat up abruptly, cursing under his breath. He was hardly perfect husband material, so why should he expect to find the perfect wife? And what made him think Lucia would even want him?

      For once, and perhaps understandably, he was finding relaxation difficult, so he abandoned the sauna, showered briskly, pulled on jeans and a polo shirt and went to the salotto.

      As he’d anticipated, both phone messages were from Silvia, requesting him to call her. And her letter proved to be in similar vein but rather more demanding, he noted, his lips tightening. Clearly his absence in Tuscany and his omission to contact her immediately on his return had not pleased her. She was becoming distinctly proprietorial, and although he would have his regrets at terminating their association, he realised he had no choice.

      He did not belong to her, he thought coldly, pouring himself a whisky. To her, or any other woman, and he never would. He had seen what that could do. Had seen his father become a silent stranger, the heart and spirit torn out of him after his wife’s death—little more than a sad ghost in a house which had once been filled with sunshine and laughter.

      Had found himself, scarcely out of boyhood, excluded from his own grief in the face of his father’s desolation.

      And without the tenderness and support of Nonna Cosima, who had taken him into her own home, he would have been left very much alone.

      As he emerged from the darkness of that time, he’d sworn that he would never allow anyone to make him suffer like that. And nothing had happened since to persuade him to change his mind.

      His marriage would be a practical arrangement without illusions, he vowed silently, and he would set himself to make it work.

      Therefore, as a beginning, he would decline Silvia’s suggestion that as Ernesto would be away the following weekend, they should take advantage of his absence at some discreet albergo in the wilds of Umbria or Reggio Calabria.

      Instead, he thought, crumpling the note in his hand, I will be spending the time in close consultation with the builders at Vostranto, so I shall call her tomorrow and make my excuses.

      And after that, I shall also ask Ottavio for Lucia’s phone number.

      ‘No,’ said Ellie. ‘It’s very kind of Madrina to invite me, but I’ve already made my plans for that weekend. I’m sorry, Silvia.’

      ‘You don’t sound it.’ Her cousin leaned back in her chair, pouting. ‘I suppose you’re off to bury yourself at Nonna Vittoria’s shack as usual.’

      It might only be a small house, but it was hardly a shack, Ellie thought drily. And Silvia clearly hadn’t thought so when she discovered that their grandmother’s will had left Ellie in sole possession of what could be an eminently desirable property in a charming fishing village on a beautiful coastline. She had raged about the total unfairness of the bequest for weeks if not months, accusing Ellie of wheedling her way into Nonna Vittoria’s good graces.

      By which Ellie supposed she СКАЧАТЬ