The Italian's Rags-To-Riches Wife. Julia James

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СКАЧАТЬ The door closed behind him, cutting out some of the damp and cold, but not a great deal.

      ‘This way,’ said the female he had come a thousand miles to find.

      She was still wearing those unspeakable corduroy trousers, and the absence of the hooded jacket had not improved her appearance, as her top now consisted of a baggy hand knitted jumper with a hole in one elbow and overlong sleeves. Her hair, he noted without surprise, was atrocious: a lank mop that was roughly tied back with a piece of elastic.

      She took him through a baize door and into an old-fashioned kitchen, warmed, he noted thankfully, by an ancient range.

      ‘So, who are you, and what is it that you want to tell me?’ demanded the girl.

      Allesandro did not answer immediately. Instead he sat himself down in the chair she had pulled out and surveyed her.

      ‘You are Laura Stowe, you say?’ he began.

      The hostile look came his way again.

      ‘As I have previously said, yes, I am Laura Stowe. And you are—?’ she said pointedly.

      Allesandro let his eyes rest on her a moment, taking in the full extent of her unprepossessingness. The girl wasn’t just plain—she was ugly. Unkind it might be, but there was no other word for her appearance. She had a square face, eyes that were marred by unsightly thick brows, and a sour expression. Stefano’s genes had definitely passed her by.

      ‘I am Allesandro di Vincenzo,’ he informed her, his Italian accent becoming pronounced as he said his own name. ‘And I am here on behalf of Signor Viale.’

      The announcement of his own name had done nothing to her blank expression, but when he said the name of her grandfather something happened to it. If he had thought she’d looked hostile before, it was as nothing to the grim, hard look that seized her expression now.

      ‘You know of him?’ Allesandro’s eyebrows rose inquisitorially.

      ‘I know the name Viale all right,’ came the terse reply. ‘Why are you here?’ she again demanded.

      Allesandro had no idea how much the girl knew about her background, so he continued. ‘Signor Viale has only just learnt of your existence,’ he informed her reprovingly.

      For a moment emotion worked in the girl’s face. Then she gave vent to it.

      ‘That’s a lie!’ she said venomously. ‘My father’s always known about me!’

      Allesandro’s brows drew together forbiddingly. ‘I am not referring to your father. I am speaking of your grandfather. Your existence has only just come to light to him.’

      There was no change in her expression.

      ‘Well, bully for him! And if that’s all you’ve come to tell me, then you can be on your way!’

      Allesandro felt his features stiffen.

      ‘On the contrary. I am here to inform you that your grandfather, Tomaso Viale, wishes you to come to Italy.’

      Now her expression changed.

      ‘Wishes me to come to Italy?’ she echoed. ‘Is he mad?’

      Allesandro’s mouth thinned and he tamped down his rising temper at the girl’s attitude.

      ‘Miss Stowe, your grandfather is an old, frail man. The death of his son has hit him hard, and he—’

      There was a rough gasp from the girl.

      ‘My father is dead?’ Her voice was blank with shock. For a moment Allesandro felt he had been too blunt, but the girl was so aggressive he didn’t care. ‘Stefano was killed in a power-boat crash last summer,’ he said matter-of-factly.

      ‘Last summer…’ The echo of his words trailed from her. ‘He’s been dead all that time…’

      Something seemed to shift in her eyes. Then, abruptly, the same resentful expression resumed.

      ‘You’ve had a wasted journey, Signor di Vincenzo. So you might as well leave now.’

      ‘That is not possible.’ Allesandro had not raised his voice in any way, but there was an implacable note in it. ‘Your grandfather wishes me to escort you to Italy.’

      ‘I’m not going.’ The flash came again in the unlovely eyes. ‘My father treated my mother unforgivably. I want nothing to do with his family!’

      She had spoken with a low, grim vehemence that was at one with her unappealing appearance. It irritated Allesandro. He had no wish to be here, none whatsoever, and now, for his pains, this fright of a girl was trying to send him off with a flea in his ear.

      He sat back in the chair. It was time to cut to the chase.

      ‘Perhaps you do not realise,’ he said, and his dark eyes rested unreadably on his target, ‘that your grandfather is a very wealthy man. One of the richest in Italy. It would be, Miss Stowe, to your clear material advantage to accede to his wishes.’

      For answer she leant forward slightly, her hands touching the top of the table across from him.

      ‘I hope he chokes on his wealth!’ she bit out. ‘Just go! Right now! Tell him, since you’re his messenger boy, that so far as I’m concerned I have no grandfather! Just like his son had no daughter!’

      Anger seared in Allesandro’s face.

      ‘Tomaso was not responsible for your father’s refusal to acknowledge you!’

      ‘Well, he clearly did a lousy job of bringing up his son! That was something he did have responsibility for, and he failed miserably! His son was despicable—so why should I have the slightest time for a man who brought up his son to be like that?’

      Allesandro got to his feet. The sudden movement made the chair legs scrape on the flagstoned floor.

      ‘Basta!’ More Italian broke from him, sounding vehement. Then he cut back to English. ‘It is as well that you are refusing to visit your grandfather. You would be a great disappointment to him. As it is,’ he said cuttingly, ‘I am now facing the task of telling an old, sick man, mourning the tragic death of his only son, that his last remaining relative on earth is an ill-mannered, inconsiderate, self-righteous female prepared to condemn him sight unseen. I’ll take my leave of you.’

      Without another word he strode out of the room, back down the corridor to the front door. She heard the front door thump shut, and then the sound of an engine starting, of a car moving off, soon dying away.

      She was, she realised, shaking very slightly.

      Aftershock, she thought. Out of nowhere, for the first time in her life, contact had been made by her father’s family in Italy. All her life his name had been excoriated, all mention of him—and they had been few and far between—prefixed by condemnation and unforgiving hostility. She had grown up from infancy with her mother dead, and her grandparents making it extremely plain to her just how despicable her father had been.

      But now he’s dead…

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