CHAPTER SEVEN
‘WOULDYOUCAREto take in any of the shops while we’re here?’
Luca had kept his enquiry polite. They had finished lunch and were heading back across the piazza.
Bianca shook her head. ‘No, I’d like to get back to Matteo,’ she said.
Luca wanted to as well. Trailing around shops with Bianca would have been a waste of his time. Few things were less enjoyable than shopping with a female.
Memory flickered. At least Bianca had never imposed that upon him. Nor had she accepted gifts from him either, now he thought about it.
He’d once bought a scarf for her—they’d gone out of London one Saturday afternoon, driving into Kent, heading for the coast, then staying overnight at a country house hotel. There had been a table in the hall with a tasteful array of upmarket knick-knacks, including some folded scarves, hand-dyed by a local artist.
He’d scooped one up, presented it to Bianca when they were up in their room. The scarf had been in shades of vivid sea-green and cobalt.
‘Perfect for your Titian hair,’ he’d told her lightly.
She’d looked puzzled. ‘What’s Titian when it’s at home?’she’d asked.
‘Your hair colour—Titian was a Venetian artist in the Renaissance, famous for painting beautiful redheads,’he’d explained, seeing her looking blank.
‘Oh…’she’d answered. Then she’d gone on, ‘It’s a beautiful scarf, Luca, but it must have been pricey—how much, so I can pay you back?’
He’d waved a hand. ‘It’s a present to remember this weekend by.’
She’d brushed his mouth with hers. ‘Don’t worry—I’ll remember this plenty! And, Luca—don’t give me stuff. I can’t afford to give you anything fancy in return.’Her kiss had deepened.‘I’m not with you for the freebies, Luca—it’s your gorgeous body I want…’
He cut the memory of how that scene had ended—It was not wise to remember. Not wise at all.
Bianca was speaking again, and he was glad of that.
‘So can we just head straight back?’ she was asking.
He led the way to where he’d left his car and they set off. They didn’t speak on the journey, and he was glad of that as well. Only when they pulled up outside the front door of the Villa Fiarante did he turn to her.
‘You’d better start wearing your ring,’ he said.
He reached for the jewellery case in his jacket pocket, handed it to her. He didn’t want to put the ring on her finger—let her do it herself.
Silently she flicked open the lid, staring for a moment at the ring inside. The emerald glinted in the sunlight, the pearls opalescent. Then, wordlessly, she slid it on to the third finger of her left hand. With a jerky movement she opened the car door and got out, walking indoors without looking back.
Luca went and parked, wondering why his mood had worsened suddenly. Probably because—as he’d warned her—they were going to have to go through the ordeal of presenting themselves to Matteo.
As he gained the interior, the omnipresent Giuseppe appeared. ‘Thesignoris awaiting you, Signor Visconte,’he informed Luca,
‘How is he?’
‘Stronger, I am very glad to report. But he is obeying the doctor’s orders and keeping to his bed.’
‘Good.’ Luca nodded, vaulting lightly up the stairs and knocking briefly on Matteo’s bedroom door.
It was opened by Paolo, Matteo’s nurse, and Luca could see Bianca was there already. He strolled in. His eyes went straight to Matteo. He was looking better than he had that morning before they’d set off for Pavenza, but still frail. Yet his expression was lit up—and Luca saw why. Bianca was perched on the chair by his bed, holding out her hand, displaying her ring.
Luca took his cue. ‘Yes, her choice, Matteo. I did not prompt.’
‘It’s ideal,’ enthused his godfather. ‘It can be worn every day, and the original kept for special occasions.’
He reached forward, taking Luca’s hand in his. Pressing it to Bianca’s. Luca felt hers stiffen beneath his.
