He led the way forward, throwing open a set of double doors. Not to the library, Matteo’s usual haunt, but a room on the other side of the wide hall—the formalsaloni.
Luca half smiled to himself. Matteo was doing this evening in style.
He walked through, ready to greet his godfather.
Instead, he stopped dead. Totally and completely dead.
The smile of greeting on his face vanished.
* * *
Bianca was sitting—perching, more accurately—on a silk-upholstered chair. It was one of a trio set by the ornate carved marble fireplace, which had a tapestry screen in front of it at this time of the year. She had seen thesalonibefore, when Giuseppe had shown her around the villa, shortly after her arrival, but she had only glanced inside, taking in a room that was clearly too grand for everyday use.
Landscape paintings hung on the walls, the furniture was all silk upholstered, mirrors were gilded, and occasional tables were inlaid with mother of pearl. The floor was covered with Persian carpets. It was a room for grand entertaining. She and Matteo were lost in it.
He was looking well, though, she thought. Very smart in his dinner jacket. His cheeks were less sunken, his eyes brighter. Clearly the impending visit of his godson was cheering him.
She had only just come down from her room for Maria, the maid she usually dismissed with a courteous smile, had insisted on helping her dress and pinning up her hair carefully. She had helped, too, with the jewellery she had carried into the bedroom, depositing its case on the dressing table.
‘Thesignorasks that you wear it this evening,’ Maria had said.
And to please Matteo, Bianca had. They were beautiful pieces—a pearl collar, matching pearl bracelets and drop pearl earrings. They went superbly with the dress she was wearing—another horribly expensive number from the upmarket boutique in the nearby town, but one she knew Matteo would like.
Memory had flitted through her head as she’d let Maria slip it over her head. Unwelcome memory. The dress she wore tonight was a world away from the clothes she’d worn when she had glammed up for Luca. Then, she’d always gone for glitz, and maxing out her sex appeal. Luca had liked it—liked it a lot.Making it clear all evening that he could not wait to get her back to his apartment, and strip it all off her—
No!She’d sliced down the guillotine, cut off memories that were as pointless as they were poisoned. She would not think of Luca.
But now, as she sat so elegantly perched on the chairbeside Matteo, after the powerful engine note of what was presumably Matteo’s godson’s flash car had been silenced, she heard the low, indistinguishable murmur of voices out in the hall, and the doors to thesaloniwere thrown open by Giuseppe in grand fashion. And with the freezing of the blood in her veins Bianca realised, her eyes going to who it was that Giuseppe was ushering in, that memories were not all that remained of Luca.
He had just walked into the room.
Luca.
Matteo’s godson…
CHAPTER THREE
LUCAWALKEDFORWARD. He had no choice. His legs were as stiff as wood, but he forced them forward. His mind was in meltdown, blanking everything.
From somewhere infinitely far away he heard Matteo speak.
‘Luca, my boy! Welcome, welcome! You have come, and I rejoice. Rejoice because now I have the two people dearest to me in the world here with me! I am longing for you to meet.’
His godfather turned his head to the woman beside him. His voice was doting.
‘My dear, here he is! My godson, Luca. Luca, come and make the acquaintance of my very dearest treasure, Bianca.’
Though he was still encased in ice, Luca moved to Matteo, said his name in greeting. And then—because he must, because he had no choice but to do so—he turned to the woman at Matteo’s side.
‘Bianca.’
It had been six years since he had said her name out loud. He has last said it when he was dismissing her from his life. Telling her that their time together had finished, their affair was done with.
‘It’s over, Bianca. Over! Accept it.’
And now her name came from his throat again.
She gave the very slightest inclination of her head—no other movement. He might have given a savage laugh had he not been frozen in shock—she was as frozen as he was.
