His eyes locked to hers. He had recognised her in an instant, but in truth he should never have known who she was. She could not have looked more different from the way she’d looked all those years ago in London.
He had taken in her entire appearance in the single moment it had taken for him to recognise her. Her elegantly styled knee-length dress was indigo, with a gracefully draped neckline. Its three-quarter sleeves showed off a pearl bracelet on each slender wrist, bracelets that matched the pearl choker around her neck and the single drop pearl earrings at her lobes, revealed by the low, full chignon into which her Titian hair had been drawn at the nape of her neck, and set with pearl combs.
As he took her in, out of nowhere a sudden rage speared him. He recognised that pearl set—it had been Matteo’s wife’s. Luca had seen Luisa wear it dozens of times while she was alive.
Now Bianca, a barmaid out of the East End of London, was wearing it…
In the aftermath of the shock that had iced through him, a question seared.
What thehellwas Bianca doing here, in his godfather’s house, wearing Luisa’s jewellery?
The answer that came—the only possible answer—raced through him in a silent inner snarl.
There could be only one explanation—horrific and appalling as it was…
A voice sounded nearby, dragging him back. It was Giuseppe, deferentially asking him whataperitivohe might like. Still in shock—more than shock…worse than shock—Luca tersely madehis usual request, and then Matteo was speaking again, the warmth in his voice deepening.
‘It is so very, very good to have you here, my dear boy. I have been impatient for this day!’
Luca dragged his eyes back to his godfather, and he made himself make some kind of mechanical reply.
‘Yes, so very impatient!’ Matteo went on, his tired face animated. ‘And here you are at last!’
It was impossible to think of what to say, and Luca could only be grimly grateful that Giuseppe was now hovering at his elbow, hisaperitivoon the upheld silver tray. He took it gratefully, wanting the shot of alcohol.
There was something else he wanted as well—badly. He wanted to seize in a vise-like grip the arms of his godfather’s ‘dearest treasure’—the words twisted in his head viciously—and drag her bodily from the room. And then find out what thehellwas going on!
But he couldn’t—not right now. All he could do was stand stiffly, raise his martini glass to his lips and feel the alcohol hit his system as he swallowed.
Matteo was talking again, his face less animated now, but with an expression on it that made Luca’s teeth grind. ‘Doting’ was definitely the word for it—and it was directed at his benighted ‘dearest treasure’…
‘It is like a miracle,’ his godfather was saying, his voice fond. ‘Just when my spirits were sinking beyond all hope, thanks to this wretched illness of mine, I have been rewarded beyond measure—and certainly beyond my deserving.’
His eyes lifted to Luca, and with a start Luca saw moisture in them.
‘It is a gift I never hoped for—and yet it has been given to me. To lighten my days before they are taken from me.’
He gave a slightly crooked, poignant smile, his eyes going back to his ‘dearest treasure’. He extended his hand to her and Luca had to watch her take it and hold it tenderly, while trying to stop his teeth grinding yet more at the nauseating sight. It filled him with a black, cold fury he knew he had, for the moment, to conceal. Until he could get her to himself…wreak his fury on her…
Matteo was still speaking, that mawkish note in his voice. Luca steeled himself and listened to what his obviously besotted godfather trotted out next.
‘My dearest treasure—come to lighten this dark time of my life! With whom I can spend these last months more happily than I dared to believe or hope! Upon whom I can lavish the wealth I must leave behind…’
Nausea rose in him, and bitter, angry bile. Wasthiswhat Matteo had meant when he’d said he wanted to make the most of the time that was left to him? Taking up with a woman young enough to be his daughter? Lavishing his dead wife’s jewels on her?
Because what other possible explanation could there be for Bianca’s presence here? As sordid as it was, what else could it be?
He felt the nausea of his revulsion mix with the deadly anger of his outrage—and mix with something more, too, that he refused to acknowledge, let alone allow. All he could allow was a vicious channelling of his reaction to seeing what he was seeing, and coming up with an explanation for it.
And why should it be Bianca ensconced here?Bianca!How had she achieved it? How had she spent the last six years, and then ended up battening on to Matteo, getting him to spend his money on her, dress her in designer clothes, shower his dead wife’s jewellery on her? He did not know how—but he did know the ‘why’ of it. Bitterly and savagely.
Because I gave her a taste for it. Showed her how she could acquire it.
Nausea bit again. Not just at the sight of Matteo’s doting expression and his dead wife’s jewellery adorning the woman holding his hand, but at something more. Something that repulsed him. To think Bianca had stooped to become what she now so obviously was…
Something deeper still pounded at him, feeding his savage fury.
Bianca was holding another man’s hand.
