Heir to Italian Altar
Rebecca Hunter
Chapter One
“HE JUST WALKED IN.”
“Is he with the countess?”
The whispers swirled around Ann-Sophie Svensson, and she turned, despite her best intentions. From across the crowded ballroom, Alessandro Carandini shone like a god, even among princes, CEOs and others who likely thought of themselves in such terms. Tall and built, he should have looked just like his twin brother, Massimo, and yet, to Ann-Sophie, he was so very different. His silky black hair curled up at the ends in a hint of unruliness, quite the opposite of Massimo’s close-cropped cut, and his bronze skin gleamed a little brighter in the glittering lights of the chandeliers. The cut of his crisp, white shirt hinted at the taut muscles underneath, and his tailored trousers tapered at the waist. Wearing his suit coat at meeting after meeting, he had looked every bit the bold, smooth-talking businessman he was. Now, without it, rumors of the trail of heartbreak he left seemed grossly underestimated. Alessandro towered over the woman he was escorting into the room, a lovely brunette whose hair was held back with jewel-studded clips that sparkled in the lights. Definitely real diamonds, Ann-Sophie thought as she watched them from her corner of the room.
She tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear, trying not to compare herself. She was of hardy Nordic commoner stock, raised by a single mother in a comfortable apartment at the end of the subway line south of Stockholm. Though her blond hair and blue eyes held some cachet in the world, she was more pretty-adjacent than pretty, let alone beautiful. Usually, Ann-Sophie was grateful for that. Being a beautiful woman had its downside when said woman wanted, for example, to be acknowledged for her skills. Or travel seamlessly through the world. But today, as she watched the bejeweled woman who was doubtlessly minor royalty place a graceful and strategic hand on Alessandro’s arm, then look up at him and laugh, Ann-Sophie wanted to be a little less…well, regular.
Alessandro Carandini was the opposite of regular. He was excess incarnate. A glow seemed to emanate from him that went beyond his astonishing good looks. He had a charisma, a magnetism that animated everything around him.
“You’re staring.” Ann-Sophie’s fellow interpreter, Monique, gave her a gentle tug at the elbow. “Not that I blame you.”
Ann-Sophie flashed her friend an innocent smile. “Nothing wrong with dreaming.”
Still, Monique gave her a skeptical glance. Swedish Connection Interpreting Services often paired Monique and Ann-Sophie for larger diplomatic events like these, as Ann-Sophie’s specialties in Italian, French and Spanish complemented Monique’s expertise in a few Slavic and Germanic languages. They had both been with the agency long enough to have earned the trust of their most prestigious clients.
“I thought you had no desire to live in this world,” said Monique, gesturing across the dazzlingly ornate ballroom, lit by the glow of countless candles. Ann-Sophie squirmed under her friend’s scrutiny, reminding herself that Monique could not see the exquisitely intimate scenes that played through Ann-Sophie’s mind. Her friend would never suspect that these longing looks came from a source much deeper than fleeting fantasies. But whatever the theories that played through Monique’s mind, her friend did not voice them.
“I don’t. I have enough.”Enough.It was the word her mother had used so many years ago, a word that had put her life into an entirely new light.
“You do have enough,” Monique agreed. “But a bit of excess could be fun, too, especially in the form of Alessandro Carandini. Despite his…”
Her friend did not need to complete this sentence. Ann-Sophie was very well acquainted with this man’s reputation for a particular kind of excess.
“Excess is overrated,” she said. “The newspapers are filled with stories of miserable, wealthy people behaving badly.”
Ann-Sophie had always shied away from anything indulgent. She came from a country that valuedlagom, a Swedish word that lacked a good translation, particularly here, in the glitter of the Côte d’Azur.Just rightwas the best equivalent, “like in the Goldilocks story,” she told English speakers. At a young age, before she had understood just how much her mother had given up for her unexpected baby, Ann-Sophie had leaned in the direction of indulgence. She had embarrassing memories of demanding toys, visits to Gröna Lund for a day of roller coasters and candy, more toys and, finally, the ultimate request: a visit with her elusive father.
“Ineedto meet him,” she had insisted.
“You will not meet your father,” her mother had said, so gently that Ann-Sophie at last heard the finality in her voice. “You must learn to tell the difference between wants and needs,älskling. You have enough.”
Something had shifted inside her after that conversation. Somehow, those words had done what years of refusals had not. Ann-Sophie finally understood that no amount of wanting would make their father appear. In the space of this devastating realization, she had seen how her want had become a trap, a never-ending thirst. Because she had allowed it to be.
Alessandro Carandini was currently a thirst-inducing want, ill-advised, and yet, she still found herself gazing longingly after the man tabloids called Italy’s hottest playboy.
“You don’t have to worry. He seems very taken by the countess he’s talking to,” Ann-Sophie said breezily, as if the sting of watching Alessandro with a woman of his own social class was just a fact of life.
Monique laughed. “I’m not actually worried.”
Ann-Sophie laughed, too, and pretended it wasn’t another twist of a knife in her gut. A knife that she herself had placed there.
Every attendee, from prime ministers to princesses, administrative assistants to interpreters, had been invited to this last night of celebrations. Those attending the weeklong negotiations between the biggest powers in Europe were government leaders, ambassadors, large international businesses and NGOs. She spent the days side by side with Swedish diplomats and business representatives, clarifying trade strategies that would bring the maximum benefits to all countries involved.
Ostensibly, tonight was different. She, Monique and the other interpreters were like any other guests, free to drink champagne and eat fois gras canapés alongside the royals and company presidents they worked for. However, even at these after-hours parties the interpreters tended to keep to themselves, enjoying a few sips of France’s signature beverages from the edges of the ballroom. Ann-Sophie always felt a bit like she was looking in on a world she regularly visited but never truly belonged. And she was fine with this. She didn’t have to feel at home here, even if it was technically her workplace, because there were so many other reasons she liked her job.
Even if she did feel more at home here in this ballroom, it would be her job to suppress anything that might make her stand out. Interpreters were supposed to fade into the background, not attract attention. This was yet another reason she hadn’t said a word to Monique about Alessandro, not even yesterday morning as the two women wandered down the streets of Nice, with its brightly painted buildings and carefully laid stone streets. They had walked until they’d arrived at the cerulean blue of the Mediterranean, dotted with yachts and jutting white rocks.
“I’ve barely seen you this week,” Monique had commented offhandedly. “Are you having a secret liaison?”
Her friend had laughed away her own comment and didn’t seem to notice the heat that had likely turned Ann-Sophie’s cheeks pink. They both knew how out of character a secret liaison would be.
But tonight, in this ballroom with its gilded sconces and exquisitely restored frescos, she was doing a terrible job at deflection. Tonight, her own feelings were on display for Monique and, likely, this entire ballroom of kings and princes and prime ministers. She couldn’t take her eyes off Alessandro Carandini, even as she was well aware that it was both uncomfortable and unwise to reveal the ache of want that flowed through her. Want, not need, she reminded herself. The wisest course of action would be to leave, but her feet seemed to be anchored to the floor. Because tonight was the last night. When she got on the plane tomorrow, she would likely never see him again.
