when he was angry. At least then she could rage in return. Now, she merely felt helpless, and it irked her that he knew.
‘That isn’t an option, and you know it,’ she refuted, and lifted a hand in expressive negation.
‘You’ve taken something for it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Povera piccola,’ he declared gently as he lowered his head and brushed his lips against her temple.
Sensation curled inside her stomach as his mouth trailed down to the edge of her mouth, and she turned her head slightly, her lips parting in denial, only to have his mouth close over hers.
He caught her head between both hands, and his tongue explored the inner tissues at will, savouring the sweetness with such erotic sensuousness that all rational thought temporarily fled.
His touch was sheer magic, exotic, intoxicating, and left her wanting more. Much more.
It’s just a kiss, she assured herself mentally, and knew she was wrong. This was seductive claim-staking at its most dangerous.
Aysha pushed against his shoulders and tore her mouth from his, her eyes wide and luminous as they caught the darkness reflected in his. Her mouth tingled, and her lips felt slightly swollen.
‘Let’s go.’ Was that her voice? It sounded husky, and her mouth shook slightly as she moved away from him and caught up her evening bag.
In the car she leaned her head back against the cushioned rest, and stared sightlessly out of the window.
Summer daylight saving meant warm sunshine at six in the evening, and peak-hour traffic crossing the Harbour Bridge had diminished, ensuring a relatively smooth drive to suburban Vaucluse.
Aysha didn’t offer anything by way of conversation, and she was somewhat relieved when Carlo brought the Mercedes to a halt behind Teresa and Giuseppe’s car in the driveway of his parents’ home.
‘Showtime.’
‘Don’t overdo it, cara,’ he warned quizzically, and she offered him a particularly direct look.
Did he know just how much she hurt deep inside? Somehow she doubted it. ‘Don’t patronise me.’
She saw one eyebrow lift. ‘Not guilty,’ Carlo responded, then added drily, ‘on any count.’
Now there was a double entendre if ever there was one. ‘You underestimate yourself.’
His eyes hardened fractionally. ‘Take care, Aysha.’
She reached for the door-clasp. ‘If we stay here much longer, our parents will think we’re arguing.’
‘And we’re not?’
‘Now you’re being facetious.’ She opened the door and stood to her feet, then summoned a warm smile as he crossed to her side.
Gianna Santangelo’s affectionate greeting did much to soothe Aysha’s unsettled nerves. This was family, although she was under no illusions, and knew that both mothers were attuned to the slightest nuance that might give hint to any dissension.
Dinner was an informal meal, although Gianna had gone to considerable trouble, preparing gnocchi in a delicious sauce, followed by chicken pieces roasted in wine with rosemary herbs and accompanied by a variety of vegetables.
Gianna was a superb cook, with many speciality dishes in her culinary repertoire. Even Teresa had the grace to offer a genuine compliment.
‘Buona, Gianna. You have a flair for gnocchi that is unsurpassed by anyone I know.’
‘Grazie. I shall give Aysha the recipe.’
Ah, now there was the thing. Teresa’s recipe versus that of Gianna. Tricky, Aysha concluded. Very tricky. She’d have to vary the sauce accordingly whenever either or both sets of parents came to dinner. Or perhaps not serve it at all? Maybe she could initiate a whole new range of Italian cuisine? Or select a provincial dish that differed from Trevisian specialities?
‘I won’t have time for much preparation except at the weekends.’ She knew it was a foolish statement the moment the words left her mouth, as both Teresa and Gianna’s heads rose in unison, although it was her mother who voiced the query.
‘Why ever not, cara?’
Aysha took a sip of wine, then replaced her glass down onto the table. ‘Because I’ll be at work, Mamma.’
‘But you have finished work.’
‘I’m taking a six-week break, then I’ll be going back.’
‘Part-time, of course.’
‘Full-time.’
Teresa stated the obvious. ‘There is no need for you to work at all. What happens when you fall pregnant?’
‘I don’t plan on having children for a few years.’
Teresa turned towards Carlo. ‘You agree with this?’
It could have been a major scandal they were discussing, not a personal decision belonging to two people.
‘It’s Aysha’s choice.’ He turned to look at her, his smile infinitely warm and sensual as he took hold of her hand and brushed his lips to each finger in turn. His eyes gleamed with sensual promise. ‘We both want a large family.’
Bastard, she fumed silently. He’d really set the cat among the pigeons now. Teresa wouldn’t be able to leave it alone, and she’d receive endless lectures about caring for a husband’s needs, maintaining an immaculate house, an excellent table.
Aysha leaned forward, and traced the vertical crease slashing Carlo’s cheek. His eyes flared, but she ignored the warning gleam. ‘Cute, plump little dark-haired boys,’ she teased as her own eyes danced with silent laughter. ‘I’ve seen your baby pictures, remember?’
‘Don’t forget I babysat you and changed your nappies, cara.’
Her first memory of Carlo was herself as a four-year-old being carried round on his shoulders, laughing and squealing as she gripped hold of his hair for dear life. She’d loved him then with the innocence of a child.
Adoration, admiration, respect had undergone a subtle change in those early teenage years, as raging female hormones had labelled intense desire as sexual attraction, infatuation, lust.
He’d been her best friend, confidant, big brother, all rolled into one. Then he’d become another girl’s husband, and it had broken her heart.
Now she was going to marry him, have his children, and to all intents and purposes live the fairy tale dream of happy-ever-after.
Except she didn’t have his heart. That belonged to Bianca, who lay buried beneath an elaborate bed of marble high on a hill outside the country town in which she’d been born.
Aysha had wanted to hate her, but she couldn’t, for Bianca had been one of those rare human beings who
