hardened. ‘Please do not insult me by pretending naïveté,’ he retorted stiffly.
Suzanne sighed. ‘I’m sorry if you think I was being insulting. I just don’t happen to see the connection between the two.’ She paused. ‘I don’t believe that a person’s appearance has a great deal of bearing on their personality.’
‘Your inexperience is showing, Miss Hunt,’ he returned cynically, but his features were less severe. ‘You will find that appearances count for a lot. A beautiful woman has the confidence that a less favoured contemporary has not. Looks frequently determine an individual’s course in life, and those less fortunate often become morose and bitter.’ He shrugged eloquently. ‘Like roses, we are judged on our overall composition, no?’
‘No!’ Suzanne was vehement. ‘You are not morose and bitter!’
‘And you think I should be?’
‘No!’ Too late, she had realised what she was saying. ‘I—I should feel sorry for someone who—who deserved—’
‘Pity?’ He inserted, as she hesitated once more. ‘But you don’t think I deserve pity, is that it?’
Suzanne looked across at him uncertainly, aware of the cleft stick into which he had steered her. ‘No,’ she said at last, slowly and distinctly. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you, Count di Falcone.’
There was a moment’s silence, and her conscience pricked her. Had she been unnecessarily harsh? Had he taken offence at her clumsily-worded beliefs?
‘Very well, Miss Hunt,’ he said finally, moving to prop himself against the side of his desk. He shifted both sticks into one hand and raked long fingers through the thick vitality of his hair. The action parted the collar of his shirt, revealing more of the savage scarring. ‘So now we know where we stand, do we not?’
Suzanne’s tangled emotions made it difficult for her to reply. She had the feeling that something was happening to her here, over which she had no control. It was as if she was seeing herself through a glass screen, aware of the dangers of becoming involved with this man, but unable to reach out and prevent the inevitable happening …
THE SUDDEN OPENING of the door was both a relief and an intrusion.
Suzanne turned away from the man as his daughter came into the room, pale and foreign-looking in her neat silk dress, a wide-brimmed bonnet dangling by its ribbons from her hand.
‘Papà—’ she was beginning, only to halt uncertainly at the sight of Suzanne standing uncomfortably in the middle of the floor.
Mazzaro transferred the sticks to his hands, and straightened away from the desk, achieving his usual posture as Lucia followed the child into the room.
‘Elena!’ she scolded in Italian, ‘how many times have I told you not to enter your father’s study without first knocking? Signore—’
‘That is all right, Lucia.’ Mazzaro shook his head at the elderly servant. ‘You may leave us. I gather my aunt is home from church.’
‘Yes, signore.’ Lucia nodded, flicking a quick glance at Suzanne and away again. ‘You would like more coffee?’
‘Thank you, no, Lucia,’ Mazzaro declined, and with a reluctant bob, she left them.
Elena stood just inside the doorway, twisting the brim of her bonnet round and round in her hands, and Suzanne wished she could think of something to say to the child. It was obvious she was ill at ease, but whether that was wholly to do with Suzanne’s presence, or in part due to her father’s expected censure, she could not be sure.
‘Have you been introduced to Miss Hunt, Elena?’ Mazzaro spoke in English as the door closed, and the child stole a dark-eyed glance at Suzanne. But she did not reply.
‘Elena and I introduced ourselves yesterday evening.’ Suzanne felt obliged to speak. ‘Didn’t we, Elena?’
Still the child remained silent, swinging her hat against the full skirt of her dress, scuffing her toes against each other.
‘Elena!’
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