he greeted her in English, inclining his head forward. ‘I trust you slept well.’
Suzanne had to look at him then, but the bland green eyes revealed no trace of its being a barbed question. ‘I—it was very hot,’ she compromised. ‘But I was very comfortable, thank you, Count.’
‘That is good.’ Without removing his hands from the sticks, he gestured towards the doors of the room he had first emerged from the night before. ‘Perhaps you will join me for coffee? If you would open the doors …’
It was a command, more than a request, and as Suzanne did not know her way about well enough to demur, she moved forward automatically and taking hold of the iron handles, swung the doors inward.
The room beyond was booklined and comfortable, as she had seen in passing the night before, but with a square mahogany desk, presently untidy with files and papers, and leather chairs in keeping with its use as a study. Of all the rooms in the villa she had entered so far, it was the least aggressively impressive, and possessed a charm and intimacy lacking in those larger apartments.
Mazzaro propelled himself into the room, and indicated that she should close the doors behind them. She did so reluctantly, impatient with herself unjustifiably for getting into such a position. Perhaps she should have stayed in her room until Pietro returned and came looking for her. But how could she have known that Mazzaro di Falcone would feel obliged to entertain her in Pietro’s absence?
She closed the doors and leaned back against them for a moment, her eyes moving to the long windows which gave an uninterrupted view of the fountain in the courtyard. But as yet these glass doors were closed, and there was no escape that way.
Mazzaro was regarding her with a disturbing scrutiny that increased her own feelings of unease, and she realised she had never encountered this kind of situation before. The conviction grew in her that she was to blame, that she was reading more into his behaviour because of her own peculiar reactions to him, which was ridiculous when she seriously thought about it. In the course of her work, she had met dozens of men, and many of them had shown her friendliness and admiration. She had met handsome men, rich men, charming men—men of all ages and nationalities; and it was positively ludicrous for her to feel this way about a middle-aged Italian count, who dragged himself around on two sticks and whose face would terrify small children.
‘Does my disfiguration repel you, Miss Hunt?’ Mazzaro asked now, and she guessed he had misread the emotions that played so revealingly across her face.
‘No,’ she said at once, colouring like a schoolgirl speaking to a superior. ‘Not at all.’
‘No?’ He sounded sceptical. ‘Yet you are reluctant to be alone with me, Miss Hunt.’
His candour disconcerted her further. ‘No. I—why I was just wondering when Pietro would be back …’
Mazzaro’s dark brows ascended. ‘Indeed.’ He gestured towards one of the leather chairs set beside the desk. ‘Well, not yet, at any rate, so won’t you sit down, Miss Hunt? Or would you rather remain poised for flight? I promise you, in any race between us, you would win.’
Her face flushed, Suzanne moved away from the door and took the chair he offered, crossing her legs and then uncrossing them again when she realised that by so doing she was exposing the smooth skin of her thigh. If Mazzaro noticed this small charade, he made no comment upon it, moving round his desk to take the chair opposite her. He seated himself slowly, setting the sticks aside, immediately assuming that air of command he had possessed at dinner the evening before.
For a few moments he seemed content to relax, his hands resting loosely over the arms of the chair. His hands were brown, and long-fingered, a jewelled signet ring on his left hand catching the light as it moved. Suzanne fixed her gaze no higher than his desk. As well as the mass of papers upon it, there was an onyx paperweight, and a gold inkstand, and a bronze statuette of a bull, which must surely be very old. Her hands itched to hold the statuette. The metal looked very smooth, burnished to a dull shine, cool to the touch. She wanted to hold it between her palms and feel the metal expand beneath the probing caress of her fingers …
‘Have you known my cousin long, Miss Hunt?’
Mazzaro’s question interrupted her train of thought, and her head came up jerkily. His eyes were narrowed as they watched her, cat-like between the thick short lashes. For a moment, she almost believed he had known what she was thinking and deliberately broken the thread.
‘Wh-what?’ she stammered. ‘Oh, no—no. Not long.’
‘How long?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. About two months, I suppose.’
‘Not long, as you say.’ He brought his elbow to rest on the arm of his chair, supporting his chin with the knuckles of one hand. ‘How well would you say you know Pietro?’
‘How well?’ Suzanne shifted awkwardly under his gaze. ‘As well as anyone knows anyone else after such a short space of time, I imagine.’
‘You think time is relative to how well one knows another person?’
‘Well—of course.’ Suzanne hesitated. ‘Don’t you?’
He did not answer, for at that moment there came a knock at the study door, and Suzanne looked round in relief. But at his command, it was Lucia who entered with the coffee he must have ordered earlier. There was only one cup, however, and in swift Italian he requested that she fetch another.
Suzanne was uncomfortably aware that Lucia had given her a swift appraisal as she came into the room, and no doubt she was speculating on the relationship between Pietro’s English friend and the lord of Castelfalcone.
While the old servant went to get a second cup, Mazzaro poured coffee for one, raising the cream jug in silent interrogation. But Suzanne mutely shook her head, adding two spoons of sugar when he pushed the cup towards her. She lifted the cup and saucer into her hands, stirring it vigorously, and then stopping herself from doing so when she found mocking green eyes upon her.
Lucia returned a few moments later, and Mazzaro thanked her warmly. ‘It was my pleasure, signore,’ she responded, with a knowing smile. ‘If there is anything else …’
‘We will let you know, Lucia. Thank you.’
Mazzaro inclined his head and Lucia made her departure, the smile still on her lips.
Suzanne looked down into her coffee cup. This was the moment she should ask him why he had put the rose on her tray, she thought fiercely. He must know he was giving Lucia a deliberately false impression of their association, and heaven knew what she might make of it. Summoning all her determination, she looked up and found his eyes upon her.
‘Signore—’ she was beginning, when he said abruptly: ‘I saw you admiring my statuette. Do you know anything about such objects, Miss Hunt?’
Suzanne’s momentary resolution fled. ‘It—it’s bronze, isn’t it?’ she ventured, and despised herself for her weakness. ‘Is it Italian?’
His smile was wry. ‘I am afraid not, Miss Hunt.’ He picked up the small statuette, and smoothed it between his fingers as she had wanted to do. ‘This little fellow was made in Egypt many, many centuries ago. It is bronze, as you say, but many of these antiquities were imported from Greece or North Africa. The Romans themselves, I regret to say, did not
