Colleoni stood between her and her view of the photograph. ‘You’ re mistaken. He must be... similar to your husband. The photo’s blurred and there’s a similarity in some faces that—’
‘No. That’s him,’ she whispered, opening her eyes again and staring blindly at the view. She didn’t need to look at the photo again; the image had been burned into her brain. ‘That’s the way he tilts his head.’ She looked up at Luciano helplessly, willing him to solve the mystery. ‘That’s the expensive watch he won in a rams.’
‘A raffle? No. My brother bought that in Venezia—Venice,’ said Luciano curtly.
‘I bought him that shirt!’ she cried, failing to keep her voice calm.
‘There must be a million like it,’ dismissed Luciano with a shrug.
‘That is my husband,’ she persisted in a wobbly voice. ‘Heavens, we have the same surname! There aren’t coincidences like that; you must be some relative!’
‘The name is common among my countrymen. If you were called Smith, would you claim kinship with any Smith who resembled your husband?’
‘If there was a photograph of them both together, yes!’ she declared hotly.
Colleoni strode over to his desk, studied the photograph and appeared to come to a decision. He picked it up and brought it over to her. ‘Do you recognise his wedding-ring?’ he asked abruptly.
She held the frame with trembling hands. It was evidently an expensive ring, a thick gold band with stones set in it. Not the cheap one she’d saved up for and which she’d exchanged with the thin band of gold he’d given her on their wedding-day.
Muddled, she looked up, her expression lost and forlorn. ‘No,’ she admitted.
‘As I said,’ murmured Luciano soothingly, taking the photograph back and dropping it rather casualty on the bubble-wrap, as if it had no sentimental value to him, ‘he can’t be your husband. It’s out of the question.’
‘But... it’s so like him. I thought...’
‘Ah, tea,’ he said, sounding relieved, as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of the paranoid female making outlandish claims in his office. ‘Bring it here, Annie,’ he instructed coolly. ‘Milk?’ Debbie nodded glumly as he went through the ritual. ‘Sugar?’
‘Two.’
‘I’ll make that three.’ He hesitated and then said in stilted tones, ‘It must have been a shock to think that you might be related to me.’
‘Yes,’ she muttered, wondering if she was going crazy. But she couldn’t see the photo any more. Perhaps it had been her imagination. She could be wrong.
He handed her the thin porcelain cup edged in gold and watched while she stirred and sipped, his arms folded across his brawny chest.
When she put the cup down and lifted unhappy eyes to him again, his mouth compressed as if he was stifling a wince. ‘You do see that you’re mistaken, don’t you?’ he said gruffly. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I do know my brother. I know what he would have spent on that suit, for instance, and...’
She dashed the tears from her eyes. Either he believed what he was saying and she’d mistaken the identity of the man in the photograph, or he was hiding the truth. She needed to be sure.
‘It’s expensive,’ she said shortly. ‘I take your point.’
‘You’re not offended?’
Luciano proffered a royal blue silk handkerchief. She gave a good blow, hoping it would wake up a few brain cells. And then she screwed the silk into a small ball in her clenched fist, her lower lip trembling with uncertainty. Maybe Gio had kept the existence of his family from her because he was ashamed of her.
Debbie swallowed the hard, choking lump in her throat, her eyes filling again. He’d made his opinions clear quite soon after their wedding-day, when he’d discovered the easy, ordinary way they lived. Gio was too smooth, too classy, his manners too impeccable for him to be comfortable in their cramped flat. Sauce bottles on the table, butter from the packet, no napkins—napkins!—which he’d been horrified to hear her mother calling serviettes!
And now she might be facing his brother—the elegant, autocratic Luciano, who seemed equally determined to keep her at arm’s length.
‘I like honest people,’ she said pointedly. ‘I call a spade a spade. I know my husband couldn’t possibly afford to buy such an expensive suit but—’
‘You... you don’t have much money, then?’ asked Luciano carefully, unfolding his arms and passing her a bourbon biscuit from the dainty plate.
‘Not a lot,’ she said cautiously, biting into it gratefully. She was suddenly starving.
‘He’s unemployed, your husband?’
Her eyes flicked up. ‘No, he’s a salesman. He’s not home much. Hardly at all, lately...’
‘He keeps you short of money?’
Debbie frowned and indicated that she had a mouth full of biscuit. Something in his tone spoke of disapproval—no—anger. That didn’t make sense. But it was probably ignorance and he thought all men should make a fair settlement on their wives. What would a wealthy man know of budgeting? He probably gave his wife a huge allowance each month for underwear alone. If he was married.
She peered at the long, tanned fingers of his left hand which was holding out the plate again. A signet-ring on the ring-finger. But he was a Continental. She munched on the biscuit, her tongue absently lapping the thick sandwich of cream, and realised that when Luciano had pointed out his brother’s wedding-ring it had been on the right hand, Continental style. However, Luciano didn’t wear a ring on his right hand. So he could be married or he could be a bachelor.
‘We’re hard up,’ she said defensively, wondering why her thoughts had run on so. ‘Life’s tough out there,’ she informed him wryly.
‘Is he home at the moment?’ he asked casually.
Debbie shot him a quick look because there had been a thread of tension under the silk. His expression, however, was unreadable. ‘Not till tomorrow. He’s travelling back at the moment,’ she explained, her lashes moist with slowly oozing tears as she pictured herself asking Gio for a divorce. He’d threatened to take Steffy away with him if she ever thought of leaving him. She shuddered at the thought.
‘Does he call you when he’s away?’ asked Luciano, soft sympathy in his melting eyes.
‘No.’ She could explain that by saying that Gio had long since stopped bothering to call her, but didn’t want to share the problems of her marriage with Luciano. She bit her lip. ‘He’s working in Scotland and the Midlands at the moment,’ she confided. ‘He’s been away for three weeks...’
The dark eyes met hers with cool remoteness. ‘I see. My brother lives in Sicily. He’s been there for—’ there was a brief hesitation ‘—some time.’ The strong jaw clenched as though he was grinding his teeth in suppressed anger.
‘Oh. It seems that I jumped to the wrong conclusion.
