that her daughter was missing. And if he added that he suspected she was with his sixteen-year-old son, heaven knew how Ashley’s mother would react.
Concentrating her gaze on the pearl-grey silk knot of his tie, Tess strove for a reason not to give the number to him. But it was hard enough to find excuses for her reaction to a stranger without the added burden of her own guilt. ‘I—don’t think that would be a very good idea,’ she said, wishing desperately that someone else would come into the gallery. But no one did, and she continued unevenly, ‘Ashley’s mother isn’t well. I wouldn’t want to upset her.’
Castelli heaved a sigh. ‘Signorina—’
‘Please: call me Tess.’
He expelled a breath. ‘Tess, then,’ he agreed, though she hardly recognised her name on his tongue. His faint accent gave it a foreign sibilance that was strange and melodic. ‘Why would my call upset her? I have no intention of intimidating anyone.’
But he did, thought Tess grimly, almost without his being aware of it. It was in his genes, an aristocratic arrogance that was dominant in his blood. Who was he? she wondered again. What was his background? And what did his wife think of the situation? Was she as opposed to the liaison as he was?
Of course she must be, Tess told herself severely, averting eyes that had strayed almost irresistibly back to his face. But if Marco was like his father, she could understand Ashley’s attraction. If she had been attracted to his son, she amended. She must not jump to conclusions here.
‘I—Mrs Daniels doesn’t know you,’ she said firmly, answering his question. ‘And—and if by chance Ashley is out and she answers the phone, she’s bound to be concerned.’
‘Why?’ Once again those disturbing eyes invaded her space. ‘Come, Tess, why not be honest? You are afraid that your sister is not at her mother’s house. Am I not correct?’
Tess’s defensive gaze betrayed her. ‘All right,’ she said unwillingly. ‘I admit, there is a possibility—a small possibility—that Ashley isn’t in England, after all. But—’ she put up a hand when he would have interrupted her and continued ‘—that doesn’t mean she’s with—with Marco. With your son.’ The boy’s name came far too easily. ‘She might just have decided she needed a break and, as it’s the Easter holidays, I was available.’
‘You do not believe that,’ he told her softly, running a questing hand down the silken length of his tie. The gesture was unconsciously sensual, though she doubted he was aware of it. Sensuality was part of his persona. Like his lean, intriguing face and the powerful body beneath his sleek Armani suit. ‘I also think you are far too understanding. I hope your sister realises what a loyal little friend she has in you.’
It was the ‘little’ that did it. Tess had spent her life insisting that people not judge her by her size. ‘All right,’ she said again, anger giving her a confidence she hadn’t been able to summon earlier. ‘I’ll phone her. Now. But if she is there—’
‘I will find some suitable means of recompense,’ he finished softly. ‘And if your sister is like you, then I can understand why Marco found her so—appealing.’
‘Don’t patronise me!’ Tess was incensed by his condescension. ‘As it happens, Ashley’s nothing like me. She’s tall and more—more—’ How could she say curvaceous to him? ‘Um—she’s dark and I’m fair.’
‘So…’ His tone was almost indulgent now. ‘Once again, I have offended you, cara. Forgive me. I suppose, being the younger sister—’
‘I’m not the younger sister,’ Tess broke in hotly, wondering why she’d ever thought that cutting her hair would make a difference. ‘I told you, my father married again after my mother died.’
‘Non posso crederci! I can’t believe it.’ He shook his head. ‘But you told me your sister was twenty-eight, no?’
‘And I’m thirty-two,’ said Tess shortly, struggling to hold on to her patience. She paused, and then in a more civil tone she added, ‘Don’t bother to tell me I don’t look it. I’ve spent the last ten years trying to convince people that I’m older than the kids I teach.’
Castelli’s mouth tilted at the corners and she was struck anew by his disturbing appeal. ‘Most women would envy you, Tess. My own mother spends a small fortune on retaining her youth.’
‘But I am not most women,’ she retorted, realising she was only putting off the inevitable. ‘And now, I suppose, I’d better make that call.’
RAFE DI CASTELLI paced tensely about the gallery. All his instincts were urging him to join her in the small office, to be present while she made the call. To make sure she actually called her sister, he conceded tersely. Despite her apparent innocence, he had no reason to trust Tess Daniels any more than her sister.
But courtesy—and an underlying belief that she wouldn’t lie to him—kept him out of earshot. He didn’t want to know how she phrased her question; he didn’t want to hear her distress if he was right. And he was right, he told himself grimly. Verdicci had been adamant. Two people had got aboard the plane to Milano, and one of them had been his son.
It seemed to take for ever. He was fairly sure her Italian wasn’t fluent and it might have been easier if he had placed the call for her. But any suggestion of involvement on his part would have seemed like interference. Besides, impatient as he was, he was prepared to give her the time to marshal her thoughts.
She emerged from the office a few moments later and he saw at once that she was upset. Her hair was rumpled, as if she’d been running agitated fingers through it as she spoke, and her winter-pale cheeks were bright with colour.
She looked delectable, he thought ruefully, despising the impulse that would put such a thought in his mind at this time. Was this how she looked when she left her bed? he wondered. All pale tangled hair and face flushed from sleep?
It was a curiously disturbing picture, and one that he chose to ignore. Engaging though she was, she could mean nothing to him. He was amused by her naïvety, but that was all.
‘She’s not there,’ she burst out abruptly as he paused, expectantly, looking at her. ‘Andrea—that’s Ashley’s mother—she hasn’t seen her.’
Rafe felt a mixture of resignation and relief. Resignation that his information had been correct, and relief that there was not some unknown woman involved.
‘You knew that, of course,’ she went on, regarding him half resentfully. Green eyes, fringed by surprisingly dark lashes, surveyed him without liking. ‘So—you were right and I was wrong. What do we do now?’
‘We?’ Her use of the personal pronoun caused an automatic arching of his brows and she had the grace to look embarrassed at her presumption.
‘I mean, I—that is, me,’ she fumbled. ‘What am I going to do now? I can’t stay here indefinitely. I’m due back at school in ten days’ time.’
‘As is Marco,’ he observed drily, feeling a little of her frustration himself. ‘May I ask, what did your sister tell you when she handed the keys of the gallery to you? Did she give you any idea when she would return?’
