arm in her own and turned towards the house. ‘If it isn’t Donato or Lorenzo fussing, it’s Romano. I’m surrounded by men who think I’m going to break.’
‘That’s no bad thing.’ As they walked up the huge stone steps that led to the ornate studded front door of Casa Pontina Claire smiled at her friend. ‘And now I’m here to add my pennyworth to the nagging.’
‘“Nagging”?’ As the three of them entered the magnificent hall with its beautifully polished floor and air of timeless graciousness Romano stopped and looked down at the two women. ‘What is this “nagging”? This is an English word?’
‘I suppose it is.’ Grace smiled up at him, and Claire was struck by how open and relaxed his face was as he returned the smile. The austerity had gone, along with the coldness, and the result was devastating. He certainly hadn’t smiled at her like that.
He really was something else, Claire thought wryly as she watched and listened to Grace explaining the meaning of the word. Not that she was affected by him, not at all, she assured herself quickly. But, nevertheless, one certainly didn’t get many men like him to the pound. Or many women who could match such wealth and power and good looks...women like Bianca. They must have made a stunning couple.
Explanations over, the three of them walked into the imposing drawing room where Cecilia, the robust cook, and Anna and Gina, the two little maids, were waiting to greet her, along with a long, low coffee-table groaning with a selection of sandwiches and cakes. ‘I thought you might be peckish. It’s some time until dinner, although Romano insisted he would take you to lunch,’ Grace said happily. ‘Was it nice?’
‘Very nice.’ Claire didn’t elaborate further; she was still mulling over the ‘insisted’. Although ‘very nice’ wasn’t really the right description if the truth be known, she thought quietly. When she had returned to the table Aldonez had served their lunch within moments, but such had been her state of unease she could have been eating sawdust for all that the food had registered on her taste-buds.
Not that Romano had been difficult at all, she admitted silently, in fact he had metamorphosed into what could only be termed the perfect escort: witty, charming, but still with that indefinable coolness that made her feel as though he was playing a game, observing her the whole time. It hadn’t made for good digestion on her part and she hadn’t been able to finish the meal, light though it had been. She was absolutely starving now, she realised suddenly, and she filled the plate one of the maids had handed her and watched the other two chat.
‘You’re staying for dinner, Romano?’ Grace asked as the cook and maids left the room. ‘Lorenzo is at a friend’s house but Donato is picking him up on his way back,’ she added as she half turned to Claire, to include her in the conversation. ‘And he left express instructions this morning that he wanted his favourite uncle to be here.’
‘Did he indeed?’ Romano had removed his beautifully cut jacket before sitting down, and now, as he stretched back in his chair, the movement emphasising the hard, muscled chest under the black silk shirt he was wearing, Claire felt herself almost choke on a mouthful of salmon sandwich. Dynamite. With the same destructive power of that particular explosive for blowing the inexpenenced into oblivion! ‘Well, I think it is rather up to Claire, do you not agree? This is her first evening here. Perhaps she would prefer to spend it with just the family?’
‘You are family—’
‘Of course I don’t mind if you stay—’
The two women had spoken together, and although Grace’s subsequent laugh was easy, Claire’s was forced. She didn’t want him to stay, in fact there was nothing she wanted less, but he knew, and she knew, that she couldn’t very well say so.
‘That’s fine, then—a nice, cosy dinner party with all the people I love most,’ Grace said with an air of satisfaction.
Donato and Lorenzo arrived home just after seven o’clock—the former full of apologies for being unable to meet her as arranged. And although Claire made all the right noises she was vitally aware of Romano’s sardonic gaze as she said how well he had looked after her, and how nice lunch had been.
‘This “nice”, this is another word you English favour, is it not?’ Romano said softly in her ear as she rose to go and see Benito, Lorenzo’s parrot, at the boy’s request. ‘With Grace too, the weather is “nice”, the meal is “nice”. I find the word singularly unimaginative.’
‘Oh.’ She was dismayed to find he had chosen to walk with her through the hall to the back of the house, where Lorenzo’s own large sitting room was situated and where Benito resided most of the time. ‘What would you prefer me to say, then?’
‘The truth?’ The dark eyes looked down at her, daring her to respond, even as the man behind the mask asked himself why he was doing this, provoking her, trying to get a reaction. She seemed to have taken an instant dislike to him—well, so what? he thought grimly. She was Grace’s friend, over here for a few months to help out, that was all. He didn’t have to see her above half a dozen times if he didn’t want to.
‘Which is?’ Claire asked carefully, willing herself with all her heart to keep to the pledge she had made in the cloakroom of the restaurant and not let him get under her skin.
He shrugged slowly, his eyes narrowing, and again the sexual magnetism that was as much a part of the man as breathing had Claire’s breath catching in her throat. Did he know the effect he had on women? she thought weakly, before answering herself immediately with a curt, Of course he did. How could he not? He must have women throwing themselves at him every day of the week. There wasn’t a woman born who wouldn’t wonder what it would feel like to be in his arms, to have him make love to her, to have him want her. She didn’t like where her thoughts were leading and slammed the door shut on her mind before they could continue on such a dangerous path.
The Romano Bellinis of this world and the Claire Wilsons had no meeting point; she knew that. He was one of the beautiful people—rich, powerful, with a little black book that was no doubt bursting at the seams with the names of willing females ready to jump when he clicked his fingers. She had seen such women in the summer, when she had been here and the jet set had been in full residence—elegant, sophisticated beauties with model-like figures and dazzling smiles, all legs and teeth and glittering like Christmas trees with the amount of diamonds strewn about their persons. Women like his late wife, in fact.
‘Come on, Claire.’ Lorenzo, who had been a good few paces in front of them, turned at the door to his room and beckoned to her. ‘I told Benito this morning that you were coming and he does not like to be kept waiting.’
She didn’t doubt it, Claire thought wryly as she gratefully seized the excuse to finish her conversation with Romano, moving ahead of him as she hurried to Lorenzo’s side. Benito was a formidable bird in every sense of the word, but for some reason he had taken to her from the instant his bright, beady eyes had met hers, nuzzling his head, with its wickedly hooked bill, against her fingers whenever she petted him and ruffling his exotic plumage in obvious pleasure at her presence.
It was clear the bird had heard Lorenzo speak her name the second she stepped into the room. His eyes had been fixed on the doorway and the moment he saw her he began to dance clumsily on his perch, screeching her name. ‘Claire! Claire! Who’s a clever bird, then? Nice old fellow. Nice old bird.’ They were the words she had used to pet him in the summer, but she wished he had said something else, anything else, as she walked over to him. She could just sense Romano’s satisfaction at his point being emphasised so adroitly.
‘Hello, Benito.
