as important as closing the circle.’
Cat could have asked him what he meant by that but didn’t bother. And as for the shares she would happily forget them. Forever.
Growing up she’d heard the story so many times it bored her socks off. How her grandfather had been incensed, hurt in his pride, as he put it, when his older married brother had inherited seventy per cent of the shares in the Patrucco family business while he had received a mere miserable thirty. Marcantonio had had the upper hand, made all the decisions, told him what to do. Had control. So the younger and disgruntled Domenico had just upped and left. America first stop, where, hot-headed and determined to show Marcantonio that he didn’t need him or the olive plantations and the vineyards, he got into trouble over something to do with a parcel of land.
England next, to seek his fortune. What he had found was love. His Alice.
The only child of farming parents, Alice Mayhew had fallen head over heels with her handsome Italian suitor and after their marriage he’d helped out on the Shropshire farm; the income from the shares that had caused his permanent split from his brother had purchased more land, updated equipment and renovated the down-at-heel farmhouse.
However much he had despised the insulting smallness of his holding in the Italian business he had never sold those shares. And now, according to the healthy state of his bank balance, they were paying huge dividends.
‘You didn’t think family was important when you upped and left Italy and broke off all contact,’ Cat reminded him gently when she guessed by his continuing silence he had run out of things to say.
‘That was pride. The pride of a man is stiff, unyielding.’ He lifted his shoulders in a fatalistic shrug, but defended, ‘I kept contact through our sister Silvana. She told me of Marcantonio’s success in expanding the business, of the birth of his son, my nephew Astorre. Of my brother’s death ten years after Astorre’s marriage into a super-wealthy Roman family and the arrival of my great-nephew Aldo. Through her I know that Astorre has retired to Amalfi with his grand Roman wife and that Aldo now holds the business reins and has expanded into luxury holiday villas and apartments.’
Cat could almost feel sorry for him. A seventy-nine-year-old man indulging in pipedreams. She saw the relevance of that ‘closing the circle’ bit now. Sweep past resentments and quarrels aside, marry his granddaughter to his great-nephew and make everything right and whole again.
In his dreams!
‘And through the photographs Silvana sent me—’ a slow pause, a smile that might, if she were to be uncharitable, be described as sly ‘—I know that Aldo is a fine figure of Italian manhood—at thirty years of age he has a truly astute business brain and is the owner of a villa in Tuscany, a town house in Florence and an apartment in Portofino—che bello! You could do far worse! That I know all that is important to know about my lost family I explained to Aldo when I spoke to him on the phone a fortnight ago and suggested that a marriage between you two young things might be arranged to reunite the family.’
A beat of appalled silence. Cat felt her face colour hotly. ‘You did what? I do not believe this!’ Then the cool and welcome slide of common sense effectively stopped her exploding with outrage. ‘And he quite rightly told you where to put your interfering “suggestion”. Right?’
‘Far from it. He accepted my invitation to come and meet you. To discuss the matter further. As I said, he has an astute brain. Which brings us to my shares.’ He held out his cup and saucer. ‘Would you?’
Rising, Cat poured his second cup of tea, her hands shaking. She would not let her temper rip. Her grandfather was seventy-nine years old; he was grieving for his Alice. His sister was also, sadly, gone. He couldn’t make his peace with his older brother—he had died many years ago. He wanted to heal the family rift through his granddaughter and his great-nephew. She had to keep reminding herself of the facts to stop herself throttling him!
So she wouldn’t storm out of here as every instinct urged her to. She really didn’t want to upset him. Besides, no one on this earth could make her marry a man she didn’t know, quite possibly wouldn’t even like and certainly wouldn’t love.
Reassured, she handed him his tea and asked, ‘So when does this paragon arrive?’
‘Any time now. I didn’t tell you what I had in mind earlier. You would have suddenly expressed the wish to take a walking holiday in Scotland or go climbing in the Andes!’
Cat dipped her head, acknowledging his correct reading of her character. She recalled a note appended to one of her end-of-term reports. ‘Caterina is stubborn and headstrong. She won’t be led and she won’t be pushed.’
Bolshie, in other words.
She preferred to think of herself as strong-minded. She knew what she wanted and that wasn’t having to endure being looked over by some Italian big shot like a heifer at market!
‘Why aren’t you shouting at me, Caterina?’
The thread of amusement in his voice brought her attention back to her grandfather. She gave a slight, dismissive shrug and walked to the window to look out at the tail end of the afternoon. The days were shortening and the turning leaves of the damson tree mimicked the promise of hazy sunshine breaking through the warm and heavy early-autumn mist.
‘The timing of Aldo’s arrival is irrelevant. He is wasting his time coming here at all.’ She turned back to face him, the russet colour of the heavy-duty smock she usually wore when she was working emphasising the burnished glow of her chestnut hair, making her skin look paler, her eyes a deeper emerald. She spread her long-fingered artist’s hands expressively. ‘I can’t understand why he’s bothering. The guy’s obviously loaded and unless he looks like a cross between Quasimodo and a pot-bellied pig he could take his own pick of women.’
‘As no doubt he has,’ Domenico remarked drily. ‘But when it comes to taking a wife there is much to be considered. Family honour demands that a man marries wisely and well and not merely because he has lustful desires for a particular pretty woman.’
‘Your shares in his business,’ Cat deduced in a flat voice. This Aldo creep was obviously the pits. Popular culture marked the Italian male as being passionate, hot-blooded and fiery but this distant relative of hers had to be anything but if he could contemplate, even for one moment, marrying a woman he had yet to meet for the sake of clawing back a parcel of shares.
Verifying that conclusion, Domenico dipped his head. ‘My thirty-per-cent holding in his business, plus everything that is mine will one day come to you.’ He stirred his tea reflectively. ‘You are young, you are beautiful and when I am gone you will be all alone. If you were safely married to a man such as Aldo your future would be secure. You would be part of a family, cared for and pampered. I do not make this suggestion because I am crazy but because I love you and worry about your future.’
‘There’s no need,’ Cat said gruffly, her throat thickening. On the one hand she wanted to give him a verbal lashing. He was like something out of the ark! In his outdated opinion women couldn’t stand on their own feet; they needed a member of that superior race—a man—to look after them. And when he was no longer around to perform that duty he wanted to pass her over to someone he thought he could trust! He was living back in the nineteenth century—and, what was worse, an Italian nineteenth century!
On the other hand, she knew he loved her, cared about her, and that made her want to fling her arms around him and tell him she loved him, too.
She
