sentinel-like along either side of the long driveway leading to the forecourt. Somewhere to the right, below a sweep of lawn, the soft boom and swish of waves breaking over rocks swept the silence like a lullaby.
“This way, signorina.”
Paolo ushered her through the front door and into an entrance hall of such grand proportions that it would have done justice to a royal residence. Checkerboard black and white marble tiles covered the floor. Tapestries, faded by age to softly muted tones of ecru and rose and blue, hung from the walls. Directly in front of her, a magnificent marble staircase rose to a central landing, then branched in two to lead to a gallery that ran around the entire second story. Overhead, some forty feet above the ground floor, frescoed cherubs cavorted among a sea of clouds around the perimeter of a domed ceiling with a stained-glass window at its center.
Gazing around, Eve’s first impressions of the place underwent change. Old the house might be, but “elegant” more properly described it than “gothic” “sumptuous” rather than “barren.” In fact, she was so entranced with the visual feast surrounding her that she failed to notice a recessed door at the rear of the hall, until it thudded open and the figure of a man appeared silhouetted on the threshold.
Even without Marcia’s description, Eve would have recognized him as Gabriel Brabanti. Never mind that the door cast him in such deep shadow that she couldn’t tell whether he was handsome as sin, or homely as a board fence. Only the lord and master of the manor could have exuded such presence; such an air of unshakeable, aristocratic authority.
For a second or two, he remained motionless and fixed her in an unblinking gaze, stroking his thumb the entire time over the barrel of the enormous steel flashlight he carried. The intensity of his stare, not to mention the way he caressed the flashlight as if it were a weapon he was debating using, unnerved Eve enough. But when he finally approached her, crossing the wide expanse of marble floor in long, purposeful strides, it took all her considerable will-power not to cringe against the tapestry-hung wall.
He did not look like a father eager to see his baby for the first time. He looked coldly outraged by the intrusion of strangers in his home.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked, his voice rich as textured velvet, his accent an intriguing mix of Italian over-laid with Harvard English.
Flabbergasted, Eve stared at him. Up close, he was all lean, hard angles and olive skin burnished by the sun. A tall, elegant creature of exquisite proportions; broad across the shoulders, deep in the chest, narrow at the waist.
And his face? He had the face of an irate angel. A face at once so arresting it stole a person’s breath away, and so darkly brooding it chilled the blood.
His eyes, she noticed with a faint sense of shock, were a remarkable shade of crystal clear blue. Against the contrasting fringe of dense black lashes and olive skin, they were astonishingly beautiful. As for his mouth…her own ran dry just thinking about it.
Marcia’s description of him as dark and handsome ran pitifully short of the mark. He was the epitome of male beauty; a god among mortals. A sight to make rational men grind their teeth in envy, and sophisticated women to fall at his feet. In short, Gabriel Brabanti was the most strikingly beautiful man Eve had ever seen.
“What sort of question is that?” she croaked. “You know very well who I am. Marcia wrote and told you.”
But even as she spoke, she knew her words were meaningless, and she knew why. Because, of course, her cousin had done no such thing. Instead Marcia had behaved just as she always did when faced with a sticky situation: she’d lied, then run for cover. It was a habit of such long-standing that the shame was Eve’s for having expected anything else.
“What I know,” Gabriel Brabanti replied stonily, “is that unless she has undergone extensive cosmetic surgery, you are not my ex-wife. As for her having written to me, apart from a brief note advising me that she would be arriving today, I’ve had no contact with Marcia since her equally brief message informing me of my daughter’s birth.”
Still stunned by his appearance and feeling like an utter fool because of it, Eve said, “She’s never been much of a letter writer.”
His mouth thinned scornfully and she could hardly blame him. Such a lame excuse deserved nothing but contempt. “She appears to possess few commendable qualities. That, however, does not answer my question. Who are you?”
“Her cousin, Eve Caldwell.” She deposited the infant seat on the floor, fumbled to shift the heavy diaper bag from her right arm to her left and thrust out her hand. Discomfited when he ignored it, she rushed to explain, “I’m Nicola’s aunt. Sort of—well, not really. Technically I suppose she’s really my first cousin once removed. But Marcia and I are like sisters—twins, even. Our fathers are brothers, and she and I share the same birthday, you see. So it seemed the natural thing for me to assume the role of aunt to her baby.”
“Do you always babble like this in reply to a simple question, Signorina Caldwell?” he inquired, his gaze never once wavering. “Or is it something you resort to only when you’re nervous?”
“I’m not nervous,” she said. But that she had to swallow twice and run the tip of her tongue over lips gone suddenly dry made a mockery of her answer.
“You should be. Within minutes of your arrival, you discover your cousin has betrayed your trust. Only a complete simpleton would assume her store of unpleasant surprises ends there.”
His marriage to Marcia might have been brief, Eve decided glumly, but clearly it had lasted long enough for him to get to know her altogether too well. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to confront him again. “I can deal with anything Marcia dishes out.”
“And so,” he said, “can I. I suggest you remember that, Signorina Caldwell, should you ever feel tempted to aid and abet her in any schemes she might be hatching. I’m sure she’s regaled you with tales of how miserable and intolerant a husband she found me, but she hasn’t the first idea of how formidable an enemy I can be when I really put my mind to it.” He stepped closer and made a move toward the infant seat. “Now, having made my position clear, I would like to meet my daughter.”
Acting purely on instinct, Eve beat him to it and hauled Nicola out of reach. “She’s sleeping.”
“So I see. But since I don’t expect her to engage in conversation with me, it hardly signifies. Hand her over, per favor!”
“Here?” Eve glanced around the vast hall. Impressive and magnificent though it might be from an architectural viewpoint, as a cosy setting for father and daughter to become acquainted, it left a lot to be desired. “Haven’t you prepared a nursery?”
“An entire suite, signorina,” he assured, his exasperation tinted with amusement. “And all of it well equipped to serve your every need. Don’t look so suspicious. I merely wish to hold my daughter, not feed her to the wolves.”
Her glance fell from his face to his hands. They looked capable enough, but, “Have you ever held a baby before? It’s not the same as handling a parcel, you know. You have to support her head.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“And keep a firm grip. Babies have an inborn fear of being dropped.”
“I have no intention of dropping her, nor do I intend to take her from you by force. I am, however, rapidly running out of patience. So for the last time, signorina, hand her over.”
