she hadn’t come here to be comfortable. She’d come because Dominic needed her, because this was an obligation she couldn’t refuse.
It seemed she’d surprised Zandro yet again. His hands gripped the arms of his chair before he slowly relaxed them. ‘I’ll ask my mother to have a room prepared for you,’ he said.
She felt a little dazed. Things were moving faster than she’d expected, although he’d promised nothing except that he would not give up Dominic. Did he really believe she would stay for a while, then pronounce herself satisfied with his arrangements for his brother’s child, and tamely leave?
He didn’t, she decided, have much imagination. But she wasn’t about to point out to him that throwing a pining mother into close proximity with her stolen child was unlikely to lead her to abandon it a second time. ‘When shall I come?’
Better strike while the iron was hot, give him no chance to find some excuse to rescind.
He shrugged, though she fancied it cost him some effort to appear so nonchalant. ‘Give me time to…inform my parents that you will be staying—for a while.’
Perhaps she’d imagined the emphasis on the last phrase. He didn’t need to worry. She had no desire to remain in the Brunellesci household for any longer than it took her to persuade them that a mother’s rights took precedence over any others.
She fought another twinge of conscience. By Zandro’s own admission his mother was too old and he was too busy to give Dominic undivided attention. While Domenico apparently took some distant interest in his grandson, no doubt he left practical matters of child care to his wife and the nanny.
No matter what they thought, a paid employee couldn’t give the same unstinting devotion to Dominic she could. He was all she had in the world now.
Grief threatened to overwhelm her and she turned her head, pretending to admire a large oil colour on the wall, a luminous study of a young girl in a white dress, perched on a chair before a window where gauzy curtains floated on an invisible breeze.
It didn’t really help, so she put down the coffee cup she’d emptied and stood up. ‘I’ll go then,’ she said, ‘and pack my things.’ It wouldn’t take long. Not a naturally pushy person, nevertheless she was determined not to let him back out. ‘I hired a car in town… Can I garage it here—or will I need it? I don’t suppose I’ll be going out much.’ And if she did, she could use public transport now there was no need for discreet surveillance.
He said, ‘Return it. I’ll send a car for you tonight.’ And after a slight hesitation, ‘About seven. You may join us for dinner.’
Gracious of him, she thought snidely, but bit back the urge to say it aloud. He probably wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to his father that someone Domenico had called that woman—and, she suspected, something much worse—was about to invade his home.
She wondered if the old man might veto the idea and countermand his son.
Evidently if there had been objections Zandro had overridden them. The car arrived promptly—one of a fleet that specialised in corporate business, according to the logo on the side.
When they reached the Brunellesci house the driver spoke into the microphone, and in response the gates opened. He drove to the stone steps, where the door was opened by the housekeeper.
As the driver lifted the single suitcase out of the boot and set it on the verandah, Zandro’s deep voice said, ‘I’ll take care of that, Mrs Walker.’
He came forward, flicking a critical glance over their guest, evidently noting that she’d changed into a cool cotton dress worn with wedge-heeled sandals.
His greeting was coldly polite. ‘Good evening, Lia. Mrs Walker will take you upstairs. I’ll bring your case in a few minutes.’ He turned to speak to the driver.
The woman showed her to a large bedroom with embossed creamy-gold wallpaper, dimmed by trees outside that grew taller than the house. A bronze satin spread covered the queen-size bed. The adjoining bathroom was green-tiled and gleamed with gold fittings.
Mrs Walker left before Zandro arrived with her case, putting it down on a blanket box at the foot of the bed. ‘Do you have everything you need?’ he inquired.
‘Thank you. Yes, I think so.’ She too could be polite but not friendly.
‘You know your way to the dining room. We’ll be sitting down in about twenty minutes.’ He cast her a searching look. ‘If you’d like a drink first we’re in the front room.’
‘I’ll be down soon,’ she promised. ‘I’d like a gin and tonic if you have it.’
He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement before leaving.
She crossed the room to close the door behind him and leaned back against it, letting out a long breath. Zandro Brunellesci was not a man she could comfortably be in the same room with. Every time he came within touching distance she could feel the force of his personality, an aura of power, determination and authority, making her nerves skitter all over the place.
Staying in the same house with Dominic meant living with Zandro and his disquieting effect on her.
Moving away from the door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the big dressing table. She looked apprehensive, her cheeks flushed with colour, eyes dark in the middle, the pupils enlarged, the green irises softened to almost grey.
She squared her shoulders, trying to banish the look. Sure, Zandro was intimidating, but she’d known that all along. Known too that she could—must—stand up to whatever obstacles he put in the way of her plans. And never let him know on what shaky foundations those plans actually rested.
One step at a time. The first was to go downstairs and face the enemy. The three faces of the Brunellesci family, ranged against her.
CHAPTER THREE
THE front room, Zandro had said. She followed the sound of voices to a door that stood ajar. The first face she saw on entering the big room was his. He was standing, talking with his father. Looking over the older man’s shoulder, he found her eyes, abruptly falling silent.
Domenico turned, his fierce gaze lighting on her as she paused in the doorway. She saw his hand tighten on the cane he held, then he drew himself up to his considerable height and gave her a curt nod. ‘Good evening, Lia.’
Walking into the room, she returned the greeting in a steady voice. Then she saw a motherly figure encased in floral silk, her greying hair pulled into a bun, ensconced on a sofa with Dominic snuggled into the angle of a comfortable lap.
The old woman looked up, her eyes wary, perhaps anxious. ‘Buona sera, Lia.’
Dominic wore some kind of one-piece pyjama suit, yellow and printed with teddy bears. Black curls covered his head, and his mouth was like a pink rosebud. Round, dark eyes regarded this new person with curiosity, and she took a couple of quick steps towards him, her arms lifting.
He turned from her and buried his face in his grandmother’s bosom, one tiny hand clutching at the shiny silk, roundly rejecting the overture.
Letting her hands fall, she felt
