href="#ulink_374f6da1-9050-5bed-bd82-04e90cba2846">CHAPTER SIX
CHARLES WINSLOW THE THIRD was a friendly, gregarious gentleman whose daughter was of a similar age to his second wife.
If appearances were anything to go by, each young woman had worked hard to outdo the other in the fashion stakes, for each wore a designer label that resembled creations by Dior and Ungaro.
Carly felt her own dress paled by comparison, for although the classic style was elegant it was hardly new.
Within seconds of entering the lounge Charles took hold of Carly’s hand and raised it, Southern-style, to his lips.
‘I’m delighted the two of you are together again,’ he intoned solemnly. ‘You’re too beautiful to remain unattached, and Stefano was a fool to let you escape.’
Carly caught Stefano’s faintly lifted eyebrow and was unable to prevent the slight quiver at the edge of her mouth. Without blinking an eyelid, she sent Charles her most dazzling smile. ‘Charles,’ she greeted with equal solemnity. ‘You haven’t changed.’
His faintly wolfish smile was no mean complement to his sparkling brown eyes. ‘My wife tells me I become more irascible with every year, and Georgeanne only tags along because I pay her bills.’
‘Ignore him,’ Kathy-Lee advised with a light smile.
‘Stefano…’ Georgeanne purred, offering Carly a sharp assessing glance before focusing her attention on her father’s business associate. ‘It’s wonderful to see you again.’
‘Wonderful’ was a pretty fine superlative to describe Charles’s daughter, Carly mused, for the young woman was all grown up and pure feline.
Kathy-Lee, at least, opted to observe the conventions and set out to charm superficially while choosing to ignore the machinations of her stepdaughter. Which, Carly noted circumspectly, grew more bold with every passing hour. Perhaps it was merely a game, she perceived as they leisurely dispensed with one delectable course after another.
Whatever the reason, Carly refused to rise to the bait, and instead drew Charles into a lengthy and highly technical discourse on the intricacies of computer programming. As he owed much of his fortune to creating specialised programs, his knowledge was unequalled.
Stefano, to give him his due, did nothing to encourage Georgeanne’s attention, but Carly detected an implied intimacy that hurt unbearably. It clouded her beautiful eyes, leaving them faintly pensive, and, although her smile flashed with necessary brilliance throughout the evening, her hands betrayed their nervousness on one occasion, incurring Stefano’s narrowed glance as she swiftly averted spilling the contents of her wine glass.
Carly told herself she couldn’t care less about her husband’s past indiscretions, but deep within her resentment flared, and mingled with a certain degree of pain.
Outwardly, Stefano was the perfect host, his attention faultless, and only she knew that the implied intimacy of his smile merely depicted a contrived image for the benefit of their guests.
It was almost eleven when Charles indicated that they must leave.
‘It’s so early,’ Georgeanne protested with a pretty pout. ‘I thought we might go on to a nightclub.’
‘Honey,’ Charles chided with a slow sloping smile before directing Carly a wicked wink, ‘I have no doubt Stefano and Carly have a different kind of socialising in mind.’
His daughter effected a faint moue, then sent Stefano a luscious smile. ‘Don’t be crude, Daddy. I’m sure Stefano has the stamina for both.’
Charles gave Kathy-Lee the sort of look that made Carly’s toes curl before switching his attention to his daughter. ‘It’s no contest, darlin’,’ he drawled.
Georgeanne evinced her disappointment, then effected a light shrugging gesture. ‘If you say so.’ She moved a step closer to Stefano and placed scarlet-tipped nails against his jacket-encased arm. ‘Ciao, caro.’ She reached up and brushed her lips against his cheek—only because he turned his head and she missed his mouth. Her smile was pure celluloid, and there was a faint malicious gleam as she turned towards Carly. ‘You look—tired, sweetie.’
Without blinking, Carly met the other girl’s sultry stare, and issued softly, ‘Stefano doesn’t allow me much time to sleep.’
Charles’s eyes danced with ill-concealed humour. ‘Give it up, Georgeanne.’ With old-fashioned charm he took hold of Carly’s hand and squeezed it gently. ‘You must be our guests for dinner before we fly back to the States.’
Carly simply smiled, and walked at Stefano’s side to the foyer. Minutes later Charles, Kathy-Lee and Georgeanne were seated in their hired car, and almost as soon as the rear lights disappeared through the gates Carly moved upstairs to check on Ann-Marie and Françoise.
A tiny black head lifted from the sleeping-box to regard her solemnly, then nestled back against the blanket.
‘I’ll take her outside for a few minutes, then she should be all right until morning.’
Carly turned slowly at the sound of Stefano’s voice, and she nodded in silent acquiescence. Ann-Marie was lost in sleep, her features relaxed and cherubic in the dull reflected glow of her night-light, the covers in place, and her favourite doll and teddy bear vying for affection on either side of her small frame.
Carly felt the sudden prick of tears, and blinked rapidly to dispel them. Her daughter was so small, so dependent—so damned vulnerable.
She was hardly aware of Stefano’s return, and it took only seconds to settle the poodle comfortably among its blankets.
Once inside their own suite, Carly stepped directly through to the bathroom and removed her make-up with slightly shaking fingers. Her nerves felt as if they were shredding into a thousand pieces, and she needed a second attempt at replacing the lid on the jar of cleanser.
When she re-entered the bedroom Stefano was propped up in bed, stroking notes into a leatherbound book, and her stomach executed a series of flips at his breadth of shoulder, the hard-muscled chest with its liberal whorls of dark hair tapering down to a firm waist.
The pale-coloured sheet merely highlighted the natural olive colour of his skin, and as if sensing her appraisal he looked up and pinned her gaze, only to chuckle softly as she quickly averted her eyes.
‘Shy, Carly?’ he drawled, and she hated the faint flood of pink that warmed her cheeks as she moved towards her bed.
He possessed all the attributes of a superb jungle animal, resplendent, resting, yet totally focused on his prey.
An arrow of pain arched up from the centre of her being in the knowledge that seven years ago she would have laughed with him, tantalisingly slid the nightgown from her shoulders—if she’d even opted to wear one—and walked towards him, sure of his waiting arms, the rapture that would take them far into the night.
Now, she fingered the decorative frill on the pillowslip, and made a play of plumping the pillow, feeling oddly reluctant to skip into bed, yet longing for the relaxing effect of several hours’ sleep.
‘How delightful, cara,’ Stefano teased mercilessly. ‘You can still blush.’
