had found this so absorbing that she had gradually let her old life slip away.
She knew her father was glad. If she did go out nowadays, it was normally for dinner, or to dance in a far more sedate nightclub than those she had previously frequented. Many of her old friends scoffed. Some of the boys in her crowd had been particularly mocking, reminding her of how she had always been the life and soul of the party, ready for any enterprise, always the first to agree to some impractical scheme.
But that was before she had realised the fine tightrope they were all walking. It was considered smart in her set to indulge in drinks and soft drugs, although something in Saffron had always made her hold back from experimenting herself—not from any moral objection but simply because she had seen the effect it had on others, and was reluctant to lose control of herself and her life in the same way—something she had a morbid fear of happening, which was probably why she had never become seriously involved with any of her dates. None of them knew, for instance, that she was still a virgin. Each thought that he was the only one not to enjoy a more intimate relationship with her. This was a belief she had fostered knowing that there was more safety for her in their fear of scorn at being the single failure than there ever would be in making public her innocence. Not even her father knew that the stories and rumours circulated about her in the gossip columns were just that, and somehow she found herself shy of broaching the subject with him. However, she was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t started to suspect the truth. There had been a particularly amused glint in his eyes the previous weekend, for instance, when she had emerged from a taxi outside their London home, dexterously extricating herself from the expert and amorous embrace of the younger son of one of the French Ambassadorial staff. Jean-Paul was considered something of a catch in the circles in which she moved, but Sir Richard had been rather scathing about the young Frenchman’s morals and abilities. ‘Dilettante,’ he had snorted, ‘and not even particularly good at that!’ And contrary to her previous practice, Saffron had found herself listening to and agreeing with her father’s summing up.
Tonight, because he was going away and she wouldn’t see him for some days, she wanted him to carry a good image of her. She had dressed carefully for the party; her beautiful Belinda Bellville dress, all shimmering white silk, and a froth of underskirts, the low-cut neckline trimmed with pink silk roses—and she was young enough to wear it—the diamonds which had been her mother’s; tiny studs for her ears and a matching necklace and bracelet, both delicate and dainty. For the occasion” she was wearing her hair up, in a soft chignon, tiny wisps of dark red hair caressing her neck. The silk rustled as her father helped her out of the car. The Veldinis’ villa was ablaze with lights, and a liveried footman threw open the doors as they arrived.
‘Very fin-de-siècle,’ Sir Richard murmured in Saffron’s ear as they climbed a shallow flight of marble stairs which led to an impressive marble-columned ballroom.
Signor Veldini had obviously been on the lookout for them. He reached the door at the same moment as they did, greeting Saffron’s father with profuse and voluble exclamations of pleasure, before turning to admire Saffron.
‘And this ravishing creature is your daughter? You are a very lucky man!’
His appreciation was entirely male and all Italian, and Saffron responded with a calm smile. A small movement several yards away caught her eye, and as she lifted her head she found herself looking straight up into the eyes of a tall, dark-haired man, standing alone. The dark hair and tanned skin proclaimed his Italian origins, but he was far taller than any other man in the room; topping even her father’s six feet by a couple of inches, and even at this distance Saffron could see that his eyes were grey. She caught her breath as she saw the twinkle in them; as though he had read her mind when she had smiled to coolly and so reprovingly at Signor Veldini, and all at once her mood lightened. She had been feeling very depressed because her father could not travel on to southern Italy with her as they had planned. He would join her at the villa later when his business in San Francisco had been concluded, he had promised, but still she was disappointed.
‘Paolo, will you not introduce us?’
She had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn’t realised the stranger had joined them; his words addressed to Signor Veldini but his eyes fixed firmly on Saffron’s face.
At her side, she glimpsed her father’s amused smile, and knew that she was blushing faintly.
‘If the Signorina permits?’ Signor Veldini begged formally, and when Saffron inclined her head, he placed his hand on the younger man’s arm, drawing him forward slightly, so that Saffron’s bare skin brushed the fabric of his evening jacket, evoking a trembling uncertainty that bemused her a little.
Even so she noticed that Signor Veldini had to glance up quite a long way to look into his companion’s face, and that the grey eyes were slightly crinkled in amusement, as though he too saw through the Signor and his machinations to impress her father.
‘Nico, you will be the envy of all our friends— they are all longing to be introduced to Miss Wykeham.’
‘Saffron,’ her father amended. ‘And I am sure Signor.…’ He paused and Signor Veldini filled in helpfully, ‘Signor Doranti—Nico—has an English grandmother, which is why he speaks your language so well,’ he explained to Saffron, while her father continued blandly, ‘Signor Doranti will forgive me if I leave him with my daughter while you and I discuss this all important business you told me about, signore.’
‘Only if you are absent long enough for me to dance with her,’ Saffron heard Nico Doranti respond with a smile in his voice as well as his eyes. ‘Unfortunately, Signor Veldini is in error,’ he added as Sir Richard was eagerly escorted away by their host. ‘I no longer have an English grandmother—regrettably she died several years ago, but if I didn’t cherish her memory before, I do so now, because it is my knowledge of her language and yours that enables me to steal a march on my fellow countrymen. Look at them,’ he invited. ‘They hate me.’
Saffron couldn’t stop herself laughing. It was all so very absurd. And yet she liked him, felt drawn to him, despite his appalling flattery.
‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said softly. ‘When you walked in just now there were shadows in your eyes—such lovely eyes—the colour of malachite should never be clouded.’
He was astute, Saffron acknowledged; and very intensely male. She glanced at him. His profile possessed a sensual hardness that struck a chord within her; he was different—and dangerous, and something inside her thrilled to the knowledge; a purely feminine response to the fact that out of all the women in the room he had sought her out. Thick dark hair curled down over the collar of his dinner jacket. His hands while lean and tanned possessed none of the soft flaccidity she had grown used to among her London acquaintances. They were not the hands of a man used to idling.
‘You have been in Rome long?’ he ventured, adding softly, ‘But no, you couldn’t have been, or I would have heard of it. You are far too beautiful to come to Rome and remain unnoticed.’
‘We arrived this morning,’ Saffron replied demurely, ‘and are leaving tomorrow. My father flies to San Francisco.’
‘And you?’
Just for a moment desolation touched her. There was a lump in her throat and tears stung her eyes. She was being silly, she reminded herself, but she had set such store by this holiday, had been so looking forward to it.
‘Come.’ His fingers on her arm were warm and protective. ‘There is a door over there which leads to the garden. We will walk through it, and you will be able to recover your equilibrium.
‘Am
