light breeze was wrinkling the surface of the lap pool, and a peahen and her vociferous mate were nearby, but it looked as if Rafaele hadn’t even noticed their presence.
He stood as still as a marble statue, his tall, silent figure bathed in a red and orange glow from the fingers of light thrown by the lowering sun. The Villa Fiorenza was perhaps the most tranquil setting Emma had ever seen and yet she couldn’t help feeling Rafaele Fiorenza did not find it so.
She opened the French doors leading off the terrace, the sound of her footsteps on the sandstone steps bringing his head around. She saw the way his expression became instantly shuttered, as if he resented her intrusion.
‘I was wondering if you would like to eat outside,’ she said. ‘It’s a warm evening and after such a long plane journey I thought—’
‘I will not be here for dinner after all,’ he said in a curt tone. ‘I am going out.’
Emma felt foolish for feeling disappointed and did her best to disguise it. ‘That’s fine. It was nothing special in any case.’
He took the set of keys hanging on a hook on the wall. ‘Do not wait up,’ he said. ‘I might end up staying overnight in Milan.’
‘Did your mistress travel with you from London?’ she asked.
‘No, but what she does not know will not hurt her.’
Emma knew her face was communicating her disapproval. ‘So faithfulness in your relationships isn’t one of your strong points, I take it?’
‘I am not sure I am the settling-down type,’ he said. ‘I enjoy my freedom too much.’
‘I thought most Italians put a high value on getting married and having a family,’ she said.
‘That may have been the case for previous generations, but I personally feel life is too short for the drudge of domesticity,’ he said. ‘I have got nothing against children, but I like the sort you can hand back after half an hour. I have no place in my life for anything else.’
‘It sounds like a pretty shallow and pointless existence to me,’ Emma said. ‘Don’t you ever get lonely?’
‘No, I do not,’ he said. ‘I like my life the way it is. I do not want the complication of having to be responsible for someone else’s emotional upkeep. The women I date know the rules and generally are quite willing to adhere to them.’
‘I suppose if they don’t you get rid of them, right?’
He gave her a supercilious smile. ‘That is right.’
Emma pursed her mouth. ‘I feel sorry for any poor woman who makes the mistake of falling in love with you.’
‘Most of the woman I know fall in love with my wallet. What they feel for me has very little to do with who I am as a person. As you have probably already guessed, I am not the type to wear my heart upon my sleeve,’ he said, and then with a rueful twist to his mouth added, ‘Perhaps I am my father’s son after all.’
‘Your father liked to give the impression he was tough, but inside he was a very broken and lonely man,’ Emma said. ‘I could read between the lines enough to know he had some serious regrets about his life and relationships.’
‘What a pity he did not communicate that to what remained of his family while he still could,’ he said with an embittered set to his mouth.
‘I think he would have done so if you had made the effort to come to see him,’ Emma said. ‘Towards the end I couldn’t help feeling he was lingering against the odds on the off chance you would visit him.’
His lip curled up in a snarl. ‘He could have made the first move. Why was it left to me to do so?’
‘He was dying,’ she bit out with emphasis. ‘In my opinion that shifts the responsibility to those who are well. He couldn’t travel; he could barely speak towards the end. What would it have cost you to call him? These days you can call someone from anywhere in the world. What would it have cost you to give a measly five minutes of your time to allow a dying man to rest in peace?’
He stabbed a finger at her, making her take an unsteady step backwards. ‘You know nothing, do you hear me? Nothing of what it was like being my father’s son. You came into my father’s life horizontally. You know nothing of what passed before. You were his carer, for heaven’s sake. You were paid to wipe the dribble from his chin and change the soiled sheets on his bed, not to psychoanalyse the train-wreck of his relationships.’
Emma took a shaky breath. ‘I realise this is an emotionally charged time for you, but I think—’
‘I do not give a toss for what you think.’ He raised his voice at her this time, his dark eyes flashing with anger. ‘As I see it you exploited a dying man to feather your own nest. I find it particularly repugnant to be subjected to your lectures on what constitutes appropriate behaviour from his son when you clearly have no idea of what the dynamic of our relationship was like.’
She bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry…’
He let out a ragged sigh as he scraped his hand through the thickness of his hair. ‘Forget about it,’ he said, his tone softening. ‘I should not have shouted at you. I am sorry. Put it down to overwork and jet lag. God knows I did not sleep a wink on the plane.’
‘It’s fine…really…I understand…it’s a difficult time…’
There was a small tight silence.
‘I am glad you were there for him when he died,’ Rafaele said in a gruff tone. ‘In spite of everything I am glad someone was there…’
‘He was a good man, Signore… I mean, Rafaele,’ she said. ‘I think deep down he was a good man who had simply lost his way.’
He gave her a somewhat rueful smile. ‘I am starting to think you make a point of seeing the good in everyone, Emma March. Is that something you learnt in your training or somewhere else?’
‘No one is completely bad, Rafaele. We all have our stories, the history of what makes us the people we are. I am sure your father had his. It is a shame he didn’t share his with you so you could understand the demons he had to wrestle with.’
‘My father was not the sort of man to share anything with his family,’ he said. ‘He deplored weakness in others so I cannot imagine him ever getting to the point of confessing any of his own.’
‘Were you ever close to him?’ Emma asked.
His expression became shuttered again. ‘He was not comfortable with small children, or even older ones when it comes to that.’
‘What about your younger brother?’
His eyes turned to fathomless black. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?’
‘I’m sorry…I just thought it might help to talk about—’
‘Well, it does not help, Miss March.’ He cut her off brusquely. ‘And in future I would appreciate it if you would refrain from putting your nose where it is
