stayed for the rest of the day. Brooke had felt terrible, and had told Leo’s mum about it. Sophia had just patted her hand and smiled a sad smile, telling her not to worry, it wasn’t her fault. Francesca was just being Francesca.
Brooke knew exactly what she meant. Francesca was a weak kind of woman, in her opinion. Very beautiful in a dark-eyed, lush-figured way. But she never said much, or exuded much personality.
Not that Brooke had been in their company all that often over their four-year acquaintance. Just the occasional family dinner party, sometimes here at the villa, and sometimes in Lorenzo’s plush apartment in Milan.
Francesca would sit silently beside her husband on such occasions, her eyes darting nervously to him all the time, as though waiting to be told what to do, or say. Brooke could never work out if she adored the man or was afraid of him.
Two years older than Leonardo, Lorenzo had been a handsome and charming man on the surface, but Brooke hadn’t been able to stand him. He’d given her the creeps. Once, during a party at his place, she’d gone to the powder room. She’d been in there, washing her hands, when he’d come in unexpectedly and made the most disgusting suggestion. She’d been so shocked she hadn’t known what to do, except run out of the room and hurry back downstairs.
She hadn’t told Leo about the incident. No way.
Brooke wasn’t stupid, and she’d sensed there was some angst between the two brothers. They’d been civil on the surface, but nothing more. Brooke had got the impression Leo didn’t like his brother’s wife much, either, an opinion reinforced by his coldly indifferent stance when Francesca had suddenly upped and gone back to Milan a week ago. To be by herself, she’d said. Everyone had objected, thinking it a potentially dangerous idea; everyone except Leo.
To be honest, Brooke hadn’t really been sorry to see Francesca go. Her presence had hung like a pall over the house, bringing tensions she didn’t quite understand, not being one of the family.
Leo was actually the lucky one, in her opinion, since he was out of the house most days. He’d been driving back and forth to the Milan office during the working week, going through his brother’s desk and sorting out who was going to take charge there now. Brooke had worried his father might ask him to come back and do the job Lorenzo had been doing—Giuseppe had retired with heart problems the previous year—but this hadn’t eventuated, thank God.
She was grateful for that, but beginning to resent the amount of time Leo was spending away from her and the children. This past week, the situation had worsened, with her husband getting home later and later each night. After a quick supper and a shower, he would fall into bed, too tired to make love, a most unusual situation for Leo.
If there was one thing Brooke could rely upon with her husband, it was the unfailing regularity of his need for sex. Yet he hadn’t laid a hand on her since the funeral, almost three weeks ago.
Brooke was beginning to miss the feelings of love and intimacy Leo’s lovemaking always left her with, even when she was faking things. Every woman liked to be wanted that way.
Sighing, Brooke swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood up. Flicking her long fair hair back over her shoulder, she picked up the novel she kept by the bed and padded across the huge Persian rug towards the sliding glass doors which led out onto the balcony. Once outside, in the cooler air, she settled herself in one of the comfy deckchairs and opened her book at the page she’d reached the previous night.
After several minutes scanning the page without a single word sinking in, Brooke closed the book and just sat there, doing her best to relax and enjoy a view coveted the world over.
The first time she’d seen Lake Como she’d been wide-eyed over the scenic beauty of the mountains rising up from the crystalline lake; at the magnificence of the huge villas clinging to the hillsides; at the number of luxury yachts in the water, plus the all-round postcard perfection of the place.
She’d been even more wide-eyed when Leo had pulled up outside his family’s summer home.
The Parini villa was not as large as some, but larger than most, showing evidence of the family’s long-held wealth. The house had been built in the late eighteenth century, then added to and renovated several times since. Multi-levelled, it had acres of marble flooring, more bedrooms than Brooke could count, huge open-plan living areas, several very formal entertaining rooms, expansive terracotta terraces, a solar-heated swimming pool, and perfectly manicured lawns which sloped down to a private dock where three boats were moored. A speed boat, a cruiser and a racing yacht. Inside, monumental paintings filled the walls, and everywhere there were the most incredible antiques.
Brooke had worried over the years that her boisterous and mischievous son might ruin or break something, but oddly he hadn’t, as though he recognised that these treasures were his to inherit one day and had to be preserved.
Although half-Australian, Alessandro was a very Italian child. Openly affectionate, noisy and demanding, he was far too good-looking for his own good, with his father’s dark hair and eyes.
Claudia was dark-haired and dark-eyed too, and very pretty, but much quieter and delightfully amenable, content to follow her mother around, or just to play with her dolls. Her brother had to be always on the move, always doing something. Since the age of two, he’d refused to take no for an answer.
Like father like son, Brooke thought ruefully.
Which brought her thoughts back to Leo. Her darling Leo, whom she still adored but who was not the easiest man to live with, she’d found. He really did like his way in everything. Many were the times she’d been tempted to argue with him, to try to get her way for once, but she never had.
Except once…when Claudia was born.
Brooke had wanted to call her daughter Chloe. She’d also wanted to call Alessandro Alexander, but had given in when Leo had explained that the heir to the Parini fortune should have an Italian name.
Brooke hadn’t really minded, since Alessandro wasn’t so different from Alexander. But when she’d had a daughter, she’d expected to be able to choose the name she wanted. Not so, she had soon found out. Leo had been adamant about Claudia, then angry when Brooke had argued with him. More angry than she had ever seen him.
‘I am the head of this family,’ he’d pronounced dogmatically. ‘What I say goes!’
For a split second, Brooke had been overwhelmed by a deep, violent anger of her own. You’re just like my mother said, she’d almost thrown at him.
Thinking of her mother, however, had forced her to get a grip on herself. You don’t want to end up like her, do you? Bitter and twisted and lonely. It’s only a name, after all. What’s in a name? It’s not worth getting a divorce over.
So, once again, she’d given in.
But it still hurt a little; his not seeing her point of view on something that was important to her; his not meeting her halfway.
Her mother had warned her she would become a doormat. Well, maybe she had in a way, she conceded. But she was a happy and contented doormat. Most of the time.
A telephone ringing somewhere downstairs had her rising from the depths of the deckchair, only to sink down again when it was swiftly answered.
Determinedly, Brooke picked up her book again, and was doing her best to become absorbed in the story when a voice drifted up from the
