furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Jemima was silenced by the sheer splendour of the castle, especially when she compared it to her parents’ tiny retirement home. How could she ever have denied Nicky the wealthy lifestyle that his father evidently enjoyed?
‘Do you own the whole island?’ she whispered, unable to contain her curiosity.
‘Yes,’ he admitted in the sort of tone that implied that it was not a very big deal to own your own island, and in Jemima’s mind the gulf between them stretched even wider.
Luciano introduced the older woman as his housekeeper, Agnese, and the younger as her daughter and Nicky’s new nanny, Carlotta. He settled the baby into Carlotta’s arms and addressed her in Italian. Jemima reminded herself doggedly of her agreement to step back from Nicky as he was borne off screaming, presumably to be fed and put to bed. As Carlotta mounted the stairs Jemima could hear her talking softly and soothingly to the distressed baby and her concern eased a little.
‘Agnese will show you to your room,’ Luciano announced.
Agnese’s small creased face was as frozen as an ice sculpture. Telling herself that that was still preferable to a dirty look, Jemima followed the older woman upstairs and down a tiled passageway with ancient stone walls. Double doors were flung wide and light flooded across the most amazing bedroom Jemima had ever seen. Tall windows cast sunshine over the sumptuously hung four-poster bed. Gorgeous furniture vied with opulent fabric and a glorious floral arrangement to take her attention. Taken aback as she realised that the palatial room was for her use, Jemima hovered by the little table bearing the magnificent flowers and watched wide-eyed as an actual maid in a uniform appeared through one of the several additional doors to smile and stand back as though waiting to usher Jemima into the room she had vacated.
The housekeeper indicated with her hand that Jemima should take the invitation and Jemima obediently walked into a very large dressing room lined with built-in furniture. And that was when the show began. The maid began opening doors and rifling through hangers packed with garments to display them. Racks of shoes, drawers filled with silky lingerie and a dressing-table unit packed with cosmetics below a mirror surrounded by special lighting were duly shown off. Jemima’s jaw dropped while she attempted to work out what all these items could possibly have to do with her. The maid passed her a tiny gift envelope and she slid out the card.
With my compliments, Luciano.
Jemima blinked and looked again, fingers tightening round the card as it slowly sank in on her that she had not been measured up for a nanny uniform as she had assumed but for a new wardrobe. She broke out in perspiration, her jeans uncomfortably warm. Luciano had given her a vast new wardrobe and as she flipped with anxious hands through the nearest selection she realised that it was all designer stuff, filled with famous fashion labels that even she, who didn’t follow fashion, had heard of. She was gobsmacked, so gobsmacked that when the maid and the housekeeper departed she simply sank down on the boudoir chair by the dresser and stared back at her own unadorned face. Her face looked weird in the fancy lights, oddly bare and shocked, and she breathed in deep and stumbled upright to peel off her jeans before she could expire from heat exhaustion. In the bedroom she opened the suitcase she had travelled with and yanked out a cool cotton skirt to step into it.
But she still couldn’t think straight. Indeed all she could think about was the contents of the dressing room. What on earth had she done to give Luciano the impression that such an extravagant gesture would be welcome? Her tummy gave a nauseous flip and she shut her eyes tight, hot colour burning her cheeks. Oh, yes, she knew what she had done. She hadn’t said no when she should’ve. She hadn’t said yes either, she reflected numbly. She had simply let him do what he wished. And evidently that had been sufficient to encourage Luciano to go out and spend thousands and thousands and thousands of pounds to enable her to dress like a queen. Hands cool now with shock, she pressed them to her hot cheeks and groaned out loud. My goodness, what was she going to do?
She was supposed to be Julie and Julie would have been ecstatic. Julie had adored clothes and everything her sister wore had carried a logo. Jemima blinked and wandered back into the dressing room. She trailed an uncertain hand across the soft smooth briefs still visible in an open drawer and sighed heavily. The clothing had been tailored to her exact height and size, but how could she wear it? How could she possibly say thank you and just wear it?
Neither a borrower nor a lender be and being wary of unexpected gifts was how Jemima had been raised. She also knew that old adage about being true to oneself. And accepting such largesse when she had done nothing to deserve it ran contrary to her principles. She swallowed back a heartfelt groan while she surveyed the racks of shoes. If Jemima had a weakness, it was for shoes and she swore her toes tingled like a water diviner’s when she saw the cross-strapped green high heels studded with tiny twinkly stones. They called out to her feet and, kicking off her serviceable pumps, she slid her yearning toes into those tempting shoes. Yes, this was the way to be gracious, the only way not to throw all of Luciano’s generosity back in his teeth; she would accept one small item to show gratitude. Having bolstered herself with that argument, Jemima tottered downstairs in her wholly inappropriate footwear.
Agnese was waiting for her like a little old witch in the hall.
‘I’m looking for Luciano,’ Jemima announced with a pleasant smile.
Agnese was eying the frivolous shoes with rampant censure. ‘Il Capo is in the library.’
Il capo meant ‘the boss’, Jemima translated, having watched enough Godfather movies to recognise the lingo. Walking with precise but wobbling care in the direction of Agnese’s pointing hand, Jemima wondered if the new wardrobe had given Agnese the wrong idea about the precise nature of Jemima’s relationship with Luciano, and then she scolded herself for wondering, reckoning she had more to worry about than the suspicion that the staff had disliked her on sight.
* * *
Luciano had had four drinks in succession while he waited for Charles to call. His father had been a drinker and it was very rare for Luciano to drink to excess but his impatience to know the finer details of the scam was literally eating him alive. He couldn’t wait to confront Jemima but he would not do it until he knew everything there was to know about her. He was so angry with her, so bemused by the strange conflict tearing at him. He was in turmoil and he didn’t know why, which simply added another layer of hostile frustration to his mood.
Frowning at the sound of the knock on the library door, Luciano strode across the room to drag it open and discover who had dared to disturb him when he had requested peace. When he focused on Jemima’s glowing, eagerly smiling face, he found himself taking a step back because he was initially surprised to see that she was happy. But then she didn’t know yet that he knew. Of course she was happy, he ruminated bitterly, rage arrowing through him afresh. What else would she be but happy when he’d put her in a bedroom next door to his and given her a fortune in designer clothing? She was a gold-digger; naturally she was happy with her rewards. By bringing in Carlotta, he had even released Jemima from the burden of constant childcare and very probably she was even happier about the prospect of greater freedom as well...
‘Luciano...’ she said softly and then her eyes flew off him to dart round the book-filled shelves. ‘Oh, my, what a wonderful room! You are so lucky to have so much space for books,’ she remarked chirpily.
‘Is there a reason for your visit?’ Luciano enquired forbiddingly, his attention clinging to her when she lurched a little on her path towards his desk at the centre of the room. His gaze skated down over her back view, lingering with pleasure on the ripe, rounded curve of her bottom shaped by the stretchy, clinging texture of the skirt she wore. His attention was then unwillingly caught by the colourful, glittery and ridiculously high-heeled shoes she wore below the skirt. For some reason
