The Unforgettable Husband

‘Just—sit and eat,’ he commanded. Not looking so smooth around his own sleek edges now, she noticed waspishly.

‘I’m not hungry—’

‘Sit down and eat!’ he repeated angrily.

‘I can’t!’ she cried. ‘I feel as if you’ve got me pinned under a microscope!’

His sigh seemed to rake over ever inch of him. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Point taken. I’ll eat later. But for goodness’ sake,’ he added angrily, ‘eat something, Samantha… Eat!’

With that he strode out of the kitchen, making her feel miserable and guilty for driving him away. So she ate—force-fed herself, in fact. She drank some coffee, then got up and made fresh of both coffee and toast, placed them on a tray and, on a deep breath for courage, went looking for him.

He was easier to find than she’d expected. She simply followed the muffled sound of his angry voice and found him sitting behind a desk in a beautiful study, lined wall-to-wall with brass-grilled bookcases which looked as old as the house.

He was talking on the phone, but the moment he saw her come through the door he broke the conversation and returned the receiver to its rest.

‘Peace offering.’ She smiled nervously, carrying the loaded tray over to the desk and setting it down. ‘I’m sorry I caused all of that…strife, in the kitchen.’

‘My fault,’ he said instantly.

‘No it wasn’t.’ She refused to let him be that gracious. ‘It was mine. I was nervous—still am as a matter of fact,’ she admitted

‘Pour the coffee,’ he instructed.

Grimacing at the way he had coolly passed over her carefully planned apology, she did as he bade and poured the coffee, then silently handed it to him. She received no thanks, only a glinting look in those wretched eyes that could have held amusement as he took the coffee mug from her.

‘You’re a hard man, Signor Visconte,’ she informed him dryly, and turned to leave.

‘And you, Signora Visconte,’ he returned, ‘are the most amazingly unpredictable woman I know.’

‘Compliment or censure?’ She mused out loud.

He laughed. ‘Oh, most definitely a compliment,’ he assured. ‘No—don’t go,’ he added when she made to do just that, and the husky warmth of his voice vibrated on her senses, bringing her to a very wary standstill.

What now? she wondered, already beginning to pull up her defences again—just in case.

‘Give me two minutes to consume your…peace offering and I’ll reacquaint you with the house, if you like…’

Her defences fell again, that tentative ‘if you like’ helping to tumble them. She nodded her agreement. The telephone rang. It helped ease them through the next, few, awkward seconds. He answered it; she wandered off to peer inside the brass grilles at the selection of priceless first-edition books she could see locked safely out of reach.

‘Has anyone bothered reading them?’ she asked when the phone went down again.

‘Not in my lifetime,’ he drawled. ‘They belonged to my grandfather on my Italian side. This house belonged to his English mother. The melting pot of culture swimming in my blood is astonishing when you think about it,’ he mocked.

The true mongrel, Samantha thought, and smiled to herself because that blood had to be a rare mix of very old money when you put all the evidence together.

‘They should be in a museum,’ Samantha remarked.

‘The books or my family?’

‘The books.’ She laughed, swinging round to toss that laugh at him.

His eyes dilated; she saw it happen as his attention riveted on this first laughing response she had offered him. Her heart-rate quickened, sending a rush of awareness surging to her head. Then, with a blink of his long lashes, he recovered, her heart-rate slowed and the awareness faded.

‘The books belong to the house.’ He continued with the conversation as if the stinging moment in between had never been there. ‘I am only their guardian. Even my very French mother, who respected nothing if it wasn’t French, didn’t dare lay a finger them.’

‘You say that very cynically. But she married an Italian who lived in America. Surely that says she must have loved your father very much.’

‘That was her first marriage. She married her second husband the year after my father died. He was as French as she was.’