The picture she’d found in the library a few nights ago, of a much younger Luigi and two other men, had thrown up even more questions.
One of the men was clearly Maceo’s father; the resemblance was unmistakable. Equally striking was the third man’s likeness to Luigi. But, while the unknown man was laughing in the photo, Luigi and Rafael remained serious. Borderline angry.
Rafael Fiorenti’s expression was a familiar one she’d glimpsed on his son’s face, but Luigi’s expression was alien to her. Which drove home just how little she’d known her stepfather and her complete unawareness of the man named Pietro, according to the inscription on the back of the photo.
Who was Pietro? And why hadn’t Luigi mentioned him in the two years he’d lived with her and her mother in Kent?
Because back then, every time you begged for stories of his homeland, he deftly changed the subject...
The ploy hadn’t registered all those years ago, but it shuddered through her now. Pain gripped her again, threatening to settle inside her. Faye smothered it, dragging herself to the present. Namely, her meeting with Maceo this morning.
Initially it had been slated as a two-week evaluation, but Maceo had cancelled every meeting except today’s. She remained on tenterhooks as to whether this meeting would go ahead but, judging from the butterflies buzzing in her stomach, Faye instinctively knew today was the day. So she couldn’t afford to ponder the identities of mysterious strangers in photos.
With a sigh, she pulled her crimson sweater tighter over her pyjamas and made her way back through the garden. Letting herself into the villa by way of the large pantry and kitchen, she was met by the sight of Giulia, sliding a tray of pastries into the giant oven.
‘Buorngiorno, signorina. Signor has asked for breakfast to be served early in the Salone Bianco. He wants you to join him.’
She froze in surprise. ‘Really?’ Maceo had yet to invite her to dine with him, either here in the villa or at work. In fact, he’d pointedly avoided her in both places.
Giulia nodded. ‘Si. He wishes to have breakfast in half an hour.’
So the third degree was starting at the breakfast table?
She summoned a smile for Giulia and hurried to her room. She whizzed through her shower on automatic, only forcing herself to concentrate when she walked into the dressing room that was three times the size of her Devon bedsit.
Three weeks on, Faye still couldn’t quite believe her suite’s opulence or size. Even more unbelievable was the personal wardrobe that had arrived by the boxful the morning after her arrival. When the HR director had informed her she was entitled to a new wardrobe as part of joining Casa di Fiorenti, Faye had expected to be handed a small allowance and pointed in the direction of the nearest high street boutique. Instead, what seemed like the contents of entire haute couture showrooms had arrived at the villa via speedboat. She’d chosen the designer who most suited her taste and returned the rest.
Now, she selected a deep lilac knee-length dress, a fuchsia belt she’d embellished with embroidered flowers, and added the matching brooch handmade by her mother. The pops of colour eased her nerves, but her insides still quaked slightly as she stepped into her shoes, grabbed her bag and left the suite.
The Salone Bianco lived up to its name in sun-splashed resplendence. The only thing that didn’t gleam white was the gold marble edging the walls of the octagon-shaped room. Every piece of furniture was white, including the lavish dining table, at the head of which sat Maceo, his head buried between the pages of an Italian newspaper.
He didn’t remain that way for long.
Faye’s throat dried as he slowly lowered the paper and speared her with dark tawny eyes. ‘Buorngiorno. I’m glad you could join me,’ he drawled, his voice low, deep and maddeningly invasive to her senses.
She’d only caught brief glimpses of him in the past three weeks, and for the life of her she couldn’t drag her gaze from the play of sunlight on his hair, and his broad shoulders and impressive biceps, to which his pristine shirt eagerly clung.
Several superlatives jumped into her brain, but the only one appropriate enough—the only one that effortlessly fitted him, as if coined especially for him—was magnificent. He was wasted, merely sitting at a breakfast table when he could’ve graced the cover of Italian Vogue or GQ or some other plush magazine strictly dedicated to cataloguing unique male beauty.
If you were into that sort of thing.
Which she wasn’t.
So why was her breathing jagged? Her insides going into free fall with each second she spent staring at him? Why, amongst all the adverse emotions cascading through her, was there...anticipation?
The sensation irritated her enough to make her reply crisp. ‘Was it an invitation? It sounded remarkably like a summons.’
His gaze swept leisurely down over her dress. It lingered at her hips before returning to her face. Faye couldn’t quite read the look in his eyes, but whatever lurked there made her blood run hotter.
‘If pretending will stop either of us from getting indigestion, then by all means I’ll play along. Thank you for accepting my invitation to breakfast. Please sit down, Faye,’ he said.
Her breath caught in her throat. The sound of her name on his lips still evoked such sensuality she wanted to request...no, demand he say it again.
And what was that if not utter madness? Hadn’t she learnt her lesson with M
att, the one time she’d dropped her guard enough to contemplate an experience resembling normality, only to be ruthlessly reminded that she was nothing like normal? That she was an abomination?
The reminder dredged up pain, but it also grounded her enough to ignore the cocked eyebrow that was telling her she risked humiliating herself by her deer-caught-in-the-headlights stasis. With stilted movements, she pulled out a chair and sat down.