Even Lana could understand that in Italian, and she could hear the indulgent amusement in Salvatore’s praise, almost as if she could hear him add You look almost quite grown-up!—which he tactfully did not.
But Giavanna’s face was not displaying any pleasure at Salvatore’s praise. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders free and glared at him. The expression, Lana thought, made her look a mere sixteen...or younger.
‘You were going to bring me here, Salva!’ she accused him. ‘I told you Papa and I were coming—we were to arrive together! It was all arranged!’
‘Only by you, Gia,’ Salvatore said. The fond note was still in his voice, but with a slight tinge of reproof. He glanced at Roberto. ‘I did let you know, Roberto, that I would be coming here almost directly from London. Speaking of which—’
Lana heard him say something briefly about what she presumed were his business affairs in England, catching one or two references to banks and so forth. It was as if he were giving the other man a swift report on business, she realised, to emphasise what held the two together. Business. Not Roberto’s voluptuous but demanding teenage daughter.
As Salvatore addressed Roberto, Gia turned her attention to Lana. If the glare she’d subjected Salvatore to had been open, the one she arrowed at Lana was positively slaying. Something sharp came out of the girl’s mouth which Lana did not understand. She merely smiled.
‘I’m so sorry, I don’t speak Italian,’ she said in English.
The girl swapped to the same language. ‘I just said that you shouldn’t get ideas about Salvatore! He has a new blonde on his arm every month!’
‘Oh?’ said Lana temporisingly. Then, quite deliberately, with a smile that she kept polite, if not quite pitying, she said, ‘I don’t think that will be the case now.’
She lifted her left hand to rest on the diamonds at her throat, both indicating her wearing of them—very obviously a family heirloom—and letting the matching bracelet on her wrist and the diamond betrothal ring catch the light...the light that also caught the wedding band on her finger.
She saw Giavanna’s expression change. It was now one of mingled horror, disbelief—and fury.
‘It isn’t true!’ she spat, first in Italian, then in English. ‘I heard someone say it, but I knew it wasn’t true! It isn’t true—it isn’t!’ She reverted to her native language, giving vent to her emotions.
Lana could hear a rising note not just of fury but of outrage, even hysteria. She saw heads turn towards them. Knew, with female instinct, that Giavanna Fabrizzi was not the kind to shy away from creating a scene when she felt like it. Already her father was saying something in Italian to her, his tone placatory and embarrassed.
Then Salvatore was speaking, cutting through Giavanna’s dangerously rising tirade. ‘Gia, I have done my best to convince you that I would make you the worst of husbands!’
He was speaking in English—presumably, Lana thought, so she would know what he was saying to the petulant girl. He was keeping his tone light, Lana could hear, but there was an implacable note beneath all the same.
‘I am very fond of you—you are like my favourite niece, if I had one. And one day you will make a man the proudest in the world to call you his bride! But that day is not yet. Enjoy to the full these carefree days of being single, of slaying hearts wherever you go...’
Lana could hear the humour deliberately infused into the equally deliberate flattery.
‘Enjoy your life before you settle down to the dullness of married life, keeping house, having babies. You are young, spectacularly beautiful, and you have the world at your feet! So—enjoy!’
He swapped to Italian, saying something to Roberto in a low voice. He nodded tightly. The older man’s face was closed, and hard, and Lana did not like the expression in it. But it wasn’t her business. Her business was to play the role allotted to her. So she went on standing there in a statuesque fashion, with a sympathetic look on her face, but nothing more than that.
Eventually Salvatore took her elbow again, and she knew he wanted them to move on. But suddenly, and quite viciously, Giavanna spat a word at Lana in Italian. It was coarse, and ugly, though Lana had no idea what the girl had just called her. A second later she had no more time to ponder. She felt a sudden cold splash on her face and neck and realised, in a moment of disbelief, that Giavanna had thrown the contents of her champagne flute all over her.
A sharp expletive broke from Salvatore. Even Roberto looked shocked. Lana could only blink away the beads of champagne on her mascaraed eyelashes.
A moment later Salvatore was handing her a silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and she was dabbing at her wet cheeks as best she could. She heard Giavanna say something in an angry, sulky voice, and gathered she was refusing to express even the slightest regret for what she’d just said and done. Lana was vividly aware that now heads were definitely turning in her direction, with shocked expressions on their faces.
Salvatore was saying something to her, but she waved her free hand. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said dismissively. ‘Champagne never stains, and the dress has caught very little of it.’ She dabbed at the top of her bodice, then paid more attention to the necklace. ‘I think these diamonds can withstand a little bath!’ she said lightly. She turned to Salvatore. ‘I’ll just slip to the powder room to retouch,’ she told him. ‘Any idea where it is?’
He collared a server and made the enquiry, then pointed in the requisite direction.
‘Thank you,’ said Lana, using the same light tone.
She would minimise the incident—not just out of instinct, but out of an awareness that playing it down was the best thing to do. Already heads were turning away, and she was glad of it.
Squeezing the now damp silk handkerchief in one hand, she made her way to the ladies’ room, gaining its privacy with relief. Bringing relief, too, a glance at her reflection showed that very little damage had been done. Her cheeks were splashed, eyelashes dewed, and a frond or two from her elegant upswept hair style were damp, but that was all.
Five minutes later she re-emerged, cheeks and diamonds dry, mascara and lipstick retouched, looking immaculate again. Salvatore was waiting for her outside in the quiet corridor leading to the powder room.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said stiffly. ‘I didn’t think she’d react quite that badly.’
‘A teenager thwarted in love is unpredictable,’ Lana said dryly. She handed him the rinsed out, wrung out silk handkerchief. ‘I dried this as best I could with the hand drier, but it’s a little damp still, I’m afraid, and very crumpled.’