She found herself nodding, then shaking her head. What was he saying?
‘But I would like to kiss you, Ava mio, if you would let me.’
She understood that bit.
And, gazing into his eyes, she began to understand the rest.
Almost as if in a dream she moistened her lips, dropped her lashes, softened her mouth in readiness.
She felt his smile as one hand curled around the back of her head and his mouth met hers in a kiss so tender, so sincere, she could only read it as a pledge.
A light smattering of applause broke out at the tables around them.
‘Now you are mine,’ he said, with his smile against her lips.
* * *
He showed her Rome.
He introduced her to his home, his friends, his life.
He took her to restaurants, to theatres, to parties.
They ate together, slept together, and made love as if they’d just discovered the newness of the world and wanted to celebrate creation.
What did it mean?
Ava didn’t know and it was killing her—the sense that around the corner waited something large and ferocious, something she couldn’t define or defeat.
She stood now in the studio of one of Rome’s leading couturiers, being fitted into a strapless midnight blue gown of such sumptuous scale Ava couldn’t imagine an event grand enough as its backdrop. But she had trusted Gianluca when he’d explained the Black & White Ball, this year in aid of a breast cancer charity, was one of the highlights of the social calendar. It was an international affair and ballgowns were a requirement.
This dress was certainly going to make a statement. She only hoped the right kind.
She nervously voiced her fears to the three women circling her.
The seamstress at her feet looked up through the folds of satin and said, ‘This is a fantasy dress, signorina. All you need is the confidence to carry it off.’
‘You have the height,’ said one of the others.
Ava translated the fulsome gesture from the third towards her breasts with her schoolgirl Italian. ‘And the necessary va-voom.’
As she stepped out into the street in her civvies she wanted to pinch herself. These had been the most magical, wonderful, inspiring four weeks of her life. If nothing ever happened to her again half as good she would treasure this time, keep it locked up in her heart always against the hard winter when she didn’t have love in her life.
Because she suspected it was love. As she slid into the plush confines of the limo Gianluca had put at her disposal she acknowledged the truth. She might not have had much of it in her life, but she knew what it looked like when it arrived.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ACROSS TOWN, GIANLUCA was in the elegantly appointed offices of Benedetti International from where he ran the world, as Ava put it.
He only half listened to his lawyer on the other end of the line as he stood at the window, looking down on the busy square below.
Everywhere he looked there were couples, old and young. Even the pigeons roosting outside the window came in a pair.
Two generations ago his family’s marriages were still being arranged. It was different now. His father had chosen his mother of his own free will—the beautiful Sicilian model Maria Trigoni, who at that time had had her own small moment of fame in a Fellini film. Fidelity had not been high on either of his parents’ minds when they made that merger. Prince Ludovico had wanted a beautiful woman on his arm and Maria had liked the title.
At thirty, Gianluca was very accustomed to women who liked the title. They liked the idea of having Principessa dangling in front of their name. They saw the palazzo in the middle of Rome, the house in Regent’s Park, London, the Manhattan apartment, and started ordering monogrammed napkins for the wedding.
All his life he had imagined that when he came to choose a wife his choices would be constrained by the world in which he moved. Watching his parents tear each other apart had not encouraged him to look beyond the highly stratified and stage-managed relationships he’d engaged in all of his life.
Until now.
In Positano they had discussed their work lives—his offices in Rome, New York and London. The deals that put him over the edge, the rush of trade that she so well understood. Ava had spoken about her difficulties with clients—a mining magnate who’d insisted on meeting with her when he came to Sydney at his gym, so she ended up on a stationary cycle talking about his hedge fund. Worse, he was competitive and had insisted she match his rpm.
‘Do I look like a cyclist?’ she’d asked.
‘You, cara, you look like a goddess.’
But now they were in Rome, spending all their time together, and the conversations were deepening. Last night in bed he’d told her about his childhood fascination with flight, his godfather’s encouragement, his father’s impatience. Deeply private things.