The Italian's Pregnant Mistress

‘Why?’

‘Because I am interested.’ Sinfully black eyes roamed over her face, taking in her consternation. So desperate to keep him at arms’ length. Because of Jack? Something was missing from that relationship, whatever she said about love and perfect bonding, but he couldn’t quite work out what. Still, in his head, Jack was no longer a rival. In fact, he was fast becoming a ghost so he stifled the surge of jealousy and smiled sincerely at her.

‘In Venice, we always used to listen to classical music. Do you remember?’ He took a packet of fresh tagliatelle from the chilled counter and tossed it into the trolley, then he began weaving slowly towards the aisles of tinned food. Much quieter there. He paused and spent an inordinately long time staring at various sauces while she stood hesitantly next to him and wondered what to say.

‘Somehow that always felt right in Venice. It’s a classical music sort of place.’

‘It never occurred to me that you might actually dislike that kind of music…’

‘I don’t.’

‘So tell me what you will be playing for us tonight over our wonderful meal, hmm?’

Francesca forced herself not to be rattled at his determination to chat to her. It was only natural. After all, they could hardly walk round a supermarket in total silence or else spend the entire evening conversing on the subject of food, fascinating though that was. There was just so much anyone could find to say about the merits of fresh shaved parmesan cheese over the mass produced grated variety. He was chatting because by nature he was an adept social mixer.

If she was jittery then it was entirely her fault. She couldn’t seem to stop him affecting her.

‘I have quite a good jazz collection.’ She guided the trolley away from the pointless jars and towards the checkout tills.

‘Not exactly new and modern, though, is it?’

‘You’d hate new and modern, Angelo.’ The queues were long. Francesca could see the woman in front glancing surreptitiously at Angelo, probably trying to work out whether he was famous, whether she should recognise him.

‘Try me.’

‘I think you’re confusing me with your fiancée. Shouldn’t she be the one opening you up to the joys of modern English music?’

Angelo’s eyes became veiled. ‘Georgina only does easy listening. Oh, and classical, of course, because that has always been my preferred taste.’

‘And, naturally, she would never want to have an opinion on anything that contradicts her lord and master.’ Flustered at the outburst, Francesca stared down into the trolley and took a deep, calming breath. ‘Sorry. Out of order and, before you ask, no, I’m not saying that you two aren’t suited. But you have to admit that it’s a bit strange. You coming to my house, getting me to cook for you. I can’t help but think that Georgina wouldn’t be exactly over the moon at that, and I don’t care how many un-jealous bones she’s got in her body.’ She looked at him seriously and lowered her voice. ‘You must know that you’re putting me in a very uncomfortable position just by hiring me to cater for your wedding, never mind this—you being here. Is that why you’ve come? Because you enjoy seeing me uncomfortable?’

‘You are being paranoid.’ He had forgotten how much he liked the way she stripped all the outer layers from a conversation and got to the honest core of it. Of course, now would be the perfect time to tell her that he and Georgina were no longer going to be married, that the big wedding catering job was not going to materialise, but he didn’t. Instead he smiled lazily at her.

‘If it stresses you out cooking for me, then of course I would not want you to feel obliged…’

‘It doesn’t stress me out.’ She shuffled a few inches forward with her trolley.

‘Good. Then no problem. Is it always this busy at a supermarket?’

Distracted, Francesca looked at him with an appalled expression. ‘Angelo, could you keep your voice down when you make remarks like that? Of course supermarkets are busy places. When was the last time you set foot inside one?’

‘Ah. Now let me think.’ He began helping her take things out of the trolley, watching with amusement as she restructured his untidy piling up of items on the belt. ‘I think I may have once gone into a very small one close to where I live.’