Second Marriage

his father and grandfather before him, had diversified into many lucrative business interests, which virtually amounted to a small empire of which Romano was sole heir, his par­ents having died in a yachting accident when Romano was still a teenager.

The full moon in the clear, tranquil sky lit up the night almost like day as the Ferrari approached the gates to the villa, and Claire found herself leaning forward ex­pectantly for her first glimpse of Romano's home. She didn't know quite what to expect—something along the lines of the magnificence of Casa Pontina, she sup­posed—but then they were through the gates and Romano brought the car to a standstill in the courtyard at the front of the house.

'Oh, Romano…' The villa was quite different from Casa Pontina's imposing splendour, but in Claire's eyes was much more beautiful, being built more in the low, sprawling style of the old days than with Casa Pontina's regal formality. The noble old walls were painted in soft mellow cream, with trailing bougainvillaea and rich red ivy providing vibrant colour, and the leaded windows and black wrought-iron balconies gave the feel of a more tranquil and graceful time, long since gone.

The Ferrari had nosed round a gently cascading stone fountain which stood in the middle of the courtyard, and Claire was enchanted to see a white dovecot, complete with resident doves, in one corner, which further en­hanced the air of timelessness. It was beautiful—beau­tiful, magical and utterly lovely. And for a moment she could hardly speak.

'You like it?' But he had known she would like it, Romano told himself silently. That was why he had brought her here, wasn't it? To impress her, to let her know he was something more than the heartless philan­derer and ruthless businessman she had got him down as. But what was he?

He stared for a moment at Claire's profile in the quiet of the car as she gazed at the house. He didn't know. He didn't know what he was any more, or just what he wanted for the future. But he knew it didn't include com­mitment or ties or ever again being responsible for some­one else. That had all finished one summer's day nearly three years ago.

His thoughts moved him out of the car without wait­ing for Claire's reply, and as he opened the passenger door and helped her to alight he didn't smile, even when she said, 'Of course I like it, Romano. I should think it's got to be the most perfect place on earth.'

'How you English like to exaggerate.' Now he did smile, but it was the cool, distant smile with which he had greeted her at the airport, the air of cold reserve very firmly in place.

What had she said? Claire felt the rebuff register in her solar plexus even as a spurt of anger brought her chin high and made her voice firm. 'I don't think so.' She walked past him towards the front door, which was a work of art in itself, the fine old wood carved with hundreds of flowers and leaves, each one perfect in its detail.

The atmosphere was tense as Claire stepped into the house, the interior of which matched the outside in its tranquil charm. The polished golden wood of the floor and plain white-painted walls were relieved by just one or two fine old paintings, pure Italian beauty at its best.

'Come through to the sitting room.' He didn't attempt to touch her as he led her past the open winding staircase and into a long, beautifully furnished room that seemed to stretch the length of the house. One wall of it was mostly glass, with massive French windows in the mid­dle overlooking the carefully lighted garden beyond. 'What would you like to drink?' he asked, his voice in neutral. 'Wine, sherry, something stronger?'

'Have I done something wrong, Romano? Offended you in some way?' she asked quietly.

She hadn't intended to say it but somehow the words had just popped out, and now he stared at her for a long moment before he said, 'What makes you think that?'

'You.' She didn't want to antagonise him. She was going to be in Italy for some time and their paths were going to cross more frequently than she would like, but she was blowed if she was going to endure an evening of treading on eggshells. 'You, actually,' she said bravely.

'Claire—' He stopped abruptly, shaking his head slightly as he looked at her standing so small and defiant in front of him, her eyes wide and golden and trying to hide her apprehension, her mouth betraying the vulner­ability she was trying to conceal. 'I think it was a mis­take, my bringing you here tonight. It is not fair. I am not an easy man to be with. Since my wife died—' He broke off, indicating for her to be seated, and she obeyed without speaking. 'Since my wife died I have preferred to keep my life simple, uncluttered. I like it that way.'

'And having someone for dinner makes it cluttered and complicated?' she asked tightly, hardly able to be­lieve what she was hearing.

Damn it, she was right. What on earth was he thinking of? Romano asked himself savagely. She had made it quite clear that she wanted as little to do with him as possible—it had been he who had pressurised her into coming here. So what was he doing now? She didn't like him and that suited him fine, just fine, but the least he could do was make the evening enjoyable in the knowledge that it was a definite one-off. He just hadn't reckoned on how seeing her here, in his home, would affect him.

'Scusi,' Suddenly, as though with the click of a switch, the charmingly remote, wry, arrogant individual was back, the cool, wealthy businessman with the world at his feet. 'You are quite right, Claire, please forgive me,' he said smoothly. 'And now, that drink? What would you like?'

'Dry white wine, please.' She watched him as he poured the drinks, her face outwardly calm but her mind racing. She had told him she had no designs on him, hadn't she? And if that hadn't been a clear warning, stating hands off, she didn't know what was. How dared he? How dared he presume she was interested in him and warn her off in that way?

Cool and uninterested, Claire, cool and uninterested. Her earlier resolution returned tenfold, and she forced the hurt and indignation into a recess of her mind to examine later when she was alone, determined she wouldn't allow him to get under her skin. He might be wealthy and powerful, with film star good looks and the sort of home that could have come straight off the pages of a Hollywood magazine, but he was everything she despised in a man: a cold, conceited egotist who thought he was God's gift to womankind. She pitied his late wife, she really did. It must have been hell to live with him—

'Will you excuse me a moment while I see to the dinner?' As his voice cut into her thoughts she suddenly realised he was standing in front of her holding the glass of wine, and she almost knocked it out of his hand in her haste to take it.

'The dinner?' She stared at him vacantly. He was see­ing to the dinner? But what about the cook…? 'Yes, of course. But isn't there someone…?' Her voice trailed away uncertainly.

To cook and serve for me?' he asked quietly, a thread of something dark in his voice now. 'No, I am afraid you are quite alone here, Claire. There is no one to chap­eron you.'

It wasn't what she had meant, but in view of their earlier conversation she didn't mind at all if he put that interpretation on her words.

'We had a succession of housekeepers and maids when my wife was alive,' he said flatly, 'none of whom lasted more than a few months. My wife was…difficult to please in that department. She tended to compare everyone with the excellent staff at Casa Pontina and find them wanting, and once she had died I really didn't feel like going through it all again. It seemed far simpler to look after myself, with the help of a lady in Sorrento who comes in to clean and launder for a few hours every other day.'

'I see.' She stared at him in astonishment. 'So you can cook, then?' This didn't quite fit the image somehow.

'Perhaps you had better be the judge of that once you have eaten?' he parried smoothly.

'Yes, right…'

Dinner turned out to be excellent. The soup, risi e bisi, was home-made Romano assured her with a glitter in his dark eyes when she said how delicious it was. The mixture of rice and new peas cooked with onion, ham and butter in chicken stock and eaten with a fork could have been a meal in itself. The lobster that followed was cooked to perfection and melted in the mouth, t

he ac­companying vegetables were succulent and tasty, and the arance caramellata—caramel oranges—another home­made work of art.