Second Marriage

'Yes, I suppose it does.' She stared into the dark cold face as her mind raced. 'But beauty can be wonderful too—something to be marvelled at, to share, something that lifts the soul of man, like a magnificent sunset for example.'

'But within a short time it has faded and is dead, and one is left with the blackness of the night,' he said qui­etly. 'Nothing lasts. Nothing is what it seems.'

He was talking about his wife being taken from him so tragically. As realisation dawned she stared at him in consternation, not knowing what to say. Bianca had been breathtakingly, wildly beautiful, and they had only had a few short years together before she had died. He still loved her… 'But memories can be precious things, can't they?' she asked softly. 'The sunset might die but the serenity and peace it gives can still live on.'

'I have not found that to be the case,' he said, with a dismissive coldness that told her this strange and dis­turbing conversation was at an end. 'Now, shall we?' He indicated the charming honey-coloured building in front of them with a wave of his hand. 'You will find Aldonez has

a variety of dishes to suit all appetites, so do not be perturbed if you are not hungry. I think it would be nice to sit outside, sì? There is a delightful garden at the back of the restaurant.'

He had left the car as he spoke the last words, walking swiftly round the bonnet and helping her to alight with a naturalness that told her his good manners were normal behaviour. She remembered Donato had had the same inherent courtesy when she had stayed with them for her two-week holiday in the summer, treating the female race as a whole with a gentleness and protective regard that was wonderfully refreshing in this modern age. But whereas she had just thought Grace's husband a gentle­man, somehow with his best friend the whole procedure took on a seductive quality that was more than a little unsettling.

Romano took her arm as they walked across the cob­bled courtyard and into the quaint and colourful little restaurant, and immediately she was aware that he was known to the plump and burly little proprietor, who gave them a welcome that could only be described as raptur­ous.

The greetings over, of which Claire didn't understand a word, Aldonez led them through the main room and out onto a covered veranda where several tables had been placed to catch the full benefit of the weak sunlight. It was surprisingly warm, the veranda being something of a sun-trap, and once she was seated Claire looked around her appreciatively.

The pretty square garden was small, but the lacy pe­rimeter fence was entwined with luxuriant foliage and sweet-smelling flowers. Small shrubs and bushes were scattered between old stone slabs that paved most of the area, with a large magnolia tree in one corner to provide a spot of shade in the summer. 'From March onwards Aldonez packs tables and chairs on every inch of ground,' Romano said with a distant smile as he watched her absorb her surroundings. 'He knows most of the tourists like to eat alfresco.'

'It's very pretty.' She suddenly felt unbearably shy as she glanced at him over the small table, his startling good looks and arrogant masculinity seemingly en­hanced by the intimacy of sharing a meal. On the short journey from the airport she had barely noticed the scen­ery outside the car, her senses briefly registering the southern earthy charm Naples exuded but most of her conscious thought held by the magnetic pull of the man opposite.

Crazy. She lowered her eyes to the menu Aldonez had placed in front of her a couple of minutes before. Absolutely crazy to allow her senses to be dominated like that—and wouldn't he just love it if he knew how she was thinking? When all was said and done, even if he did still love his wife, he didn't have to be so arro­gant, did he? So impossible to communicate with, so abrasive?

'Would you like me to translate?'

'What?' As she raised her head and met the hard gaze she would have given the world to be able to say she spoke fluent Italian, but she didn't, and, infuriating man that he was, he knew it.

The fact that she was forced to acknowledge she had been gazing at the squiggles on the card in front of her without even seeing them didn't help either—but that, at least, he didn't know.

'The menu? Would you like me to translate for you?' he asked again, his voice patient but with the kind of long-suffering tone one might adopt with a difficult child.

'That won't be necessary, thank you.' She'd rather walk through coals of fire first. 'I only want a green salad and a long, cold drink,' she said evenly. 'If that's pos­sible.'

'Of course.' He bowed his head slightly, and the movement should have been polite but was definitely sardonic. 'May I suggest a side dish of garlic and butter potatoes with that? It is one of Aldonez's specialities.'

'Thank you.' She nodded her head and wondered how someone so altogether stunning could have inspired such dislike in her. 'Is there a cloakroom here? I'd like to wash my hands…'

'Sì, just to the left of the main door. I will show you.'

Once alone in the small stone cloakroom, that boasted one deep-set porcelain bowl of ancient origin and one very modern lavatory in bright yellow, she gazed into the ornate and rather fine mirror above the wash-basin despairingly. This had all gone wrong somehow, badly wrong, and she had been so excited earlier in the day. Large, soulful brown eyes stared seriously back at her as she nipped at her lower lip anxiously, her pale creamy skin a perfect foil for her dark eyes and chestnut hair.

Beautiful! She grimaced at her reflection disbelievingly. What an obvious line, and yet it hadn't been like that, not really. But he couldn't have meant it. She shook her head, causing her silky fine hair to flow in a soft wave across her hot face. She wasn't ugly, she knew that, but she was no beauty either—not like Grace. Men had always turned to take a second and third look at Grace, even though her friend was oblivious to their at­tention most of the time.

Oh, well… She shrugged, dropping her eyes from the mirror and running her wrists under the cold water tap before splashing her face. She was quite happy with who she was, give or take her hot temper and a few other faults she could have done without, so her looks weren't important one way or the other. But she did wish she hadn't got off to quite such a bad start with Donato's friend. She was here to make Grace's life easier and worry-free as her confinement approached, not to enter into a war with her friend's husband's brother-in-law from day one.

She'd just have to bite her tongue and keep quiet when Romano was about. She raised her head and nod­ded at herself determinedly. She could do that, couldn't she? She should have done it already, not reacted to him like an indignant hedgehog with prickles at the ready. It was kind of him to have come all this way to fetch a virtual stranger, and she hadn't even thanked him prop­erly. It wasn't even as if she had met him before and he was renewing an acquaintance; he had been in America when she had come to Italy in the summer and she had left before he had returned.

Yes, she had behaved badly. She prepared to go back to the table full of good intentions. He might be arrogant and imperious, and more than a little high-handed, but he must have some good points for Grace to rate him so highly, and it wasn't as if she'd see much of him while she was here anyway. She'd thank him nicely for coming to fetch her, smile sweetly regardless of how maddening she found him, and refuse to rise to any provocation, intended or unintended, from now on.

He was as far removed from her humble orbit as the man in the moon anyway, and once he'd safely delivered her at Casa Pontina he'd probably barely notice her on the occasions when he came to visit Donato and Grace.

The last thought should have been comforting, but was instead mildly depressing. Oh, for goodness' sake don't be so pathetic, girl, she told herself irritably, before brushing her hair into gleaming order with hard, stiff strokes that set her scalp tingling, spraying a touch of her favourite perfume on her wrists, and then walking firmly out of the cloakroom, her head high.

CHAPTER TWO

'Claire!' Grace waddled out of the front door, her face beaming and her arms outstretched, and Claire had left the car before Romano could reach her door. The two women gave each other as close a hug as Grace's bulk would allow before Claire drew back and looked at her friend with something akin to amazement on her face.

'You're huge.' It wasn't tactful, but they had always been honest with each other.

'Tell me about it,' Grace said ruefully. 'I can't watch any of those wildlife programmes on TV lately, the sight of hippos plodding around hits too near home!'