'You want…' Shock and disbelief were added to the outrage. 'I don't believe this.'
'There is something unusual in one person wishing to say goodbye to another?' Romano asked, with a mildness that was suspect, and then as Grace went to speak again he raised his
hand, his face cold. 'Grace, I know you are Claire's friend, and I appreciate that, really, but she is quite grown-up, in case you had not noticed, and this is something that concerns only the two of us.'
He hadn't come to ask her to stay. Claire stared at the tall, dark figure and her heart thudded so hard it was painful. She didn't know how she knew, but she did, so the only other reason he would be here was to say goodbye, as he had indicated to Grace. Why was he putting her through this? She wanted to close her eyes and pretend it wasn't happening. It was unfair, cruel.
'Something that concerns only the two of you?' Grace said, with a stiffness that spoke volumes. 'I'm sorry, Romano, but I don't see it that way.'
'Then that is your misfortune, not mine. But whether you approve or not I am going to speak to Claire, and alone.'
This was getting out of hand. She turned to Grace now, putting her hand on her friend's arm as she drew her gaze. 'It's all right, Grace, really. I'll…I'll talk to him. I'm OK, don't worry.'
'Of course you're OK,' Grace said encouragingly, in a tone that reeked of concern and doubt. 'Do…do you want me to go?'
'I think it's best. I'll ring you as soon as I get home,' Claire said quietly. 'The babies are waiting for you, and you don't want to be away from them too long.'
'OK.'
They hugged for a long moment and Grace's eyes were damp when she turned to go. 'Don't you dare, dare upset her again,' she said in a fierce undertone to Romano, which brought the thick black eyebrows winging upwards, but she was gone before he could speak, hurrying away with her head bent and her shoulders hunched.
'I think Grace has got carried away with this maternal thing.' His voice was low and deep, and she swung round from watching Grace disappear with hot words of defence, only to surprise a curious expression of vulnerability on the hard, masculine face. He was nervous, she realised with a little shock of surprise—uneasy, out of his depth. It was so amazing that she allowed him to take her arm and lead her over to a quiet corner away from the busy hubbub without protest, sinking down onto the seat as her legs gave way.
'Can I get you a coffee?' Now he had her alone he seemed strangely unwilling to get the goodbyes over, and she shook her head slowly, knowing her control was only paper-thin. She wanted this over—quickly. She didn't want to make a fool of herself in front of him again. She was past the burning humiliation she had felt for days after telling him she loved him and being rejected so thoroughly—her misery was too deep and intense for pride—but she didn't want his last memory of her to be of her crying and wailing and holding onto his shirt-ends, which was exactly what she felt like doing right now.
'No. Perhaps…perhaps you should just say what you came to say and then go,' she said quietly, the whiteness of her face belying her outward composure.
'Claire—' He stopped abruptly, and then sat down on the seat next to hers, taking her hands in his, his face desperate. 'I should not be here—or perhaps I should. I do not know any more. All I do know is that I could not let you leave Italy, and my life, without telling you the truth. I do not know if it will make it easier or harder— I'm past knowing anything right now—but…I have to explain.'
'What?' The look on his face was frightening her.
'You think that I loved Bianca, that I still love her, sì? he said heavily. 'You think we had the perfect marriage, that it was—how do you English say?—the bed of roses, yes?'
'Yes.' She was feeling almost numb now, the way people felt when they had been injured so badly that their nerve-ends were cauterised with shock.
'Claire, my marriage was your worst nightmare come to life. It was days and weeks and months of unending torment and pain,' he said bitterly. 'There were times when I thought I was going mad, when I looked at the rest of the world and wondered how they could get it so right and I could get it so wrong.'
'Romano?' She stared at him, unable to take it in. 'I don't understand.'
'I have never understood it.' He shook his head savagely before taking a long, hard pull of air and letting go of her hands, turning in his seat and looking down at the floor, one hand clasping the fist of the other until the knuckles shone white. 'But perhaps I had better start at the beginning. I have told you how my childhood was, how Donato's family became mine? Donato and I, we were a little wild, headstrong, the way youth is, and we…how you say?…played the field, had fun.'
He was talking in a dull monotone now that was more chilling than the bitterness of before. 'Bianca, she was the little sister, sì? Donato's little sister. She meant nothing more. But when she reached fifteen, sixteen, I began to realise that this puppy love she had always had for me was something else, something stronger. She…she had this way of manipulating things, people. It was a sickness with her although I did not realise it then. And she wanted me; it was as simple as that. I tried to tell her, as gently as I could, that what I felt for her was not of a romantic nature, and when that did not work I stayed away from Casa Pontina for a while. I thought the time would give her a chance to see things from a different perspective, perhaps even meet someone else.'
'But that didn't work either?' Claire asked faintly.
'No, it did not,' he said grimly. 'She started to be wherever I was, then she took to turning up at my home—two, sometimes three times a week.'
'Did you tell Donato?'
'I tried, but he did not understand. Hell, I did not understand! And then Donato's father became ill and he had enough to do to take care of the businesses and run Casa Pontina. I could not burden him with anything else,' Romano said wearily.
She wanted to reach out to him, to touch that harsh, tortured profile with the palm of her hand, to take away the pain that turned the deep voice to gravel. But the knowledge that he didn't love her, that he was still going to say goodbye at the end of all this, stayed her hand. 'And so…?'
'And so one night when I came home late I found a broken window and Bianca in my bed. She had taken an overdose.' She saw his shoulder muscles clench under his shirt at the memory. 'And I decided if she loved me that much I owed it to the rest of the family and Donato to make her happy. I didn't love anyone else, there was no sacrifice involved in that way, and she had been part of my life for a long time. I did not want it to end in tragedy.'
'Did Donato know? About the overdose?' Claire asked softly, trying to imagine how he must have felt.
'No, he still does not know,' Romano said quietly. 'I took her home that night and we announced our engagement, and we married six months later when Bianca was seventeen. Within a month of the marriage I realised I had made a terrible mistake. What I had thought was love on her part was an obsession, a sickness. The things that happened…' He shook his head slowly. 'I would not burden you with the knowledge.'