Marriage Made of Secrets

But her emotions were too raw, too close to the surface to risk losing control in front of Cesare. She took a deep breath.

‘Bene poi, since I value my foot way too much, I’ll stay out of harm’s way.’ Droll amusement tinged his voice and she gritted her teeth not to react to it.

‘What do you want?’ Her surly voice matched her mood.

‘You mean aside from checking that my land isn’t being desecrated by your vicious digging?’ he asked.

She sat back on her heels and glared at him. ‘You own more than your fair share of land in Italy and the western world. I’m sure you won’t miss a six by ten foot square piece.’

He shrugged, disgustingly unperturbed by her censure. ‘Lucia tells me you’re growing oranges. You do remember we have oranges delivered fresh every day from my orchard in Tuscany, don’t you?’

‘These are miniature oranges,’ she replied, trying not to let her eyes wander over the stunning perfection of his lean, hard-packed frame.

From her disadvantaged kneeling position, he seemed even more devastating, more domineering in a way that made her struggle to hide a small shiver of desire.

‘Ah,’ he retorted. ‘So you prefer your oranges small?’

‘The oranges aren’t small, only the trees—’ She stopped when she saw the mocking smile that flashed across his face.

He was making fun of her. Disconcertingly, she wanted to grin in response. She bit her lip hard to hide its Judas twitch.

‘What do you want?’

He held out her phone. ‘It’s been pinging text messages every few minutes. I thought they might be important.’

She took it and flung it on to the grass. ‘Agata Marinello and her unending demands can go to hell. Was that all?’

He didn’t answer immediately. In fact he remained silent for so long that she glanced up at him.

The trace of a smile had vanished. His gaze was disturbingly intent as he stared down at her. Her throat dried as she experienced a sudden, inexplicable feeling that he was about to tell her something she wouldn’t welcome.

‘We have a guest coming to dinner this evening.’ The notice was delivered with little warmth and no pleasure.

She frowned. ‘You seem unhappy about it.’

His lips pursed. ‘I’d prefer not to have any company but it is what it is.’

‘Tell them not to come then,’ she said simply. ‘What would be worse, begging off hosting a dinner or exposing the guest to an unwelcome reception?’

‘It would be discourteous of me since I myself arranged it a...while ago.’

Her heart lurched unsteadily as it occurred to her that Cesare’s displeasure didn’t stem from having an unwelcome guest, but from Ava’s presence at the dinner table. ‘You mean before I decided to bring myself and my daughter back home unannounced?’

‘Something like that.’

She cleared a sudden painful constriction in her throat. ‘Is it a business dinner?’

‘No, Celine is a friend of the family and is...important to me.’

‘Celine?’ Why had her insides suddenly gone cold despite the sun’s intense heat?

Cesare had invited a woman to dinner. Big deal. But she couldn’t stop the sudden tension making her fingers tighten around the trowel. Dull pain shot up her arm. Even then she couldn’t let go of the tool.

Cesare had friends. Not that she knew many of them. Theirs had been a jealously guarded courtship, preferred by both of them because she didn’t have to share Cesare with her disapproving family and he’d been based in London at the time with easily ignored business acquaintances.

She’d met his parents at the wedding, although not his younger brother, Roberto. She’d also been introduced to the smattering of uncles, aunts and cousins that Italian families abounded with—a family she’d been desperate to become a part of. A family that had on face value welcomed her—until Cesare’s gradual distance had quickly become a family-wide phenomenon.

Her memory wasn’t faulty enough to have forgotten a Celine. And certainly not one who was important to Cesare.

‘Ava?’

She realised she’d missed his question.

‘Sorry—what?’ The words were forced through stiff lips.

‘I asked if seven-thirty was okay with you,’ he repeated slowly, as if making allowances for her sluggish brain.

Was seven-thirty okay with her? ‘No.’ It slipped out before courtesy or caution could stop it.