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Turning her back on the crowd, as well as the unfinished thought, she found another innocuous spot to station herself.

‘There you are.’ Stefano stood in front of her, two glasses of wine cradled in one hand, his smile wry. ‘I thought you’d given me the slip.’

Allegra swallowed. Her throat felt too tight and dry to make any kind of reply. Given him the slip—as she had once before?

She reached for the glass of wine. ‘Thank you.’

Stefano glanced at her, shrinking in the shadowy corner of the ballroom, and quirked one eyebrow. ‘Why are you hiding, Allegra?’

‘I’m not,’ she defended herself quickly. ‘This isn’t exactly my crowd, that’s all.’

‘No? Tell me what your crowd is, then.’ He paused before adding, ‘Tell me about yourself.’

She glanced up at him, saw him looking down at her with that faint, cool smile that chilled her far more than it should. She found her own gaze sweeping over his features, roving over them, looking for changes. His hair was shorter and threads of silver glinted at his temples. His face was leaner, the lines of his jaw and chin more angular and pronounced. There was a new hardness in his eyes, deep down, like a mask over his soul. Or perhaps that had always been there and she hadn’t known. She hadn’t seen it, not until that last night.

‘You’re being rather friendly,’ she said at last. ‘I didn’t expect it.’

Stefano rotated his wineglass between strong brown fingers. ‘It’s been a long time,’ he said finally. ‘Unlike your uncle, I try not to hold grudges.’

‘Nor do I,’ Allegra flashed, and Stefano smiled.

‘So neither of us is angry, then.’

‘No.’ She wasn’t angry; she just didn’t know what she felt. What she was supposed to feel. Every word she spoke to Stefano was like probing a sore tooth to see how deep the decay had set in. She didn’t feel the lightning streak of pain yet, but she was ready for it when it came.

Unless it never did. Unless she’d really healed her heart, moved on, just like she intended to show him. Just as she’d always told herself she had.

He took a sip of wine. ‘So, what have you been up to these last few years?’ he asked. Allegra suppressed the impulse to laugh, even though nothing felt remotely funny.

‘I’ve been working here in London,’ she finally said. She could feel him gazing at her, even though her own eyes were averted.

‘What kind of work?’ His voice was neutral, the carefully impersonal questions of an acquaintance, and for some reason that neutrality—that distance—stung her.

‘I’m an art therapist.’ He raised his eyebrows in question and Allegra continued, genuine enthusiasm entering her voice. ‘It’s a kind of therapy that uses art to help people, usually children, uncover their emotions. In times of trauma, expressing oneself through an artistic medium often helps unlock feelings and memories that have been suppressed.’ She risked a glance upwards, expecting to see some kind of sceptical derision. Instead he looked merely thoughtful, his head cocked to one side.

‘And you enjoy this? This art therapy?’

‘Yes, it’s very rewarding. And challenging. The opportunity to make a difference in a child’s life is incredible, and I’m very thankful for it.’ Her mouth was dry and she took another sip of cool wine. ‘What about you?’

‘I still own my company, Capozzi Electronica. I do less research now it has grown bigger. Sometimes I miss that.’

‘Research,’ Allegra repeated, and felt a surprising pang of shame to realize she’d never known he’d done any research at all. He’d never told her all those years ago, and she’d never asked. ‘What kind of research?’

‘Mostly mechanical. I develop new technology to improve the efficiency of industrial machinery.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ Allegra said with a little laugh and Stefano smiled.

‘Most of it wouldn’t concern your day-to-day living anyway. My research has been centred on machinery in the mining industry. A selective field.’

‘Capozzi Electronica is a big business though,’ Allegra said, ‘isn’t it? I’ve seen your logo on loads of things—CD players, mobile phones.’

Stefano shrugged. ‘I’ve bought a few companies.’

She opened her mouth to ask another question, but Stefano plucked her wineglass from her fingers and gave her a teasing smile. ‘Enough of that. The music is starting again and I’d like to dance. Dance with me?’

He held one hand out, just as he’d done all those years ago on her eighteenth birthday, when she’d walked down the stairs and into what she’d thought was her future.

Now she hesitated. ‘Stefano, I don’t think …’

‘For old times’ sake.’

‘I don’t want to remember old times.’

Stefano smiled faintly. ‘No, neither do I, come to think of it. Then how about for new times’ sake? New friendships.’

She stared at his hand, outstretched, waiting. The fingers were long and tapered, the skin smooth and tanned. ‘Allegra?’

She knew this was a bad idea. She’d wanted to chat with Stefano like an old friend, but she didn’t want to dance with him like one. Didn’t know if she should get that close.

And yet something in her rebelled. Wanted to see how they were together, how she reacted to him. Wanted, strangely, to feel that lightning streak of pain … to see if it was there at all.

Mutely she nodded.

His hand encased—engulfed—hers and he led her on to the dance floor. She stood there woodenly, her feet shuffling in a parody of steps, while couples danced around them, some entwined, some holding themselves more awkwardly, all of them sliding her and Stefano speculative glances.

‘This isn’t a waltz, Allegra,’ Stefano murmured and pulled her gently to him.

Their hips collided in an easy movement that was far too intimate … more intimate than anything that had passed between them during their engagement.

She felt the hard contours of him against her own softness, unyielding and strong. Allegra stiffened and jerked back even as her limbs went weak.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, ‘I don’t dance that often.’

‘Nor do I,’ Stefano murmured back, his lips close—too close—to her hair. ‘But I hear it’s like riding a bike. You never forget.’

His arms were around her waist, his fingers splayed on her lower back. ‘Do you remember how we danced? On your eighteenth birthday?’ A glimmer of a smile lurked in the mobile curve of his mouth, although his eyes were shuttered. ‘You clung to me for balance because you’d never worn heels before.’

Allegra shook her head, closed her eyes before snapping them open once more. ‘I was a child.’

Stefano frowned, his eyes flickering across her face. ‘Perhaps,’ he said at last. ‘But you aren’t one now.’

‘No,’ Allegra agreed, ‘I’m not.’

They danced in silence, swaying to the rhythm, their bodies—chests, hips, thighs—all too tantalisingly close. Allegra felt herself relaxing, even though there was a taut wire of tension running through her core, vibrating with awareness.

She’d never expected it to happen like this. And yet, she realized, she’d expected to see Stefano again. A part of her, she acknowledged now, had been waiting for their reunion since the night she’d fled.

Why? she wondered, and her heart knew the answer. To show him how strong she was, how healed and healthy and happy she was … without him.