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Stefano shrugged in dismissal. ‘But you have not been home.’

‘And where’s home, exactly?’ Allegra asked. ‘My family’s villa was auctioned off when my father declared bankruptcy. My mother lives mostly in Milan. I don’t have a home, Stefano.’ Her voice rang out clear and sharp, and she looked down, wanting to recover her composure, wishing it hadn’t been lost.

She didn’t want to talk about her family, her home, all the things she’d lost in that desperate flight. She didn’t want to remember.

‘Is London your home?’ Stefano asked curiously, when the tense silence between them had gone on too long. Too long for Allegra’s comfort, at any rate.

She shrugged. ‘It’s a place, as good as any, and I enjoy my job.’

‘This art therapy.’

‘Yes.’

‘And what of friends?’ He paused, his fingers tightening imperceptibly on his wineglass. ‘Lovers?’

Allegra felt a frisson of pure feeling shiver up her spine. ‘That’s not your business,’ she said stiffly and he smiled.

‘I only meant to ask, do you have a social life?’

She thought of her handful of work acquaintances and shrugged again. ‘Enough.’ Then, since she wasn’t enjoying this endless scrutiny, she asked, ‘And what of you?’

Stefano raised his eyebrows. ‘What of me?’

Suddenly she wished she hadn’t asked. Wasn’t sure she wanted to know. ‘Friends?’ she forced out. ‘Lovers?’

‘Enough,’ Stefano replied, a faint feral smile stealing over his features. ‘Although no lovers.’

This admission both startled and pleased her. Stefano was so virile, so potent, so utterly and unalterably male that she would have assumed he had lovers. Loads.

Probably he only meant he had no lovers currently, Allegra thought cynically. No arm candy for the moment, none for this evening.

Except her.

He was with her tonight.

‘Does that please you?’ Stefano asked, breaking into her thoughts and making her gaze jerk upwards in surprise.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she countered swiftly.

‘No, of course not, and why should it?’ Stefano’s smile turned twisted, cynical. ‘Just as it doesn’t matter to me.’

Allegra nodded, uncertain. Of course, the words were right, yet the tone wasn’t. The feeling wasn’t.

She saw something spark in Stefano’s eyes, something alive and angry, and she set her wineglass on the table. ‘Perhaps this was a bad idea. I was hoping we could be friends, even if just for an evening, but maybe, even after all this time, we can’t. I know memories can hurt. And hurts run deep.’

Stefano leaned forward, his fingers curling around her wrist, staying her.

‘I’m not hurt,’ he said, his voice quiet and firm, and Allegra met his eyes.

‘No,’ she said, suddenly, strangely stung, ‘you wouldn’t be, would you? The only thing that was hurt that day was your pride.’

His eyes glinted gold, burned into hers. ‘What are you saying?’

‘That you never loved me.’ She took a breath and forced herself to continue. ‘You just bought me.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘So you claimed in that letter of yours, I remember.’

Allegra thought of that letter, with its girlish looping handwriting and splotchy tear-stains and felt the sting of humiliation.

He wasn’t even denying it, but it hardly mattered now.

‘I think I should go,’ she said in a low voice and Stefano released her, leaning back in his chair. ‘I never meant to bring all this up, talk about it again.’ She tried to smile, even to laugh, and wasn’t quite able to. ‘Perhaps it would have been better if I’d left before you came into the party. If we hadn’t seen each other at all. We almost missed each other, as it was.’

Stefano watched her, smiled faintly. ‘That,’ he said, ‘wasn’t going to happen.’

Allegra felt a lurch of trepidation, as if everything had shifted subtly, suddenly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘We weren’t going to miss each other this evening, Allegra,’ Stefano said with cool, calm certainty. ‘I came to the party—to London—to see you.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘ME?’

Stefano watched the emotions chase across Allegra’s features: shock, fear, pleasure. He smiled. Even now, she wanted his attention. His touch.

And he couldn’t stop touching her, whether it was her back as he’d steered her through a crowded ballroom, or her thigh in the darkened confines of a city cab. He was drawn to her, despite both his desire and intent to the contrary. He wanted to touch and to know the woman he’d once believed he could love.

Love. You never loved me. How many times had she told him now, he wondered cynically. How many times had she thrown it in his face? No, he hadn’t loved her, not the way she’d wanted. Not like Galahad, Rhett Butler, or whatever ridiculous caricature of a man she’d imprinted in her childish mind.

It hardly mattered now anyway. Love was not the issue; Lucio was.

He smiled, broke the silence. ‘Yes, you,’ he said.

Allegra blinked. Stared. She heard a buzzing in her ears. Felt it in her soul. ‘What do you mean?’ she finally said, though she’d heard what he’d said. She just couldn’t believe it.

‘I knew you would be at this wedding, and I wangled an invitation from your uncle. It wasn’t difficult. He was thrilled to be getting such a notable guest.’ His lips curved in a mocking smile that had Allegra gritting her teeth at his unshakeable arrogance.

‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why did you want to see me, Stefano?’

Stefano cradled his wineglass between his hands, staring into its ruby contents before he raised his head. His expression was stony, bleak. ‘Because I’ve been told you’re the best art therapist for children in this country.’

Allegra jerked back, startled. She hadn’t expected that. What, a mocking little voice asked, did you expect? For him to declare that he’d missed you? Loved you?

‘I think that’s overstating the case rather a lot,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’ve only been qualified for two years.’

‘The doctor I spoke to in Milan recommended you unreservedly.’

‘Renaldo Speri,’ Allegra guessed. ‘We corresponded regarding a case I had, a boy who had been misdiagnosed with autism.’