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‘And he wasn’t autistic?’

‘No, he was severely traumatised from witnessing his mother’s suicide.’ She grimaced in memory. ‘It was a remarkable breakthrough, but I can’t really take the credit for it. Anyone could have—’

‘Speri thinks highly of you,’ Stefano said with a shrug. ‘He seems to think you’re the best. And I want the best.’

Allegra watched him for a moment. The best. So she was a commodity, a possession. Just as she’d been all those years before. Would Stefano ever think of her otherwise? Did he even know how?

At least the difference now, she thought cynically, was that the arrangement was mutual.

‘Why didn’t you tell me this when we first met, Stefano? Why come to the reception at all?’ Why ask her to dance, take her for a drink, talk about lovers?

She shook her head, felt a tide of humiliation wash over her at the realization of how Stefano had been manipulating her … as he had before. Softening her up for the request. The kill.

She felt another wave of humiliation crash over her as she remembered her own thoughts, the pleasure she’d felt at believing Stefano wanted to be with her. Treacherous, half-acknowledged desires that Stefano had undoubtedly surmised. She closed her eyes briefly, sickened by his deception, and by herself for falling for it … again.

She opened her eyes and met Stefano’s blank gaze with a stern one of her own. ‘If you were interested in me professionally, you should have come to my office, made an appointment—’

Stefano shrugged, unrepentant. His face was expressionless, yet his eyes blazed into hers. ‘You know it’s not as simple as that, Allegra. The past still lies between us. I needed to see how things would be between us. If we would be able to work together.’

‘And can we?’ she asked, eyebrows raised, her voice sharpened with both sarcasm and curiosity.

‘Yes.’ He spoke flatly, with cold certainty. ‘We can.’ He leaned forward, his eyes intent on hers, trapping her with his unrelenting gaze. ‘The past is forgotten, Allegra.’

Yet it hadn’t felt forgotten a moment ago, Allegra thought, suppressing a shiver of unease. That flash of something dark and primal in Stefano’s eyes had made her feel as if it wasn’t forgotten at all.

‘And for this you needed to ask me to dance? Invite me out for a drink?’ She shook her head. ‘If you want me to help you, Stefano, help whatever child you are thinking of, then you need to be honest with me. From the beginning. I won’t abide liars.’

Stefano’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am not a liar,’ he said coldly. ‘How was I not honest, Allegra? We had a past. I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t interfere with what I am proposing before I set it before you. That’s all.’

She pressed her lips together against a useless retort … a revealing retort. There was nothing Stefano had done, she acknowledged silently, that she could point her finger at. Accuse him of. Yet she was still cross, still hurt, and she still felt uneasy, uncertain. Uncomfortable.

‘All right, fine,’ she said at last. ‘Why don’t you tell me what exactly you’re proposing?’

Stefano paused. ‘The hour’s late,’ he said. ‘And it’s been a long evening. Why don’t we talk about it another time? Tomorrow, perhaps? Over dinner?’

Allegra frowned. ‘Why not Monday, in my office?’ she countered.

‘Because I’ll be back in Rome on Monday,’ Stefano replied with firm finality. ‘Allegra, I am interested in you only as a professional—’

‘I know that!’ she said, a flush rising to her cheeks.

‘Then why not converse over dinner? We’ve just shown how we can be reasonable this evening. We can even, perhaps, be friends.’ He smiled, his amber eyes glinting with a promise Allegra remembered all too well. A promise of tenderness and compassion, of understanding and caring. Of love.

False. All false.

Allegra took a breath. Stefano was right; she was letting the past cloud the present issue, which was presumably a hurting child.

She had to forget it, had to move on as she knew she’d done all those years ago. Yet seeing Stefano had brought it rushing back.

She lifted her chin. ‘All right. Tomorrow.’

‘Tell me your address and I’ll fetch you.’

‘There’s no need—’

‘I’ll fetch you,’ Stefano repeated. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to. He simply smiled. Smiled and waited.

Allegra chose to capitulate gracefully. Some battles, she knew, were not worth fighting. Not yet.

She gave it to him, then rose from her chair. He stood also. ‘Goodnight, Stefano,’ she said, and she held out her hand.

He glanced down at it, smiling wryly, before he took it in his. Her hand felt so small in his, small and fragile.

‘Good night, Allegra,’ Stefano said, his voice a husky murmur. ‘Until tomorrow.’

All the next day Allegra’s mind hurtled from alarm to anticipation, marking quite a few assumptions along that perilous mental route.

Stefano wanted to contract her services as an art therapist for a child. A child.

His child?

His wife?

She probed these possibilities with careful, clinical precision. Did it hurt? How much pain?

She wasn’t jealous, she knew that. She wasn’t even that surprised. So what did she feel?

She didn’t know. Couldn’t answer. More thoughts, more emotions to tuck away in that box.

As day darkened into twilight, Allegra surveyed the slim pickings of her wardrobe.

She’d splurged on the dress for Daphne’s party, and there was nothing else remotely as sophisticated or expensive in her wardrobe. Her work clothes were generally plain and comfortable, and the few dresses she had were stodgy and serviceable.

Allegra sighed. Why hadn’t she considered this before? She’d have had the time, if not the money, to buy something at the shops.

Why, that objectionable little voice whispered inside her, do you care? Are you trying to impress him? Attract him?

‘No,’ Allegra said aloud but, even alone in her bedroom, her voice sounded flat and false.

With a growl of impatience, she turned to the rack of clothes and picked a dress out at random. It was an olive green coat dress that she’d bought on sale for an interview, and while it presented a reliable if rather depressing image for work, it was hardly something one wore to dinner … especially if that dinner was at one of London’s classiest restaurants, which Allegra had no doubt it would be, knowing Stefano.

Knowing Stefano … Did she really know him?

Seven years was a long time for both of them. She’d never have expected him to act as he had last night, putting the past behind them. Wanting to be her friend. Caring about what she thought.

And the only reason he’d done those things, she reminded herself, was because he wanted something from her.

She slipped on the coat dress, only to grimace in rueful dismay at her reflection. She looked awful, drab and dreary, and she was vain enough to want to look at least half-decent for Stefano.