Latin Lovers: Italian Husbands: The Italian's Bought Bride / The Italian Playboy's Secret Son / The Italian Doctor's Perfect Family

‘I’m not a date.’

‘No, you’re not,’ he agreed, unruffled, unconcerned. ‘But you’re with me, and there’s no point in you staying alone in the villa, is there?’ He smiled again, humour flashing briefly in his eyes. ‘I thought we were supposed to be friends.’

‘We are,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s just—’

Eyebrows still raised, Stefano waited. Allegra realized he’d tangled her up in her own words. Yes, she wanted them to be friends, and therefore these innocent, innocuous occasions should provoke no alarm or anxiety. And yet …

And yet they did. They did, because they weren’t just friends. No matter how much she wanted to dismiss their kiss, their entire past, she couldn’t. Not as much as she wanted to.

And yet she couldn’t avoid it. Perhaps the only way across this swamp of memory and feeling, Allegra thought, was straight through. It might mean getting muddy, wet, dirty, and even hurt, but she couldn’t avoid Stefano, or what was and had been between them. She didn’t even want to.

The past, forgotten as it might be, had to be dealt with. Directly.

‘All right,’ she said, and gave a little nod. ‘Thank you. That should be …’ she sought for a safe word and finally settled on ‘… pleasant.’

‘Pleasant,’ Stefano repeated musingly. He turned back to his paper. ‘Yes. Indeed.’

She turned back to the window.

They didn’t talk again until the jet landed at Rome’s Fuimicino airport, and Stefano helped her from the plane.

The air wrapped around her like a blanket—dry, hot, familiar. Comforting.

Home.

She took a breath, let it flood through her body, her senses. The air was different here, the light brighter.

Everything felt different.

‘It’s been a long time,’ Stefano said, watching her, and Allegra shrugged.

‘Six years.’

‘You came back for your father’s funeral.’

‘Yes.’ They were walking across the tarmac to the entrance to customs, and Allegra kept her head averted. Her father’s funeral. Her father’s suicide. More things she chose not to think about. To remember.

‘I’m sorry about his death,’ Stefano said after a moment, his voice quiet and far too understanding.

Allegra shrugged. When she spoke, her voice sounded as hard and bright as the sky shimmering above them. ‘Thank you. It was a long time ago.’

‘The death of a parent still hurts,’ Stefano replied, his gaze searching hers, and Allegra shrugged again and looked away.

‘I don’t really think of it,’ she said, and felt as if she’d revealed something—had exposed it to Stefano’s unrelenting gaze, unrelenting knowledge—simply by making that throwaway comment.

Mercifully Stefano dropped the subject and they spent the next short while dealing with customs and immigration.

Stefano had all of their papers in order and it didn’t take long. All too soon they were pulling away in yet another hired car, the ocean a stretch of blue behind them, the flat, dusty plains in front and the scattered brown hills of Rome against the horizon.

Allegra felt exhaustion crash over her in a numbing wave. She’d been physically busy these last few weeks but, more to the point, emotionally she’d been in complete overdrive. She leaned her head against the leather seat and closed her eyes.

She didn’t realize she’d actually dozed until Stefano nudged her awake. The sedan had pulled to a stop in front of a narrow street of elegant town houses, all with painted shutters and wrought iron railings.

‘We’re here,’ Stefano murmured, and helped her from the car. Allegra followed him into the town house. It was elegantly decorated with antiques, sumptuous carpets and priceless paintings, yet it did not have the stamp of individuality on it, of Stefano.

It was impossible, Allegra thought even as she admired what looked like a Picasso original, to know anything about the person who lived here except for the fact that he was fabulously wealthy.

She wondered if Stefano wanted it that way. She was realising, more and more, that she’d never really known him when they’d been engaged. She’d thought that before, of course, when she’d overheard that terrible conversation with her father. Yet now she thought of it in a different, more intimate way, a way that wasn’t fraught with anger and hurt, only a certain sorrowful regret.

She wanted to ask him what books he liked, what made him laugh. The things she should have known and delighted in when she’d been his almost-bride.

And she wouldn’t ask those questions, she told herself sternly, wouldn’t even think of asking them, because there was no point.

Professional.

‘I know you’re tired,’ Stefano said, ‘and you can rest upstairs if you like. I’ll have the cook prepare something light for lunch.’

‘Thank you.’ Allegra hesitated. ‘The dinner tonight … I assume it’s a formal occasion?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t have anything appropriate to wear, I’m afraid,’ Allegra said. She kept her voice light, even though she felt embarrassed. ‘Evening gowns aren’t usually required in my line of work.’

Stefano gazed at her, his face expressionless, yet Allegra saw—sensed—a flicker of something in his eyes. She wished she knew what he was thinking, wished she could ask.

He gave a brief nod. ‘I’ll send someone to the shops to select something for you. Unless you’d prefer to go yourself?’

Allegra shook her head. She wouldn’t know what to choose, and just the thought of wandering around Rome by herself exhausted her.

‘Very well. I need to attend to business, but Anna, my housekeeper, will show you your room.’

As if on cue, a kindly, slight, grey-haired woman emerged from the back corridor.

‘This way, signorina,’ she said quietly in Italian.

‘Grazie,’ Allegra murmured, and the language—her native tongue—felt strange to her ears. She’d spoken English, only English, for years.

Had it been a deliberate choice? A way to forget the past, harden her heart against who she was?

A way to become the person she was now—the English Allegra, Allegra the art therapist. Not Allegra who had stood at the bottom of the stairs, her heart in her eyes for all to see.

She followed Anna up thickly carpeted stairs to a beautifully appointed bedroom. Allegra took in the wide double bed with its rose silk cover, the matching curtains, the antique walnut chairs flanking a marble fireplace. It was far finer than anything she’d ever known, even in her father’s villa.

She smiled at Anna. ‘Grazie,’ she said again and Anna nodded and left.

Allegra sank onto the bed, overwhelmed and overawed. Even though it was only early afternoon, she stripped off her clothes and slipped beneath the cool, smooth sheets.

She could hardly credit that she was here, in Stefano’s house, in Stefano’s bed … one of them, anyway. She laughed aloud, but the sound held no humour. Alone in the huge bedroom, it sounded lonely. Little.