Her Passionate Italian: The Passion Bargain / A Sicilian Husband / The Italian's Marriage Bargain. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
left would go to the tax collector when he was dead.
But she’d been able to see her mother’s eyes in his eyes—her own hazel eyes looking curiously at her even as he’d labelled her a fortune-hunter. She recalled how badly she’d wanted to touch him but didn’t dare, how his skin wasn’t at all wrinkly despite his great age and he might live in a near ruin but his grooming had been immaculate. Quite dapper.
She smiled as she began dressing again, slipping into her uniform red dress with its flashes of bright yellow and green.
She’d told him about her life and her mother’s life in London, the schools she’d attended and her university degree. She’d told him that she was working as a tour guide in Rome and that she was sharing an apartment with a friend she’d met in university. He’d listened without attempting to put a stop on her eager flow. When she’d finally slithered to a stop, he’d nodded as if in approval then rung the bell. When the housekeeper arrived to see her out all he’d said was, ‘Enjoy the rest of your life, signorina,’ and she’d nodded, knowing by those words that he had no wish to see her again.
That didn’t mean she’d stopped corresponding though. She’d continued to send him little notes every week, letting him know what she was doing. When she’d met and fallen in love with Angelo, besides Sonya, Great-Uncle Bruno was the first person to know. He’d never replied to a single letter and she hadn’t a clue if he even bothered to read her silly, light, chatty notes. When she confided in Angelo about him he was shocked and disbelieving at first, then he’d laughed and called their first meeting fate because Bruno Gianni lived only a couple of miles away from his parents’ country house.
‘If your mama had been allowed to live there with you, we would have grown up together—been childhood sweethearts maybe.’
She liked that idea. It gave their love a sense of inevitability and belonging that her unforgiving grandfather could not beat.
On the few occasions she had been invited to spend the weekend at the Villa Batiste in the Frascati area of Castelli Romani she always made a point of walking the few miles to her great-uncle’s palazzo to leave a note to let him know where she was staying—just in case he might relent and asked her to visit him while she was there. It had never happened. He hadn’t even bothered to reply to the formal invitation to her betrothal party this weekend, she reminded herself.
Did that hurt? A little, she confessed. But—as Angelo said—persistence could often win in the end. ‘Maybe he will relent and come to our wedding.’
And maybe he would, she thought hopefully as she shut up the apartment and stepped back out into the sunlit street.
However disappointed she was with her great-uncle, she had never regretted coming to Rome. Her Italian was fluent, her knowledge of the city’s history something she’d drenched herself in from the time she had been able to read. She loved her job, loved her life and she loved—loved Angelo.
The ride down the Corso was a mad, bad bustle this time around. Francesca skimmed deftly between tight lines of traffic. The afternoon was a long one. The city was beginning to throb with people now the tourist season was in full flow—not that it eased by a huge amount at any time of the year. By the time she arrived back at the apartment she was so tired all she wanted to do was dive beneath the shower then put up her aching feet.
The first thing she noticed was the tidied apartment, the next was Sonya, curled up on the sofa wrapped in her bathrobe, looking very defiant.
‘Before you start, it was the toothache,’ she jumped in before Francesca could say anything. ‘It flared up after I spoke to you this morning and I just had to find a dentist to do something about it.’
‘Makes house-calls, does he?’ Francesca didn’t believe her. It took only a flick of her eyes to the empty coffee-table for Sonya to know what she meant.
‘Of course not,’ she snapped then winced, pushing a hand up to cover the side of her face. ‘God, it’s hurting more now that the anaesthetic’s worn off than it did before I let him touch it!’ she groaned.
‘Who touched it?’
‘The dentist, you sarcastic witch,’ Sonya sliced. Then she sighed when she realised she wasn’t about to get any sympathy, her gentian-blue eyes moving over Francesca’s clothes. ‘Sorry I spoilt your day off,’ she mumbled contritely.
‘You meant to do that a whole lot earlier this morning,’ she drawled.
‘Mm.’ Sonya didn’t even bother to deny it; her fingertips were now carefully testing the slight puffiness Francesca could see at her jaw.
‘You look grotty,’ she observed, yielding slightly. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Really bad.’ Tears even swam into her eyes. ‘He drilled it then dressed it with—something.’ She dismissed that something with a flick of her hand. ‘I’m to go back next week—ouch.’ She winced again. ‘I also got the full lecture on the cause and effect of neglect.’
Francesca couldn’t help but smile at the last dry comment. Sonya didn’t like lectures especially when she had no defence. ‘Did you punch him?’ she asked.
‘Not likely! He had me pinned down with all these contraptions sticking out of my mouth and was holding a drill in his hand at the time.’
‘Poor you,’ she commiserated.
‘Mm.’ Sonya was in complete sympathy with that comment. ‘Did you get your dress?’ she then thought to enquire.
‘Mm,’ Francesca mimicked. ‘Did you get your intriguing new man to hold your hand while you sat in the dentist’s chair?’
Sonya looked up then quickly away again, a definite flush mounting her delicately pale cheeks. ‘Don’t ask because I’m not going to tell you,’ she muttered.
‘So he is married,’ Francesca concluded.
‘Who told you that?’ Sonya was shocked.
‘Bianca,’ she supplied. ‘Who seems to know a whole lot more than I do about your love-life.’
That still hurt, and she turned away to walk towards her bedroom.
‘I’m sorry, Francesca, but I can’t talk about him!’ she threw after her. ‘It’s—complicated,’ she added awkwardly. ‘And Bianca only knows the bit she gleaned out of me when she caught me rowing with him on the phone in the office the other day. ‘
‘So he is married?’ She turned to look at her.
Sonya looked down and stubbornly closed her mouth.
The urge to tell her what a fool she was being leapt to the edge of her tongue—then was stopped when she remembered the ‘you sound like my mother’ stab from this morning. So she changed her mind about saying anything at all and turned back to her bedroom.
‘I’m going to change,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting Angelo in a hour—’
‘No, you’re not.’
Once again she stopped and swung round. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘He rang here—a few minutes ago—to say he’s still in Milan and won’t be coming back until tomorrow.’ For some reason relaying all of that also poured hot colour into her cheeks.
Francesca’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Have you two been fighting again?’
‘No,’ Sonya denied.
‘Then why the guilty face?’
‘OK, so we fought a little bit,’ Sonya snapped. ‘Stop getting at me, Francesca! I can’t help it if—’
‘So, why didn’t he call me on my mobile to tell me this?’ Francesca cut in. She was not going to let Sonya start one of her character-assassination jobs on Angelo again. One a day of those