The Italian's Wife By Sunset. Lucy GordonЧитать онлайн книгу.
who has many siblings.’
‘I must admit that I really envy you that,’ she said. ‘Tell me some more about your brothers. You don’t fight all the time, surely?’
‘On and off. Mamma’s first husband was English, but his first wife had been Italian—a Rinucci. Primo is the son of that marriage, so he’s half-Italian, half-English. Luke, the adopted son of that marriage is all English. Are you with me?’
‘Struggling, but still there. Keep going.’
‘Primo and Luke have always traded insults, but that means nothing. It’s practically a way of communicating—especially while they were in love with the same woman.’
‘Ouch!’
‘Luckily that didn’t last very long. Primo married her, and Luke found someone else, and now their wives keep them in order, just as wives should.’
‘Oh, really?’ she said ironically.
‘No, really. Any man who’s grown up in this country knows that when the wife speaks the husband stands to attention—if he’s wise. Well, it’s what my father does, anyway.’
‘And when your turn comes you’ll choose a woman who knows how to keep you in order?’
‘No, my mother will choose her,’ he assured her solemnly. ‘She’s set her heart on six daughters-in-law, and so far she’s only achieved three. Every time a new woman enters the house I’ll swear she checks her for suitability and ticks off a list. When she finds the right one I’ll get my orders.’
‘And you’ll obey?’ she teased.
His answering grin was rich with life, an invitation to join him in adventure.
‘That’s a while off yet,’ he said contentedly. ‘I’m in no rush.’
‘Life’s good, so why spoil it with a wife?’
‘I wouldn’t exactly put it like that,’ he said uneasily.
‘Yes, you would,’ she said at once. ‘Not out loud, perhaps. But deep inside, where you think I can’t hear.’
His answer was unexpected.
‘I wouldn’t bet against your being able to hear anything I was thinking.’
Then he looked disconcerted, as though he had surprised even himself with the words, and his laugh had a touch of awkwardness that affected her strangely.
Berto came to their table to tell them that the day’s catch of clams was excellent, and that spaghetti alle vongole could be rustled up in a moment.
‘Clam pasta,’ Carlo translated.
‘Sounds lovely.’
‘Wine?’ Berto queried.
Carlo eyed her questioningly, and she hastened to say, ‘I leave everything to you.’
He rattled off several names that Della didn’t recognise, and Berto bustled away.
‘I took the liberty of ordering a few other things as well,’ Carlo explained.
‘That’s fine. I wouldn’t have known what to ask for.’
His eyes gleamed. ‘Playing the tactful card, huh?’
‘I’m a newcomer here. I listen to the expert.’
Berto returned with white wine. When he had poured it and gone, Carlo said, ‘So, you reckon you can see right through me?’
‘No, you said I could. Not me.’
‘I have to admit that you got one or two things right.’
‘Let’s see how well I manage on the rest. I know Italian men often stay at home longer than others, but I don’t think that you do, because Mamma’s eagle eye might prove—shall we say, inhibiting?’
‘That’s as good a word as any,’ he conceded cautiously.
‘You’ve got a handy little bachelor apartment where you take the girls you can’t take home because they wouldn’t tick any of Mamma’s “suitability” boxes, and that’s just fine by you—’
‘Basta!’ He stopped her with a pleading voice. ‘Enough, enough! How did you learn all that?’
‘Easy. I just took one look at you.’
‘Obviously I don’t have any secrets,’ he said ruefully.
‘Well, perhaps I was a little unfair on you.’
‘No, you weren’t. I deserved it all. In fact, I’m worse. My mother would certainly say so.’
She chuckled. ‘Then think of me as a second mother.’
‘Not in a million years,’ he said softly.
His eyes, gliding significantly over her, made his meaning plain beyond words, and suddenly she was aware that she looked several years younger than her age, that her figure was ultra-slim and firm, thanks to hours in the gym, that her eyes were large and lustrous and her complexion flawless.
Every detail of her body might have been designed to elicit a man’s admiration. She knew it, and at this moment she was passionately glad of it.
It might be fun.
He was certainly fun.
Berto arrived with clam pasta, breaking the mood—which was a relief, since she hadn’t decided where she wanted this to go. But a moment ago there had been no choice to make. What had happened?
He was watching her face as she ate, relishing her enjoyment.
‘Good?’
‘Good,’ she confirmed. ‘I love Italian food, but I don’t get much chance to eat it.’
‘You’ve never been here before?’
‘I had a holiday in Italy once, but mostly I depend on Italian restaurants near my home.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘In London, on a houseboat moored on the Thames.’
‘You live on the water? That’s great. Tell me about it.’
At this point she should have talked about her serious day-to-day life, with its emphasis on work, and the occasional visit from her grown up son. Instead, unaccountably, Della found herself describing the river at dawn, when the first light caught the ripples and the banks emerged from the shadows.
‘Sometimes it feels really strange,’ she mused. ‘I’m right there, in the heart of a great city, yet it’s so quiet on the river just before everywhere comes alive. It’s as though the world belongs to me alone, just for a little while. But you have to catch the moment because it vanishes so quickly. The light grows and the magic dies.’
‘I know what you mean,’ he murmured.
‘You’ve been there?’
‘No, I—I meant something else. Later. Tell me some more about yourself. What sort of work do you do?’
‘I’m in television,’ she said vaguely.
‘You’re a star—your face on every screen?’
‘No, I’m strictly behind the scenes.’
‘Ah, you’re one of those terrifyingly efficient production assistants who gets everyone scurrying about.’
‘I’ve been told I can be terrifying,’ she admitted. ‘And people have been known to scurry around when I want them to.’
‘Maybe that’s why I thought you were a schoolteacher?’
‘You’ve got quite a way with youngsters yourself.’
But he dismissed the suggestion