It Happened In Rome: The Forced Bride / The Italian's Rags-to-Riches Wife / The Italian's Passionate Revenge. Julia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
yet she couldn’t escape the memory of Simon’s odd behaviour the other day—the edgy, reluctant way he’d offered his assistance. As if he felt guilty—or ashamed…
When Raf returned ten minutes later she was still sitting in the same place, the phone dangling from her fingers.
‘Well?’ he enquired curtly.
She shook her head. ‘I can’t get through. There’s no network available. It must be the mountains.’ She looked around. ‘There has to be another phone somewhere.’
‘Only in the village.’ He shrugged. ‘Marcello and Fiona prefer to be here alone—without interruptions.’
The word ‘alone’ seemed to sound in her mind like a knell. It suddenly occurred to her that whenever she and Raf had been together in the past there’d been other people around. Quite apart from acquaintances and guests, everywhere she’d stayed with him had resident staff of some kind.
Now, for the first time, it was—just the two of them, occupying a relatively small space. ‘Without interruptions’ he’d said. And the realisation sent chills through her.
Raf was prowling the room, inspecting everything, glancing at the books and ornaments on the shelves that flanked the fireplace. He picked up the mug of cold soup and regarded it with disfavour. ‘Is this supposed to be supper?’
‘Mine, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m not very hungry.’
‘But I am. So—what else is there to eat?’
Emily gasped. ‘You really think I’m going to get you a meal?’
He said softly, ‘You’re still my wife, mia cara, and, until now, your duties have not been too onerous. Besides, most wives cook for their husbands—or hadn’t you heard?’ He paused. ‘But maybe you are devoid of culinary skills.’
She said indignantly, ‘Everyone at my school learned to cook. The nuns insisted.’
‘Ah, the nuns,’ Raf said reflectively. ‘That explains a great deal. But at least some aspects of your education have received attention, if not all.’
Emily lifted her chin. ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
‘It is not important. Are there eggs? You could prepare a simple omelette, perhaps?’
‘I could,’ she said. ‘But why should I?’
‘Because a man needs to conduct negotiations on a full stomach,’ Raf said smoothly. ‘And we are here to negotiate, are we not?’
She took the untouched soup from him with a mutinous look, then stalked with it into the kitchen, pouring it away down the sink. Under the circumstances, she thought, the word ‘comfort’, even applied to food, was a sick joke.
She filled the kettle and set it to boil. Tea bags and a small jar of instant coffee had been included in the welcome pack, although she couldn’t imagine Raf relishing either. But then, he wasn’t a welcome guest, so why should she care?
She found a shallow frying pan, added a knob of butter and placed it on the stove to heat gently. She was breaking eggs into a bowl when Raf came in.
She didn’t look at him. ‘Do you mind? This is a very small kitchen.’
‘I came to bring you this.’ He put a package on the worktop beside her.
With chagrin, Emily recognised an expensive brand of freshly ground coffee. She said coolly, ‘You think of everything, signore.’
‘I need to, carissima, when I have you to deal with.’ He reached a long arm up to a top shelf and took down a box she hadn’t even noticed, extracting a cafetière. ‘There is no espresso machine, unfortunately, but this will do.’
He rinsed it out and began to spoon in the coffee.
‘Do you want two eggs or three?’ Emily asked, adding seasoning.
‘Four,’ he said. ‘I need to keep my strength up, don’t you agree, my lovely wife?’
Caught unawares, she turned her head sharply, staring at him. ‘What do you mean?’
His mouth twisted mockingly. ‘Merely, that if it continues to snow like this, I might have to dig us out—what else?’ He added laconically, ‘And your butter is about to burn,’ and went back into the living room.
Gritting her teeth, she moved the pan off the heat and slotted wholemeal bread into the toaster. She filled the cafetière and took china and cutlery through to the living room.
Raf was lounging on a sofa, staring into the newly replenished fire.
She said curtly, ‘You do realise there’s no television here? No computer or fax machine either. ‘
‘You feel that is a problem?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s hardly the streamlined, high-tech, luxurious environment you’re used to. You can hardly test the world’s financial pulse from here.’
‘Oh, I think the patient will live without me.’
‘But can you live without the patient?’
‘For a while, certainly.’ He stretched indolently. ‘And it will be good for me to relax completely. It does not often happen.’
‘You’ve forgotten the negotiations.’
‘I have forgotten nothing,’ he said and resumed his scrutiny of the leaping flames, leaving her to retire, baffled.
Emily beat the eggs with a fork and poured them into the hot pan, watching them with an eagle eye to ensure they did not become leathery. But they looked pretty good, fluffy and golden, she decided with satisfaction, as she divided them up, giving Raf the lion’s share.
‘This is excellent,’ he commented after his first mouthful. ‘You have hidden talents, mia cara.’
She kept her eyes fixed on her plate. ‘Let’s hear it for Sister Mary Antony.’
She had to force down her own portion against the nervous tightness of her throat, but somehow she managed it. Because it was important not to show she was on edge in front of Raf. Shock and anger at his unexpected arrival were permissible—just—but being scared was not.
Cool indifference, she thought, was the thing to aim for.
The meal over, she refused politely his equally courteous offer to assist with the washing-up. The idea of Rafaele Di Salis with a tea towel in his hand was too ludicrous to contemplate, she decided, her lip curling. More importantly, the kitchen was indeed far too cramped for easy sharing. Especially with him.
When she went back into the living room, she saw, with surprise, that a bottle of wine and two glasses had appeared on the small table in front of him.
‘Did you bring that too?’ she asked.
‘I did not have to. Marcello keeps a small store in the cellar for his own visits.’ He poured the wine and handed her a glass. ‘He gave me the key to the cupboard.’
‘The kind of friend to have,’ Emily said with constraint.
She didn’t want to sit drinking with him, yet to refuse might send out the wrong sort of signal. So she took a cautious sip and put the glass down.
My God, she thought bitterly, this—ambush had been carefully planned. But it was becoming plain that it couldn’t have succeeded without Simon’s active connivance, and that this was only one of the ugly truths she might have to accept.
In spite of herself, she couldn’t forget the missing items in the drawing room at High Gables and Simon’s casual dismissal of her query.
If he was short of money, why didn’t he turn to me? she asked herself almost despairingly. Why pretend he was a high-flying entrepreneur working from home, when she was bound to find out the truth eventually?