Was that why Nic had been so icily hostile to her? Because she’d been Vito Viscari’s guest? Because he’d aligned her with the man who was his bitter rival in business? Add to that the fact that she was the last person he’d wanted to meet up with again, that he’d thought her safely tucked away back on the West Coast, never to be encountered again now that he had moved on to another woman in his life...
Something knotted inside her, and with a smothered cry she released the pent-up emotions that she had bottled up inside her all evening since that disastrous encounter on the rooftop—that wretched, icy exchange when she’d run after him. How could it have come to this? That Nic—Nic—who’d swept her up into his arms, laughed with her, made love to her, driven across deserts with her, should be so harsh towards her now?
Oh, their affair might be over, and he might have moved on, but everything in her—every feeling—was rebelling at letting that cold, callous scene between them be all that was left between them now.
We parted as friends. I don’t want to remember him like this, now, the way he was this evening.
Hands twisting in her lap, she stared blindly out of the car’s front window as it made the turn into a large square in Mayfair, en route for Chelsea. She suddenly started. Above the white pillared entrance to the building that dominated one side of the square a blue flag hung, illuminated by skilful lighting. A gold falcon on a blue field—
‘Stop the car!’
The driver pulled up at the kerb. From there she could see the gold lettering above the grand doorway. Falcone Mayfair.
She swallowed, aware the driver was waiting for further instructions. Aware of much more than that. Of an urge she could not stop. An urge that was pressing on her like a sudden impulse she must obey.
To be passing the Falcone hotel just like this, unexpectedly... It was a sign, surely? A sign to do what was leaping in her head.
I have to do this. I can’t leave it the way he left it. I won’t let him spoil my memories of that time we had.
With fast-beating heart she dismissed the car, went into the hotel. Though she had no idea if Nic were here at the moment, she could but ask. Try and find out where he was if he wasn’t here.
Straightening her spine, she sailed up to Reception as if she owned the world. Sometimes being Donna Francesca, granddaughter of the Duke of Revinscourt, resplendent in her couture gown and her antique sapphires, could come in useful. It would now—she would make sure of it.
‘Good evening,’ she said, her smile polite but supremely expectant of being paid attention to. ‘Can you tell me if Mr Falcone is back yet? We were together earlier this evening and arranged to meet here later.’
The receptionist was co-operative, but cautious. ‘I believe so, madam, but let me check.’
She picked up a phone. ‘Ah, Mr Falcone, there is someone in Reception for you.’ The woman glanced expectantly at Fran, waiting for a name.
Fran smiled. Her heart was thumping in agitation, but she did not let it show.
‘Lorna Linhurst,’ she said serenely.
CHAPTER SIX
NIC SAT AT his desk in his residence, trying to concentrate on the latest occupancy figures on his screen and failing. There was only one focus for his thoughts—one he did not want to have but which burned in his head, flaring on his retinas as if she stood there still in front of him the way she had that evening, suddenly reappearing in his life. Vividly real and as beautiful as ever.
With an oath, he pushed his chair back, gazed grimly across the sitting room. His residence was on the topmost floor, with slanting eaves, set into what had once been the servants’ quarters of the Georgian mansion. Maybe there were those who thought it a fitting place for him.
His mouth twisted. Well, now he owned the whole damn mansion—and dozens more multi-million-dollar properties. Not bad for a slum kid! A slum kid who’d somehow ‘made the acquaintance’—Viscari’s supercilious words seemed to mock him savagely—of the daughter of a marchese.
Donna Francesca.
The name, her courtesy title
, was hardly used any more, but still it was redolent of centuries of fine breeding, of titles and lands and privileges, and coats of arms and ancient houses and historic palazzos filled with priceless artworks—all related to each other, all marrying each other, all closing ranks against outsiders, all helping each other to keep their privileges for themselves.
Oh, Italy might be a republic these days—most European countries were—but that didn’t mean a thing to those born to the aristocracy. Maybe they didn’t call the shots politically any longer, but they had the rest of the world handed to them on a plate.
They’d worked for none of it—had simply sat back and inherited it. Just the way Vito Viscari had sat back and waited for his plush inheritance to fall into his lap, courtesy of his father and uncle, who’d ensured he’d had his path to the top smoothed and eased, had never had to strive for anything. Brushing aside as irrelevant anyone who got in the way—as he had been brushed aside in favour of the pampered young Viscari heir.
Scorn filled him—a familiar scorn that reached to the woman who’d stood in front of him this evening, a woman from that gilded world of privilege and aristocracy. And another emotion was shafting through it—anger. Anger that she wasn’t who he’d thought she was.
I thought she was Dr Fran Ristori—with her golden hair and a smile to take the breath out of my body. And a body to fuse to mine like it was part of me.
Memory, hot and searing, tore at him.
To think he’d even contemplated breaking his rule of a lifetime to get back in touch with her. To seek to capture again that time he’d had with her. His expression hardened. Thank God he hadn’t! Thank God he’d done what he’d done all his life—moved on.