His face tautened, and she was sorry she had spoken so sharply.
She took a ragged breath. ‘Yes, I know you’re protective of me! You’ve said so before! And I’ve told you it isn’t necessary!’
His dark eyes rested on her. ‘If the test is positive are you going to tell him?’
He did not say Falcone, but she heard it all the same. She bit her lip, unable to reply, and into the silence Cesare spoke again.
‘A father has a right to know, Francesca.’
She shut her eyes, anguished. ‘Ces, please, I can’t talk about this! I don’t even know what the test will show.’ There was a weariness in her now, that dragged her features into misery. ‘All I know, believe me, is that if it is positive, it will not be welcome news to him.’
He did not reply, but his expression was grim as they left the restaurant. On the pavement he turned to her. ‘A father,’ he said, and there was a sternness in his voice that steeled his expression, ‘also has an obligation to know—’
She cut across him, agitated, wanting only to stop this ordeal. ‘There may not be anything to know! And this is my situation, for me to deal with. If there is anything to deal with at all.’
But within the hour, as she stared at the blue line forming on the small white stick, she knew, along with the numbness that was filling her whole body, her whole disbelieving mind, that there was, indeed, a situation for her to deal with.
* * *
Nic was back in Rome. The Manhattan launch had been a triumph, putting the latest, most glittering addition to the Falcone portfolio on the map. New money attracted new money. And if the Falcone Manhattan proved to be the last place old money wanted to be seen at—well, he wasn’t interested in old money.
Or in those who had it.
His mouth tightened. No, not in anyone who had old money. Or titles just as old. Even if they came with blonde hair down to the waist and a beauty to light the night sky with.
No. The guillotine sliced down. Fran was out of his life. She had to stay out. Anything else was impossible.
I want nothing to do with anyone from her world—nothing.
He swore, pushing back his chair, striding to the window, gazing out at Rome blindly.
You have to forget her. You have to. You have to want to forget her...
The phone on his desk rang and he snatched it up. It was his PA.
‘You have a visitor, Signor Falcone.’ She spoke diffidently. ‘He has no appointment, but...’ her voice became even more diffident ‘...it is Il Conte di Mantegna...’
She trailed off.
Nic stilled.
‘Show him in,’ he said. He dropped the phone, thoughts racing. None of them good.
As the door opened, and his PA admitted his totally uninvited and unexpected visitor, Nic stood poised on the balls of his feet, perfectly balanced. With part of his mind he realised he was in a ready pose—the stance that every fighter took on just before the first blows lashed out.
Cesare di Mondave, Il Conte di Mantegna, who enjoyed an entrée everywhere in Rome—including, so it seemed, the HQ of Falcone International—walked in. The very way he walked put Nic’s back up—as if the whole world belonged to him and always had.
‘Falcone,’ said Cesare, his eyes resting on Nic.
They were unreadable, and Nic kept his likewise.
‘Signor Il Conte,’ he returned. His voice was neutrally impassive. Eyes veiled. Watchful. Senses on high alert. Muscles primed.
A flicker of what might have passed for humour showed in the Conte’s face. ‘I’m not here to fight with you, Falcone,’ he murmured. His eyes skimmed over Nic’s face, as if trying to read him. ‘You might want to sit down,’ he said.
‘Might I?’ replied Nic, doing no such thing. Adrenaline, the kind before a fight, was sharp-set in him.
‘Yes,’ said Cesare and, uninvited, took possession of the chair in front of Nic’s desk. Nic threw himself into his own chair, swinging it back to stare at Il Conte, his hands gripped over the arms. Muscles still tensed. What the hell was this?