The arrival of their first course was a welcome diversion, and conversation returned to innocuous topics. Fran was grateful. Cesare, she could see, was exerting himself, though there was inevitably an air about him of what could only be deemed unconscious hauteur. Beside him, Carla was being her usual incisive and forthright self.
But it wasn’t her hosts who drew her attention. It was the man at her side.
Nic.
No, not Nic—Nicolo Falcone.
Her eyes flickered to him. That same overpowering impression she’d got of him in that disastrous exchange in the elevator at the Viscari St James’s slammed into her. The laid-back, easy-going man she’d spent those glorious days with in America was gone. This was a man of formidable achievement, of huge wealth, of the power and self-assertion that went with that. A man who scarcely smiled...
Memory flashed through her of that slashing smile like a desert wolf, crinkling the vivid blue eyes, warming them on her...
She blinked and it vanished, and there was Nicolo Falcone once more, making some impatiently scathing comment about the latest government delays in respect of the topic they seemed to have moved on to—Italy’s earthquake warning system. It was a subject Fran knew was of keen interest to Cesare, whose medieval castello was deep in the Apennine fastness, much prone to earthquakes.
‘I considered opening a mountain resort there at some point, but it’s just too risky,’ Nic was saying.
‘A pity—the area needs inward investment,’ Cesare replied.
Nic’s eyes flickered. Had that been intended as a criticism of him?
‘Something that surely is the responsibility of the landowners?’ he asserted.
Did aristocrats like Il Conte assume their effortlessly inherited wealth was there to spend on their own pleasures, not on the vast patrimony they possessed?
‘Indeed,’ acknowledged Cesare, and Fran could see his air of unconscious hauteur heightening. ‘And I make considerable investment in the local economy of my estates,’ he replied. ‘My family has done so for centuries.’
He reached for his wine, the candlelight catching the gold of a signet ring incised with his family crest—a crouching lion, ready to attack. Nic felt his hackles bristle in response, just as they had when Vito had strolled over to challenge his presence on his territory.
It was Vito’s step-cousin who spoke now. ‘I hope you will visit Castello Mantegna one day with Francesca,’ Carla said brightly. ‘It’s absolutely magnificent! For me, of course, the particular appeal is the artworks.’
She launched into a catalogue of her husband’s collection and Fran joined in, making some remark about how she had enjoyed seeing them when she had last been there.
Then she halted. The last time she’d been to Cesare’s castello had been when she had just become his fiancée. She had visited with her parents and siblings to celebrate their forthcoming union.
And now it’s a completely different man I’m going to marry. Going to have to marry.
She felt emotions pulling inside her, tugging in different directions like ropes knotted inside her. Unconsciously she ran a hand over her abdomen. Unbelievable to think that silently, invisibly, a child wa
s growing there—a child that would be both hers and the man’s beside her... Uniting them.
Can anything unite us, though?
The question was unanswerable, impossible, and it hung silent in the space between them.
‘Are you all right?’ Nic’s voice was suddenly low in her ear.
There was concern in his voice. But it was not for her, she knew. It was for the baby she carried—his son or daughter.
Impulsively she seized at the opportunity he’d presented with his enquiry. ‘I do feel tired,’ she admitted. ‘It’s been a long day...’
She let the sentence trail. ‘Long’ had not been the problem. Weariness washed over her.
‘Perhaps I could just have coffee and skip dessert,’ she said.
It was what they all did, and Fran was grateful. Grateful too for the desultory conversation that limped on, with Carla doing her best to be bright and Cesare still exerting himself. And Nic... She gave an inward sigh. Nic was still broadcasting on all frequencies that he was no longer the man she’d known.
At last the evening came to an end. It had been an ordeal—she could only call it that. Weariness assailed her, but it was a weariness of the spirit.
As she climbed into Nic’s car she gave a sigh.