‘What is it?’ Nic’s voice was taut as he sank heavily down beside her. His mood was grim.
Fran looked at him. ‘I’m just not used to you being—well, who you really are.’
‘Do you imagine it isn’t the same for me?’ he answered, and she could hear the edge in his voice that she had heard there for most of the evening.
She did not reply—what could she say?
‘So, having got through an evening with the illustrious Conte di Mantegna and his Contessa,’ Nic was saying now, that edge still in his voice, ‘at what point will you be presenting me to your parents?’
Her expression flickered in the streetlights as the car made its way back to her parents’ apartment.
‘I’ll need to tell them first,’ she said. ‘And I must make sure they don’t hear it from any wretched gossip columnist!’ She gave another sigh. It was all so complicated. So difficult. So—
Impossible—that’s what it is.
But it didn’t matter that it was impossible. It had to be done.
She took a breath. ‘I don’t know when. Sometime this week I must head back to Cambridge. But maybe I can go via Milan and stop off at home first. Or maybe—’
‘I could drive you.’ Nic cut across her. ‘And you can tell them with me there. There’s no point prevaricating. The sooner the better. It has to be done.’
She shut her eyes. Yes, it had to be done—it all had to be done. She had to tell her parents, arrange a wedding somewhere, anywhere—it didn’t matter—and Nicolo Falcone had to become her husband and—
Her thoughts cut out. It was impossible to think any further ahead.
They reached her parents’ apartment and Nic helped her out. To her relief, he merely saw her to the door.
‘Come for lunch with me tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll send a car to collect you.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to eat out, Nic. Tonight was bad enough.’
His face tightened as they stood on the pavement. ‘We need to talk. There are arrangements to be made.’
‘Then come here for lunch,’ she said.
He nodded, and they agreed a time. Then he was climbing back into his car, nodding at the chauffeur, and the car was heading off again.
Wearily, Fran went upstairs. This time last night she had thought she was to be a single mother, and now...
* * *
‘Come through into the dining room. It’s just cold meat, bread and salad—I hope you don’t mind. I always give the maid time off when I’m here. I don’t need her.’
Fran led the way from the wide entrance hall into a room Nic had not seen the previous day, but it was similar to the one that he had seen. The same antique furniture—inherited, of course, not purchased, as his was at his headquarters and at his hotels—oil paintings on the wall, an abundance of silverware and porcelain. All the accoutrements of an aristocrat’s town apartment.
His mouth twisted unconsciously.
A simple meal was set out on a long mahogany table. White wine was chilling in a cooler, and there was fruit on the sideboard.
He took the place Fran indicated. She was not wearing couture clothes today, just a pair of elegantly cut trousers and a pale green shirt with a white stripe running through it. Her hair was caught back in a switch, and she wore no make-up. It was impossible to tell that she was pregnant.
For a moment—just a moment—Nic found himself wondering whether he should ask for confirmation of her pregnancy. He frowned.
Maybe it was a false alarm...maybe I don’t have to go through with this after all.
‘What is it?’ Fran’s voice was cool as she directed the question to him, sitting down opposite him at the table and reaching for a linen napkin.
Nic started. Had she read his mind? No, for she was continuing in the same cool, challenging voice.