Slowly, Francesca had inclined her head. Then, with a little breath, she had changed the subject. Asked him something anodyne about his flight the next day.
Now, back in Rome, he was attending an evening party, accepting felicitations from friends and social acquaintances. His hostess, he realised with a slight frown, was Estella Farese, who had been present at the restaurant he’d first taken Carla to at the end of the previous summer.
The guillotine sliced down in his mind. He would not remember his time with Carla. Would banish it from his memory. Banish everything about it. Looking back was...irrelevant. Choices had been made, decisions taken. Irrevocable decisions—and not just for himself. Carla, too, had made decisions.
Is she married already? Viscari would not have wanted any delay—would have wanted to get those shares safe in his hands as soon as he could.
And that was good, wasn’t it? Good that Carla had moved on. And if she’d decided to marry her step-cousin, with his film star looks let alone the fact that he came with a luxury hotel chain—to which she was contributing half shareholding—well, that only made Vito Viscari an entirely suitable man for her to marry. Entirely suitable.
So there was no reason—no good reason—why he should object to her marriage. Why his jaw should tighten, his eyes harden. Why that same spike of jagged emotion—that serrated blade—should flash across his mind, knifing into him now, as it had when Francesca had put her loaded question to him. The question she had had every right to ask and that he’d had every obligation to answer in the way he had. No valid reason at all. Except...
Except that when I think of her and Viscari—of her and any other man—I want to find her...find her and—
His hostess’s voice cut across his thoughts as that serrated blade knifed into him again.
‘Cesare! How lovely of you to be here!’ Estella’s greeting was warm. ‘Now, do come and tell me—how is dear, dear Francesca! How delighted I am that you two are finally engaged! We’ve all had to wait so long! Such a brilliant young woman.’
She took Cesare’s arm, guiding him towards the far side of the salon.
They passed a knot of women, avidly conversing with each other, and they suddenly paused, as if taken aback by his proximity, only continuing as he passed by. Their eager tones, though, penetrated his awareness.
‘Jilted! Yes, my dear, I was there! I saw it all! He refused to marry her!’
A titter of unkind laughter followed.
‘He wanted the shares, but not the stepdaughter!’
Another voice intervened. ‘No, no, it was she who balked! She nearly fainted at the altar. He almost had to carry her away. It’s my belief...’
The voice dropped, but not so low that it did not reach Cesare’s ears.
‘...that she couldn’t accept Viscari when she might have had—’ She broke off.
The first voice came again—spiteful and contemptuous. ‘She never had a chance of that! How could she? Mantegna has been promised to the delle Ristori girl all his life! Just as their engagement now proves!’
Estella sailed on by, speaking a little louder than she needed to, as if to drown out the gossips’ voices. She proceeded to quiz him about his trip to America, about the forthcoming wedding, about whether Francesca would continue with her research career afterwards.
Cesare felt himself go into automatic mode, giving responses almost at random. But inside his head a bomb was exploding in devastating slow motion.
She didn’t marry him.
The words repeated in his head. Like a gunshot.
She didn’t marry him.
They stayed in his head for the duration of the evening. Were still there as he left, exhausted by polite enquiries after Francesca, and how the wedding preparations were proceeding, and showers of felicitations and congratulations and well-wishing.
There had been no further tactless or untoward remarks about what was clearly sending the gossips into overdrive.
A jilting at the altar! A fainting bride! A mother in hysterics. Two mothers in hysterics! And all of Rome to witness it!
Back in his apartment, the words were still there, ricocheting around inside his skull. He strode across the room, pulled open the drinks cabinet. Fetching a bottle of whisky, he poured a hefty slug. He knocked it back in one.
She didn’t marry him.
Then, with a rasp, he pushed the whisky bottle away, relocked the cabinet. He went into the room he reserved for his office. He needed distraction. He would check on his affairs.
Grimly, he turned on his PC, letting it fire up. So what if she didn’t marry Viscari? What was it to him? Nothing—nothing at all! She was nothing to him! He’d made his decision—put her aside. Finished the affair. Finished it!