head back to his castello and ready it for his future bride.
He felt his mind veer away. Contemplating his wedding—his bride—was not what he wanted to do. Memory sifted in his mind. It had been a function similar to this—the opening of that exhibition he’d lent the triptych to—where he’d first had his interest caught by Carla Charteris.
He could see her now instantly, in his mind’s eye, her figure sheathed in that cobalt blue cocktail dress, her svelte brunette beauty immediately firing his senses. Calling to him...
His gaze flickered blankly over the throng of guests milling around in the palatial hall of his ancestors’ former residence in Rome.
Flickered—and stilled.
No—he was imagining it. He must be. It could not be—
Without volition he was walking forward. Striding. People were stepping aside for him.
She had seen him. He saw it in her paling face, her distended eyes. Her hand was clutching at the sleeve of the man with her.
Viscari! With an inner snarl that came from some deep, primitive part of him, Cesare felt jealous rage spear up inside him as he reached the couple.
He could see Vito Viscari step forward slightly, as if to shelter Carla, whose face was still bleached and stark. Then, with a little breathless sigh, she started to crumple.
* * *
There were voices—deep and masculine, angry and agitated—penetrating her brain. Her eyelids flickered feebly, and she became aware that she was perched dizzily on a chair in a small antechamber—and that Vito and Cesare were standing over her.
‘Are you all right?’ Cesare’s demand was stentorian, his face grim. The question was directed at her—he was ignoring Vito totally.
But it was Vito who was answering for her. ‘No,’ he said tersely, ‘she is not.’
Carla’s heart was hammering, the blood drumming in her ears.
Cesare’s gaze snapped to Vito. ‘What is wrong?’
Vito started to speak, but Carla reached for his arm.
‘Vito, no! No!’ Terror was in her now. She had to stop him—she had to!
But the expression on Vito’s face was one she’d never seen before. Angry—stern. He was squaring up to Cesare, who was glaring at him, his face dark and closed.
Vito’s chin lifted. He paid no attention to Carla. ‘Your marriage plans are going to have to be altered,’ he said to Cesare. ‘Carla is pregnant.’
* * *
Cesare’s car speeded along the autostrada heading into the Lazio countryside. At his side, Carla sat silent. Memory was biting like a wolf in her mind. How she had sat beside Cesare like this that first weekend together as he’d sped her towards his beautiful little rococo love nest.
I thought I could handle an affair with Cesare. A civilised, sensual affair, for the mutual enjoyment of both of us.
How utterly, totally wrong she had been. How incomparably stupid. Folly after folly! All compounded by the single greatest folly she had committed.
To have fallen in love with him. Cesare di Mondave, Conte di Mantegna. A man who would never marry her.
Except—and that wolf bit again, in her throat now—now that was exactly what he was prepared to do.
The irony of it was agonising. Unbearable. As unbearable as the words she had heard her step-cousin uttering last night. And Cesare’s explosive outburst... Vito’s coldly terse assurance.
Both of them had ignored her until a moan had come from her lips, and then suddenly they’d both been there, bending over her.
She’d pushed them both away, struggling upright. Cesare’s arm had come around her instantly, but she’d pulled herself free. Her head had been pounding, her heart racing.
‘Leave me alone! Both of you!’