A look had been thrown between Cesare and Vito. Cesare had said something to Vito she had not been able to hear, hearing only the grimness in his voice. Then Vito had nodded.
‘Be sure you do,’ he’d said, in that same terse voice.
Then Cesare had looked at Carla. His face had been unreadable. He’d seemed a thousand miles away. A million.
‘All the necessary arrangements will be made,’ he said to her. ‘I will fetch you tomorrow. Until then—’
He’d exchanged one more look with Vito, and then he had gone. It had been Vito who’d seen her back to her apartment, talking to her—at her—all the way. She’d said nothing, her mouth tight, compressed. Right up until Vito had seen her into her apartment.
Then she’d turned to him. ‘I am not marrying Cesare,’ she’d said.
Vito had said nothing. And then—‘He has given me his word that he will. For now, that is enough.’
He’d left her, and this morning Cesare had arrived. She’d seen his eyes moving around the apartment and had known that he was remembering the fatal night he’d forced his way in, daring her to make him leave.
And now he’s reaping the consequences.
She’d wanted to laugh, hysterically, but had silenced herself. Almost wordlessly he’d ushered her down to his waiting car and she’d gone with him, her suitcase packed.
She’d wanted to go back to Spain, to her mother, and yet here she was, in Cesare’s car, going back to the place that had once been a place of bliss for her. Now, it was evident, it was going to be the scene where Cesare di Mondave steeled himself to offer to marry his former mistress who’d so disastrously got herself pregnant.
‘Is it cool enough for you? I can turn up the air conditioning.’
Cesare’s voice interrupted her bleak thoughts. His tone was polite. Distant.
‘Perfectly cool, thank you,’ she answered, her tone matching his.
He drove on in silence.
At the villa, Lorenzo was there to greet them, as he always had been. Carla was glad of his presence—it insulated her from Cesare.
Yet as lunch was served, and Lorenzo departed, suddenly she was alone with Cesare again. She watched him reach for his wine glass. Then set it down, untouched. He looked across at her from the head of the table to herself at the foot. His face was still expressionless.
It hurt her to see him. Hurt her eyes to take in the features of his face, which had once been so familiar to her—so familiar that she could have run her fingertips over its contours in the dark and known it to be him out of all the men in all the world.
And now it was the face of a stranger. She could not bear it...
But bear it she must. Must bear, too, the words he now spoke to her.
‘Would you have told me that you were pregnant had your step-cousin not intervened?’ he asked. His words were staccato.
Carla looked at him. ‘No,’ she said.
Something flashed in his eyes, but all he said was, ‘Why not?’
She gave a shrug—the tiniest gesture. ‘To what purpose? You were engaged to another woman.’ She paused. ‘You still are.’
The dark flash came again. ‘You must leave it to me to communicate with my...my former fiancée,’ he said heavily. His mouth was set. ‘You will understand, I am sure, that this will not be easy for her. This situation is nothing of her making and I must do all that I can to make it as comfortable for her as I can.’
She watched him pick up his wine glass again, and this time he drank deeply from it. His unreadable gaze came back to her.
‘Once I have spoken to Francesca—and out of courtesy also to her parents—our betrothal will be formally announced. Until that time I would be grateful...’ he took a breath ‘...if you would be...reticent about our engagement.’
Carla did not answer.
He went on. As if he were forcing himself. ‘And for the same reason I would ask you to stay here, in the villa, until I am free to become formally betrothed to you.’
Her answer was a silent inclination of her head.