Rico made a face. ‘Alas, there is no tide here—the Mediterranean sea is too small for tides. And the waves are very small too. But the water is lovely and warm. You won’t get cold. We can go on a boat, too.’
‘Today?’ demanded Ben.
‘Not today. Perhaps tomorrow. We’ll see.’
Ben’s expression darkened. ‘“We’ll see” means no,’ he said gloomily.
‘It means I don’t know yet. This is a holiday, Ben. We’re going to take it one day at a time. Isn’t that right?’
Rico’s eyes suddenly flicked to hers.
‘One day at a time,’ he repeated. ‘For us too.’
For a long moment he held her eyes, then Ben reclaimed his attention with yet another question.
She needed time, Rico knew. So much had happened to her since he’d showed up at her ramshackle cottage in Cornwall. And for her, he had to appreciate, it had all been bad. The life she’d known had been ripped away from her. For her, there was no going back.
A surge of determination went through him.
I’ll make that life better now. All the fear and trauma is over now.
His eyes flickered over her fleetingly, without her knowledge, as she poured herself more coffee.
I don’t believe she has to look this bad. I just don’t.
Covertly he studied her. It was hard to see much of her figure, as even in this warmth she was wearing a long-sleeved baggy top that seemed to flow shapelessly into long baggy cotton trousers. Both garments were cheap and worn. She dressed for comfort, not style, that much had always been apparent, but the perpetual bagginess of her clothing made it hard to judge just what her figure really was. She was no stickthin model, that was for sure, but how overweight was she really? And even so, well-cut clothes could conceal a multitude of evils, surely…?
He moved on to try and evaluate her features. That was hard to do too. The unsightly frizz of her hair which, even when tied back as it was now, still seemed to straggle round her face, drew all the attention. He tried to imagine her face without it. It was difficult, he realised, to judge it accurately. The heavy eyebrows didn’t help, of course, and nor did the pallid skin. But there wasn’t anything actively disastrous—her nose was straight, her jaw defined, her eyes grey, her teeth not protruding or uneven. It was just that her features seemed so completely—nondescript.
Would she look better with make-up? Surely she must? Women always did, didn’t they? Not that he was used to seeing women without make-up—make-up and hundreds of euros’ worth of grooming, and thousands of euros’ worth of clothes and accessories.
Well, now she could have that kind of money spent on her. Money was not going to be a problem for her from now on. He would lavish it on her.
His mouth tightened abruptly. In his head he heard Luca’s sneering at the sight of her. Anger bit him. Who the hell was Luca to sneer at a woman who had taken her dead sister’s child and dedicated her life to raising him? Being a single mother on little money was no ride in the park—certainly not a limo-ride. And so what if she weren’t beautiful? What did Ben care?
And I don’t care either. I’ll get her looking the best she can—because she deserves it. She needs all the reassurance she can get. She’ll feel a lot more confident, a lot more comfortable about what we’ve just gone and done, if she can wipe that vile word out of her mental vocabulary.
He heard it again, cruel and ugly.
Grotesque.
Well, that word was going in the trash can. And staying there. He would never let her say it again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘WINE for you?’ Rico held the bottle of chilled white wine over Lizzy’s glass.
‘Um—er—thank you,’ she replied awkwardly, and he proceeded to fill it up.
They were back at the table on the terrace again, but over the sea the sun was sinking in a glory of red and gold.
‘Mummy, I’m really hungry,’ Ben said plaintively.
‘Food is coming very soon,’ said Rico, pouring himself a glass of wine as well.
‘What are we having for tea, Mummy?’
Rico smiled. ‘Pasta, Ben. All good children in Italy eat pasta. Do you like pasta?’