‘Yeah.’
Silence. She watched as he lifted an oyster from the tray, ate it then placed the shell down. ‘So why did you come with Laurence that evening?’
‘I told you, he thought it would be—’
He shook his head. ‘That’s why he asked you. Why did you accept?’
‘Because he asked me to,’ she said after a slight pause, spearing a piece of calamari with her fork. ‘And because he’s my cousin.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘It’s more than that.’
‘Oh?’
‘You were anxious about the hedge fund.’
She bit down on her lower lip. She was wary—wary of saying too much, of betraying Laurence’s trust. And yet she felt herself wanting to open up to Cesare. She trusted him in a way she wasn’t sure he deserved. ‘Yes.’ It was a closed off answer.
She reached for her champagne, sipping it slowly. Then she added, ‘He’s worked hard. I didn’t want to see him lose it all.’
She could practically see the wheels turning. ‘But you could have afforded to bail him out.’
‘Half a billion pounds’ worth?’ She refuted that with a grimace. ‘Not anything like it.’
‘Your parents, then? Your aunt and uncle?’
Briefly, her eyes swept shut, and she saw her parents. She saw them as they were now, so pale and weak, worn out by grief and its relentless toll, weathered by life in a way only those who had walked a path like theirs could understand. And, out of nowhere, she saw them as they’d been then.
Before.
Vibrant and happy, always throwing parties and entertaining, laughing and dancing in the corridors of Almer Hall.
‘No.’ Her answer, again, was short. ‘No one could help him.’
It undoubtedly sparked more questions, but suddenly she was a little worn out herself. This had been a foolish idea.
She was trying to turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, and to what end? This was what it was.
A short relationship—no, not even that. She didn’t know the word to describe their agreement, but she inherently understood its limitations and the fact it wasn’t a real relationship.
With a heart that was suddenly heavy and a body that was as much Cesare’s as ever, she moved around to Cesare’s side of the table. ‘On second thought, I think we should eat dinner later.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE WAS TRANSFORMED.
Cesare watched as Jemima moved the length of the runway, her body like silk floating in the breeze, so elegant and effortless, her steps more like a ballet, a glide. The appeal of the clothes was dwarfed by her beauty, their design mad
e insignificant by her universal appeal.
Her hair had been braided and looped around her head, and she wore subtle make-up: perfect, immaculate. She was irrefutably stunning, but from where he sat in the front row he ached to reach up and pull her hair loose, to tousle it about her shoulders and smudge her lipstick, as he loved seeing it after their kisses. He wanted to kiss her until her mascara had been blinked loose and her cheeks were pink despite the foundation. He wanted her to be uccellina again, not this—Jemima Woodcroft.
She paused at the end of the runway, spinning slowly, her smile different from the other models’—she had the ability to light up a room, and he was certain he wasn’t the only man present who felt that her pleasure was all for him.
To confirm this, he looked around, his eyes drifting through the audience. It was predominantly women, but everyone—male or female—was transfixed by Jemima. She was famous around the world but amongst these people—fashion devotees—she was like a goddess and they stared at her accordingly.
His gaze wrenched back to her and now he paid proper attention to the outfit, to the gauzy, transparent nature of the skirt that showed her slender legs and hinted at the pale underwear she had on. The blazer was structured and navy-blue with brass buttons but she wore nothing beneath it, and the hint of her cleavage was displayed by the vee at its neck.
He continued to watch her, an expression on his face that anyone in attendance might have regarded as bland—mildly speculative, at most—even when something was stirring to life inside him, beating hard like a drum against his chest.