“I have enjoyed this, Emily.”
“I’m glad, because I’ll have to come back in a month or two to do the final painting.”
“Good. I’ll look forward to it.” Corinna’s smile was kind.
“Mama?” Rafaelo appeared inside the well-lit room. “Nico asked me to send you down. The cocktail party is starting soon.”
“Fine.” She turned her clear gaze to Emily. “May I?”
“Of course,” Emily nodded, folding the pages back together and slipping the book into the large bag of art supplies.
Rafaelo lingered after his mother had left. “How is the piece coming?”
Emily’s smile was genuine. “It’s easy to sketch your mother. She’s very beautiful.”
Raf nodded. “I’m sure it will be a picture of great insight.”
Emily scanned his face, something tipping her off to his worry. “What is it, Rafaelo?”
He pulled a face, then shook his handsome face from side to side. His brown hair flopped endearingly over his brow. “Forget about it. It was a stupid idea.”
“What was?”
He walked towards her slowly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I hate to ask this,” he said apologetically, his accent almost identical to Sabato’s. “But the caterers are in a panic because the bus that was supposed to bring four of their wait staff has broken down. They’re desperately understaffed and I wondered … I mean … I know you’re doing this,” he nodded to her art bag, “But you used to …”
Both his suggestion and his discomfort gouged marks in her heart. “You want me to help out,” she concluded for him, smiling even though something was aching in her gut. “Why are you worried about that?”
“You are here as an artist.”
“So?” Her shrug mimicked a sense of not caring. “Do you think I’d be offended that you want me to hand some platters around?” Uh huh. She found the reason his suggestion hurt. She softened her tone to make him feel more comfortable. “I’m not really a guest at this party, Raf. I’m here to work. Do you think it matters to me if I’m painting or waitressing?”
He looked uncertain. “I thought you might feel it was rude of me to even suggest it.”
“No.” She shook her head, her smile steady. What better way to remind herself of the differences between her and Sabato? “I’m not offended. I’m glad to help.”
And she was. Until she smelled the canapés, she’d been truly pleased to have the opportunity to remember just why she and Sabato were the worst idea in the world. Loving him was one thing. Expecting him to love her back was quite another. Not when there were women such as this at his disposal.
The apron she wore was a perfect shield. She moved amongst the guests, her professional smile firmly in place, even when she felt like her heart was breaking.
The tray of smoked salmon tartlets was heavy. She shifted it in her hands a little, then lifted her gaze back to the guests. It was the last event of the weekend. The next morning, the plane would take her back to London, and she could set about working out just what she was going to do.
Her eyes roamed the group; she was an outsider, looking in, as she ought to be. Her slow inspection screeched to a halt when her eyes locked with Sabato’s. Across the room, he looked as handsome as ever, but exhausted. As his eyes lowered, taking in the apron and the platter, it gave way to unmistakable rage. He moved swiftly across the room, his eyes blistering on hers.
“What the hell is going on here?”
His voice was raised, his anger obvious. Emily stared at him, her heart sinking. “Shh,” she murmured, her eyes darting left then right. “You’re making a scene.”
Sabato reacted as though she’d slapped him. His eyes darkened and his lips were just a gash in his face. He took the tray from her without speaking, and then wrapped a hand around her wrist. He pulled her from the party, and she went with him, grateful not to create a disturbance at the culmination of the birthday celebrations. Not until they had reached a small fountain set a distance from the house did he stop walking and turn to face her.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” He reached for her apron and pulled the strings angrily.
Emily stared back at him, her emotions rioting out of control. A thousand thoughts were tearing through her. “How is your friend?”
“Basta,” he said angrily, his voice raised. “I have returned to find you like this. Why?”
Her cheeks flamed, and her temper snapped. “Like what?”
He pulled the apron over her head and threw it to the ground. “Like this. Serving. Why?”