‘You are pregnant. You must eat.’
‘I’ll eat when I want to. When I’m hungry.’ She lifted her legs, curling them against her chest, resting her chin on her knees. She heard Matteo draw closer but didn’t risk looking at him.
‘Are we going to quarrel about everything?’
Skye stared straight ahead. ‘I’m not quarrelling with you.’
‘If that were the case you’d already be on your way downstairs for dinner.’
Skye didn’t respond.
‘Melania has prepared your favourite. She will be disappointed if you don’t at least make an appearance.’
‘That’s not fair,’ Skye said softly. Using her affection for his housekeeper to push her into doing what he wanted was a low trick. Then again, why would she expect him to play fair? Matteo had proven, again and again, that he would do whatever it took to get his way.
‘What isn’t fair?’
‘You know I’d never disappoint Melania,’ Skye said without meeting his eyes.
‘You and she seemed to have a special bond.’ Speculation stirred in the depths of his eyes.
‘I guess she liked having someone in the house who wasn’t a psychopath.’ The insult came out on a sigh of frustration. She stood, curving her hands over the balustrade, her eyes following a gondola as it moved slowly down the canal beneath them.
Her frustration was largely aimed at herself. How had this happened? She’d come to Venice with a simple plan. And she’d been so close to freedom. If only she hadn’t fainted! If only he hadn’t seen!
She swept her eyes shut again, inhaling deeply. ‘I’ll be down soon.’
Apparently satisfied, he stalked out of the room without a backward glance, leaving Skye all alone.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘DO YOU SEE these paintings, Matteo?’
Matteo’s eight-year-old eyes followed the direction of his nonno’s finger, nodding thoughtfully as he studied the curious artwork. ‘What are they?’
Nonno’s smile was rich with pride. ‘They were painted by a student of Modigliani—you can see his style in the faces, no?’
Matteo nodded, though he had no idea who Modigliani was and what about the faces was reminiscent of his work. Nonetheless, he understood that the information was being imparted with gravitas and importance. He also knew that if he nodded, and at least appeared to know, it would impress his grandfather—and impressing the tall, smartly dressed man had become very important to Matteo in the six months since he’d come to live with him.
‘He would spend summers here, at this very hotel, every year, and leave a painting as a gift—in lieu of payment. It is how your great-great-great-grandfather managed to collect so many of the pieces.’
‘Modigliano?’ Matteo prompted.
Nonno hid his smile. ‘Modigliani’s student,’ he corrected.
‘Are they valuable, Nonno?’
‘Valuable, yes.’ Nonno’s eyes narrowed. ‘But they are not for selling. They are for keeping and remembering. One day they will be yours, for you to keep and look after, and then to pass on to your son, and his son, and so forth. They are part of our family legacy, Matteo. That is their true value.’
* * *
Matteo’s thirty-two-year-old eyes fell on the same painting, studying the angular face, the bright colours and the eyes that seemed to follow him about the room. Thank God his grandfather had had the foresight to strip the hotel of its artwork before the bank had claimed them as assets of the hotel and included them in the degrading fire sale.
‘Ah, signora!’ Melania’s voice cracked through his reverie. He turned in time to see his wife pulled into an enormous hug by his housekeeper—a woman who had never shown him any degree of warmth or affection but apparently adored Skye. ‘I’m so happy you are home!’
Skye’s face drained of all colour but she covered it quickly. ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Melania. How have you been?’
‘Busy, busy. Here, come, sit. I make you risotto.’ Melania leaned closer so that Matteo had to hold his breath to hear what she said next. ‘And canoli for dessert, si?’