CHAPTER FOUR
SALVATORESHUTHIMSELFinto his study in his apartment, settling down at the antique desk that had once been his father’s. Out of long habit his mind skittered away from the memories it held, focussing instead on the main problem currently facing him.
Tonight he was taking Lana to a charity fundraiser being held at one of Rome’s grandest High Renaissance villas, situated on one of the city’s famous seven hills. It was going to be a full-on affair where everyone who mattered would turn out to see and be seen—including Roberto and his daughter.
He’d had an evening gown delivered to Lana that afternoon, from one of Rome’s most expensive couture boutiques, together with a diamond parure extracted from the bank vault. She would look every inch Signora Luchesi.
His expression flickered a moment. The last time those diamonds had been worn by a Signora Luchesi—worn at all, in fact—it had been his mother wearing them...
He felt his thoughts skitter away again, as they had from the memory of his father sitting in this very room, at this very desk.
They were gone, both of them, his mother and his father. For a moment—just a moment—he found himself wondering what his parents would have thought of what he had done...marrying a stranger for the reasons he had. His mouth twisted. His father would have approved his choice of blonde bombshell. His mother—
He stopped his thoughts. He knew what his mother would have thought, and he didn’t want to hear her voice in his head.
But he heard it all the same.
‘Love, Salvatore my darling boy—only marry for love. Love shared and reciprocated! Promise me that—oh, promise me that!’
With a sudden bleakness in his face he reached for his pen, flicking open the file in front of him, ready to make his annotations to the documents printed out within.
Love was the last reason he’d married for. The last reason he ever would.
His mother should have known that.
Lana blinked at the brilliance of the scene in front of her. White marble nymphs framed the periphery of the room, completely unable to compete with their living female counterparts thronging the centre. Fortunately a lot less flesh was being revealed by the female guests than the marble nymphs were displaying, and as for the male guests—they were the usual army of strictly black and white penguins.
Not that the man at her side could ever be castigated in such a way. She’d only seen Salvatore in a tuxedo once before, the very first evening she’d met him, and when she’d seen him again as she’d walked down the stairs to the entrance hall of his apartment the sight had all but taken her breath away.
He really was quite magnificent in evening dress that was superbly cut and tailored to make the absolute most of his height and lean masculinity, and she found herself wondering, yet again, just what it was about dinner jackets, dress shirts, bow ties and winged collars that made all men look so...so fantastic...
But, as she glanced around the throng in front of her now, she knew without a doubt that the man at her side was the most fantastic-looking of all the males here.
Not that it mattered, of course, she reminded herself. He was not here to look fantastic for her—she was here to look fantastic for him.
And she did, she knew. Around her throat she could feel the heavy diamonds enhancing the ivory silk gown she was wearing, one shoulder bare, the bodice very plain, cut straight across her cleavage, then falling in soft folds to her ankles. Already she could see eyes turning to her as Salvatore guided her forward, hand under her elbow, greeting people to left and right as they made their way towards their hosts.
Then Salvatore was halting in front of a very well upholstered woman in late middle age, with a portly man beside her.
‘Duchessa...’ Salvatore was taking the proffered hand, kissing it with graceful formality, then shaking the outstretched hand of the portly man, a brief man-to-man gesture, before turning to Lana. ‘Duchessa.’ He spoke again, in English. ‘May I have the honour of presenting to you my bride?’
Lana could see astonishment fill the matron’s eyes, but she was too well-bred to do anything other than offer Lana her beringed hand and murmur something that was appropriate on such an occasion—some form of felicitation in accented English.
‘Thank you,’ Lana said, letting slip the Duchess’s hand before repeating the gesture with the Duke.
Salvatore was telling her that he had the honour of presenting to her the historic owners of the grand villa, their hosts for the evening, complete with their high-ranking title, and she was smiling politely. The Duchess said something directly to Salvatore in Italian, which Lana could not follow, and Salvatore replied with a polite smile.
All Lana caught was ‘London’ and ‘private wedding’. She kept her polite smile on her face and then they were moving on, into the throng. From then on, as Salvatore duly introduced her to all he spoke to, she got the distinct feeling that a ripple was passing through the guests. Heads were turning towards her, and she could hear Salvatore’s name being uttered. Even though she did not follow Italian, she could tell it was with surprise and astonishment.
For herself, she did not turn her head at all, merely sailed forward with Salvatore, smiling politely, apparently unaware of the attention she was garnering.
Then, abruptly, their progress was halted. A middle-aged man and a much younger female at his side, newly arrived, were in front of them. Lana did not need an arrow over their heads to tell her who they were. She felt Salvatore’s hand on her elbow tighten momentarily, but that was the only sign he gave.
He held out his hand. ‘Roberto,’ he said expansively, shaking the other man’s automatically lifted hand. Then, dropping both the man’s hand and Lana’s elbow, he stepped forward towards the young woman at Roberto Fabrizzi’s side.
Veryyoung, Lana saw instantly, despite the full face of make-up and the over-sophisticated fuchsia-pink gown she was wearing by a Milanese designer notable for his opulence and extravagance. Although it suited the girl’s darkly luscious looks, it was far too overpowering for her, making her look older than a girl who Lana was pretty sure was barely out of her teenage years, if that. Her full glass of champagne did not add any aura of sophistication either.
‘Giavanna,’ she heard Salvatore say, his voice fondly warm and with an avuncular tone to it that surely the teenager would detect. He went on in the same tone, his hands resting lightly on the girl’s shoulders as if inspecting her. ‘How spectacular you look!’