Lana glanced at him. There had been a tightness in his voice she had not missed. It dawned on her that it was there whenever he happened to mention his parents, whether to her or anyone else. She wondered why. It was sad that it should be so.
She found herself wondering more about him, and the family he came from. He was one of Italy’s richest men, moving in elite circles, with a historic palazzo to call home, and yet—
Her own childhood and youth had been so happy, with loving, warm parents—not rich, but owning their own house, sufficiently comfortably off, and so proud of their beautiful daughter becoming a successful model in a cutthroat world. Their tragic, untimely death had devastated her.
Making me vulnerable to Malcom—blinding me to his true nature. To the reason for his interest in me.
Her eyes went to Salvatore again as she shook a fine linen napkin out across her lap. She felt a flutter in her veins. He was nothing like Malcolm in looks.
Nor in nature, either. He’s not devious or deceptive—he’s completely up front with me about the reasons we’ve got married.
Mutual benefit. With the emphasis on mutual. Unlike Malcolm—
Darkly, she dismissed the man who had defrauded her. Stolen from her. She would not waste time thinking about him at all. Instead she would focus on the present.
Her gaze went to the two manservants, one of whom she recognised from the Rome apartment, who were now issuing forward with trays holding plates of a variety of salads. It all looked fresh and delicious, and Lana felt immediately hungry. She helped herself to a generous serving of leaves, plump tomatoes, cold chicken and a good dollop of oil-rich dressing and tucked in, savouring the taste. One of the menservants had poured wine, and she took a mouthful of the crisp white, savouring that too.
‘You’re definitely not eating like a model any longer,’ Salvatore observed.
That momentary tightness as he’d mentioned his parents was gone. There was, she thought, a genial note to his tone of voice now. She looked across at him. Since setting out from Rome he seemed, she realised, to have set aside the reserved formality which she’d got used to when they were alone together.
In public he might smile at her, keep her close at his side—kiss her, even!—but that was only for public consumption. She sheared her mind away. Remembering that kiss was not a good idea! She’d been doing her very best to put it out of her head ever since it had happened, knowing perfectly well why he’d done it—he’d said as much to her straight out, after all. The two of them might as well be actors on a stage. In a way, they were—the glittering stage of Roman high society. With the key members of the audience he’d wanted to see the kiss being Giavanna and her father.
That was the only reason he kissed me.
There was absolutely nothing personal about it. How could there be?
You turned him down, remember? The first time you met him. Said no to his invitation. What you have now with him is a business arrangement—nothing more and nothing less. And there are implications that follow on from that. Implications you must not forget. Must not ignore.
She realised, with a mental start, that Salvatore’s eyes were still resting on her, and that she should answer his remark. It was a safe subject, so she did so freely.
‘Do you know?’ she declared, cutting into the soft chicken breast with enthusiasm. ‘I almost think this is the best thing about all this. Eating my fill after years of starvation. It’s bliss!’
Salvatore smiled. ‘But won’t you have to starve all over again when you go back to modelling afterwards?’
‘I’m not going back,’ Lana replied. ‘That is definite. I’m past my sell-by in modelling anyway. Once I can pay off that damn mortgage Mal saddled me with I’m selling up completely and getting out of London!’
‘Where will you go?’
She wondered why he was in the least interested in what would happen to her once she no longer had to stand at his side and pretend to be his wife, but then she reckoned he was just making polite conversation.
‘I’m not sure,’ she answered, tucking in with a will to her delicious dressing-drenched salad. ‘The seaside, probably, on the south coast. I might buy a place I can run as a holiday let, or maybe open a dress shop—that might be an idea.’
‘I get the dress shop idea, given your experience of the fashion world, but why the seaside?’
Again, Lana wondered idly why he was bothering to ask, but since he had, she answered him. ‘Childhood memories, really, from when I was much younger than now. Holidays with my parents. Until—’ She stopped. It was still painful to think of them.
Dark eyes rested on her. She knew he was expecting something more after the sudden way she’d fallen silent. Too late to wish she hadn’t mentioned them.
‘They were killed in a motorway pile-up four years ago,’ she said.
She swallowed, aware that he was taking a mouthful of his wine, then setting his glass down with a click.
‘That’s hard. To lose both at once.’ His voice was short. ‘Mine,’ he said tightly, ‘were killed when their private plane crashed off Sardinia. Twelve years ago now, but—’ He stopped.
For a moment their eyes met. Something passed between them. Something that was nothing to do with the reason she was here in his beautiful palazzo, acting out being his wife when in truth she was no such thing. Something that was just between the two of them. Both with tragic memories.
‘The pain stays,’ Lana said quietly. She reached for her own wine, needing it suddenly.