‘Dante!’ Gian shook his friend’s hand and invited him to take a seat when he arrived unannounced the day before the ball. ‘I just spoke with Ariana this morning...’
‘I hear it’s all under control.’
‘She’s done very well,’ Gian agreed. ‘I expect the ball to be a huge success. Your sister has an eye for detail—’
‘Has Mia responded?’ Dante cut in.
‘Not as yet,’ Gian said. ‘As I said to Ariana, even if she arrives unannounced, she will be greeted as if she had always been expected and made to feel most welcome.’
‘Well, if that’s the case, could you ensure she gets this gift just before she heads down to the ball?’ He handed Gian a black velvet box and envelope. ‘I thought it better to take care of the hostess gift myself, rather than leave it to Ariana.’ He gave a black laugh. ‘Or it would be a doll full of pins...’
Dante was his close friend, yet Gian found himself smiling his on-duty smile. ‘Of course. I’ll see to it personally.’
‘And perhaps it would be best not to upset Ariana with such details...’
‘Naturalmente,’Gian said.
Damn, he thought.
By and by, the Romano Ball loomed ever closer.
Gian wanted the ball over and done with; he wanted Ariana gone, instead of her voice, her emails, her thoughts all dancing in his mind.
He wanted his life back to neat order, with sex when he required it and no silent demands for a future.
Gian could feel how much she wanted him, which was usually a turn-off.
He found, though, that he liked it that she craved him and yet kept herself under control. He did his best to ignore it as another damned message pinged into his box, with an attachment.
And there, smiling at him, was his friend Rafael.
It was a slight shock.
Unexpected.
He stared back at Rafael and silently swore that he would stay the hell away from hurting his daughter.
Ariana. Yes, the photo you found of Rafael on Ponte Vecchio was most suitable. Kind regards, Gian
Ariana scoured in between the lines for even the slightest sign, the tiniest clue, that he might linger there in the memory of them, but there was not a single needle she could glean in the haystack.
There were no veiled clues or promises.
His briefly open heart had, it would seem, ever so politely, closed.
By and by, a silver car pulled up outside La Fiordelise in the late afternoon on the day of the Romano Foundation Ball.
And trouble loomed large.
‘Ariana Romano is here,’ Luna informed him. ‘You wanted to see her when she arrived.’
‘Yes.’
‘Shall I send her through?’
‘Of course.’
‘Gian!’