Jo? Not Joe, as he’d assumed?
Rapidly Cesare recalculated. He’d jumped to conclusions. How many of his assumptions were wrong? The possibility disturbed him.
He strode after Ida, determined to get answers, and almost bumped into her. The flat was tiny and a couple of paces took him halfway across the room.
He surveyed it in a glance. Cramped but with a surprisingly welcoming air, due, he realised, to the clever use of paint and soft furnishings in terracotta and pale citrus that drew attention from the old, mismatched furniture.
But his attention was on Ida, putting her bag on a small table and opening her raincoat. He caught a glimpse of creamy flesh and fishnet stockings and hurriedly lifted his gaze to her face. Her make-up looked even more garish under the overhead light.
She wasn’t looking at him. ‘What are you doing here, Jo? Did something go wrong at work?’ Ida’s voice was low as she drew the young woman aside.
Cesare wasn’t into eavesdropping. But the space was too small for privacy, though the women spoke in whispers. There was some problem with work, and money.
He took a few steps away, as if inspecting the combined kitchen, living and dining room, taking in the curtain across one end of the room. To partition off a sleeping space?
He frowned. This wasn’t how he’d expected Ida to live. She was Calogero’s heiress. This only deepened the mystery of her work in a sleazy bar.
Cesare swung around. As if sensing his movement, both women turned to look at him.
He’d waited long enough. They had business to settle, and he chafed to get it over with. But Cesare refused to conduct his business with a stranger listening.
‘Ida, we need to talk. Alone.’
Ida glowered as if wishing him anywhere but here, but finally she nodded. He saw her pass the envelope with her wages to Jo.
‘Okay. Let’s go.’
‘Wait.’ Jo put a hand on Ida’s arm, her gesture and tone urgent. ‘Why did he call you Ida?’
Cesare watched emotions flicker across his wife’s face, too fast to read.
Finally she shrugged and spread her hands. ‘It doesn’t matter, Jo.’ She paused then went on, as if recognising that her friend deserved more, ‘It’s my first name. But I haven’t used it in ages because I wanted a fresh start. My middle name is Madeline, so I’ve been Maddy for four years.’
Yet the question was why she’d thought it necessary to hide her identity in London. Who or what was she afraid of?
Him? The idea made Cesare’s skin crawl.
But it was hard to believe. He’d been blisteringly furious that night in Rome but, though he’d shocked her with his refusal to sleep with her, he hadn’t aimed to frighten her. Nor could she have expected him to seek her out. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested.
Besides, he’d been busy for four years fighting tooth and nail to claw back control of the family’s luxury goods company from under Calogero’s nose. That had left precious little time for wondering about his missing spouse. The old man had been furious at her disappearance but the legal contract he and Cesare had signed meant he hadn’t been able to liquidate the company as he’d threatened. No doubt that infuriated him even more. He’d given up some of his leverage for social gain that hadn’t materialised.
‘Your name’s really Ida?’ Her flatmate didn’t seem upset at the deceit.
‘It doesn’t make any difference, Jo.’
‘But itdoes. There was a man looking for you.’
‘A man?’ Ida and Cesare spoke together.
‘What man?’ Ida took a step nearer her friend, her voice sharp. ‘Did he come to the door?’
‘No, he was at the entrance to the building, asking if anyone knew an Ida.’
Cesare watched Ida’s complexion turn chalky white beneath her make-up and took a step nearer. ‘When was this?’
‘Yesterday.’ Jo looked from Ida to him then back. ‘I would have mentioned it if I’d known.’
‘You weren’t to know.’ Ida shook her head. ‘But he definitely asked for me by name? You’resureit was Ida?’