Signora Brunetti!
Ida snapped her gaping mouth shut.
Why would Cesare reveal her identity? He wanted to end their marriage as soon as possible.
‘Thank you, Dorotea. Have we met before?’ Ida had never visited this house.
‘No, but I recognise you from your wedding photos in the press. Such a beautiful bride! It’s a pleasure to welcome you here at last.’
‘Thank you very much.’
Ida blushed, realising what had seemed simple and expedient last night brought with it a stack of complications.
She hadn’t just escaped Bruno. She’d walked into the role of Cesare’s wife.
Had he intended that? What was the real reason he’d helped her?
She recalled his scathing expression the night he’d revealed his true feelings for her. That meant his actions last night had been on the spur of the moment too.
Yet he seemed the sort of man who didn’t leave anything to chance.
She pushed her hair off her face, fingers tangling in waves still tacky from the product she’d used to slick down her hair yesterday. After clients at the bar had grabbed at her hair to haul her close, she’d opted for a severe hairstyle there.
Now she regretted she hadn’t washed her hair last night. She’d been so weary she’d cleaned off her make-up, stripped off her borrowed clothes and fallen naked into bed.
‘Signor Brunetti said your luggage has been delayed but there are clothes in the wardrobe.’
Had she supplied something of her own for Ida to wear?
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
The other woman shook her head. ‘Don’t thank me. Thank your husband.’
Her husband!
Every cell in her body rejected the idea. After years of separation, she thought of herself as single or as good as.
For four years she’d been Maddy Wickham, a name chosen to hide her should her grandfather search for her.
Yet it wasn’t Fausto Calogero on her mind. It was Cesare and why he’d brought her to his home. Was he so desperate for this divorce that he didn’t dare let her out of his sight?
She stilled, her hand on the wardrobe door. Had he found someone he wanted to marry? That would explain him taking no chances about getting her signature.
Ida was surprised by the dart of discomfort under her ribs as the idea took root.
She didn’t want to be married to him. So why did the thought of him with another woman unsettle her?
She shook her head. She was tired and stressed, imagining things.
Like the way you keep imagining the feel of his arms around you. And how it felt with that gorgeous body pressed up close.
Firming her mouth, she wrenched open the cupboard door, and discovered it wasn’t a wardrobe but a room.
Ida paused, dumbfounded as she scanned the bespoke storage running around the large space, the sofa in the centre and the floor-to-ceiling mirror that reflected the image of her wrapped in her plush bath towel.
She blinked. It wasn’t the luxury that stole her breath, but the fact it was full of clothes. Clothes in clear plastic as if they’d just come from the cleaners or, she realised as she stepped in and got a proper look, from a couture house.
Dazed, she took in the sight of clothes for every occasion. Shelves that held more shoes than she’d owned in her life, all in her size. Drawers containing underwear of cobweb-fine silk and lace, again in her size.