Valtieri's Bride. Caroline Anderson

by a vivacious, dynamic and delightful woman with beautiful, generous curves and a low-cut dress that gave him a more than adequate view of those curves, he’d almost forgotten his wife …

      Guilt lanced through him, and he pulled out his wallet and showed her the photos—him and Angelina on their wedding day, and one with the girls clustered around her and the baby in her arms, all of them laughing. He loved that one. It was the last photograph he had of her, and one of the best. He carried it everywhere.

      She looked at them, her lips slightly parted, and he could see the sheen of tears in her eyes.

      ‘You must miss her so much. Your poor children.’

      ‘It’s not so bad now, but they missed her at first,’ he said gruffly. And he’d missed her. He’d missed her every single day, but missing her didn’t bring her back, and he’d buried himself in work.

      He was still burying himself in work.

      Wasn’t he?

      Not effectively. Not any more, apparently, because suddenly he was beginning to think about things he hadn’t thought about for years, and he wasn’t ready for that. He couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t think about it. Not now. He had work to do, work that couldn’t wait. Work he should be doing now.

      He put the wallet away and excused himself, moving to sit with the others and discuss how to follow up the contacts they’d made and where they went from here with their marketing strategy, with his back firmly to Lydia and that ridiculous wedding dress that was threatening to tip him over the brink.

      Lydia stared at his back, regret forming a lump in her throat.

      She’d done it again. Opened her mouth and jumped in with both feet. She was good at that, gifted almost. And now he’d pulled away from her, and must be regretting the impulse that had made him offer her and Claire a lift to Italy.

      She wanted to apologise, to take back her stupid and trite and intrusive question about his wife—Angelina, she thought, remembering the way he’d said her name, the way he’d almost tasted it as he said it, no doubt savouring the precious memories. But life didn’t work like that.

      Like feathers from a burst cushion, it simply wasn’t possible to gather the words up and stuff them back in without trace. She just needed to move on from the embarrassing lapse, to keep out of his personal life and take his offer of a lift at face value.

      And stop thinking about those incredible, warm chocolate eyes …

      ‘I can’t believe he’s taking us right to Siena!’ Claire said quietly, her eyes sparkling with delight. ‘Jo will be so miffed when we get there first, she was so confident!’

      Lydia dredged up her smile again, not hard when she thought about Jen and how deliriously happy she’d be to have her Tuscan wedding. ‘I can’t believe it, either. Amazing.’

      Claire tilted her head on one side. ‘What was he showing you? He looked sort of sad.’

      She felt her smile slip. ‘Photos of his wife. She died five years ago. They’ve got three little children—ten, seven and five, I think he said. Something like that.’

      ‘Gosh. So the little one must have been tiny—did she die giving birth?’

      ‘No. No, she can’t have done. There was a photo of her with two little girls and a baby in her arms, so no. But it must have been soon after.’

      ‘How awful. Fancy never knowing your mother. I’d die if I didn’t have my mum to ring up and tell about stuff.’

      Lydia nodded. She adored her mother, phoned her all the time, shared everything with her and Jen. What would it have been like never to have known her?

      Tears welled in her eyes again, and she brushed them away crossly, but then she felt a light touch on her arm and looked up, and he was staring down at her, his face concerned.

      He frowned and reached out a hand, touching the moisture on her cheek with a gentle fingertip.

      ‘Lydia?’

      She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. Ignore me, I’m a sentimental idiot.’

      He dropped to his haunches and took her hand, and she had a sudden and overwhelming urge to cry in earnest. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you. You don’t need to cry for us.’

      She shook her head and sniffed again. ‘I’m not. Not really.

      I was thinking about my mother—about how I’d miss her—and I’m twenty-eight, not five.’

      He nodded. ‘Yes. It’s very hard.’ His mouth quirked in a fleeting smile. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve neglected you. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee? Water? Something stronger?’

      ‘It’s a bit early for stronger,’ she said, trying for a light note, and he smiled again, more warmly this time, and straightened up.

      ‘Nico would have been on the second bottle of champagne by now,’ he said, and she felt a wave of relief that he’d saved her from what sounded more and more like a dangerous mistake.

      ‘Fizzy water would be nice, if you have any?’ she said, and he nodded.

      ‘Claire?’

      ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

      He moved away, and she let her breath out slowly. She hadn’t really registered, until he’d crouched beside her, just how big he was. Not bulky, not in any way, but he’d shed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and she’d been treated to the broad shoulders and solid chest at close range, and then his narrow hips and lean waist and those long, strong legs as he’d straightened up.

      His hands, appearing in her line of sight again, were clamped round two tall glasses beaded with moisture and fizzing gently. Large hands, strong and capable, no-nonsense.

      Safe, sure hands that had held hers and warmed her to the core.

      Her breasts tingled unexpectedly, and she took the glass from him and tried not to drop it. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Prego, you’re welcome. Are you hungry? We have fruit and pastries, too.’

      ‘No. No, I’m much too excited to eat now,’ she confessed, sipping the water and hoping the cool liquid would slake the heat rising up inside her.

      Crazy! He was totally uninterested in her, and even if he wasn’t, she wasn’t in the market for any more complications in her life. Her relationship with Russell had been fraught with complications, and the end of it had been a revelation. There was no way she was jumping back into that pond any time soon. The last frog she’d kissed had turned into a king-sized toad.

      ‘How long before we land?’ she asked, and he checked his watch, treating her to a bronzed, muscular forearm and strong-boned wrist lightly scattered with dark hair. She stared at it and swallowed. How ridiculous that an arm could be so sexy.

      ‘Just over an hour. Excuse me, we have work to do, but please, if you need anything, just ask.’

      He turned back to his colleagues, sitting down and flexing his broad shoulders, and Lydia felt her gut clench. She’d never, never felt like that about anyone before, and she couldn’t believe she was reacting to him that way. It must just be the adrenaline.

      One more hour to get through before they were there and they could thank him and get away—hopefully before she disgraced herself. The poor man was still grieving for his wife. What was she thinking about?

      Ridiculous! She’d known him, what, less than two hours altogether? Scarcely more than one. And she’d already put her foot firmly in it.

      Vowing not to say another thing, she settled back in her seat and looked out of the window at the mountains.

      They must be the Alps, she realised, fascinated by the jagged peaks and plunging valleys, and then the mountains fell away behind them and they were