Second Marriage. HELEN BROOKS

so you’d have a little nest-egg behind you when you went back—’

      ‘No way,’ Claire interrupted firmly. ‘If I came it would be as a friend helping out a friend. I had that wonderful holiday with you in the summer, and Donato wouldn’t even let me pay for my airfare.’

      ‘Well, we’d see.’ Grace clearly wasn’t going to put any obstacles in the way of her coming at this early stage of the proceedings. ‘But do you think you might consider it, then? You could stay in the main house or with us—whichever you like—and Lorenzo would love to have you around for a while. He did miss you when you went home in September.’

      ‘I missed him.’ Claire smiled as she thought of Donato’s younger brother, who had just turned thirteen and was an enchanting mix of child and young man, with an infectious sense of fun that matched her own. ‘He’s a smashing kid.’

      ‘I’d love you to come, Claire,’ Grace said again, with a wistful note in her voice that was meant to charm. ‘I’ve lots of friends out here, good friends, but you’re different. I’ve always felt we should have been sisters.’

      ‘I know what you mean,’ said Claire. And she did. The two women had only known each other for a few years, but almost from the first time they had met, when Grace had been estranged from Donato and living in England, the two of them had hit it off in a way that only happened once in a lifetime. Claire had five big, strapping brothers, but no sister, and Grace had filled a void in her life that she hadn’t even realised was there.

      ‘You’ll think about it, then? Look, here’s Donato. He wants a word with you too...’

      

      All that had been eight weeks ago, and now it was the end of January, with the chaos of Christmas long forgotten. She had really left the raw winter chill of England far behind her, Claire thought happily as she emerged from Customs and looked around for Donato who was meeting her.

      Her old job as receptionist in a doctors’ surgery, the bedlam of a home shared with her parents and the three remaining unmarried brothers, the memories of that awful time before she had met Grace—suddenly it all fell away, and she lifted her face to the mild sunlight streaming in through the plate glass windows of the airport terminal, its golden rays turning her sleek chestnut hair to glowing red silk.

      ‘Miss Wilson?’ The voice was cold, as was the face of the tall, dark man staring down at her, despite the polite smile that twisted the finely chiselled lips in a semblance of welcome. ‘Miss Claire Wilson?’

      ‘Yes?’ She wasn’t aware that the dreamy expression of delight had been wiped away, or that her velvety brown eyes were revealing her alarm and vulnerability, but the big man watching her so closely was aware of both, and it caused the chillingly handsome face to harden still further.

      ‘I am Romano Bellini—Donato’s brother-in-law?’ the heavily accented voice said smoothly. ‘He was called away unavoidably on a matter of great urgency this morning, and as he did not want Grace to drive in her condition he asked that I would meet you.’

      ‘He did?’ Her voice was a squeak, and she heard it with a burst of self-disgust, but somehow the overpoweringly masculine figure in front of her had robbed her of coherent thought. She had seen a picture of Donato’s brother-in-law and best friend, of course, taken some time before his young wife, Donato’s only sister, had died, but somehow the dormant image captured on film in no way resembled the flesh-and-blood man standing before her.

      ‘You would perhaps like proof of my identity?’ Romano asked quietly as she frantically struggled for words. ‘Or you would care to make the phone call to Grace?’

      ‘No, no, it’s all right,’ she managed at last, her voice breathless. ‘I’ve...I’ve seen a photo of you. I...I know who you are.’

      ‘This is good.’ He smiled the arctic smile again, but for the life of her she couldn’t respond in kind—her face, like her thought processes, frozen. ‘Then there is no problem, sì? I, too, have seen the photograph of you, taken with Grace in the summer? I understand you had an enjoyable time in Italy?’

      ‘Yes, yes it was lovely.’ Say something, talk back, make conversation, she told herself distractedly as he bent and lifted her two heavy suitcases—which she hadn’t been able to manage without a baggage trolley and obliging porters—as though they weighed nothing at all. ‘I... Grace is all right? There’s nothing wrong?’

      ‘Grace is very well,’ he replied smoothly, before inclining his head towards the exit doors and saying, ‘Shall we?’

      ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She found herself scuttling along at the side of him as though she were an errant child, and the simile annoyed her.

      It wasn’t just the austere way he had with him that was so intimidating, she told herself weakly as she glanced up at his handsome profile before stepping out into the mild air beyond the airport building, it was everything. His height, the broadness of the hard, masculine shoulders beneath the light jacket he was wearing, the dark, cold, enigmatic good looks, the almost tangible air of ruthlessness that permeated his aura like a black shadow. He was... He was frightening.

      Frightening? Immediately her mind acknowledged the word she kicked against it with a force that tightened her soft mouth and tilted her chin. How ridiculous could she be? Frightening indeed! He was Donato’s best friend, and a good friend to Grace too, from all she had said in the summer, and he had lost his wife in tragic circumstances two and a half years ago. He was probably still devastated by her death; she had been very beautiful. No, he wasn’t frightening. Reserved, perhaps? Withdrawn?

      She followed him over to the car, a regal, top-of-the-range BMW that swallowed her huge suitcases with consummate ease, and once inside glanced round at the soft grey velvety upholstery as he walked round to the driver’s seat after shutting her door.

      Donato’s wealth and power had overawed her at first during the previous summer, and it looked as though Romano was of the same ilk, she thought warily as he slid into the car beside her. His clothes certainly weren’t the off-the-peg variety, his shoes were hand-made and the gold Rolex on his tanned wrist told its own story.

      Talk about born with silver spoons in their mouths, she thought wryly. It was more like diamond-encrusted ones in this part of Italy. What a protected, privileged little world it was—unreal by normal standards.

      ‘Is something wrong?’

      She hadn’t been aware of his eyes on her, but now, as she came out of her musing, she found the narrowed gaze was fixed on her face and flushed hotly. ‘No, of course not,’ she said quickly.

      He continued to look at her as he turned more fully towards her, sliding his arm along the back of her seat as he twisted his body in the confines of the car. ‘No?’ he asked softly.

      It took every ounce of will-power she possessed, and then some, not to start gabbling madly as the silence lengthened and stretched after she had shaken her head, his eyes holding hers in a way she had never experienced before.

      ‘How old are you?’ The fact that his words surprised him as much as her was apparent when he immediately followed them with, ‘Scusi, I had no right to ask such an impertinent question.’ He swung back into his seat and brought the slumbering engine to purring life, his face cold and withdrawn and his body language expressing the sort of outrage that might have suggested she was the one at fault.

      ‘It’s all right.’ She addressed the stony profile cautiously, feeling as though she had inadvertently caught a tiger by the tail and very much out of her depth. ‘I’m twenty-four, actually, although I know I don’t look it.’

      ‘No, you do not.’ He didn’t look at her as he spoke, negotiating the big car carefully onto the road, his black eyes narrowed against the sunlight which, although lacking in heat, was of a piercing brightness.

      ‘It’s genetic.’ She spoke brightly, although the flat comment had been if not exactly insulting then less than complimentary. ‘My mother looks years younger than she