Relief he would never now need to have that awkward conversation—the one where he would have to dredge up his past mistakes.
‘Happy? So that,’ he teased lightly as he blotted with his thumb the sparkling tear that was sliding down her cheek, ‘is a tear of joy?’
Dervla didn’t respond to his comment. Instead she tilted her head and asked, ‘Are you happy, Gianfranco?’
‘What is happy?’
She saw the trace of irritation in his face at the question, and thought, If you were happy you wouldn’t need to ask.
‘I would be happier,’ he said, taking her hand, ‘if Carla decides to go home this evening.’
CHAPTER TWO
GIANFRANCO’S wish was not granted.
When they got back to the house Carla, wearing a swimsuit encrusted with sequins and quite obviously designed more for displaying her perfect body beside a pool than swimming in, asked Gianfranco if she could beg a seat in his helicopter the next morning.
‘I thought you had things to get back to.’
‘No, I’m all yours,’ the older woman responded, apparently oblivious to the strong hint. ‘And the staff are back so you won’t need to vanish into the kitchen. You’re both so eccentric,’ she murmured, shaking her head before pleading with a pretty smile for Gianfranco to apply some sunscreen to her back.
Dervla stiffened, her hands balling instinctively into fists as an image of Gianfranco’s hands on the other woman’s warm, smooth skin formed in her head.
‘I don’t think you’re in danger of burning, Carla. It’s six-thirty.’
With a quick smile at Carla, Dervla followed him indoors. ‘Will you not be so rude to Carla,’ she hissed.
He arched a brow. ‘You wish me to put cream on other women? I think not. I saw your face. You’d have pushed her into the pool if I’d tried.’ He did not sound displeased by the discovery.
The colour flew to Dervla’s cheeks. ‘No, I’d have pushed you into the pool, but this is Carla—she doesn’t mean anything by it.’ Be tolerant, Dervla, be tolerant. ‘She’s like that with all men.’
He gave a grimace of fastidious distaste. ‘You mean she comes on to all men.’
Dervla’s eyes flew wide. She pressed her hand to her stomach feeling suddenly nauseous. ‘She’s never…with you, has she?’
‘A gentleman does not speak of such things.’
‘So that leaves you free to spill the dirt.’
Gianfranco threw back his head and laughed. ‘She is really not my type, cara,’ he promised, lifting a hand to stroke her cheek. ‘And you need not worry about her feelings. She has the skin of a rhino. Short of showing her the door, we’re stuck with her until tomorrow. I suppose we’ll just have to grin and bear it.’
During dinner Gianfranco showed very little inclination to follow his own advice, so it was left to Dervla to supply the extra smiles.
By the time the Italian woman was midway through a lengthy description of the famous people she had rubbed shoulders with at a recent celebrity auction Dervla’s facial muscles were aching from the marathon.
‘What charity was the auction for?’ she asked when Carla paused for breath.
‘For…?’ The older woman looked at her blankly for a moment.
‘The charity it was raising money for?’
‘I really can’t recall.’
Dervla bit her lip, and didn’t dare look at Gianfranco, she knew he’d make her laugh.
‘Did I mention that I spoke to the prince? A charming man.’
Before Dervla had a chance to adopt an appropriate expression of polite enquiry Gianfranco cut in with a dry, ‘Yes, you did, Carla—several times.’
Dervla shot her husband a look of warning from beneath the sweep of her lashes and said brightly to fill the awkward silence, ‘Are you sure you won’t have some of this lemon tart, Carla?’
‘No, no pudding, I’m watching my weight.’ The glance she slid the second slice on Dervla’s plate suggested that she thought Dervla ought to be doing the same. ‘But, you could lend me your husband, just for a few minutes. Boring financial stuff…’ She angled a look of enquiry at Gianfranco. ‘If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother…?’
There was a pause and for one awful moment Dervla thought Gianfranco was going to say yes, it would be too much of a bother, when he got to his feet, his attitude more polite resignation than eagerness. ‘If it’s urgent?’
‘Well, you probably won’t think it is, but I have been worried.’
‘Would you like to come to the study?’ His enquiring glance slid towards Dervla.
‘I’ll wait here.’
Carla smoothed her creaseless skirt down over her slim hips and patted Dervla’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t keep him a minute.’
The minute Carla had spoken of stretched into an hour while Dervla sat alone at the dinner table drinking coffee. When the maid came in she refused the offer of another pot and told the girl with a smile she could clear away.
Another five minutes and she decided she might as well go to bed. As she passed the door of Gianfranco’s study she heard some very unfinancial-sounding laughter before she shouted her intention of retiring.
‘I’ll be up in a moment!’ Gianfranco called out.
It turned out his grasp of time was just as sketchy as Carla’s. It was actually midnight when Gianfranco finally did join her in their bedroom. Hearing his footsteps in the corridor outside, Dervla leapt into bed, picking up a magazine from the table on her way.
‘What did she want?’
Conscious that this was one of those situations where it would be very easy to sound like a jealous wife, Dervla was careful that nothing in her manner suggested her interest in Gianfranco’s response to her question was anything but tepid.
Actually she had spent the past hour pacing up and down, her eyes drawn continually to the hands on the clock. It wasn’t that she was jealous as such of Carla, and she was sure that Gianfranco did not think of the older woman in that way, but they had a history, a history she was excluded from, memories she did not share.
Carla had been a close friend of Alberto’s mother, Sara. Had the conversation in the library turned to Sara?
While every snippet of information she’d gleaned from Carla had only confirmed her suspicion that Sara had been the love of Gianfranco’s life, some hitherto unsuspected streak of masochism in her made Dervla hungry for the details even though she was tortured by every new proof of how special their love had been.
Gianfranco gave a disgruntled snort. ‘Some stuff about shares, hardly urgent.’
The same could not be said of his desire to join his wife in their bed. The light from the bedside lamp picked out the gold in her burnished hair and made the nightgown she wore almost transparent. His body hardened as he looked at her; her slim, supple curves never failed to arouse him.
‘Finally,’ he said, walking towards the bed where she sat hugging her knees, ‘I have you all to myself.’
She tilted her head and reminded him, ‘This weekend was your idea.’
‘It was a bad idea.’ Slipping the buttons on his shirt, he sat down beside her on the bed. He reached for the magazine in his way and Dervla, catching a glimpse of the cover, tried to snatch it away.