She saw one eyebrow lift. ‘Not guilty,’ Carlo responded, then added drily, ‘on any count.’
Now there was a double entendre if ever there was one. ‘You underestimate yourself.’
His eyes hardened fractionally. ‘Take care, Aysha.’
She reached for the door-clasp. ‘If we stay here much longer, our parents will think we’re arguing.’
‘And we’re not?’
‘Now you’re being facetious.’ She opened the door and stood to her feet, then summoned a warm smile as he crossed to her side.
Gianna Santangelo’s affectionate greeting did much to soothe Aysha’s unsettled nerves. This was family, although she was under no illusions, and knew that both mothers were attuned to the slightest nuance that might give hint to any dissension.
Dinner was an informal meal, although Gianna had gone to considerable trouble, preparing gnocchi in a delicious sauce, followed by chicken pieces roasted in wine with rosemary herbs and accompanied by a variety of vegetables.
Gianna was a superb cook, with many speciality dishes in her culinary repertoire. Even Teresa had the grace to offer a genuine compliment.
‘Buona, Gianna. You have a flair for gnocchi that is unsurpassed by anyone I know.’
‘Grazie. I shall give Aysha the recipe.’
Ah, now there was the thing. Teresa’s recipe versus that of Gianna. Tricky, Aysha concluded. Very tricky. She’d have to vary the sauce accordingly whenever either or both sets of parents came to dinner. Or perhaps not serve it at all? Maybe she could initiate a whole new range of Italian cuisine? Or select a provincial dish that differed from Trevisian specialities?
‘I won’t have time for much preparation except at the weekends.’ She knew it was a foolish statement the moment the words left her mouth, as both Teresa and Gianna’s heads rose in unison, although it was her mother who voiced the query.
‘Why ever not, cara?’
Aysha took a sip of wine, then replaced her glass down onto the table. ‘Because I’ll be at work, Mamma.’
‘But you have finished work.’
‘I’m taking a six-week break, then I’ll be going back.’
‘Part-time, of course.’
‘Full-time.’
Teresa stated the obvious. ‘There is no need for you to work at all. What happens when you fall pregnant?’
‘I don’t plan on having children for a few years.’
Teresa turned towards Carlo. ‘You agree with this?’
It could have been a major scandal they were discussing, not a personal decision belonging to two people.
‘It’s Aysha’s choice.’ He turned to look at her, his smile infinitely warm and sensual as he took hold of her hand and brushed his lips to each finger in turn. His eyes gleamed with sensual promise. ‘We both want a large family.’
Bastard, she fumed silently. He’d really set the cat among the pigeons now. Teresa wouldn’t be able to leave it alone, and she’d receive endless lectures about caring for a husband’s needs, maintaining an immaculate house, an excellent table.
Aysha leaned forward, and traced the vertical crease slashing Carlo’s cheek. His eyes flared, but she ignored the warning gleam. ‘Cute, plump little dark-haired boys,’ she teased as her own eyes danced with silent laughter. ‘I’ve seen your baby pictures, remember?’
‘Don’t forget I babysat you and changed your nappies, cara.’
Her first memory of Carlo was herself as a four-year-old being carried round on his shoulders, laughing and squealing as she gripped hold of his hair for dear life. She’d loved him then with the innocence of a child.
Adoration, admiration, respect had undergone a subtle change in those early teenage years, as raging female hormones had labelled intense desire as sexual attraction, infatuation, lust.
He’d been her best friend, confidant, big brother, all rolled into one. Then he’d become another girl’s husband, and it had broken her heart.
Now she was going to marry him, have his children, and to all intents and purposes live the fairy tale dream of happy-ever-after.
Except she didn’t have his heart. That belonged to Bianca, who lay buried beneath an elaborate bed of marble high on a hill outside the country town in which she’d been born.
Aysha had wanted to hate her, but she couldn’t, for Bianca had been one of those rare human beings who was so genuinely kind, so nice, she was impossible to dislike.
Carlo caught each fleeting expression and correctly divined every one of them. His mouth softened as he leant forward and brushed his lips to her temple.
She blinked rapidly, and forced herself to smile. ‘Hands-on practice, huh? You do know you’re going to have to help with the diapering?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Aysha almost believed him.
‘I’ll serve the cannoli,’ Gianna declared. ‘And afterwards we have coffee.’
‘You women have the cannoli,’ Luigi dismissed with the wave of one hand. ‘Giuseppe, come with me. We’ll have a brandy. With the coffee, we’ll have grappa.’ He turned towards his son. ‘Carlo?’
Women had their work to do, and it was work which didn’t involve men. Old traditions died hard, and the further they lived away from the Old Country, Aysha recognised ruefully, the longer it took those traditions to die.
Carlo rose to his feet and followed the two older men from the room.
Aysha braced herself for the moment Teresa would pounce. Gianna, she knew, would be more circumspect.
‘You cannot be serious about returning to work after the honeymoon.’
Ten seconds. She knew, because she’d counted them off. ‘I enjoy working, Mamma. I’m very good at what I do.’
‘Indeed,’ Gianna complimented her. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job with the house.’
‘Ecco,’ Teresa agreed, and Aysha tried to control a silent sigh.
Her mother invariably lapsed into Italian whenever she became passionate about something. Aysha sank back in her chair and prepared for a lengthy harangue.
She wasn’t disappointed. The use of Italian became more frequent, as if needed to emphasise a point. And even Gianna’s gentle intervention did little to stem the flow.
‘If you had to work, I could understand,’ Teresa concluded. ‘But you don’t. There are hundreds, thousands,’ she corrected, ‘without work, and taking money from the government.’
Aysha gave a mental groan. Politics. They were in for the long haul. She cast a pleading glance at Carlo’s mother, and received a philosophical shrug in response.
‘I’ll make coffee,’ Gianna declared, and Aysha stood to her feet with alacrity.
‘I’ll help with the dishes.’
It was only a momentary diversion, for the debate merely shifted location from the dining room to the kitchen.
Aysha’s head began to throb.
‘Zia Natalina has finished crocheting all the baskets needed for the bomboniera,’ Gianna interceded in a bid to change the subject. ‘Tomorrow she’ll count out all the sugared almonds and tie them into tulle circles. Her daughter Giovanna will bring them to the house early on the day of the wedding.’
‘Grazie, Gianna. I want to place them on the tables myself.’