The Italian's Rags-To-Riches Wife. Julia James

flatter her. She got to her feet. It was an abrupt, jerky movement. She turned away, towards the door, taking a sharp, agonising breath. She took a step forward, not looking at the man who stood in the doorway. Not looking at anyone or anything.

      ‘But I want you, Laura.’

      Her head whipped round.

      Tomaso had reached out his hand again.

      ‘I want you,’ he said again. There was an impulse in his voice, an urgency. ‘It is too late for Stefano, but I ask—I ask if it will not be too late for me. You are my only kin. All I have. Give me a little, just a little of your time. I shall not ask for much. Only the chance, poor as it is, to pass a little time with you.’

      His eyes were holding hers, as if they were cast upon a lifeline. Slowly, very slowly, not sure what she was doing, let alone why, or whether she should turn, and walk on heavy, rapid feet, as far away as possible, Laura reached out and touched the tips of his fingers held out towards her. Then she dropped her arm to her side.

      ‘Thank you,’ said Tomaso quietly.

      Laura was silent on the way back to the villa, staring out of the car window. Allesandro let his gaze rest on her from time to time. She’d closed herself up, like a clam. But there was something different about her. Something…softer.

      He frowned. Could that really be true? Surely not. It was an absurd word to use about Laura Stowe. She was as hard and as unyielding as granite, her manner as abrasive. Harsh and unlovely.

      His eyes studied her as she stared out of the window, locked in on herself. Yes, it was there still, that change in her expression. Almost imperceptible, but there all the same.

      And there was something else about her, he realised frowningly, trying to put his finger on what else had changed about her.

      Then it came to him.

      Somehow—he didn’t know how—with that slightly, oh, so slightly softer expression—she didn’t look quite so awful.

      He shook the thought aside. It was nothing to do with him what she looked like—only whether she was going to make good on what she had said to Tomaso or not. He needed to know. If she were staying, then at last the way would be clear for Tomaso to make good on his promise to him and hand over the chairmanship.

      ‘So,’ he heard himself ask abruptly, ‘what are you going to do now? Bolt back to England? Or give your grandfather some of your precious time?’

      His voice sounded brusque in the confines of the car. Brusquer than he’d meant. Laura turned her head.

      ‘I’ll…’ She swallowed. ‘I’ll stay for a bit. Till he’s better. I suppose I don’t have to go home right away.’

      Any time would be too soon to go back to that rain-sodden dump, thought Allesandro, thinking unpleasurably about the wreck she lived in. What on earth did she want to keep it for? Anyway, if she made her peace with Tomaso, as she might just have done now, she wouldn’t need it any more.

      Just as Tomaso would not need the chairmanship of Viale-Vincenzo any more.

      A spurt of impatience went through Allesandro. He wanted to be off, back to Rome. Away from all this. Preparing to take full control of the company.

      Enjoying Delia Dellatore.

      Deliberately, he let his thoughts conjure her image in his mind. Chic, fashionable, sensual.

      His eyes flickered sideways one last time.

      The contrast between the woman in his mind and the female sitting there like a sack of potatoes couldn’t have been more different.

      He looked away. She was nothing to do with him. And now he was done with her. The moment they were back at the villa he’d return to Rome. He slid out his mobile, phoning his PA to let her know his plans. Relief washed through him. He was getting out of here, prontissimo.