Who on earth was he? she wondered, intensely aware of the ambivalence of his gaze. She was sure he wasn’t a tourist and it seemed far too early in the day for him to be a serious collector. Besides, the paintings they were exhibiting were hardly a collector’s choice.
Realising she was probably completely wrong, she nevertheless suspected he hadn’t come here to look at the paintings. Despite his apparent interest, the harsh patrician lines of his profile displayed a contempt for them—or for her. This man would not take rejection easily, she mused, wondering where that thought had come from. But if Ashley was involved, she didn’t envy her at all.
Tess hesitated. She wasn’t sure whether to leave him to his own devices or ask again if she could help. His elegant charcoal suit—which had to be worth a year’s salary to her—made her wish she were wearing something other than an ankle-length cotton skirt and combat boots. The spaghetti straps of her cropped top left her arms bare and she felt horribly exposed suddenly. In her place Ashley would have been wearing heels and a smart outfit. A linen suit, perhaps, with a skirt that barely reached her knees.
Then he turned to face her and she prevented herself from backing up only by a supreme effort of will. Deep-set eyes—golden eyes, she saw incredulously—surveyed her with a studied negligence. She realised he was younger than she’d thought at first and she was again aware of his primitive magnetism. An innate sensual arrogance that left her feeling strangely weak.
‘Miss Daniels?’ he said smoothly, with barely a trace of an accent. ‘It is most—how shall I put it?—enlightening to meet you at last.’ He paused. ‘I must say, you are not what I expected.’ His regard was definitely contemptuous now. ‘But still, you will tell me where I might find my son.’
Was that a threat? Tess was taken aback at his tone, but at the same time she realised he had made a mistake. It must be Ashley he wanted, not her. Yet what on earth could Ashley possibly know about his son? She was in England looking after her mother.
‘I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, signore,’ she began, only to have him interrupt her.
‘No, Miss Daniels, it is you who have made a mistake,’ he snapped harshly. ‘I know you know where Marco is. My—my investigatore saw you getting on a plane together.’
Tess blinked. ‘No, you’re wrong—’
‘Why? Because you are here?’ He snapped his long fingers impatiently. ‘You bought tickets to Milano but you must have changed planes at Genova. When the plane landed at Malpensa, you and Marco were not on board. Di conseguenza, I had no choice but to come here. Be thankful I have found you.’
‘But, I’m not—’
‘Prego?’
‘I mean—’ Tess knew she sounded crazy ‘—I’m not Miss Daniels. Well, I am.’ Oh, God, if only she could get her words straight. ‘But I’m not Miss Ashley Daniels. She’s my sister.’
The man’s eyes conveyed his disbelief. ‘Is that the best you can do?’
‘It’s the truth.’ Tess was indignant now. ‘My name is Tess. Teresa, actually. But no one calls me that.’
His eyes, those strange predator’s eyes, swept over her, rejecting her contention out of hand. ‘It’s the truth,’ she said again, unknowingly defensive. Then, on a wave of inspiration, ‘I can prove it. I have my passport with me. Is that good enough for you?’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Let me see it.’
Tess’s eyes widened at the command but there was something about him that made her hurry into the office to collect her bag. The passport was zipped into the side pocket of the backpack and she brought it out triumphantly. But when she turned to go back into the showroom she found he was behind her and with a gesture of defiance she thrust it into his hand.
He was successfully blocking her exit now, she realised, aware of a stirring sense of panic. What did she know about this man, after all? Only that he apparently knew her sister—or rather knew of her—and what he knew seemed hardly flattering.
Or true?
‘Look,’ she said as he continued to flick through the mostly empty pages of her passport, ‘I don’t know who you are or what you want but I don’t think you have any right to come in here and accuse me—accuse Ashley—of—of—’
‘Kidnapping my son?’ he suggested scornfully, tossing the passport down onto the desk, and Tess’s heart skipped a beat at the ridiculous accusation. ‘Attenzione, Miss Daniels,’ he added, sweeping back the thick swathe of dark hair that had invaded his forehead as he studied the pages, ‘just because you are not your sister changes nothing. Marco is still missing. He left with your sister. Therefore, you must have some idea where they are.’
‘No!’ Tess hardly knew what she was saying. ‘I mean—I do know where Ashley is. She’s at her mother’s house in England. Her mother is ill. Ashley is looking after her.’
His expression didn’t alter. ‘And that is why you are here taking her place?’
‘Yes. I’m a schoolteacher. I was on holiday. That’s how I was able to help her out.’
‘You are lying, Miss Daniels. Why are you not caring for your mother? I have just read in your passport that you live in England. So tell me why you are not taking care of your mother in your sister’s place?’
‘She’s not my mother,’ Tess exclaimed hotly. ‘My father married again after my mother died.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now, I think that answers your question. I’m sorry your son is missing but it’s nothing to do with us.’
‘You are wrong.’ He didn’t accept her explanation but at least he stepped back into the passageway to give her some room. When Tess escaped into the comparative safety of the showroom, he followed her. ‘Whatever you say, Miss Daniels, your sister is not caring for her sick mother,’ he insisted. ‘She and Marco are still in Italy. He does not have his passport with him, capisce?’
Tess pressed nervous hands to her bare midriff, feeling the quivering beat of her heart palpating between her ribs. ‘You said—she’d kidnapped him,’ she reminded him tensely. ‘That’s a ridiculous accusation. If—and it’s a big if—Ashley and your son are together, then surely that’s their affair, not yours?’
‘Non credo. I do not think so.’ He was contemptuous. ‘My son is sixteen years of age, Miss Daniels. He belongs in school, with young people of his own age, not chasing around the country after your sister.’
Tess swallowed convulsively. Sixteen! She couldn’t believe it. Ashley wouldn’t—couldn’t—be involved with a boy of sixteen! The whole idea was laughable. Involved with him, perhaps. That Tess could believe. But not with his teenage son.
Besides, she told herself again, clinging to what she knew and not what he suspected, Ashley was in England. Dammit, she’d spoken to her just a couple of nights ago. That was why Tess was spending part of her Easter break filling in for her. Ashley couldn’t leave the gallery unattended and she’d promised it would only be for a few days.
‘If you’ve not met my sister, how can you be sure that she’s involved?’ she asked unwillingly, realising she couldn’t dismiss his claim out of hand. Ashley might not have been in England when she’d phoned her. She could have used her mobile. How could she be sure?
The man gave her an impatient look now. ‘I may have met her once, but that was some months ago and I have met many people since then. In any case, the person who has been watching her would not make a mistake. I have been out of the country, regrettably, but my assistant contacted your sister just a week ago. She swore then