The Medici Lover. Anne Mather

softly, and she gazed up at him in dismay, the initiative taken out of her grasp.

      ‘You—you know?’ she stammered.

      ‘That you were walking on your balcony at two o’clock this morning? Yes, I know, Miss Hunt.’

      Suzanne could feel the back of her neck growing damp. ‘But then—you must know that I—that I—’

      ‘—saw me walking without these?’ He lifted one of the sticks from the floor. ‘Yes, Miss Hunt.’

      Suzanne wished she could get up, but to do so would bring her that much closer to Mazzaro di Falcone, and right now he was quite close enough. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ she murmured faintly.

      ‘No.’ He inclined his head. ‘How could you?’

      ‘Don’t you need those sticks at all?’ she cried.

      ‘Not now. Not really. Although there are occasions when I am tired and walking is an effort.’

      Suzanne pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘But—don’t you care that I know? Why did you let me see?’

      He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t deliberate. The alarm sounded on the panel beside my bed. I had stepped into the courtyard before I realised what it must be. After that, I had to reassure myself.’

      ‘But if it had been burglars!’ she protested, and he half smiled.

      ‘Your concern is touching, Miss Hunt, but I was armed.’

      Her skin prickled. ‘You don’t want me to—to tell Pietro?’

      ‘I can’t stop you from doing so.’

      ‘But why haven’t you done so yourself? Surely your wife would be delight—’

      But something in his sudden stiffening made her realise she had gone too far. ‘My wife’s feelings need not concern you, Miss Hunt,’ he stated harshly, moving away from her again. He had not straightened or attempted to walk without the aid of the sticks, and the ridiculous notion came to her that whatever he said she had imagined the whole thing.

      ‘Would—would you rather I kept this knowledge to myself, then?’ she probed, as he halted by the long windows, his back towards her.

      He was silent for so long, she had begun to think he could not have heard her, when he said quietly: ‘Let us say I have my reasons for remaining silent at this time, Miss Hunt. However, if you feel you cannot keep my secret, I will not reproach you for it.’

      Suzanne pushed back her chair and got to her feet, linking her fingers tightly together. ‘Why did you send me the rose, signore?’ she ventured, finding the question easier than she had expected.

      He turned then, more lithely than he could have done had the sticks been needed, and surveyed her with a wryly mocking amusement. ‘Of course. It was presumptuous of me, was it not?’ he conceded. ‘That a man like myself should overstep the bounds of his limitations and show himself vulnerable to admiration for a beautiful woman!’

      Suzanne took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

      ‘I may be disabled, Miss Hunt, but I am not blind. And besides, I wanted us to have this talk, which has proved most satisfactory, I think.’

      ‘But …’ Suzanne hesitated. ‘What has your—appearance to do with whether or not you sent me a rose?’

      Mazzaro’s expression hardened. ‘Please do not insult me by pretending naïveté,’ he retorted stiffly.

      Suzanne sighed. ‘I’m sorry if you think I was being insulting. I just don’t happen to see the connection between the two.’ She paused. ‘I don’t believe that a person’s appearance has a great deal of bearing on their personality.’

      ‘Your inexperience is showing, Miss Hunt,’ he returned cynically, but his features were less severe. ‘You will find that appearances count for a lot. A beautiful woman has the confidence that a less favoured contemporary has not. Looks frequently determine an individual’s course in life, and those less fortunate often become morose and bitter.’ He shrugged eloquently. ‘Like roses, we are judged on our overall composition, no?’

      ‘No!’ Suzanne was vehement. ‘You are not morose and bitter!’

      ‘And you think I should be?’

      ‘No!’ Too late, she had realised what she was saying. ‘I—I should feel sorry for someone who—who deserved—’

      ‘Pity?’ He inserted, as she hesitated once more. ‘But you don’t think I deserve pity, is that it?’

      Suzanne looked across at him uncertainly, aware of the cleft stick into which he had steered her. ‘No,’ she said at last, slowly and distinctly. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you, Count di Falcone.’

      There was a moment’s silence, and her conscience pricked her. Had she been unnecessarily harsh? Had he taken offence at her clumsily-worded beliefs?

      ‘Very well, Miss Hunt,’ he said finally, moving to prop himself against the side of his desk. He shifted both sticks into one hand and raked long fingers through the thick vitality of his hair. The action parted the collar of his shirt, revealing more of the savage scarring. ‘So now we know where we stand, do we not?’

      Suzanne’s tangled emotions made it difficult for her to reply. She had the feeling that something was happening to her here, over which she had no control. It was as if she was seeing herself through a glass screen, aware of the dangers of becoming involved with this man, but unable to reach out and prevent the inevitable happening …