The Impatient Groom (6 page)

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Authors: Sara Wood

BOOK: The Impatient Groom
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She groaned aloud. ‘Rozzano! That photo! Your wife
will think you...I... She'll be furious! I'm terribly sorry—'
‘My wife is dead, Sophia. This is my family ring, handed down through the generations. I always wear it.'
Hearing the flatness of his tone, she glanced at him with quick dismay. A dark anguish had briefly shown in his eyes before he'd lowered his gaze. But there was a stony coldness about his face that he couldn't disguise, and his expressive mouth was thin and drawn.
The penny dropped. It had been his wife's death that had prompted his despair and which had been shown so graphically in that photograph she'd seen. And it was painfully obvious that he'd loved her deeply.
Painful for her, as well as him, it seemed. To her utter horror, it made her feel miserable that he still mourned his late wife. She was appalled at herself. What was she to him? Nothing but a duty, someone to take care of on behalf of a family friend. She had no
right
to be upset.
Arranged marriage or not, naturally he would have been able to select the most beautiful, most accomplished, most desirable woman around. Who was she to envy that woman? And yet, to her great shame, she did.
Shaken, she remained silent for the rest of the journey while Rozzano retreated broodingly into some inner world she dared not enter.
Now, in her suite next to Rozzano's at the hotel with its dramatic views of the Thames and the Houses of Parliament, she showered and changed into a home-made sleeveless dress. It skimmed her collarbone and fitted snugly to her body then flared out from the neat waistline. She instantly felt comfortable in it—until she checked herself in the long gold gesso mirror.
‘Too much bosom, too much leg,' she muttered in dismay.
She might as well have written ‘come-and-get-me' on her front!
Uneasily she slipped her bare feet into a pair of pale beige sandals with a small heel, knowing she'd packed only a few items and her choice was limited. The sundress would be needed for the next day. Jeans would be an insult. Sophia's nose wrinkled. She couldn't bear to wear the polyester ever again, so she'd have to stay as she was.
For some reason, her plait looked incongruous. Impatiently she unravelled it and brushed her hair, wondering what to do with it. She saw to her surprise how it cascaded about her shoulders in heavy waves, the rich chestnut tones glinting and gleaming in the light of the massive chandelier.
‘Very flamboyant. Very Italian,' she said to herself, and smiled weakly.
There was a knock on the interconnecting door and she panicked, dithering for a moment. She knew she ought to screw her hair into a prim braid—and perhaps hide her ‘come-and-get-mes' beneath the saggy cardigan. But vanity won that particular battle. Blushing already at her idiotic decision, she whipped her hair up in a hurried heap on top of her head and secured it with a few hasty pins.
Her heart beat hard as she rushed into the sitting room, aware that tendrils of her hair were already escaping and probably making her look a terrible fright.
Panting and flushed, with one hand pushing rebellious bits of hair back into place, she opened the door. Her lips parted involuntarily when she saw him. A pain caught at her breast and she turned away, walking unsteadily into the middle of the room. He'd gone for the casual look:
a pale gold shirt with hip-hugging linen trousers. And he looked absolutely devastating.
Panic set in. When he'd suggested that it would be safer to eat in her suite, she'd agreed. Too late, she realised that she'd committed herself to an evening with an incredibly sexy male.
‘You look...beautiful.'
She stiffened, her back still to him. She looked
better
than when he'd last seen her, but hardly beautiful, with hanks of hair flopping down at all angles. He didn't have to be patronising.
‘Thank you,' she said in stilted tones, raising both arms and frantically fiddling with pins. She heard his indrawn breath. Exasperation, she assumed. His normal dinner companions would be groomed to the last eyelash.
‘Do you have everything you need?' he asked politely.
No. I need to be gorgeous. A dainty size ten, with enormous brown eyes and a two-year stint at a finishing school in Geneva. A low-cut slinky gown in emerald silk would be nice, too. She grinned, her sense of humour popping up again and enabling her to face him.
‘At the last count, I had ninety-five fluffy white towels, two soft and fluffy bathrobes, enough bath gels to wash the entire nation, various shoe cleaning and sewing kits—and probably a set of spanners, for all I know!'
He laughed at her exaggerations and then she remembered her manners. ‘You've been very kind to me,' she said shyly. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate all the time and trouble you've gone to.'
A flicker of light sliced across his eyes and then was gone. ‘It's not a chore. I've enjoyed myself.' He smiled, his teeth a brilliant white as he went on cheerfully, ‘We got up here just in time. The manager tells me that the foyer is seething with journalists and photographers.'
Sophia stared, appalled. ‘But...how can we ever go out?'
He looked at her steadily, then arranged himself with a certain smugness in an armchair. ‘We don't.'
‘You can't be serious!' she cried. ‘Are you suggesting we stay holed up here like rats in a trap—?'
‘Some rats. Some trap,' he murmured, waving a graceful hand at the gorgeous furnishings. ‘We could always look for those spanners and practise a bit of DIY and force an escape route.'
She glared. ‘It's not funny, Rozzano! I'm used to walking a few miles a day! I need to go out, to breathe fresh air! I can't stay indoors indefinitely just because a bunch of journalists are sniffing around! I don't believe this!' she said, her voice wobbling as she fought angry tears and the urge to stamp her foot petulantly. ‘I want out! I don't want to be a countess, I don't want to be wealthy and I want to go home!'
‘I'm afraid,' he said quietly, ‘that will make an even better story. “Heiress's daughter rejects millions”. “Barefoot Contessa chooses sleepy Dorset”. You're on the rollercoaster now, Sophia. You can't get off. Think of your grandfather.'
Her face fell. ‘You're right. I can't turn my back on him. What can we do?'
There was a knock on the door. ‘I'll think of something,' he promised with annoying cheerfulness, rising to open it.
A waiter wheeled in a trolley, bade them both good evening and began to transfer linen, cutlery and glasses to the dining table by the window whilst exchanging pleasantries.
‘Thank you.' Rozzano held out a large tip and glanced at the waiter's name badge. ‘You've seen nothing, heard
nothing, Tony, OK? I might need you again. I want to know I can rely on your discretion if there's trouble with the press.'
The money slipped into the waiter's top pocket with the speed of lightning. ‘I'm blind, deaf and dumb, with an appalling memory, sir,' he said with a grin. ‘Goodnight.'
The strain of the day suddenly became too much and tears began to wash into Sophia's eyes. ‘I hate being pursued, Rozzano!' she said brokenly, giving way to her misery and sobbing pathetically.
In concern, he moved towards her, and for one glorious moment or two he held her close. Her wet lashes lifted and she gazed at him with big, soulful eyes. As she quivered in his arms for those brief, beautiful few seconds, she felt a lurch of her heart.
And knew she could all too easily fall in love with him.
 
‘Morning, Sophia.'
Smelling delicious, and looking incredibly handsome in a honey and cream striped shirt, toffee-coloured trousers and a toning tie, he greeted her in the continental way—bestowing three kisses on her cheeks.
His cool fingers lightly touched the strap of her sprigged dress and accidentally strayed to her collarbone. Sophia jerked away, startled by the contrast of her-burning skin. Eating in the privacy of her suite was turning out to be more dangerous than braving the media downstairs.
‘Croissants!' he exclaimed, seeing the breakfast trolley. ‘One of my weaknesses,' he enthused. ‘No problem with breakfast arriving? No paparazzi leaping from the trolley?' he enquired, as they sat down to eat.
‘None that I noticed!'
‘Good. My strategy is working. I arranged for a couple of heavies to patrol the corridor,' he said with satisfaction.
‘Heavies!' she marvelled, thinking she'd be one soon, if she ate this breakfast in its entirety. ‘How the other half lives!'
‘It's just temporary,' he said with light-hearted casualness. ‘The media will get bored with us soon. So,' he went on, gallantly pretending great interest, ‘how did you sleep?'
‘Terribly.' Feeling spaced out from her disturbed night, she poured coffee for them both.
Concentrating hard on showing him she could speak and act at the same time, she put far too much sugar in her coffee. She groaned. At this rate, she'd grow enormous!
His dark, beautiful eyes simmered at her over the rim of his glass of juice. ‘You should have woken me,' he reproached her.
Sophia was shocked but imagined herself doing just that, slinking in wearing her washed-out, up-to-the-neck nightie. Did he wear pyjamas? Black silk? Or... nothing? She felt her face grow hot and looked down quickly to distract herself by chasing a stubborn mushroom around her plate.
Grimly she fought for control of her body, which was still responding waywardly to the image of Rozzano, naked beneath a pure linen sheet Her throat was as dry as sawdust. She took a hasty gulp of coffee and choked on the scalding liquid. Waving him back to his seat when he half rose to help her, she drank down her freshly squeezed orange juice and scrabbled for the remnants of her dignity.
‘So what was the problem that kept you awake?' he asked genially, as if he hadn't noticed her stupid gaucheries.
She couldn't answer that The previous evening he'd been very attentive. She'd talked about her life and he'd spoken eloquently about the D‘Antiga family perfume business and passionately about Venice, painting a picture so appealing and romantic that her fears had begun to vanish.
They'd laughed a lot. He'd been polite enough to flirt And then, when they'd bade one another goodnight, he'd hesitated at the interconnecting door, swung around and kissed her gently and lingeringly on each cheek, leaving her trembling and weak at the knees.
Sleep? No wonder she had hardly managed a wink! She heaved an inner sigh. ‘I had a lot to think about,' she fudged.
‘And? You will come to Venice, won't you?' he said, catching her hand persuasively. ‘Your grandfather will be so excited to see you. And I would be delighted to show you around my city.'
She couldn't tear her eyes away from his. Oh, yes! she thought longingly. But it would be a painful pleasure. He'd rattle on about the sights and she'd be wishing his interest in her were more than a friendly, generous duty.
‘Some day,' she said slowly, extricating her hand.
‘Then let me arrange a passport for you. I can get one quickly.'
‘You'd have to run the gauntlet of photographers first,' she reminded him. ‘I swear that someone's been in the corridor all night, snuffling and shuffling around like a truffle-hunting pig! It's unbelievable, the lengths these people will go to!' she muttered indignantly, hacking viciously
into a perfectly innocent and defenceless herb sausage.
He smiled, watching her in amusement. ‘You'll get used to it,' he said airily. ‘Although it would be different in Venice. I can control what happens there more easily.'
She wouldn't get used to it, ever. ‘I need to get out today,' she said abruptly. ‘I need fresh air! I feel like a prisoner!' she declared dramatically.
Amazed at the change in herself—when had she ever been a drama queen before?—she jumped up and strode to the window, only to discover that it didn't open.
‘Double-glazing. Keeps out the sound of traffic. Shall I turn on the air conditioning?' came Rozzano's smooth voice just an inch behind her.
Her skin seemed to tighten. She stared out. Milling about far below was a posse of photographers with stepladders, and a number of journalists, smoking and chatting and looking bored.
‘Look at them waiting to pounce! We'll have to use the back entrance to the hotel,' she said crossly.
‘They're old hands at this, Sophia. The back will be covered too,' he said lazily. His mobile phone began to trill and he pulled it from its holster, moving away slightly—mach to her relief. ‘Excuse me... Pronto, Barsini...'
There was a long silence. The hairs on Sophia's neck prickled. Rozzano had stiffened and she could see that he was incandescent with rage—but comrolling it, his voice barely betraying his real feelings as he spoke in measured tones in his native language.

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