Tall, Dark and Italian: In the Italian's Bed / The Sicilian's Bought Bride / The Moretti Marriage

‘Signor di Castelli,’ she said, knowing she sounded stiff and unwelcoming, but she hadn’t expected to see him again so soon. ‘You didn’t say you were coming to the gallery today.’

‘It was a sudden impulse,’ he said, straightening away from the wall, and she was instantly intimidated by his compelling appearance. He was dressed less formally this morning, though his black trousers and matching silk jacket were no less exclusive in design. Still, he wasn’t wearing a tie, she noticed, even if the dark curls of hair nestling in the open neckline of his black shirt provided a disturbing focus. ‘And who told you my name was di Castelli? Have you spoken to Ashley, after all?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Tess was defensive now, backing into the gallery behind her, allowing him to fill the doorway as he followed her inside. Married men shouldn’t be so attractive, she thought, wishing she could be more objective. She didn’t want to prove that she was no better than her sister, wanting something—or someone—she could never have. ‘Besides,’ she added, striving for indifference, ‘that is your name, isn’t it?’ She paused and then went on defiantly, ‘I’m told you’re quite a celebrity around here.’

His eyes narrowed. It was obvious he didn’t like the idea that she had been discussing him with someone else. ‘Is that what your informant told you?’ he asked. ‘I think he is mistaken. Or perhaps you misunderstood.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Tess moved hurriedly to open the blinds, anything to dispel the pull of attraction that being alone in a darkened room with him engendered. She moistened her lips. ‘Did you forget something?’

Castelli arched a mocking brow. It seemed obvious that, unlike her, he had had plenty of experience with the opposite sex. And, just because he was married, he couldn’t help amusing himself at her expense. He must know from her attitude that she didn’t want him there, yet he seemed to get some satisfaction from her unease.

‘As a matter of fact, I was on my way to Viareggio when I saw you standing in the doorway,’ he declared at last, tracking her with his eyes as she moved around the room. ‘You looked—triste.’ Sad.

Tess caught her breath. ‘You don’t need to feel sorry for me, Signor di Castelli,’ she said sharply, resenting his implication. ‘I was just wasting time, actually. While I waited for my coffee to heat.’

Castelli regarded her indulgently. ‘If you say so, cara,’ he said. ‘But I know what I saw in your face.’

Tess stiffened. ‘Actually, I was watching a windsurfer,’ she said. ‘He made me laugh. Perhaps you mistook my expression for your own.’

‘Do not be so defensive, cara. It is natural that you should feel this—excursion—has not been as you planned.’

‘You got that right,’ said Tess, heading towards the office. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

If she’d hoped he would take the hint and go, she was wrong. As she was standing staring down at the unappetising remains of her breakfast a shadow fell across the desk.

‘Come with me,’ he said, startling her more by his words than by his appearance in the office. She looked up to see he had his hands bracing his weight at either side of the door.

His jacket had parted and she noticed his flat stomach and the way his belt was slung low over his hips. Taut muscles caused the buttons of his shirt to gape; tawny eyes, narrowed in sensual appraisal, caused heat to spread unchecked through every pore.

Realising she was gazing at him like some infatuated teenager, Tess dragged her eyes back to the congealing pastry on the desk. ‘I can’t,’ she said, without even giving herself time to consider the invitation. He must have known she’d refuse or he’d never have offered, she assured herself. ‘I’m sorry. But it was kind of you to ask.’

‘Why?’

‘Why—what?’ she countered, prevaricating.

‘Why can you not come with me?’ he explained, enunciating each word as if she were an infant. ‘It is a beautiful day, no?’

‘No. That is, yes—’ Tess knew she must seem stupid, but it wasn’t her fault. He had no right to put her in such a position. ‘It is a beautiful day, but I can’t leave the gallery.’

Castelli’s mouth flattened. ‘Because Ashley asked you to be here?’ he queried sardonically. ‘Si, I can see you would feel it necessary to be loyal to her.’

Tess stiffened. ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic’ She paused. ‘In any case, I have to be here in case she rings.’

Castelli straightened away from the door. ‘You think she will ring?’

Tess shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘And maybe not,’ said Castelli flatly. ‘I have the feeling your sister will not get in touch with you until she is ready to return.’

Tess had had the same feeling. She didn’t want to admit it but it would be counter-productive for Ashley to contact her, particularly if she’d taken pains to keep her whereabouts a secret.

‘Whatever,’ she said now, glancing round for the box of tissues Ashley kept on the filing cabinet. Pulling a couple out, she started to tackle the curdling pastry. ‘I promised to look after the gallery. That’s all there is to it.’

Castelli shook his head, and then moving forward he took the sticky tissues from her hand. ‘Let me,’ he said, glancing sideways at her as he gathered the crumbling remains of the pastry together, and her nerves spiked at the automatic association her senses made of his words.

She wanted to protest, to tell him she was perfectly capable of cleaning up her own mess, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood silently by while he tore several damaged pages from the notepad, wiped down the desk and dumped the lot into Ashley’s waste bin.

‘The domestic will empty it,’ he said, when Tess looked at it a little anxiously. Then, indicating his hands, ‘You have a bathroom, si?’

Tess moved aside, pointing to the door that led into the small washroom, and presently she heard the sound of him rinsing his hands. He came back, drying his hands on a paper towel that he also dropped into the waste bin. Then, he propped his hips against the desk, folded his arms and said, ‘Are you not going to offer me a cup of coffee for my trouble?’

Tess had forgotten all about the coffee simmering on the hob, but now she took a spare mug from the top of the filing cabinet and filled it carefully. Her hands weren’t entirely steady, but she managed not to spill any, offering the mug to him as she said tightly, ‘I don’t have any milk or sugar.’

‘Why spoil a good cup of coffee?’ he countered smoothly, though she guessed he regretted his words when he tasted the bitter brew. ‘Mmm.’ He managed a polite smile, but he put his cup down rather quickly, she noticed. ‘It has a—distinctive flavour, no?’

‘It’s stewed,’ said Tess shortly, tempted to remind him that she hadn’t asked him to join her in the first place. ‘I’m sure you’re used to much better.’

Castelli’s mouth twitched. ‘I am sure I am, too,’ he said without modesty. ‘If you will come out with me today I will prove it.’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve told you, I can’t.’

His strange, predator’s eyes flared with impatience. ‘Because you do not trust me, perhaps?’

‘Trust has nothing to do with it,’ she said, though he was right, she did know very little about him. Stepping back from the situation, she could see he might have a point.

‘What, then?’ He moved to the door and glanced into the gallery. ‘You have no customers. I doubt anyone will be too disappointed if you close. It is hardly an active concern. That is why Scottolino is thinking of moving his interest to Firenze—ah, Florence.’

Recognising the name she’d seen on the top of invoices Ashley had typed, Tess realised he was talking about the gallery’s owner. ‘Mr Scottolino is moving out of San Michele?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Does Ashley know that, do you think?’

‘I doubt it.’ Castelli was dismissive. ‘Augustin is not the kind of man to keep his employees appraised of his plans. Particularly when it will mean that your sister will be out of a job.’

Tess’s lips pursed. ‘And your enquiries—as you so politely put it—won’t have flattered her reputation, no?’

Her sarcasm was obvious and Castelli spread his hands, palms upward. ‘You do me an injustice, Tess. I am not your enemy.’

You’re not my friend either, thought Tess dourly, but his use of her name caused another unwanted frisson of excitement to feather her spine. She’d expected him to have forgotten it, she realised. It was Ashley he was interested in, Ashley who was his focus. Yet when he said her name in that low attractive voice that was as smooth and dark as molasses, her brain scrambled helplessly and she could have melted on the floor at his feet.

Fortunately, he didn’t know that, but she did and it annoyed her. In consequence, her tone was sharper than it might have been when she said, ‘You didn’t tell me how your son met Ashley. Considering the opinion you apparently have of the relationship, it seems an unlikely event.’

Castelli was silent for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. He doesn’t want to tell me that Marco has ambitions to be a painter, she thought smugly, feeling as if she’d got the upper hand for once.

But she was wrong.

‘They met last September,’ he conceded at last. ‘At the vendemmia, the grape harvest. There is always a celebration when the grapes are ready to press. Someone must have invited your sister to the gathering. For one evening of the year we keep open house.’

Tess frowned. ‘Then you must have met her, too.’

‘As I told you, I am informed I did.’ He shrugged. ‘There were many people. I do not remember.’