Latin Lovers: Italian Husbands: The Italian's Bought Bride / The Italian Playboy's Secret Son / The Italian Doctor's Perfect Family

‘I don’t even know what made you interested in that,’ Allegra acknowledged ruefully. ‘I feel like I actually know very little about you.’ When they’d met all those years ago, he’d asked her questions about herself. She’d been happy to chatter on about all of her silly, girlish interests. He’d been happy to listen. She winced now at the memory.

And what had she known of him? He was from Rome; he owned his own company; he was rich and handsome and he had wanted her.

Or so she’d thought … until she’d realized that all he’d wanted was her social status, her family’s standing.

Not her, never her.

‘I suppose I thought you knew what was important,’ Stefano replied.

‘Like what?’

‘That I’d protect and provide for you,’ Stefano replied. He spoke calmly, easily even, and yet Allegra felt chilled.

He was the same, she realized with a sickening stab of disappointed longing. Protection. Provision. Those were what had mattered, what still mattered. Not love, respect, honesty, or even common interests, shared joys. Just the careful handling of an object. A possession … something bought and paid for. That wasn’t love, she thought, wondering why it mattered. Why she cared. That kind of love wasn’t real. It was worthless.

Why should she have thought—hoped—he’d changed? That kind of belief was the bedrock of a man’s soul. It didn’t change. It didn’t even crumble.

‘Yes,’ she murmured, taking another sip of water to ease the sudden dryness of her throat, ‘I knew that.’

‘Why don’t we look at the menu?’ Stefano suggested and there was a knowing gleam in his eye. Allegra had no doubt that he’d realized how dangerously deep the waters swirling between them had become, and he was steering them to safer, shallower eddies.

She glanced down at the menu, the elegant gold script, half of it in French, and swallowed a laugh.

Stefano glanced at her over the top of his menu. ‘You learned French in school, didn’t you?’

Allegra thought of the convent, the lessons she’d learned there. Silence. Submission. Subservience. ‘Schoolgirl stuff,’ she dismissed with a little smile, and stared back down at her menu. ‘What are langoustines?’

‘Lobster.’

‘Oh.’ She gave a little grimace; she’d never liked seafood. Stefano chuckled softly. ‘Perhaps we should have gone somewhere a bit less international.’ He perused the wine menu, adding carelessly, ‘You seem to have become rather English.’

Allegra didn’t know why she felt stung, except that it sounded like an insult. ‘I am half English,’ she reminded him and he glanced up at her, his eyes dark, fathomless.

‘Yes, but the girl I knew was Italian to her core … or so I thought.’

Allegra put down her menu. ‘I thought we agreed that we didn’t know each other very well back then. And anyway, we’re different people now.’

‘Absolutely.’ Stefano put down his own menu. ‘Have you decided?’

‘Yes. I’ll have the steak.’

‘And to start?’

‘The herb salad.’ She pressed her lips together, because she knew he was going to order for her and it irritated her. Another way of providing, she thought sardonically, gazing out of the window.

The waiter, aware of the precise second they’d put down their menus, came to the table.

As Allegra had thought, Stefano ordered for both of them.

‘How would madam like the steak done?’

Stefano began to speak and Allegra interjected frostily, ‘Mademoiselle would like it medium rare.’

There was a moment of surprised silence and Allegra realized she’d just spoken like a child.

Acted like one.

Felt like one.

Why did Stefano do that to her? she wondered wearily. Why did she allow him to? Even now, when she was here as a professional, when he wanted her for her expert services?

‘If you wanted to order for yourself,’ Stefano said mildly once the waiter had gone, ‘you could have told me.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Allegra dismissed firmly, although Stefano still looked unconvinced. ‘Why don’t we talk about Lucio now?’ she suggested. No more raking up the past, the memories swirling about like fallen leaves around them. ‘He’s your son?’

Stefano looked genuinely startled. ‘No, he’s not. I don’t have a son, Allegra.’ He paused, and she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes—that darkness again, a glimpse of his soul. Then he continued, ‘I’m not married.’

‘I see.’ She took a sip of water and tried to frame her thoughts. Her feelings. Relief was the overwhelming emotion, and on its heels came annoyance for she’d no business being relieved about Stefano’s single status. ‘I just assumed,’ she explained. ‘Most adults who come to me are the parents of the child in question.’

‘Understandable,’ Stefano replied, ‘and in truth Lucio is like a son to me. A nephew, at the very least. His mother, Bianca, is my housekeeper.’

And mistress? Allegra wondered. She pressed her lips together to stop herself from voicing her suspicion aloud, knowing just how petty and petulant she would sound. ‘I see.’

Stefano smiled although there was a hardness in his eyes. ‘You probably see quite a lot that isn’t there,’ he replied, and Allegra blushed. ‘But, in fact, Lucio and Bianca are like family to me. Bianca’s father, Matteo …’ He stopped, shrugged. ‘The relevant details are that Lucio’s father, Enzo, died nine months ago in a tractor accident. He was the groundskeeper for my villa in Abruzzo. After his death, Lucio began to lose his speech. Within a month of the accident he stopped speaking completely. He hasn’t …’ He paused, his expression darkening, eyes shadowed with painful memory.

‘He’s retreated into his own world,’ Allegra surmised softly. ‘I’ve seen it before, when children experience a sudden and severe trauma. Sometimes the easiest way of coping is by not coping at all. Just existing without feeling.’

‘Yes,’ Stefano said, and Allegra heard ragged relief in his voice. ‘That’s just what he’s done. No one can reach him, not even his own mother. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t throw tantrums …’ He shrugged helplessly, hands spread wide. ‘He doesn’t do anything, or even seem to feel anything.’

Allegra nodded. ‘And you’ve tried therapies before this, I presume? If this has been going on for nine months?’

‘He’s been evaluated,’ Stefano explained heavily. ‘Although not as quickly as he should have been.’ Regret turned his voice harsh. ‘At the time of his father’s accident, Lucio wasn’t even four years old. He was a quiet boy as it was, and so his condition went undetected. Bianca had taken him to a grief counsellor, who said that some withdrawal was a normal sign of grieving.’ Stefano’s head was bowed and Allegra felt a tightening pang of sympathy for him and his situation. It was so familiar from her work, but it always hurt. Always.

‘Then,’ Stefano continued, ‘as he began to lose speech, develop certain behaviours, the counsellor recommended he be evaluated. When he was, he was diagnosed with pervasive developmental disorder.’

‘Autism,’ Allegra finished quietly and Stefano nodded. ‘What types of behaviours was he exhibiting?’

‘You can look at his case notes, of course, but the most obvious one was lack of speech or eye contact. Methodical, or repetitive, play. Abnormal level of sustained concentration, resistance to cuddling or physical contact.’ Stefano recited the litany of symptoms in a flat voice and Allegra could imagine how he—and Lucio’s mother—had felt when they’d heard the doctor. No one wanted to hear the news that their child was flawed in some way, especially when the problems associated with autism were not easily treated.

The waiter came with their first courses and they spent a few moments eating, both grateful for the slight respite. When their plates had been cleared, Stefano continued.

‘He was first diagnosed with autism a few months ago but Bianca resisted. She felt certain that Lucio’s behaviour stemmed from grief rather than a disorder, and I feel the same way.’

Allegra took a sip of water. ‘I presume it has been explained to you,’ she said gently, ‘that the symptoms associated with autism often manifest themselves at Lucio’s age.’

‘Yes, of course, but right around the time his father died? It’s too much of a coincidence.’

‘It also doesn’t make sense for Lucio to lose speech and develop other worrisome behaviours months after a trauma,’ Allegra countered, her voice steady and quiet. ‘Especially at such a young age.’