The Italian's Rightful Bride

Receiving no reply, he leaned closer and waved his hands. ‘Earth to Mum. Come in, please.’

‘Sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘What did you say?’

‘Have you ever been to Rome?’

‘Er—yes—yes—’

‘You sound half-witted,’ he said kindly.

‘Do I, darling? Sorry, it’s just—he always said there was a great lost palace.’

‘He? You know this Prince Thingy?’

‘I met him once, years ago,’ she said vaguely. ‘How about an ice cream?’

Steering him away from the subject was an act of desperation. Because there was no way she could say to her darling son, ‘Gustavo Montegiano is the man I once loved more than I ever loved your father, the man I could have married if I’d been sufficiently selfish.’

And she might have added, ‘He’s the man who broke my heart without even knowing that he possessed it.’

CHAPTER ONE

‘RING, damn you, ring!’

Prince Gustavo fixed his gaze on the phone, which stayed obstinately dead.

‘You were supposed to call every week, without fail,’ he growled. ‘And it’s been two weeks.’

Silence.

He got up from his desk and went impatiently over to the tall windows through which he could see the stone terrace. On the last of the broad steps that led down to the lawn sat a nine-year-old girl, her shoulders hunched in childish misery.

The sight increased Gustavo’s anger. He strode back, snatched up the telephone and dialled with sharp, stabbing movements.

He knew nobody had ever forced his ex-wife to do what didn’t suit her. But this time he was going to insist, not for himself, but for the little girl who pined for some sign that her mother remembered her.

‘Crystal?’ he snapped at last. ‘You were supposed to call.’

‘Caro,’ came the soft purr that had once sent shivers up his spine. ‘If you only knew how busy I am—’

‘Too busy for your daughter?’

‘My poor little Renata? How is she?’

‘Pining for her mother,’ he said furiously. ‘And now I’ve got you on the line you’re going to talk to her.’

‘But, sweetie, I’ve no time. You caught me on my way out, and please don’t call again—’

‘Never mind going out,’ he said. ‘Renata’s just outside and she can be here in a moment.’ He could hear the little girl’s footsteps running along the terrace.

‘I have to go,’ came Crystal’s voice. ‘Tell her I love her.’

‘I’m damned if I will. Tell her yourself. Crystal—Crystal?’

But she had gone, hanging up at the exact moment the child came running into the room.

‘Let me talk to Mamma,’ she cried, seizing the phone from him. ‘Mamma, Mamma.’

He saw the joy drain out of her face as she heard the dead tone. And, as he’d feared, the face she then turned on him was full of accusation.

‘Why didn’t you let me talk to her?’ she cried.

‘Darling, she was in a rush—it was a bad time for her—’

‘No, it was your fault. I heard you shouting at her. You don’t want her to talk to me.’

‘That isn’t true—’

He tried to take his daughter into his arms but she resisted him, not by struggling but by standing stiff, her face blank and unrevealing.

Just like me, he thought sadly, remembering the times in his life when he had concealed his innermost self in the same way. There was no doubt that this was truly his child, unlike Crystal’s second offspring, whose birth had precipitated the divorce.

‘Darling…’ he tried again, but gave up in the face of her silent hostility.

She blamed him for her mother’s desertion and the fact that she’d been left behind, because she couldn’t bear to believe anything else. And was it kinder to force the truth on her, or go along with her fantasy of a mother who yearned for her and a cruel father who kept them apart? He only wished he knew.

Reluctantly he released her and she ran out at once. Gustavo sat down heavily at his desk and buried his head in his hands.

‘Have I come at a bad time?’

Gustavo looked up to see an elderly man in shabby, earth-stained clothes who stood in the tall window, mopping his brow.

‘No, come in,’ Gustavo said with relief, opening an ornate eighteenth-century cupboard and revealing a small fridge concealed inside.

‘How is it going?’ he asked, pouring two beers.

‘I’ve gone about as far as I can,’ Professor Carlo Francese said, puffing from his recent exertions. ‘But my expertise is limited.’

‘Not in my experience,’ Gustavo said loyally.

They had been friends for eight years, ever since Gustavo had allowed his palazzo to be used for an archaeological convention. Carlo was an archaeologist with a major reputation, and when ancient foundations had recently been discovered on Gustavo’s estate he had called Carlo first.

‘Gustavo, this is potentially the biggest find for a century, and you need serious professionals. Fentoni is the best. He’ll jump at it.’

He gave Gustavo a shrewd look. ‘You’re not listening.’

‘Of course I am, it was just—hell and damnation!’

‘Crystal?’