The High-Society Wife

Consequently it was after five when she garaged her car and gathered all her purchases together.

She made the foyer and was about to ascend the stairs when Franco appeared.

‘Want some help with those?’

His musing drawl put her on the defensive. So did his close proximity. He’d shaved, showered and donned black trousers and a light chambray shirt, the sleeves folded back almost to each elbow.

‘I’m fine.’

Gianna missed the faint narrowing of his eyes as he examined her expressive features. ‘Come toss the salad when you’re done.’

‘OK.’

He watched her progress up the stairs, the slight sway of her denim-clad rear, the tightly held shoulders that owed nothing to the weight of the emblazoned carry-bags in each hand.

She was a piece of work. There was strength of character, integrity, pride…and vulnerability. A combination he found intriguing.

A glass of chilled white wine rested on the kitchen servery when Gianna entered the kitchen. She’d taken time to unpack and stow her purchases, shower, and don tailored trousers and a fashionable top before slipping her feet into heeled sandals. Her hair was caught in a loose knot atop her head, and her one concession to make-up was pink lipgloss.

Franco picked up the glass and handed it to her. ‘For you.’

‘Because you think I need it?’

He collected his own glass and touched its rim to her own. ‘Salute.’

She wanted to slip into the light camaraderie they shared, to enjoy the anticipation of how the night would end. To know she could lose herself in him and emerge whole.

Except she had to deal with the spectre of Famke intruding between them. If what he’d shared with the actress came close to what he shared with her.

The thought of his tightly muscled body locked with Famke in the throes of lovemaking almost destroyed her.

A vivid imagination was fast becoming her own worst enemy. Something she must fight to control, or she’d be lost.

Pretend, a silent voice bade. You’re good at it.

A redolent aroma wafted from a small pot simmering on the cook-top, and she wrinkled her nose in appreciation. ‘Marinara sauce?’

‘Uh-huh. Want to choose the pasta?’

Gianna didn’t hesitate. ‘Fettuccine.’

With easy co-ordinated movements he extracted a packet from the pantry and forked the contents into a large pot of boiling water, adjusted the heat, then turned towards her.

‘How was your day?’

You really don’t want to know. Yet he saw too much and read her too well. ‘Fun, until Famke appeared on the scene.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

She took a sip of wine, savoured the light golden liquid, then let it slide down her throat. ‘Facts, or my summation?’

‘Both.’

She looked at him carefully, and gained nothing from his expression. ‘I bumped into her outside a café.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Let’s go with coincidence.’ Gianna lifted a hand and tucked back a lock of hair. ‘I really don’t want to contemplate design.’

She crossed to the sink, caught up the washed salad greens and began breaking the leaves into a bowl. Only to have a hand cup her chin and lift it.

‘We did this last night.’ His voice was pure silk.

So they had. Except it hadn’t resolved a thing.

‘She’s on a mission.’ Wasn’t that the truth? ‘And determined to succeed.’

‘Don’t let her bother you.’

‘I can handle her.’ Sure she could…verbally. Emotionally, she didn’t stand a snowflake’s chance in hell.

His eyes were inscrutable as he traced her mouth with his thumb, and for a few seconds she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

Then he released her and crossed to the cook-top, leaving her to finish fixing the salad.

When it was done, she set the kitchen table, checked the garlic bread heating in the oven, grated parmesan cheese and saw Franco drain the pasta.

‘This is seriously good.’ Gianna lifted her wine glass in appreciation as she sampled the food. Simple fare eaten in a homely atmosphere provided a pleasant change from their hectic social life.

‘Grazie.’

His lazy drawl made her lips twitch. ‘Prego.’

‘Italian conversation to match the meal?’

‘Practice,’ she responded lightly. ‘Or have you forgotten we’re entertaining Anamaria and Santo tomorrow night?’

‘The grandparents,’ Franco mused. ‘What do you have you in mind for Rosa to serve?’

She took a sip of wine, then twirled pasta onto her fork. ‘I intend to cook.’

He caught her speculative look, and bit back his amusement. ‘You’re planning something ambitious?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘With or without Rosa’s help?’

Gianna offered a brilliant smile. ‘Solo. I’ll devote the day to it.’

‘Which will make for an interesting evening.’

Her eyes assumed a mischievous sparkle. ‘Ah, you get the drift.’

She’d taken a course during a sojourn in Rome and had learnt from the best. In another life she could have been a chef. Except the sole surviving Castelli had no future in a restaurant kitchen.

Annamaria Castelli prided herself on her culinary expertise, and had personally trained her housekeeper to serve her favourite dishes. She had an acute knowledge of taste and smell, and could, she liked to boast, sample a dish and divulge not only every ingredient, but the precise measure in any recipe.

Santo Giancarlo, on the other hand, loved to eat. If it tasted fine and didn’t upset his digestion, he had no inclination to examine and dissect the ingredients.

Two grandparents who were as chalk to cheese in personalities, yet with more in common than they were prepared to admit.

Gianna forked the last of her fettuccine, followed it with a morsel of garlic bread, then finished off her wine.

‘You cooked; I’ll take care of the dishes,’ she declared, and gathered up their plates. Leaving them for Rosa didn’t enter her head.

‘Coffee?’

Franco rose to his feet. ‘I’ll make, and take mine in the study.’

‘Likewise.’ She needed to check e-mails, send out a few, peruse the week’s business and social diary, and decide what to prepare for Sunday evening’s dinner.

With deft movements she soon restored the kitchen surfaces to their former state of gleaming cleanliness, settled for tea instead of coffee, and took it into the room she used as a study.

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