Carol Marinelli - Tall, Dark and Italian

‘Ah, no.’ His sigh was audible. ‘I gather you have not heard from your sister either.’

‘No.’ Tess’s excitement subsided. ‘Nor has her mother.’

‘I see.’ He paused. ‘You have heard from her?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard from Andrea.’

Tess couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice and Castelli picked up on it. ‘You sound depressed, cara,’ he murmured sympathetically. ‘Ashley’s mother—she blames you, si?’

‘How did you know?’ said Tess ruefully. ‘Yes, she blames me. I should have asked Ashley where she was going when I spoke to her before I left England.’

‘But you thought she was going to visit with her mama, no?’

‘Andrea doesn’t see it that way. In any case, I couldn’t tell her what Ashley had told me.’

‘Povero Tess,’ he said gently. ‘This has not been easy for you.’

‘No.’ Tess felt a momentary twinge of self-pity. ‘So—’ she tried to be practical ‘—was that the only reason you rang? To ask whether I’d heard from Ashley?’

‘Among other things,’ he said, rather enigmatically. Then, without explaining what he meant, ‘Ci vediamo, cara,’ and he rang off.

Tess replaced the receiver with a feeling of defeat. So much for his sympathy, she thought gloomily. For a moment there, she’d thought he was going to offer some other alternative to her dilemma, but like Andrea he had no easy solutions. And, unlike Andrea, he had more important things to concern him than her situation, even if the two things were linked.

The pastry had oozed all over the notepad and she regarded it resignedly. So much for her breakfast, she thought, pouring water into the coffee maker and switching it on. Pretty soon the sound of the water filtering through the grains filled the small office, and the delicious smell of coffee was a temporary antidote to her depression.

Realising she still hadn’t opened up the gallery, she went through into the studio and unlocked the door. Sunlight streamed into the gallery, causing her to wince at its brilliance, but everything looked brighter in the healing warmth of the sun.

Already the parade outside was quite busy. Cars and tourist buses surged past, looking for parking spaces along the popular esplanade. There were tourists and local fishermen leaning on the seawall across the street, and beyond the beach several yachts could be seen tacking across the bay.

They were heading for the small marina south of town and Tess envied them. There was something so exciting about being able to do whatever you liked on such a lovely day. With worrying about her sister, she’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel carefree, and her plan to loaf on the beach seemed far out of her reach today.

She stood for several minutes at the door of the gallery, watching the activities outside, trying not to feel too letdown. She didn’t want to think of what she’d do if Ashley hadn’t turned up by Friday. The prospect of her stepmother flying out here to join the search didn’t bear thinking about.

There was a windsurfer out on the water. He had seemed fairly competent at first, but now she revised her opinion. He was probably a holiday-maker, she decided, trying his hand at sailing the narrow surfboard across the bay. And when an errant breeze caught the craft, he wobbled violently before overbalancing and tumbling head-first into the water.

To her relief, his head bobbed up almost instantly beside the capsized craft, but he couldn’t seem to pull it upright again. She’d seen the experts do it, vaulting onto the board and pulling up the sail, but this poor man could only drift helplessly towards shallower water.

Tess couldn’t suppress a giggle. Everyone on the beach and leaning on the seawall was enjoying his predicament. It wasn’t kind to laugh, but she couldn’t help herself. It was such a relief after the pressures she’d endured.

‘You seem happier, signorina,’ mused a low voice, and Tess turned her head to find Raphael di Castelli propped against the wall beside the door. His dark-complexioned features seemed absurdly familiar to her and she chided herself for the flicker of awareness that accompanied the thought.

‘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.