Jessica Gilmore - Summer Romance With The Italian Tycoon

CHAPTER THREE

DANTE LOOKED OUT of the window. The lake was calm, the sun reflecting off it in myriad dancing sparkles, the mountains rising behind in a majestic semicircle. His chest tightened with the all too familiar mixture of longing and loathing. Once the castello had been his home, the place he loved more than any other. Now it was a constant reminder of his marriage. His greatest failure.

He resolutely turned back to his computer screen, but as he did so his gaze fell on the framed photo on his desk; a black and white portrait of a young woman cradling a baby. Violetta with a newly born Arianna.

If Dante had had his way all pictures of Violetta would have been destroyed the day after her funeral, but he knew that their daughter needed to grow up seeing her mother around her house, to know her face, to hear her name spoken. So he had gritted his teeth and kept Violetta’s photos and portraits on walls and desks in Rome and here in the castello —and if he felt the bitterness of guilt and self-loathing each time he saw her face then wasn’t it simply what he deserved?

He couldn’t regret a marriage which had brought him his daughter, but he could excoriate himself for being the kind of fool to fall for a beautiful face and to project his own hopes and dreams into the woman who wore it. If he’d been older, wiser, had actually bothered to look behind the mask, then he would have seen that all Violetta wanted was the title and the castello —and the second of those had palled soon enough. She was bored, he worked too hard, was away too much. He thought motherhood might soothe and focus her. He’d been tragically wrong.

Wrong and blind. Too caught up in his own narrative. He’d never make that mistake again. How could he trust himself when love had proved nothing but a lie? Violetta had loved the title. He had loved a façade.

The tragedy was he had really fallen hard for that façade. Loved it truly and sincerely. Part of him mourned it still.

‘Al diavolo,’ he muttered. It was a beautiful summer’s day; somewhere in the cas tello grounds his daughter was playing. Work could wait, especially on a weekend. He’d learned that lesson at last. But as he pushed his chair back his computer flashed up a video-call alert. Dante hovered, uncertainly, before lowering himself reluctantly into his seat and pressing ‘accept’. Only a few people had his details. It must be important.

‘Ciao!’

Dante leaned back as the screen filled with his sister’s beaming face. Luciana was ageless, five years older than him, mother of three, but no wrinkles marred her olive skin, her hair as dark and lustrous as it had ever been. Only her eyes, he noted, seemed dull with fatigue, her smile maybe a little more forced than usual. ‘Twice in one week. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘Is that any way to greet your only sister?’ Luciana asked, not giving him time to answer. ‘Where’s my niece? Did she arrive safely?’

‘She’s out playing and yes, she’s already familiarised herself with every corner, just like we used to do.’ Luciana and Dante had been heartbroken when their parents moved from the castle to the austere townhouse in Milan when Luciana hit her teens. Dante had sworn then that when he was the Conte he would never live anywhere else.

For four years he hadn’t. He’d thought they were happy years. Had he been wilfully blind or simply ignorant?

‘And? How are things with your mystery girlfriend?’ Luciana’s gaze sharpened. ‘Did you tell me her name?’

Of course he hadn’t—and Dante knew his sister was fully aware of that fact. ‘I don’t believe so.’ He sat back even further, legs outstretched, grinning as his sister narrowed her eyes at him.

‘Dante, don’t be tiresome.’

‘Early days, remember?’

‘ Si , I know. But I’ve been so worried about you, mio fratello , I just want to share in your happiness that’s all. Tell me a little about her, about how you met.’

Damn. Now what was he supposed to do? He’d never been very good at this kind of thing even when the object of his supposed affections wasn’t made up. Dante glanced towards the lake, hoping for inspiration. A group of young people, armed with kayaks and paddleboards, were on the beach just outside the castle gates—probably wedding guests. Guido mentioned that Maddie had introduced water sports for the summer months.

Maddie. Of course. He had already based his fictional girlfriend on her physically. What harm in borrowing a little bit more?

Crossing his fingers, he attempted a casual tone. ‘She works here at the Castello Falcone. I met her when we had a planning meeting last month.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Did you like her immediately? Was there chemistry?’

Dante thought back to the moment when he had glimpsed Maddie across the lake, gazes holding, blood thundering. To the way he had been aware of every inch of Madeleine while she showed him around the stable block, the way he had tried to get under her skin, repayment for the way she seemed to get under his. The way he had assiduously avoided every place she might be in the three days since they’d met, working from the office in his suite of rooms in the main part of the castle instead of setting up in the main offices at the back as he usually would. ‘I don’t know about like,’ he said slowly. ‘But there was definitely chemistry.’

‘And now you’ll be working together all summer! Just promise me, Dante, don’t try and sabotage this out of some ridiculous sense of loyalty to Violetta. It’s been five years. It’s time to move on.’

Dante didn’t answer. He had moved on, but he had learned his lesson; his heart couldn’t be trusted. If he was ever to consider marriage again it would be to someone practical, someone who could help him run his business empire and wouldn’t be overawed by the social demands his title still commanded even in republican modern-day Italy.

‘So you met, there was chemistry and now you and...what’s her name, did you say?’

Dante knew when he was beat. ‘Madeleine. Maddie.’

‘Now you and Madeleine get to spend the summer together. It couldn’t be more perfect. I can’t wait to meet her.’

Hang on, what ? ‘Meet her?’

‘ Si ; oh, silly me, that’s the whole reason for the call. I’ve been so tired, Dante, not at all like myself—Phil even made me go and see the doctor, ridiculous, overbearing man.’ Luciana’s voice softened as she said her husband’s name, just as it always did.

Dread stole over Dante’s heart. He hadn’t been imagining the dullness in Luciana’s eyes, the shadows darkening them. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Apart from having a dozen tests and goodness knows how many needles stuck in me? Si. At least, the doctor wants me to slow down for a while, but nothing worse than that. But how can I, with the boys and the vineyard and my fundraising and everything else I have to do? The truth is I’m just run-down. So Phil is insisting I take a good, long vacation. That I come home for a few weeks and let the Italian air revive me.’

‘You’re coming here? To San Tomo?’

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

‘Yes.’ And it was. Of course it was. If only he hadn’t just lied to her.

‘I thought I’d spend a few days with you and then head to Lucerne to see Mama. I can get to know Arianna properly all over again and meet your Madeleine, plus get away from this dreary winter. My flight leaves in three days, via a stopover in Singapore. I’ll be with you on Thursday!’

‘Thursday?’ Dante mechanically took down his sister’s flight details, promising someone would be there at the airport to pick her up; all the while his brain was whirling, trying to work out a plan. Luciana would land in Rome in less than a week. She may choose to spend a few days in the apartment she had inherited from their father there, but knowing his sister she would be straight onto the high-speed train which would whisk her up to the north of the country in a matter of hours.