Stephanie Howard - The Colorado Countess

She continued to squint at him, trying to put a name to his face. Was he a singer? An actor? Maybe he was in the theatre? For there was definitely something rather classy about him.

But, classy or not, he was making her bristle. She informed him in a cutting tone, ‘I can assure you, if it had been up to me, I’d have refused, point-blank to move to this table. But I’m here with a friend and she didn’t want a fuss. That’s the only reason you and your friends got our table.’

‘I see.’ He smiled. Her disapproval merely amused him, as did her claim that she would have stood up to him. ‘You believe in fighting for your rights, I see? That’s most commendable.’

‘And very necessary, I’d say, when there are so many people. . .’ As she said it she glanced pointedly across the terrace at his friends. ‘So many people about with such little regard for the rights of others.’

Again the dark eyebrows rose and again he smiled at her, and there was something so bright and so beguiling about that smile that Carrie very nearly forgot herself and smiled right back at him. But she resisted and continued to scowl at him as he responded, ‘I see you consider that my friends need teaching some manners. Well, perhaps you have a point. And that’s why I’m here to apologise.’

‘Well, that’s very nice of you.’ Carrie’s tone was barbed with sarcasm. ‘But, as I said, it’s a little late in the day for apologies. And an apology doesn’t change the fact that our dinner was spoiled.’

The stranger continued to watch her with that smouldering dark gaze he had that, though she was trying hard to fight it, was sending pins and needles through her. And Carrie was annoyed at herself, for it was perfectly obvious that he was an expert at reducing women to quivering lumps of jelly. He had that air of a seducer. He would know women well. How to draw them to him and how to please him. From the top of his beautiful head to the tips of his elegant fingertips, one could sense he was something of an expert in that field.

Carrie was considering this judgement and deciding it was another reason to dislike him when he surprised her by asking, ‘Which part of America are you from? I can’t quite manage to pin down your accent.’

Carrie had not expected this—that the conversation would turn personal. ‘Colorado,’ she said curtly, deliberately not elaborating that for the past three years she’d lived and worked in New York and that there was a touch of the Big Apple in her accent as well. If he was trying to hit on her, he’d find he’d fallen on stony ground!

And then, because she was sure it would almost certainly annoy him, for nothing annoyed a minor celebrity more than not being recognised, she added, regarding him levelly, her tone indicating that her interest was minimal, ‘And what about you? Where do you come from?’

He held her gaze for a moment, a smile flitting across his eyes. ‘Me? Oh, I’m just a local,’ he responded. Then, while she digested this, wondering if it was true, for San Rinaldo was not exactly famous for its showbiz celebrities, he continued, ‘Colorado? That’s a part of the States I’ve never visited. But I understand from friends who’ve been there that it’s extremely beautiful.’

‘Yes, it is.’ She eyed him. More condescension, she was thinking. He would have dredged up some friends who’d told him it was beautiful if she’d told him she came from a hole in the ground.

‘You’re a visitor here?’

‘Sort of,’ she answered unhelpfully. Was he trying to win her round now by feigning interest in her humble life?

She peered at him. If only she could think who he was. It was on the tip of her brain. If only she could see him better. If only his features weren’t in shadow all the time.

‘ “Sort of”. And what does that mean?’ He continued to watch her, and she could see that amused smile hovering round his lips. ‘Are you here on holiday? Are you a tourist?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Not exactly?’ He waited for her to elaborate. He was totally unfazed by her hostile lack of co-operation.

Carrie took a deep breath. She might as well tell him, then she could ask him the same question and finally find out who he was.

‘I happen to be here for reasons of work,’ she told him.

He feigned interest. ‘And what kind of work is that?’

‘I’m putting together a book.’

‘A book? That sounds fascinating. May I enquire what kind of book?’

‘A book on Castello porcelain.’ Then she added unnecessarily, for if he really was a local he would surely already know, ‘It’s a locally made porcelain that’s famous throughout the world. Over the centuries it’s graced the tables of every royal family in Europe, not to mention the table at the White House also.’

He was smiling. ‘Ah, so you are capable of stringing more than one sentence together. I was beginning to think you had a serious communication problem.’

Very amusing. But Carrie did not smile back. She’d already been thinking she’d been just a little too forthcoming. It was her enthusiasm for the project that had momentarily got the better of her, for this book she was putting together on Castello porcelain—literally putting together, for she was both writing it and doing the photographs!—was undoubtedly one of the most exciting projects she’d ever worked on. Ever since her New York editor had first OK’d the idea two months ago she had barely been able to think of anything else. And she loved talking about it to anyone who would listen!

But she hadn’t intended to confide her passion to this arrogant dark stranger, who now knew a little too much about her for her liking—especially since she still knew nothing about him!

And it was time to put that right. She regarded him boldly. ‘But enough about me. Tell me something about you. For example, what do you do for a living?’

‘Me?’

He continued to smile at her and did not answer immediately, almost as though he was pondering how to respond. Perhaps he was astonished that she didn’t know. Or insulted—though he did not look it. Rather, he looked intrigued, Carrie decided as she waited, wondering what had prompted this unlikely display of reticence.

‘Now it looks as though you’re the one with the communication problem,’ she pointed out.

He laughed then. ‘Touché!’ Then he smiled. ‘Well, since you ask. . .’

But he never finished the sentence, for at that very moment a man in a dark suit suddenly appeared at his elbow, murmuring something in Italian that Carrie couldn’t understand. Damn! she was thinking as her still unidentified stranger, with a polite nod in her direction, turned away to reply to him. Wouldn’t you just believe it? Talk about bad timing!

‘I’m afraid I have to go.’ He was turning back to look at her. ‘It would appear my presence is required elsewhere.’

Then, surprising her, he held out his hand for a brief handshake. ‘It’s been most interesting meeting you. And again, let me offer you my apologies. I hope your bad experience this evening won’t spoil your stay here.’

And, before she had time to do more than mumble, ‘I’m sure it won’t,’ he was turning sharply on his heel and disappearing into the interior part of the restaurant.

Not, Carrie thought wryly as she watched his departure, that she would have been capable of saying much more anyway. That brief handshake had quite literally galvanised her for a moment. The touch of his skin had seemed to scorch against her. In those brief seconds of contact she’d been aware of a raw vitality that had sent shock waves down to the soles of her feet.

Phew! Whoever he was, this guy was pure dynamite!

She was rather glad to be brought back to earth as the waiter appeared at the next table and she suddenly remembered that he still hadn’t brought her the bill. She waved to catch his attention. ‘My bill, please,’ she called, but he was already coming over.