Chapter Four #2
She descended the curving stone stairs, crossed the hall and traversed the lower floor corridor into the extension where Tore kept an office suite.
Phones were ringing, quickly answered by formally dressed staff.
Computers were humming. It was all business.
There was a beautiful beach outside and the sun was shining, but inside the office space they could have been in any city location.
Tore was dealing with a herd of guests under his roof by continuing work as usual.
He wasn’t entertaining or rediscovering old childhood haunts with the guests, either; goodness no.
‘I’d like to see Tore…my husband,’ Violet added as a harassed assistant set down the phone and regarded her and the baby in her arms in open dismay.
The woman dealt a tentative knock to the closed door behind her and Violet slid in front of her and simply opened it, espying Tore lodged by the window while he dictated something into a phone.
Sheathed in a dark grey suit, a midnight-blue shirt and silvery tie embellishing the slice of broad chest visible, he turned, enquiring emerald green eyes to her.
Such beautiful eyes, jewels of light in that lean bronzed face, black lashes dipping as he studied her.
And that was a cue for butterflies in her tummy and a touch of overheating to kick in, a bit of a flush. With those physical reactions came uncertainty and a discomfiture, which she valiantly fought off. ‘Tore…’
Belle let out a squeal and opened her arms wide. Almost unbalanced by the little girl’s welcoming gesture, Violet set her daughter down on the wooden floor beneath her feet. Belle scrambled in Tore’s direction.
‘How can I help you?’ he asked pleasantly, tensing a little as Belle got closer.
Violet could have given him a list of how he was not helping her with his guests, his relatives, whom he was ignoring, but the new wardrobe of clothes was currently top of that complaint list. ‘It’s the clothes, the new clothes you appear to have bought for me…’
Tore lifted a sardonic brow in apparent surprise. ‘And?’
‘Obviously, I don’t need all that stuff,’ she objected.
Tore surveyed his bride, clad in faded jean shorts and a rather washed-out tee and flip-flops. ‘You need new clothes and it’s my role to provide them.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I decided I didn’t want to see my wife and her daughter less well dressed than our guests.
It’s a superficial thing and I don’t usually worry about those but I need to see you turned out correctly as my hostess…
and squash any unpleasant rumours that I could be a tight wad,’ he quipped with amusement as Belle crawled across his feet and then when he didn’t appear to notice her arrival, turned and did it again.
Violet lifted her pointed chin, blue eyes flaring. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to buy me clothes, Tore!’
‘Seems remiss of you not to have guessed that I would take care of a problem like that,’ Tore countered, admiring the pink in her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes.
Her black hair was piled in a messy bun on top of her head, odd little tendrils curling round her small ears, dark against her pale Celtic complexion.
He throbbed against his zipper, reminding himself that she was in his bed at night but always fast asleep by the time he got there and still asleep when he rose at dawn.
He was going to have to rearrange his routine, cut the very late nights and possibly the early starts as well.
Evidently, she needed a lot more sleep than he did while he had decided that he needed rather more of her.
‘It wasn’t a problem,’ Violet contended curtly. ‘I’m quite happy wearing my own clothes.’
‘But I’m not happy with you or Belle looking shabby.
’ Tore finally bit the bullet and just came clean as Belle loosed a squeal of frustration.
He dropped down and grabbed Belle where she was now clinging to his trouser legs, precariously standing and proud of the fact.
‘What are you complaining about?’ he asked the little girl as he swung her up into the air and she giggled, her rounded baby face a picture of delight.
‘Who lifted you out of your cot this morning when you were desperate to escape?’
Cheeks still burning from that label, shabby, Violet frowned. ‘You…did?’
‘Sì. I felt sorry for her and Stella wasn’t up yet. Belle and I had breakfast together,’ he shared with amusement. ‘I gave her a banana and water to keep her happy until Stella appeared.’
‘That was very kind of you. I should’ve been up…but the clothes? You really think they’re necessary?’ Violet prompted uneasily.
Brilliant green eyes rested on her. ‘I do and because I have no idea of your style, there’s a selection and you can return anything that you dislike. In the short-term, though, it means you have something to wear for every occasion.’
Violet lifted her arms to reclaim her daughter.
That word, shabby, had hit her pride squarely where it hurt and she knew it was true.
She didn’t spend money on clothes for her or her daughter.
She was used to making do with what she had and that was a habit engrained from childhood when money had always been in short supply.
Even though the bakery was doing well financially, she still didn’t spend on anything other than necessities.
Now she reckoned she should have splashed out on some smarter clothing for her and Belle before the wedding.
Tore had won the battle, she reflected tartly.
No, it wouldn’t be fair to expect him to be embarrassed by his wife’s shabby appearance.
‘You should come down to the beach with us this afternoon,’ she suggested because she had already developed the habit of letting Belle play in the sand and dip her toes in the surf for an hour every afternoon.
Tore stiffened. ‘Maybe another day.’
‘I thought so,’ Violet sighed. ‘Don’t be offended but you should be giving your relatives more than your company over dinner.’
His ebony brows, such a stark contrast to his light hair, pleated. ‘If they’ve got you, it lets me off the hook.’
Violet hadn’t been prepared for him to be that frank. ‘Yes, but they’re family, Tore. Family won’t always be there, so you should appreciate them while they are.’
Tore went rigid. ‘I couldn’t care less.’
‘You will when your grandparents arrive because I gather they do. It’s one month in the year,’ she reasoned. ‘Surely, you don’t have to work this hard every day of the week?’
If she’d been his real wife, he assumed he would feel differently.
He knew he was neglecting her and their guests.
But he reminded himself that Violet and Belle would be gone in three years.
That reality cost him the oddest sharp pang.
Certainly, life was less boringly predictable with them around.
They lightened the atmosphere, smoothed some of his rough edges into something more socially acceptable than his usual hermit habits and touched his conscience.
‘I’ll begin taking more time off,’ he told her, exhaling in a rush. ‘I promise.’
Satisfied, Violet departed but Belle wailed.
Tore groaned, running long brown fingers through his pale, already tousled hair.
And later, he watched his unwanted wife walk out onto the beach, Stella in tow with the baby and someone else dragging a load of bags of essentials.
He watched a tall man in bathing trunks leap up to stride forward and greet her and he frowned.
Sandro, his cousin Sandro Rossi, newly popular television star and famed pastry chef.
He had an ego that could probably be seen from the moon.
Of course he and Violet would have stuff in common, not least the fact that Violet was baking the household’s bread and Sofia had been furious when Sandro tried to take over the job, pointing out to Tore that Violet was a much better baker.
The intense loyalty the staff had already developed towards his unexpected bride had made Tore smile in appreciation.
He watched Violet throw back her head and laugh and it annoyed him.
‘His favourite is red velvet,’ Violet informed Sandro, who irritated the hell out of her with his superiority.
It was Tore’s birthday in two days and she was baking his preferred cake.
According to Sofia, he wouldn’t want purple grape or orange or almond ricotta cake.
He would want the favourite he had enjoyed since he was a little boy.
‘But that’s not Italian and it’s not very sophisticated,’ Sandro pointed out while his adoring mother backed him up in that conviction.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Violet said mildly. ‘He’s getting what he likes. If you want, you can decorate it.’
Sandro threw his handsome dark head back in dismay. ‘My assistants do the finishing stuff like that. I don’t.’
‘I’m quite happy to do the whole thing,’ she replied in a tone of finality. ‘But thank you for offering your expertise and advice.’
Sandro sighed and returned to flirting with her.
Eventually, irritated by his persistence, Violet got up and walked down to the shore to enable Belle to dip her bare toes in the rushing surf.
Her chortles of glee released Violet’s tension and she smiled.
She fooled around with her daughter for twenty minutes, enjoying her baby innocence, thinking with pained regret of how much Isabel and Stefan would have enjoyed such an outing with their child.
She was blessed, though, to have the time to play with Belle, she reflected, appreciating that her enforced break in Italy had provided unexpected benefits.