Chapter Two
Eleanora stepped off the bus that had brought her from the inexpensive pensione she was spending the night at to the grand Hotel Viscari, one of most prestigious in Rome, in the centro storico, where, to her dismay, she was to dine with Sanzio Bastoni.
In her cheap grey suit, she was certainly not dressed for such a swish location, but there was nothing she could do about it. There never was…
She’d learnt that bitter lesson early. Even if she made an effort to dress up, glam up, it was useless.
Memory seared humiliatingly. All her life she’d been in Tonia’s shadow, and had learned never, ever to emerge.
She’d made an attempt when she was eighteen and Tonia a sultry twenty-one-year-old, men all over her and habitually playing one off against the other, capricious and fickle.
It had been their father’s birthday and he had thrown a lavish party at a hotel, and for once, just once, Eleanora determined to make an effort, make something of herself.
Oh, not to compete with Tonia, let alone outshine her—that was obviously impossible—but simply to be seen as attractive and pretty in her own right.
She had gone to the hairdresser, had her hair cut, coloured and styled, splashed out on a cocktail dress, put on make-up and high heels.
Walked out of her bedroom feeling buoyed up and confident.
Only to have Tonia, knocking back pre-party champagne with their father, give a peal of scornful laughter.
‘Oh my God, it’s Ellie-Ellie! Trying to look sexy! Have you ever seen anything more ridiculous?’ she’d demanded of their father. ‘How totally pathetic!’
His derisive laugh had echoed Tonia’s.
Eleanora had stumbled back into her room, Tonia’s continuing mockery ringing in her ears, mortification flushing her face an unbecoming red, tears of shame starting in her eyes.
She had not gone to the party.
Tonia had simply banged on her bedroom door, told her to stop sulking and no one would miss her anyway.
Eleanora had learned her lesson. She would never need to learn it again. Now, she never tried to make anything of herself.
She could see it in Sanzio Bastoni’s eyes as he got to his feet as she was shown to his table in the hotel’s renowned restaurant.
His gaze flicked over her as she took her seat, then it was veiled.
She was disturbingly aware of her response to his powerful—but completely uncalled-for—impact on her, and tried to still it.
It had no place here at all. This evening was just about the Palazzo—and trying to persuade the man jilted by her capricious sister not to buy it.
Because he must be considering it, she’d realised—why else continue the discussion over it? Why even agree to see her in the first place if he wasn’t interested? She felt her nerves tighten. Somehow, she had to put him off the idea.
‘What would you like to drink?’ Sanzio Bastoni’s voice interrupted her anxious thoughts.
‘Oh, um, just mineral water, please—sparkling,’ she replied.
He was looking at her, she realised, with that same unnerving, assessing look as in his office.
‘No, you don’t look like a cocktail type of female,’ he observed. ‘Unlike your sister.’
Eleanora didn’t say anything.
Sanzio Bastoni made another observation. ‘Your father is fond of all kinds of alcohol, so I understand.’
It was said without expression, but Eleanora tensed. She made no rejoinder to that either. What did he expect her to say? Perhaps nothing, for he simply went on, ‘He is fond, too, of the gaming tables.’
He paused, lifting an eyebrow, his eyes still on her. ‘You have no comment to make?’ he posed.
Eleanora looked at him. ‘I’m unclear what relevance either has on the subject of our discussion,’ she returned.
Sanzio Bastoni’s head tilted slightly. ‘Really?’ he replied.
Her water arrived and she was glad. Made a play of taking a sip. ‘It is the Palazzo I am here to discuss with you, is it not?’ she countered, replacing her glass.
He didn’t reply for a moment, and she felt that levelling, assessing gaze on her again. She met it this time, chin going up very slightly. His expression changed.
‘Ah, there it is. I wondered if I might see it,’ he said.
Eleanora frowned. ‘See what?’
His mouth twisted at one side. ‘Your ancestry coming out.’
She looked blank. He lifted a hand. He had large hands, she noticed, with square palms and strong fingers. Working hands.
‘Your sister does it too. Up goes the chin, and down goes the impudent peasant who presumes to challenge her!’
Eleanora made a slight apologetic moue. ‘Yes, Tonia can do that,’ she admitted. Then realised she was being tactless, and coloured. ‘I can’t imagine she ever did it with you,’ she blurted out.
A low sound came from his throat. ‘Can’t you?’ he said.
His eyes were very dark, and there was something in them that made her speak hurriedly. ‘Well, if she did, she was an idiot!’
His expression changed. ‘How so?’
‘Because, Signor Bastoni, it would not be wise to insult you.’
She held his eyes, meaning what she said. Then, immediately, another thought was given voice by her before she could stop it. ‘She really must have been mad to turn you down!’
The moment it was out, she regretted it. It was none of her business—none—and it also had absolutely nothing at all to do with the sorry business of the Palazzo.
Mortified, she seized her menu, busied herself studying it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sanzio Bastoni pick his up nonchalantly, cast a brief look at it, then replace it. The waiter was gliding up to them.
‘My usual,’ Sanzio Bastoni said laconically.
‘Of course, Signor Bastoni,’ the man said deferentially, turning his attention to Eleanora.
‘Oh, the sole bonne femme, please,’ she said, choosing almost at random. She looked across at her host. ‘Does your usual include a primo?’ she enquired.
‘No, but feel free to have one,’ came the answer.
She shook her head. ‘Just the sole,’ she confirmed to the waiter, who nodded and glided off. The sommelier took his place.
‘My usual,’ Sanzio Bastoni said again. ‘But for my guest—she is having the sole bonne femme.’
‘Then may I suggest—’
The sommelier made his suggestion, she nodded, relying on his expertise, and he took his leave.
Sanzio Bastoni leant back again. His eyes went to hers.
‘So why,’ he began, ‘don’t you want me to buy the Palazzo?’
* * *
He saw her start. She hadn’t seen that coming, obviously. But to him it had been apparent from the moment she’d so revealingly demanded, ‘Do you actually want the Palazzo Verano?’
Now, he wanted to know why.
And, if so, what the hell was she doing wasting his time by apparently fronting for her father who, Sanzio did not need it spelling out, was dead keen on disposing of it. For her father, all that was in question was the price. But for her?
He kept his gaze on her, waiting for her answer. Waiting to see what it would be.
She was visibly trying to recover.
‘It’s more,’ she said now, ‘about why you want to buy it,’ she countered. ‘If,’ she added pointedly, ‘you actually do.’
His fingers drummed lightly on the damask tablecloth.
‘You know,’ he said, ceasing his drumming, ‘you’re really not very good at this, are you? Negotiating,’ he clarified. ‘Of course, I am not going to tell you whether I want your palazzo, let alone why.’
‘Well,’ she responded tartly, and it amused him slightly to hear that note in her voice, ‘you can hardly expect me then to answer your question, can you? Or,’ she added pointedly, possibly, he considered, stung by him telling her she was no good at negotiating, ‘if there is even a question to answer!’
He lifted his hand in a pacifying gesture. ‘So then, here we both are, neither of us making any kind of move—and the Palazzo sitting there, unloved and unwanted, so it seems.’
Something moved across her face. Something that was suppressed as swiftly. But suppression came too late. Had she realised? He doubted it. She really was no skilled negotiator.
Unlike her sister.
Tonia had played him to the last, like a pro. He’d known it, obviously, and even enjoyed it, entertaining himself by seeing how far he could push her boundaries. In the end, though, he’d been glad, in retrospect, that he hadn’t pushed as hard as he might have.
He pulled his thoughts away. Antonia da Verano was a ship that had sailed.
A speculative look glinted in the depths of his eyes.
Her sister, though, might just, if he gave it a little more thought, a little more consideration, be a ship that was sailing right towards harbour.
And she had absolutely no idea of it… .
* * *
Eleanora sipped at her mineral water. She felt on edge.
Was it only because of the verbal sparring just now, or was it because she suddenly felt all too conscious that here she was at the Viscari, dining—for whatever reason—with a man as dynamically attractive as Sanzio Bastoni?
She was well aware that female diners were casting him covert—and not so covert—looks, eyeing him up.
He was either oblivious to it or just took it for granted.
They were also probably wondering what on earth such an unprepossessing woman as herself was doing with him. If he was moving on from Tonia, it would most definitely not be with a woman like herself.
For a while, he did not return to the subject of the Palazzo. Instead, helping himself to a roll and generously slathering it with butter, he asked, ‘Do you frequent the Viscari when in Rome?’
Eleanora shook her head. ‘I’m very seldom in Rome. And my budget,’ she went on without thinking, ‘doesn’t run to coming here anyway.’
His dark eyebrows rose. ‘Your sister’s budget does,’ he replied.
‘Well, it would,’ she rejoined. ‘Not that she usually pays for herself when she goes out.’
She broke off. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded bitchy.’
She got a sardonic smile in return. ‘Why have looks like hers if you can’t put them to good purpose?’ he posed, his voice as sardonic as his smile.
‘I don’t think she does it deliberately.’ Eleanora sought to mitigate his comment.