Chapter Five #2
‘Beauty,’ he said, his voice acerbic, ‘is not only outward—and even then, it’s subjective.
Plus, there are different styles of beauty.
’ That was a message he really wanted to convey to her.
And more, too. ‘You can be beautiful on the outside, like your sister, and yet have an ugly personality. That,’ he emphasised, holding her eyes meaningfully, ‘is something you completely lack. You, Eleanora, win prizes for niceness!’
She coloured slightly at his praise, looking awkward.
‘You’re not used to compliments,’ he murmured with a rueful shake of his head.
‘You’re being kind,’ she said.
‘No, I’m being truthful.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Get used to it!’
Because soon, very soon now, you’ll be getting a lot, lot more.
And he was looking forward to delivering them…looking forward to it a lot.
* * *
Eleanora was sitting out on the apartment’s terrace, back in her comfortable tee and cotton trousers, enjoying a cooling drink and a paperback while Sanzio disappeared off to do a workout in the gym in the apartment block’s basement.
She’d busied herself putting in phone calls to a prestigious fine art auction house and art dealer and fixed up a couple of appointments for the following day, morning and afternoon.
Just as Sanzio had forecast, once she’d explained who she was and what she was after, Sanzio’s name had done the rest, ensuring she got instant and eager attention.
His voice from inside the apartment called her name.
‘I’m on the terrace!’ she called back, and moments later he was stepping through to join her.
He had, very clearly, done a vigorous workout.
His singlet was sweated, his hair damp with it too, and his muscle-pumped, semi-bare chest rising and falling with recent exertion—rippling with raw masculinity.
Eleanora swallowed unconsciously, knowing she should not stare but incapable of doing anything else.
‘Good session?’ she managed to ask, probably unnecessarily, given the visual evidence in front of her.
‘Good enough,’ he concurred. ‘May I?’ he asked, nodding at her half-full glass.
She handed it to him and he knocked it back. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and shower, but you’ll need to make a move too.’
Eleanora looked at him uncomprehendingly. Sanzio looked down at her. She could not read his expression.
‘No pizzas tonight—we’re dining out. In style. I’ve made a reservation at the Falcone.’
Dismay flooded her. More than dismay. ‘Sanzio, no, I couldn’t possibly!’
He held up his free hand. ‘Too late, the reservation’s made.’
‘But I can’t! I don’t want—’
She broke off. Her insides were twisting.
How could she make him realise how much she could not face being seen with him somewhere like the Falcone—or the Viscari or any other expensively fashionable place where he would once have been seen with Tonia?
He would draw all eyes—of course he would, how could he not?
—and the fact he’d last been seen there with her sister, looking a knockout as she always, always did, and then she’d dumped him for her French marquis and married him instead, leaving Sanzio to end up with Tonia’s plain-faced, no-looks sister, a second-best bride no one would wish on him—he’d be pitied even more than when Tonia had dumped him…
And I… I’ll be squirming. Knowing everyone will be wondering why on earth he married me—except for who I am, and that I came with the Palazzo Verano—because no way would any man want me, compared with Tonia.
She tried to meet his eyes, tried to convey everything that dismayed her about what he’d just said. But she could not read his expression, could only hear what he was saying now. There was something in his voice she hadn’t heard before. Almost implacable.
‘Eleanora, I know you have a dread of socialising, but all I’m saying is that we’ll have dinner together.
Is that really too much to ask?’ He paused, holding eye contact, sounding slightly more conciliatory now as he went on.
‘The Falcone isn’t like the Viscari. It’s much quieter.
It’s not in central Rome; it’s up above the city in an old mansion.
Luxurious, but smaller. It’s not the kind of place to go in order to see and be seen. Won’t you give it a try? For my sake?’
He sounded cajoling now, but Eleanora could only gaze at him helplessly.
Dismay warred with guilt. Sanzio was doing so much for her—rescuing the Palazzo from ruin, from being owned by some dubious character trying to launder ill-gotten gains or whatever, from her father stripping it bare, leaving it to rot…
But Sanzio’s saving it—and promising me it will always be my home.
Could she really not bring herself now to do what he was asking, even if she dreaded it?
Though why would he want to go out to dine with me? What for? I’m no one’s idea of a trophy wife! Not like Tonia!
And anyway—
She clutched at the only straw she could think of. ‘I can’t possibly dine out. I haven’t got anything suitable to wear. That outfit we bought today is daywear.’
‘That one is, yes,’ he agreed, and his tone now was smooth.
Very smooth. ‘But you see, Eleanora, that wasn’t the only outfit we bought.
I bought everything the commessa said suited you.
Including—’ his voice became smoother still ‘—something you didn’t try on, but which she assured me would be perfect for dining out.
She showed it to me while you were in the changing rooms. It all been delivered here this afternoon, while we were out—the concierge put the bags in my room.
I’ll bring them into yours so you can take a look. ’
He smiled down at her, and in his expression now was encouragement. ‘You can do this, Eleanora, I absolutely promise you. You’ll look wonderful.’
She opened her mouth to protest that however wonderful the clothes would look, she would be just the same as always. Dull and boring and totally not a trophy wife. But Sanzio held up a hand.
‘That was the doorbell,’ he said. He looked pleased. ‘Bang on time.’
‘What’s bang on time?’ Eleanora asked in a hollow voice.
Sanzio smiled down at her. ‘Your stylist,’ he told her.
* * *
Sanzio, dressed for the evening ahead in his tuxedo, took another mouthful of his beer sitting back on the sofa and tried to curb the thread of anxiety he was feeling as he waited for Eleanora to emerge from her bedroom.
What if she had balked at cooperating with the stylist, had taken against the dress the commessa had told him would be perfect for her, which he’d agreed with the moment she’d shown it to him…
and everything that went with it? What if… ?
What if my hopes for her were unfounded?
He could not bear to think so, so he silenced his anxiety—there was no purpose to it—instead trying to focus on the US business channel he was purportedly watching.
Then, out in the hallway, he heard a door opening—Eleanora’s bedroom door.
He put down his beer, flicked off the TV and sat forward expectantly—half in hope, half in apprehension.
There were voices out in the hallway, then the sound of the front door opening and closing.
Then silence.
It stretched. His nerve broke.
‘Eleanora?’
There came no answer. But the door, ajar to the hall, was pushed open. Silently, Eleanora stepped into view.
Relief flooded through Sanzio. And exultation—