The Italian's Rags-To-Riches Wife

He was looking at her with a speculative expression, as if considering something. ‘Tell me, Laura, do you play chess?’

‘A little,’ she answered.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’ll play after dinner.’

It was the strangest time for Laura. She felt unreal, as if the universe she had lived in for the past twenty-four years had shifted dimension. Or opened to another one.

The world of her father’s family. Alien, strange. But now—day by day, little by little—increasingly less so.

It was a slow journey, and she took it slowly. Warily. Uncertainly. Awkwardly. But step by step it was a journey she made. With each passing day life in the villa, with Tomaso steadily gaining strength, was becoming steadily more familiar to her—was less traumatic.

At some point, she knew, she would need to go back to Wharton—but not quite yet. Tomaso was stronger, but he was still confined to his bed, still visibly weak—and still so grateful that she was there. His eyes would light every time she came to see him, and he would hold his hand out to her.

He asked her about Wharton, but she spoke only in general terms, not about the expenses she faced. She didn’t want him offering to bankroll her. Sneering thoughts about back-payment for child maintenance were gone now—and anyway, she knew her maternal grandfather would never have accepted money from the Viales.

Her days passed lazily. There was an indoor swimming pool at the villa, and the extensive grounds were beautiful to walk around in, yet as the time passed, leisured and unhurried, eventually she grew more anxious to return to Wharton. The mortgage needed to be finalised and repairs scheduled, and Laura was eager to get stuck into all the work waiting for her.

She tackled her grandfather about the subject one afternoon, as they played chess in the library.

‘I really do need to go home soon,’ she said.

His eyes flickered. ‘I had hoped you would come to see your place here with me as home, child,’ he answered.

Dismay filled her. How could she say no—and yet how could she possibly say yes?

Tomaso saw her reaction and pressed on. ‘Wait at least until Allesandro returns—he will be here for the weekend. He will have business to discuss with me of a nature very important to him.’

There was nothing she could say to that, either. She had no wish to see Allesandro di Vincenzo again, or to hear about his ambitions to run the company himself, but it seemed rude to say so to her grandfather.

‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘But then I really must go.’

‘Good, good,’ said Tomaso. He reached for the chess set. ‘Now, I will tell you what mistakes you made so that you can learn for the next game. You should never lose any game you play, Laura. Always play to win! I have done that all my life—and I have never lost. Not once! Whatever game I’ve played. And the reason is—in life as in chess—I plan ahead. Always I plan ahead—make the moves I need to make—and then I win!’

He smiled, and it seemed to Laura that it was a particularly satisfied smile. She found herself wondering why it should be—then her attention was recalled to her shortcomings at chess, and the thought slipped away from her.

Moodily, Allesandro helped himself to a flute of champagne from the tray of a circulating waiter and let his thoughts darken. His mind was not on the lunch party he was attending. It was on the fact he still was not chairman of Viale-Vincenzo. Tomaso still had not resigned. Resentment and anger burned in him. Tomaso was taking him for a ride—and it was one he did not appreciate.

Allesandro had thought his mood would improve when he returned to Rome. Not only would he be well out of range of both Tomaso and his repellent and graceless granddaughter, but he had also been looking forward to enjoying Delia’s company again. However, when he had arrived at her apartment she had casually informed him that she was moving on.

‘I’m off to the Grenadines,’ she had cooed. ‘Guido Salvatore’s invited me to his yacht party there. I’m flying out tonight.’

Allesandro glowered into his glass as he took a large slug of the vintage champagne, hoping it would give him the buzz he needed to lighten his mood. On top of all the silence he was getting from Tomaso, he was also resenting another night of celibacy.

‘Sandro, ciao—’

His thoughts interrupted, Allesandro acknowledged the greeting—but without pleasure. Luc Dinardi had wanted Delia Dellatore for himself, and would not miss the opportunity to offer false sympathy for her defection. He braced himself for the jibe.

But when it came, it was not about Delia’s desertion.

Luc’s eyes glinted with friendly malice. ‘So tell me, Sandro—do I offer commiserations or congratulations? The press seem to think the latter, but then they’re always hopelessly sentimental. The reality’s usually different.’

Allesandro stared, frowning. What the hell was Luc talking about? The other man took a mouthful of his own champagne, his expression taunting.

‘Perhaps it’s a case of congratulations and commiserations. Congratulations on finally getting what you’re after. Commiserations—’ his tone changed to a humorous one ‘—on the way you’ve had to get it.’ He clapped a hand on Allesandro’s shoulder. ‘So, when do we get to meet her?’

Allesandro’s voice was blank, ‘Meet who?’

Luc grinned. ‘Oh, come on, Sandro—don’t play coy. Your fiancée—Tomaso Viale’s long-lost granddaughter.’

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