has much to recommend it.”
“I’ve no wish to offend you, Mr. Orsini, but if you seriously believe that, I can’t help thinking you must be a few bricks short of a full load.”
“An interesting turn of phrase,” he remarked, unable to suppress a smile, “but far from accurate, and I hope to persuade you of that over dinner.”
“After reading these letters, I’m no longer sure dinner’s such a good idea.”
“Why not? Are you afraid I might sway you into changing your mind?”
“No,” she said, with utter conviction.
“Then where’s the harm in our discussing the matter over a good meal? If, at the end of it all, you’re still of a mind to walk away, I certainly won’t try to stop you. After all, the doubts cut two ways. At this point, I’m no more persuaded of the viability of my wife’s request, than are you. But in honor of her memory, the very least I can do is put it to the test. She would expect no less of me—nor, I venture to point out, of you.”
Corinne Mallory wrestled with herself for a moment or two, then heaved a sigh. “All right, I’ll stay—for Lindsay’s sake, because this meant so much to her. But please don’t harbor any hope that I’ll go along with her wishes.”
He raised his glass again. “For Lindsay’s sake,” he agreed then, as a knock came at the door, gestured to the dining area situated in the corner. “That’ll be our dinner. I ordered it served up here. Now that you realize the delicate nature of our business, I’m sure you agree it’s not something to be conducted where others might overhear.”
“I suppose not.” Her reply signified agreement, but the hunted glance she cast around the suite suggested she was more interested in making a fast escape. “Is there someplace I can freshen up before we sit down?”
“Of course.” He indicated the guest powder room at the end of the short hall leading past the kitchen and bedroom. “Take your time, signora. I expect the chef and his staff will need a few minutes to set everything up.”
She’d need a lot more than a few minutes to pull herself together! Locking the powder room door, Corinne stared in the mirror over the long vanity unit, not surprised to find her cheeks flushed and her eyes feverishly bright. Emotionally she was under siege on all fronts, and had been from the second she’d arrived at Raffaello Orsini’s door and come face-to-face with the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
At the time of her wedding, Lindsay had sent photos, but that was years ago, and even if it had taken place just yesterday, no camera could capture his raw sexual magnetism. A person had to view him in the flesh to appreciate that. For Corinne, the experience had almost put her in a trance.
He did not look the part in which she’d cast him. Yes, he had the smooth olive skin and gleaming black hair typical of someone Mediterranean born and bred, but as she understood it, Sicilian men did not, as a rule, stand over six feet tall, or sport a pair of shoulders that would do a football running back proud.
As for his face, she’d hardly been able to bring herself to look at it, afraid that if she did, she’d focus too intently on his sensuous mouth, rather than the words issuing from it, or lose herself in eyes the color of woodsmoke.
He’d rendered her tongue-tied, and for the first time, she’d gained a glimmer of understanding for why Lindsay had so readily given up everything to be with him. That chiseled jaw, those exquisitely arrogant cheekbones and mesmerizing voice would have been hard to resist.
His hotel accommodation on the twenty-third floor was equally mind-boggling. A luxury suite, it was larger than most apartments, with a baby grand piano installed in the huge sitting room, seating for six at the round table in the dining alcove, and fabulous artwork on the walls. Not that she could imagine anyone paying much attention to the latter, at least not during the day, with stunning views of Stanley Park, Lions Gate Bridge, Coal Harbour and the North Shore mountains commanding attention beyond the windows.
Finally, and by far the most discombobulating, was the reason he’d asked her to meet him. If she hadn’t recognized Lindsay’s handwriting, she’d never have believed the letters were authentic. Even accepting that they were, she couldn’t wrap her mind around their contents, which was why she’d tucked hers into her purse and brought it with her into the powder room.
Spreading it out on the vanity now, she prepared to read it again, this time without Raffaello Orsini’s disturbing gaze tracking her every reaction.
June 12, 2005
Dear Corinne,
I hoped I’d see you one more time, and that we could talk, the way we’ve always been able to, without holding anything back. I hoped, too, that I’d be around to help Elisabetta celebrate her third birthday. I know now that I’m not going to be here to do either of those things, and that I have very little time left to put my affairs in order. And so I’m forced to turn to writing, something which was never my strong suit.
Corinne, you’ve been widowed now for nearly a year, and I know better than anyone how hard it’s been for you. I’m learning first-hand how painful grief can be, but to have money troubles on top of sorrow, as you continue to have, is more than anyone should have to put up with. At least I’m spared having to worry about that. But money can’t buy health, nor can it compensate a child for losing a parent, something both your son and my daughter have to face. And that brings me to the point of this letter.
All children deserve two parents, Corinne. A mother to kiss away the little hurts, and to teach a daughter how to be a woman, and a son how to be tender. They also deserve a father to stand between them and a world which doesn’t seem to differentiate between those able to cope with its senseless cruelties, and those too young to understand why it should be so.
I’ve known much happiness with Raffaello. He’s a wonderful man, a wonderful role model for a young boy growing up without a father. He would be so good for your Matthew. And if I can’t be there for my Elisabetta, I can think of no one I’d rather see taking my place than you, Corinne.
I’ve loved you practically from the day we met in second grade. You are my soul sister. So I’m asking you, please, to bring an open mind to my last wish, which is to see you and Raffaello join forces—and yes, I mean through marriage—and together fill the empty spaces in our children’s lives.
You each have so much to bring to the arrangement, and so much to gain. But there’s another reason that’s not quite so unselfish. Elisabetta’s too young to hold on to her memories of me, and I hate that. Raffaello will do his best to keep me alive in her heart, but no one knows me as well as you do. Only you can tell her what I was like as a child and a teenager. About my first big crush, my first heartbreak, my first kiss, my favorite book and movie and song, and so much more that I don’t have time to list here.
It’s enough to say that you and I share such a long and close history, and have never kept secrets from each other. Having you to turn to would give her the next best thing to me.
I’d trust you with my life, Corinne, but it’s not worth anything now, so I’m trusting you with my daughter’s instead. I want so badly to live, and I’m so afraid of dying, but I think I could face it more easily if I knew you and Raffaello…
The letter ended there, the handwriting not as sure, as if Lindsay had run out of the strength required to continue. Or perhaps she’d been too blinded by the tears, which had blurred the last few lines and left watery stains on the paper—stains made even larger by Corinne’s own tears now.
Desperate to keep her grief private, she flushed the toilet, hoping the sound would disguise the sobs tearing at her, then mopped at her face with a handful of tissues. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know her makeup was ruined. The mascara stung her eyes, adding insult to injury.
“Oh, Lindsay,” she mourned softly, “you know I’d do anything for you…anything at all. Except this.”
CHAPTER TWO
SHE