Nicoletta’s boutique and Renzo loaded it into the back of his sports car. The air was crisp as they drove through the mountains towards Italy’s capital, the hills softly green against the ice-blue sky as the powerful car swallowed up the miles. They stopped in a small, hilltop town for an early lunch of truffled pasta followed by torta della nonna and afterwards walked through narrow cobbled streets to the viewpoint at the very top, looking down on the landscape below, which was spread out like a chequered tablecloth of green and gold.
Darcy gave a long sigh as her elbows rested on the balustrade and Renzo turned to look at her.
‘Like it?’ he questioned.
‘It’s beautiful. So beautiful it seems almost unreal.’
‘But there are many beautiful parts of England.’
She shrugged, her eyes fixed on some unseen spot in the distance. ‘Not where I grew up. Oh, there were lots of lovely spaces in the surrounding countryside, but unless they’re on your doorstep you need funds to access them.’
‘Was it awful?’ he questioned suddenly.
She didn’t answer immediately. ‘Yes,’ she said, at last.
He heard the sadness in that single word and saw the way her teeth chewed on her bottom lip and he broke the silence which followed with a light touch to her arm. ‘Come on. Let’s try and get there before it gets dark.’
She fell asleep almost as soon as she got in the car and as Renzo waited in line at a toll gate, he found himself studying that pale face with its upturned freckled nose. Her red curls hung over one shoulder in the loose plait she sometimes wore and he thought that today she looked almost like a teenager, in jeans and a soft grey sweater. Only the bump reminded him that she was nearly twenty-five and soon going to have his baby.
Could they make it work? His leather-gloved fingers gripped the steering wheel as they moved forward. They had to make it work. There was no other choice, for he would not replicate his own bleak and fatherless childhood. He realised how little she’d actually told him about her own upbringing, yet, uncharacteristically, she had mentioned it today. And even though that haunted look had come over her face, he had found himself wanting to know more.
Wasn’t that his role now, as husband and prospective father—to break the ingrained rules of a lifetime and find out as much about Darcy as possible? And wasn’t the best way to do that to tell her something about him—the kind of stuff women had quizzed him about over years, to no effect. Because communication was a two-way street, wasn’t it? At least, that was what that therapist had told him once. Not that he’d been seeing her professionally. To him she was just a gorgeous brunette he’d been enjoying a very physical relationship with when she’d freaked him out by telling him that she specialised in ‘family therapy’ and he could confide in her anytime she liked. His mouth thinned. Maybe he should have taken her up on her offer and gathered tips about how to deal with his current situation.
Darcy woke as they drove into the darkening city whose ancient streets were deeply familiar to him from his own childhood. Taking a circuitous route, Renzo found himself enjoying her murmured appreciation of the Campidoglio, the Coliseum and other famous monuments, but he saw her jaw drop in amazement when he stopped outside the sixteenth-century palazzo on the Via Condotti, just five minutes from the Spanish Steps.
‘This isn’t yours?’ she questioned faintly, after he’d parked the car and they’d travelled up to the third floor.
‘It is now. I bought it a couple of years ago,’ he replied, throwing open the double doors into the main salon, with its high ceilings, gilded furniture and matchless views over the ancient city. ‘Although the Emperor Napoleon III happened to live here in 1830.’
‘Here? Good grief, Renzo.’ She stood in the centre of the room, looking around. ‘It’s gorgeous. Like…well, like something you might see in a book. Why don’t you live here? I mean, why London?’
‘Because my work is international and I wanted to establish a base in London and the only way to do that properly is to be permanently on-site. I don’t come back here as often as I should, but maybe some day.’
‘Renzo—’
But he cut her off with a shake of his head. ‘I know. You want to talk—but first you should unpack. Get comfortable. We need to think about dinner but first I need to do a little work.’
‘Of course,’ she said stiffly.
‘Come with me and I’ll show you where the main bedroom is.’
Down a high-ceilinged corridor she followed him to yet another room which defied expectation. The enormous wooden bed had a huge oil painting on the wall behind it, with elaborate silk drapes on either side, which made it seem as if you were looking out of a window onto mountains and trees. Darcy blinked as she stared at it. How am I even here? she wondered as she unwound the soft blue scarf which was knotted around her neck. She looked around the room, taking in the antique furniture, the silken rugs and the priceless artwork. Yet this staggering display of a wealth which many people would covet had little meaning for her. She didn’t want things—no matter how exquisite they were. She wanted something which was much harder to pin down and which she suspected would always elude her.
She showered and changed into a cashmere tunic with leggings, padding barefoot into the salon to see her new husband at his computer, the familiar sight of one of his spectacular designs dominating the screen. But despite her noiseless entrance he must have heard her because he turned round, those dark-rimmed spectacles on his nose giving him that sexy, geeky look which used to make her heart turn over.
Still did, if she was being honest.
‘Room to your satisfaction?’ he questioned.
‘Bit cramped, actually.’
He gave the glimmer of a smile. ‘I know. Makes you claustrophobic. Hungry?’
‘After that enormous lunch?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Funnily enough, I am.’
‘Good.’ His gaze roved over her, black eyes gleaming as they lingered a little too long. ‘Looks like you have some catching up to do. You need to put some meat on those bones.’
She didn’t reply to that. She wasn’t going to tell him that she felt all breasts and bump. She wanted to tell him not to look at her body any more than was absolutely necessary.
And yet she wanted him to feast his eyes on it all day and make her glow inside.
‘We could eat out,’ he continued. ‘I could take you to Trastevere, where you can eat some real Italian food and not something designed to try to appeal to an international palate. Or…’
She raised her eyebrows questioningly. ‘Or?’
‘We could order in pizza.’
‘Here?’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged as she stared through an arch to see a long, softly polished dining table set with tall silver candelabra. ‘It seems way too grand.’
‘A table is there to be used, Darcy, no matter what you’re eating.’
It seemed decadent to find themselves there an hour later sitting on ormolu chairs, eating pizza with their fingers. As if they had broken into a museum and had temporarily set up home for the night.
‘Good?’ questioned Renzo as she popped the last piece of anchovy in her mouth and licked bright orange oil from her fingers.
‘Heaven,’ she sighed.
But it still seemed like a dream—as if it were happening to someone else—until they returned to the main salon and he asked her if she wanted mint tea. She didn’t know what made her ask if he had hot chocolate and was surprised when he said he’d find out—and even more surprised when he returned a few minutes later with a creamy concoction in a tall mug. A potent memory squeezed at her heart as she took the drink from him—perhaps