Richard had been rather scathing about the young Frenchman’s morals and abilities. ‘Dilettante,’ he had snorted, ‘and not even particularly good at that!’ And contrary to her previous practice, Saffron had found herself listening to and agreeing with her father’s summing up.
Tonight, because he was going away and she wouldn’t see him for some days, she wanted him to carry a good image of her. She had dressed carefully for the party; her beautiful Belinda Bellville dress, all shimmering white silk, and a froth of underskirts, the low-cut neckline trimmed with pink silk roses—and she was young enough to wear it—the diamonds which had been her mother’s; tiny studs for her ears and a matching necklace and bracelet, both delicate and dainty. For the occasion” she was wearing her hair up, in a soft chignon, tiny wisps of dark red hair caressing her neck. The silk rustled as her father helped her out of the car. The Veldinis’ villa was ablaze with lights, and a liveried footman threw open the doors as they arrived.
‘Very fin-de-siècle,’ Sir Richard murmured in Saffron’s ear as they climbed a shallow flight of marble stairs which led to an impressive marble-columned ballroom.
Signor Veldini had obviously been on the lookout for them. He reached the door at the same moment as they did, greeting Saffron’s father with profuse and voluble exclamations of pleasure, before turning to admire Saffron.
‘And this ravishing creature is your daughter? You are a very lucky man!’
His appreciation was entirely male and all Italian, and Saffron responded with a calm smile. A small movement several yards away caught her eye, and as she lifted her head she found herself looking straight up into the eyes of a tall, dark-haired man, standing alone. The dark hair and tanned skin proclaimed his Italian origins, but he was far taller than any other man in the room; topping even her father’s six feet by a couple of inches, and even at this distance Saffron could see that his eyes were grey. She caught her breath as she saw the twinkle in them; as though he had read her mind when she had smiled to coolly and so reprovingly at Signor Veldini, and all at once her mood lightened. She had been feeling very depressed because her father could not travel on to southern Italy with her as they had planned. He would join her at the villa later when his business in San Francisco had been concluded, he had promised, but still she was disappointed.
‘Paolo, will you not introduce us?’
She had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn’t realised the stranger had joined them; his words addressed to Signor Veldini but his eyes fixed firmly on Saffron’s face.
At her side, she glimpsed her father’s amused smile, and knew that she was blushing faintly.
‘If the Signorina permits?’ Signor Veldini begged formally, and when Saffron inclined her head, he placed his hand on the younger man’s arm, drawing him forward slightly, so that Saffron’s bare skin brushed the fabric of his evening jacket, evoking a trembling uncertainty that bemused her a little.
Even so she noticed that Signor Veldini had to glance up quite a long way to look into his companion’s face, and that the grey eyes were slightly crinkled in amusement, as though he too saw through the Signor and his machinations to impress her father.
‘Nico, you will be the envy of all our friends— they are all longing to be introduced to Miss Wykeham.’
‘Saffron,’ her father amended. ‘And I am sure Signor.…’ He paused and Signor Veldini filled in helpfully, ‘Signor Doranti—Nico—has an English grandmother, which is why he speaks your language so well,’ he explained to Saffron, while her father continued blandly, ‘Signor Doranti will forgive me if I leave him with my daughter while you and I discuss this all important business you told me about, signore.’
‘Only if you are absent long enough for me to dance with her,’ Saffron heard Nico Doranti respond with a smile in his voice as well as his eyes. ‘Unfortunately, Signor Veldini is in error,’ he added as Sir Richard was eagerly escorted away by their host. ‘I no longer have an English grandmother—regrettably she died several years ago, but if I didn’t cherish her memory before, I do so now, because it is my knowledge of her language and yours that enables me to steal a march on my fellow countrymen. Look at them,’ he invited. ‘They hate me.’
Saffron couldn’t stop herself laughing. It was all so very absurd. And yet she liked him, felt drawn to him, despite his appalling flattery.
‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said softly. ‘When you walked in just now there were shadows in your eyes—such lovely eyes—the colour of malachite should never be clouded.’
He was astute, Saffron acknowledged; and very intensely male. She glanced at him. His profile possessed a sensual hardness that struck a chord within her; he was different—and dangerous, and something inside her thrilled to the knowledge; a purely feminine response to the fact that out of all the women in the room he had sought her out. Thick dark hair curled down over the collar of his dinner jacket. His hands while lean and tanned possessed none of the soft flaccidity she had grown used to among her London acquaintances. They were not the hands of a man used to idling.
‘You have been in Rome long?’ he ventured, adding softly, ‘But no, you couldn’t have been, or I would have heard of it. You are far too beautiful to come to Rome and remain unnoticed.’
‘We arrived this morning,’ Saffron replied demurely, ‘and are leaving tomorrow. My father flies to San Francisco.’
‘And you?’
Just for a moment desolation touched her. There was a lump in her throat and tears stung her eyes. She was being silly, she reminded herself, but she had set such store by this holiday, had been so looking forward to it.
‘Come.’ His fingers on her arm were warm and protective. ‘There is a door over there which leads to the garden. We will walk through it, and you will be able to recover your equilibrium.
‘Am I forgiven for upsetting you?’ he murmured softly when they were outside.
Saffron nodded. He was so completely attuned to her mood and thoughts that she felt none of the hesitation or reserve she normally experienced, even with men she had known years.
The dark velvet richness of the Italian night with its scents and sighs embraced them. The gardens were formal—topiary walks and rose beds where Saffron could imagine fountains playing during the day.
The silly weakness she had experienced inside seemed to be exacerbated both by the night and Nico’s sympathy, but even so she was surprised when he suddenly stopped, turning her towards him and tilting her chin.
‘Tears?’ A handkerchief was produced and used to dry the damp stains on her cheeks. ‘May I ask why?’
‘No real reason.’ Her voice sounded shaky, but instead of feeling embarrassed she only felt an impulse to confide in him. ‘It’s just that my father and I were planning to holiday together—at our villa in southern Italy—and now he has to fly to San Francisco in the morning. It sounds silly, I know, but you see…’
‘Yes?’
She had stumbled to a halt, embarrassed, but the soft persuasion of his voice encouraged her to go on.
‘We’ve been on bad terms for some time,’ she explained simply, ‘and now we’ve found one another again, and…’
Her head drooped, long lashes fluttering down over her eyes to conceal her pain and doubt, astonished at her own confidence.
‘And you fear perhaps that he does not wish after all to be with you?’ Nico finished for her with quiet understanding.
His perspicacity shocked her. It seemed unreal that a stranger should know so much about her—see so much. It made her feel frighteningly vulnerable and yet overwhelmed with the relief of knowing that there was another human being who so perfectly understood her thoughts and feelings. The sensation was a strange one.
‘It shocks you,’ he guessed accurately, ‘that I should so easily perceive that which you keep hidden from others, but there