Meghan stared straight ahead. The gothic spires of Il Duomo rose in the distance, as elegant and ostentatious as the decorations on a wedding cake.
‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m not that foolish.’
‘Good.’
She glanced at him curiously. ‘If you don’t care what your mother thinks, why introduce me to her at all?’
His mouth tightened, his fingers flexing once more on the steering wheel. ‘She’s family,’ he said shortly, and Meghan knew it was time to drop the subject.
A few minutes later they entered a residential section of Milan, where the elegantly fronted town houses were as grand as small palazzos. On a large, sweeping square with a fenced green in the middle, Alessandro pulled his car to a stop.
‘Here we are.’ A dark-suited man had exited the house and approached the car before Alessandro had even killed the engine.
He opened Meghan’s door and she clambered out, standing on the kerb while a brisk wind blew her hair into tangles.
The man opened Alessandro’s door, and Alessandro tossed him the keys.
They exchanged some rapid Italian, and Meghan caught enough to understand that the man was taking the car round to the back.
‘Grazie, Manuelo,’ Alessandro said, and Manuelo gave a short bow. He asked something else in Italian, but the wind carried the words away. After hesitating for the briefest of seconds, Alessandro answered. Meghan heard her name being mentioned, and cast him a curious glance after Manuelo had left.
‘What did you say about me?’
‘You’re staying here,’ Alessandro explained briefly. ‘I’ll reside at my flat until our wedding.’
Alarm prickled along her spine. ‘Why can’t we stay together?’
Alessandro barely spared her a glance. ‘It’s not appropriate.’
Appropriate? Surely staying in separate rooms, chaperoned by Alessandro’s own mother, was appropriate enough? Meghan wondered uneasily how Alessandro’s attitude towards her might change now that she was becoming his wife and not just his lover.
And yet she knew he was doing it to protect her. To make her feel safe, secure, unashamed. Just as he’d promised. She smiled at him.
‘Thank you.’
He shrugged in response. ‘It is my duty.’
They entered the town house through a pair of impressive double doors covered with an intricate iron trellis.
The foyer was decorated in cool marble, with a crystal chandelier suspended above a polished mahogany table with a large bowl of chrysanthemums on it.
Gabriella di Agnio entered from a short flight of steps that led to the rest of the house. She was a small, slender woman in her mid-sixties, dressed in a designer suit in cerise, her silver hair elegantly coiffed.
Meghan immediately felt gauche and underdressed, standing there, dazzled by wealth and glamour, dressed only in a jumper and jeans.
Gabriella’s pale blue gaze swept over the pair of them before she inclined her head.
‘Alessandro.’
Alessandro inclined his head back. ‘Mamma.’
It was hardly a warm greeting, Meghan thought. Tension crackled in the air.
‘I’m so glad you came. And your companion—Signorina Selby.’ She smiled graciously at Meghan, and Meghan ducked her head back.
‘Thank you.’
‘Luncheon has been served in the dining room. Will you come?’
‘Of course.’ Alessandro put his hand on Meghan’s back, propelling her forward with gentle pressure.
Gabriella watched this careless movement with narrowed eyes before smiling and leading the way upstairs.
Meghan imagined she could almost see the thread of hostility pulsating, taut and thin as a wire, between Alessandro and his mother. Why didn’t they like each other? What had happened?
The dining room was a long, narrow room, with frescoes painted on the walls and ceiling. Meghan drew her breath at the beautiful and obviously old paintings. She’d seen similar work on the walls and ceilings of churches in Umbria and Florence.
The Di Agnios, she realised afresh, were rich. Powerful.
It was unfamiliar, and yet soon it would be hers. Hers.
The wealth … the safety.
The table was set with a fragrant dish of beef risotto. There was an opened bottle of red wine on the sideboard.
Alessandro and his mother sat at opposite ends of the long polished table, and Meghan was forced to sit in the middle. She felt as if she were watching a tennis match.
‘I didn’t realise you were in Umbria,’ Gabriella began, as she beckoned a servant forward to serve the risotto.
‘Business,’ Alessandro replied briefly.
‘Are you back in Milan for long?’
Alessandro’s mouth tightened imperceptibly. ‘A few weeks. Maybe more.’
‘Business is well?’ Gabriella persisted, her voice eerily neutral.
‘You should know—you check our stock prices every day.’ Alessandro’s mouth curled upwards in a mocking smile.
‘I like to know what’s going on. Now,’ Gabriella replied with dignity.
‘I know how much it pains you to see me at the helm,’ he countered silkily, although his eyes glittered with—what? Meghan couldn’t be sure. Rage?
Hurt?
‘You almost wish I would make a mess of things, don’t you, Mamma?’ The word sounded crass. ‘It would be easier for you, then, wouldn’t it? You’d finally be justified.’
Gabriella dabbed at her lips with a linen napkin. When she raised her head to look at her son, her expression was stony.
‘No, Alessandro. I don’t want that.’ She paused, a new bleakness in her eyes. ‘I have never wanted to be justified.’
He shrugged—restless, unconvinced. ‘I said almost.’
Meghan gazed down at the risotto on her plate, steaming and richly scented with saffron. Her mouth was so dry she didn’t think she could manage a bite, delicious as it looked. She didn’t want to look at either Alessandro or Gabriella, or to feel the bitter antagonism that vibrated between them.
She was relieved when the wine was poured, and she took a grateful sip of the rich, ruby liquid. It slid like velvet down her throat.
‘What about you, Signorina Selby?’ Gabriella turned her rather brittle smile on Meghan. ‘Are you staying in Milan for long?’
‘I …’ Meghan looked helplessly at Alessandro. Obviously his mother was missing some salient details about their relationship.
‘As a matter of fact, Mamma, Meghan will be staying as long as I am.’ Alessandro smiled, but his eyes were cold and hard. ‘We’re getting married.’
The silence in the room was a physical thing, a separate presence, stifling, choking. Alessandro kept eating, and Meghan listened to the clink of his silverware while his mother simply stared, her face quite blank.
She recovered herself admirably, giving Meghan a forced but gracious smile. ‘Then of course I must offer my felicitations. When is this wedding to be?’
‘Next week.’ Alessandro barely looked at her as he kept eating. Meghan stared down at her food. Colour scorched her face. She ate a forkful of risotto, and it turned to ash in her mouth.