top of the filing cabinet and filled it carefully. Her hands weren’t entirely steady, but she managed not to spill any, offering the mug to him as she said tightly, ‘I don’t have any milk or sugar.’
‘Why spoil a good cup of coffee?’ he countered smoothly, though she guessed he regretted his words when he tasted the bitter brew. ‘Mmm.’ He managed a polite smile, but he put his cup down rather quickly, she noticed. ‘It has a—distinctive flavour, no?’
‘It’s stewed,’ said Tess shortly, tempted to remind him that she hadn’t asked him to join her in the first place. ‘I’m sure you’re used to much better.’
Castelli’s mouth twitched. ‘I am sure I am, too,’ he said without modesty. ‘If you will come out with me today I will prove it.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve told you, I can’t.’
His strange, predator’s eyes flared with impatience. ‘Because you do not trust me, perhaps?’
‘Trust has nothing to do with it,’ she said, though he was right, she did know very little about him. Stepping back from the situation, she could see he might have a point.
‘What, then?’ He moved to the door and glanced into the gallery. ‘You have no customers. I doubt anyone will be too disappointed if you close. It is hardly an active concern. That is why Scottolino is thinking of moving his interest to Firenze—ah, Florence.’
Recognising the name she’d seen on the top of invoices Ashley had typed, Tess realised he was talking about the gallery’s owner. ‘Mr Scottolino is moving out of San Michele?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Does Ashley know that, do you think?’
‘I doubt it.’ Castelli was dismissive. ‘Augustin is not the kind of man to keep his employees appraised of his plans. Particularly when it will mean that your sister will be out of a job.’
Tess’s lips pursed. ‘And your enquiries—as you so politely put it—won’t have flattered her reputation, no?’
Her sarcasm was obvious and Castelli spread his hands, palms upward. ‘You do me an injustice, Tess. I am not your enemy.’
You’re not my friend either, thought Tess dourly, but his use of her name caused another unwanted frisson of excitement to feather her spine. She’d expected him to have forgotten it, she realised. It was Ashley he was interested in, Ashley who was his focus. Yet when he said her name in that low attractive voice that was as smooth and dark as molasses, her brain scrambled helplessly and she could have melted on the floor at his feet.
Fortunately, he didn’t know that, but she did and it annoyed her. In consequence, her tone was sharper than it might have been when she said, ‘You didn’t tell me how your son met Ashley. Considering the opinion you apparently have of the relationship, it seems an unlikely event.’
Castelli was silent for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. He doesn’t want to tell me that Marco has ambitions to be a painter, she thought smugly, feeling as if she’d got the upper hand for once.
But she was wrong.
‘They met last September,’ he conceded at last. ‘At the vendemmia, the grape harvest. There is always a celebration when the grapes are ready to press. Someone must have invited your sister to the gathering. For one evening of the year we keep open house.’
Tess frowned. ‘Then you must have met her, too.’
‘As I told you, I am informed I did.’ He shrugged. ‘There were many people. I do not remember.’
Tess absorbed this. ‘I assumed they’d met at the gallery. I understand Marco is interested in art.’
‘Now where did you hear that?’ Castelli’s eyes were once again focussed on her. ‘It seems you, too, have been making the enquiries, cara.’ His lips curled. ‘My son’s—interest in painting came after meeting your sister. It was an excuse to visit the gallery, nothing more.’
‘You sound very sure.’
Castelli shrugged. ‘Marco has never shown any aptitude for art before. He is a science student. He has always been more interested in the reality of life as opposed to the ideal.’
‘Ah, but wasn’t it Jean Cocteau who called art “science in the flesh”,’ Tess pointed out triumphantly. ‘And surely you can’t deny that Leonardo da Vinci was a scientist, as well as being one of the most influential painters of all time?’
Castelli pulled a wry face. ‘You are determined to win this argument, are you not?’ he remarked ruefully. ‘And when it comes to quotations from the classics, you obviously have the advantage. But, please, do not tell me that Marco’s infatuation for your sister is, as Ruskin said, “the expression of one soul talking to another’’, because I do not believe it.’
Tess was taken aback by his knowledge, but not really surprised. Raphael di Castelli struck her as being a very intelligent man and, contrary to his declaration, she doubted she had any advantage over him. But she understood his feelings, understood that it must be a source of frustration to him that Ashley had caused such a rift between him and his son.
‘I can’t imagine what Ashley thinks she’s doing,’ she murmured now, half wistfully. ‘Her mother thinks I should report her disappearance to the police.’
‘La polizia?’ He seemed taken aback. ‘But this is not a criminal matter.’
‘No.’ Tess didn’t know why but suddenly she wanted to reassure him. ‘I’ve managed to persuade her that there’s no need to involve the police at present.’
‘Grazie.’
He was obviously relieved and, taking advantage of his momentary weakness, she said, ‘I gather your investigator hasn’t turned up any clues.’
‘No.’ He was resigned. ‘He is still in Genova, checking the automobile rental agencies, as I believe I told you. So far, he has had no luck in tracing their whereabouts.’
Tess sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’ And she was. As much for him, she realised with some confusion, as for herself.
His expression softened. ‘You are not getting a very favourable picture of my country, are you, Tess? Or perhaps I should say, of my family. Despite his youth I accept Marco is also to blame.’
She managed a smile. ‘Thank you for saying that.’
‘My pleasure.’ His voice stroked her senses. Then, with gentle insistence, ‘You are not at all like your sister, are you, little one?’
Despite his reference to her size, the sudden intimacy of his words couldn’t be ignored and she seized on the first thing she could think of in response. ‘You’re sure they’re in Genoa, signore?’ she asked hurriedly. ‘Is it a big city?’
‘It is a very big city,’ he said drily, ‘and at this point I am not sure of anything.’ A trace of weariness entered his voice. ‘That is why I am going to Viareggio. Marco may have confided his plans to his sister.’
‘To his sister? I didn’t know he had a sister.’
And why should she? she thought foolishly. It wasn’t as if Castelli had confided his family connections to her. But somehow she’d got it into her head that Marco was an only child. Or perhaps, she’d only hoped he was. If Castelli had more children, he was even further out of reach.
He was regarding her with mild speculation now and she wondered what was going on behind his polite façade. What was he thinking? That she’d been presumptuous to say what she had? Or that she had no right to question his private affairs?
‘My daughter married at the end of last year,’ he replied at last, apparently deciding she deserved an answer. ‘Maria—that is her name—she and Carlo, her husband, own a small albergo in a village not far from the city.’ He paused. ‘If you