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Five minutes later Hannah left the boutique with a shop assistant personally escorting her to the selected salon, her driver/bodyguard trailing behind them.
Having her hair cut was one of the most surreal events she could ever recall and, considering the dreamlike quality of the day thus far, that was saying something.
The salon itself was filled with women who were clearly the cream of Sicilian society, yet Hannah was treated like a celebrity in her own right, with stylists and assistants fawning all over her and thrusting numerous cups of strong coffee into her hands.
At the end, when she was given the bill, she made an admirable job of not shrieking in horror.
Oh, well, she told herself as she handed her credit card over for another battering, it would surely be worth it.
She was determined that, after tonight, Francesco would never look at her like a bag lady again.
CHAPTER SIX
HANNAH HAD BEEN shopping in Palermo for such a long time that Francesco started to think she’d had second thoughts and hopped on a plane back to London.
He could have found out for himself by calling the bodyguard he’d left to watch over her, but resisted each time the urge took him. He’d stopped himself making that call for almost two hours.
Thus, when the bulletproof four-by-four pulled up within the villa’s gates late afternoon, he fully expected Hannah to get out laden with bags and packages, having gone mad on his credit card. Likely, she would have changed into one of her new purchases.
Instead, she clambered her way out and up the steep steps leading to the main entrance of his villa, still dressed in that ugly shapeless dress. All she carried was her handbag and two other bags and, to top it all off, she wore a navy blue scarf over her hair.
She looked a bigger mess than when he’d left her in the boutique.
Even so, his heart accelerated at the sight of her.
Taking a deep breath to slow his raging pulse, then another when the first had zero effect, Francesco opened his front door.
Hannah stood on the step before him. ‘This is your home?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling.
‘Sì.’
‘It’s fabulous.’
It took every ounce of restraint within him not to allow his lips to curve into the smile they so wanted. ‘Thank you.’
He took a step back to admit her. ‘You were a long time.’ Immediately he cursed himself for voicing his concern.
‘The boutique manager—a fabulous woman, by the way—managed to get me into a hairdresser’s.’
‘You’ve had your hair cut?’ He caught a whiff of that particular scent found only in salons, a kind of fragrant chemical odour. It clung to her.
‘Kind of.’ Her face lit up with a hint of mischief. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see—the hairdresser wrapped the scarf round it so it didn’t get wind damaged or anything.’ She did a full three-sixty rotation. ‘I can’t believe this is your home. Do you live here alone?’
‘I have staff, but they live in separate quarters.’
‘It’s amazing. Really. Amazing.’
Francesco’s home was a matter of pride, his sanctuary away from a life filled with hidden dangers. Hannah’s wide-eyed enthusiasm for it filled his chest, making it expand.
‘Who would have guessed being a gangster would pay so well?’ Her grin negated the sting her words induced. ‘I’m just saying.’ She laughed, noticing his unimpressed expression. ‘You’re the one trying to convince me you’re a gangster.’
‘You really don’t believe in beating around the bush, do you?’
Her nose scrunched up a little. ‘Erm...I guess not. I’ve never really thought about it.’
‘It’s very refreshing,’ he surprised himself by admitting.
‘Really? And is that a good thing?’
‘Most refreshing things are good.’
‘In that case...excellent. It’s nice to know there’s something about me you approve of.’ Despite the lightness of her tone, he caught a definite edge to it, an edge he didn’t care for and that made him reach over and grab her wrist.
‘When are you going to learn, Dr Chapman, that my approval should mean nothing to a woman like you?’
‘And when are you going to learn, Signor Calvetti, that I may be a doctor but I am still a human being? I am still a woman.’
He was now certain the edge he had detected was the whiff of reproach.
