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Dear Lord, but he had fallen in love with Lily. She could see it in the softness of his eyes and the gentle tone of his voice, the tender way he held her. Their little daughter had crawled into his heart.
Donatella was smitten too.
If she found a way to escape, how could she, in all conscience, take Lily and disappear? It would be kinder to rip their hearts out and stamp on them.
But she could not allow herself to think of these things. She needed to concentrate on shoring up her mental defences against her husband. She had a whole evening to get through, during which she would be expected to act as Luca’s good Sicilian wife and pretend to be some obedient creature whose only objective in life was to please her husband. She would have to pretend she still loved him, pretend she enjoyed having her hand held in his.
Most of all she would have to convince herself he meant nothing to her, that her blood didn’t heat or her pulse rocket when he touched her.
Her fingers began to itch, a feeling that startled her. It wasn’t the same itch as when she’d wanted to slap him. This was an itch from old.
For the first time in almost a year she felt a desperate urge to paint, to draw, to sketch.
Before she could begin tearing the suite apart looking for some paper and a pen or pencil—when, she wondered, had she stopped carrying a sketch pad with her everywhere she went?—there was a light rap on the suite door.
She checked the spyhole, only opening the door when satisfied her visitor was a member of the hotel staff.
‘Signora Mastrangelo?’ the severe-looking woman asked, a large package in her hands.
‘Sì,’ Grace replied, showing off a little of her Italian.
‘This has just arrived for you,’ the woman said in perfect English.
‘Who’s it from?’
‘I do not know, signora. Maybe there is a note inside for you?’ she added helpfully.
‘Thank you. I mean, grazie.’
‘Prego.’
Grace closed the door and took the box to the dining table, intrigued and a little wary of what could be inside and who could have sent it.
Clenching her teeth together, she took a deep breath and ripped off the brown packaging. Inside was a long cream box with a familiar motif.
Her heart suddenly wedged in her throat, she opened the lid as if she were expecting a load of cobras and rattlesnakes to be inside.
Her hands flew to her mouth. No note accompanied it. No note needed to accompany it.
Inside was the peacock-skirted dress she had fallen in love with before Luca had forced the beige monstrosity on her.
He must have noticed her staring at it on the mannequin. Not only had he noticed but he had remembered.
If her belly wasn’t already a mass of noodles and butterflies before, it was now a riot to match the beautiful colours of her dress.
When had he bought it? And why? Why now? So many confused thoughts were flying through her head that at first she didn’t hear the new rap on the suite door.
Opening it, she found the same employee standing at the threshold, this time holding another, smaller package.
‘My apologies, signora. I had not been informed that this too was delivered by the courier.’
Less than a minute later, Grace opened the package and discovered the most amazing pair of high, strappy gold sandals.
* * *
Grace was applying her make-up when she heard Luca enter the suite. Immediately her steady hand began to shake, violently enough for her to stab herself in the eye with her mascara wand.
‘Grace?’ he called out.
‘I’m in my room,’ she replied, putting a palm to her smarting eye.
‘Are you ready?’
‘Nearly.’
‘Will you be ready to leave in fifteen minutes?’
‘Yes.’
Ready in fifteen minutes? Never mind that she needed to reapply her make-up and change from the hotel robe into the dress, she could have fifteen years and she doubted she would be ready.
‘Are you all right in there?’ He must have heard something in her voice because his tone was concerned.
‘I’m fine.’
Removing her palm, she almost laughed out loud at her reflection. One eye was still perfectly made up. The other, the one she had stabbed, had all the make-up running, the eye itself bright red and weeping.
‘Brilliant,’ she muttered under her breath.
Her door opened.
‘You’re not fine,’ Luca accused, strolling over and peering closely at her. ‘What have you done?’
‘Stabbed myself with my mascara. Don’t worry. I’ll give it a couple of minutes to stop weeping and then I’ll redo it.’
A slow grin spread over his face. ‘You look like Morticia Addams.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Or that clown. What’s its name? Poirot?’
