Page 145

“I didn’t notice,” he replied in a clipped voice, and then stepped out of the car, reaching back to help her out, as well. “Welcome to the Amanti estate,” he told her, and then dropped her hand.

* * *

Rose craned her neck to look up at the imposing edifice before her—a cross between a castle and a wedding cake, rising up before her in balconied stories of pink limestone. Brightly painted shutters were thrown open to the glorious day, and bougainvillea spilled from the balcony railings in a riot of purples and pinks. When she turned, she saw the drive twisting down through manicured gardens interspersed with palm trees to an impressive pair of wrought-iron gates, festooned with the Amanti crest in gold.

Once more, Rose felt like she’d stepped into a fairy tale, except since she’d woken up that morning, Christos had been no Prince Charming. She didn’t know if he was just trying to keep some distance between them after their scorching kiss—something she was trying to pretend she’d forgotten when in fact she was achingly conscious of it every single second—or if he had genuinely lost interest in her. He certainly seemed as if he had, his manner polite but diffident, even indifferent.

Maybe, Rose reflected, her innocence had been a total turnoff, or maybe his kindness and interest before had been nothing more than a ruse to put her at her ease and get her to come to Italy. Well, she was here now, and part of her was seriously wondering whether that was a good idea, even as another part of her was itching to explore every inch of this amazing place.

She just needed to go with it, she told herself resolutely. Enjoy the ride while she could and do her best to ignore the fact that Christos was ignoring her, and that it hurt. That it brought up all her insecurities, her loneliness and fear of rejection, the weaknesses she’d always hid with sunny optimism—and was determined to hide now.

“Antonia will show you to your room,” Christos said as he cupped her elbow to guide her up the wide marble steps that led to the imposing front door. “Then you can rest and refresh yourself.”

She felt a little like she was being put out of the way, but Rose chose to ignore that, too. A smiling, dark-haired housekeeper greeted them in the soaring foyer, a double staircase of pure white marble sweeping up to an imposing balcony, where a huge chandelier sparkled and glinted in the sunlight streaming from a domed skylight above.

“Welcome to Villa Amanti,” she said in accented English, her voice warm, and Rose felt a little more at ease. Christos kissed the housekeeper’s cheek, giving her a quick, genuine smile; clearly she’d been with the family a long time.

“Giorgio will bring your bags,” Christos told her, as if she should know who Giorgio was. Sensing her dismissal, Rose followed Antonia up the double staircase to a plushly carpeted hallway lined with wood-paneled doors.

“You must be tired,” the housekeeper murmured as she led Rose into a room that was at least twice as big as her apartment back in New York, decorated in sunny yellows and creams. A massive double bed stood on its own dais, and two sets of French doors led out to balconies that overlooked Lake Maggiore, bright blue and sparkling under the summer sun. There was a separate living area with a sofa, two armchairs, and a desk, a massive walnut wardrobe and an adjoining bathroom that looked like the height of luxurious decadence.

“If you need anything,” Antonia told her, “you may press the button right here.” She pointed to a discreet button inlaid in wood on the wall by the bed. “I hope you will be very comfortable here, signorina.”

“Thank you,” Rose murmured. She was already overwhelmed by everything—first the private jet, now this massive house…and as amazing as it all was, it also felt like a lot. A lot to take in. A lot to get used to.

After Antonia left, she spent a few minutes exploring the room; the view from the balcony was like something you’d see on a postcard, manicured gardens with brightly flowering shrubs tumbling down to the lake, which was achingly blue, a motorboat jetting across it in a wake of white ruffles, and an island, no more than a smudge of green, in the distance.

The bathroom was as luxuriously appointed as the bedroom—a sunken marble tub, an infinity shower and double sinks. Rose thought of the little falling-down farmhouse she’d grown up in, the small bedroom she’d had at her aunt’s, her shoebox apartment in New York… She’d never, ever experienced anything like this before.

She realized she wasn’t tired, and the thought of the house stretching all around her, and the gardens besides, was too tempting to resist. Why should she hide in her bedroom until luncheon, like some unfortunate inconvenience that had to be kept out of the way? She wanted to explore, and Christos had made it clear that she was to feel welcome here. Wasn’t that the point? Surely she could nose around a little.

And even if she wasn’t meant to…well, she was going to do it anyway. It felt like an assertion of her independence as well as a satiation of her curiosity.

Taking a moment to tidy her hair and clothes—that morning she’d chosen the most sedate and professional outfit she possessed—Rose stepped out into the hallway, her shoes sinking into the soft carpet. She decided it was easiest to go back the way she’d come, and so she headed to the staircase and went down it, tiptoeing out of instinct.

The foyer was empty, everything quiet and still. She stopped to sniff the huge bowl of roses and lilies on a marble table between the two staircases and then poked her head around a pair of double doors that led off to the left and a huge drawing room with elegant floor-to-ceiling sashed windows lined with heavy silk curtains and an ornately carved marble fireplace at one end. Huge oil paintings lined the walls of stern-faced ancestors. Rose tiptoed through the room before she decided to keep exploring.

She peeked in several other rooms—another drawing room that was slightly less austere, a dining room with a table that seated twenty, a more femininely decorated morning room. Then, in the back of the house, she turned a corner to discover a long, pillared gallery that ran along the entire length of the house, complete with Greek and Roman statues of white marble interspersed in alcoves, like something in a museum or a palace. She’d started walking down when she checked herself at the sound of voices coming from one of the alcoves. They were speaking in Italian, a woman’s voice raised in agitation and Christos’s response, a low, steady thrum.

Rose stilled, because even though she couldn’t understand Italian, she could tell this was an argument. She strained to listen, to make out a word she might know the meaning of. And then she did—bambino. Baby.

A jolt went straight through her, making her go utterly still. They had to be talking about her—and her child. And they were arguing. A cold sense of dread crept over her as the woman’s voice became even more agitated.

“Quanta costa, Christos,” she demanded, her voice full of tears. “Quanta costa il bambino?”

“Madre…” Christos sounded aggrieved as well as impatient. “Non e cosi semplice.”

The woman spoke again, a torrent of words Rose couldn’t understand. But she was afraid, horribly afraid, she’d understood enough. She had enough rudimentary knowledge of Romance languages to guess the meaning of that simple, ominous phrase, quanta costa il bambino.

How much for the baby.

Chapter Thirteen

Christos stared moodily out at the beautiful blue lake as his mother’s words reverberated through him.

“We agreed, Christos. We agreed this was the best way. You told me yourself every woman has a price. You only need to know what it is.” His mother’s voice had risen in a ragged cry. “This is my grandchild!”

“I told you before, Madre, this has to be handled carefully,” he’d bitten out. “I’ll talk to Rose later today, but I will manage this my own way. I am the head of this family,” he’d reminded her, only to have her brush away tears.