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He’d stood in line behind her for what felt like several millennia but had only actually been about twenty minutes. She’d made some pointless attempts at small talk, until nerves at the penetrating looks he kept sending her had forced her to shut up.
But despite his silence, he hadn’t been disdainful, or even annoyed. He’d been relaxed, amused even.
While she felt as if she were on a knife-edge. Why was she so unbearably aware of his physical presence? Maybe it was simply his height, that imposing physique. She hadn’t really noticed how much taller than her he was, until now. That had to be why he seemed to tower over her, why it felt as if he were standing too close. When he really wasn’t.
But that hardly accounted for the sudden attack of paranoia. Every time she looked away, she could have sworn she could feel him watching her. The fine hairs on the back of her neck were prickling alarmingly, even now, as if she were being shocked with static electricity. Her brow creased some more in the perspex. She was being ridiculous. A look could not possibly have a physical manifestation. She had to be imagining it.
Soft hairs brushed against her forearm on the arm rest and she jumped. She laid her arm across her lap, and sent him a tight smile to disguise her skittish reaction. ‘It’s only a two-hour flight. I hope your jet lag’s not too bad.’
He sent her a steady look. ‘I’ll survive.’
‘The duca is sending a car to pick us up at the airport. His social secretary said in her email that the drive to his home is about two hours, apparently.’
‘Fine,’ he said, sounding indifferent.
‘What made you change your mind about meeting with the duca?’ she asked, on impulse.
His eyebrows lowered slightly, but he didn’t reply.
‘You didn’t seem inclined to pursue your inheritance, before,’ she said, trying not to wince at the memory of exactly how disinclined to pursue it he’d been.
‘My possible inheritance,’ he said carefully. ‘There’s no conclusive evidence that we’re related. And I’m not taking a DNA test.’
The reply was deliberately evasive, and only made his decision more confusing. If he had no intention of pursuing this, why was he even going to Italy? ‘I doubt the duca will insist on a DNA test,’ she remarked.
‘Of course he will,’ he said, dismissively. ‘He’ll want proof.’
‘He won’t need proof once he sees you.’
‘Why not?’ he said, the hint of irritation surprising her. It was almost as if he didn’t want to be related to the duca…
‘Your resemblance to his son is uncanny.’
His eyebrows rose fractionally but then his mouth flattened into a thin line. ‘I see.’ He hissed the words under his breath, just as the steward announced the details of the in-flight services.
‘I have a photo of your father, if you’d like to see it?’
* * *
Nick looked at Eva blankly. ‘My father?’ he asked, momentarily confused. Was she planning to whip out the newspaper clipping of Carmine Delisantro? Then he realised who she was talking about, and he had to stifle the renewed stab of annoyance. ‘You mean Leonardo De Rossi?’
She blinked. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, I meant your biological father. I should have clarified that. I realise this must be hard to—’
‘He’s not my father,’ he interrupted her sharply, not liking the way her features softened.
I don’t have a father, he almost added, but didn’t. Instead he grabbed the in-flight magazine out of the seat pocket, flipped a few pages to find something to read. But when she took the hint and didn’t say anything more on the subject, he began to feel churlish, like a sulky child. Plus biting her head off for no good reason probably wasn’t the best way to persuade her he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
He stuffed the magazine back in the pocket. Turned to find her switching off her mobile.
‘As far as I’m concerned De Ro
ssi’s a sperm donor,’ he clarified, careful to hide the bitterness in his voice. ‘He means nothing to me. And neither does this inheritance.’ He wasn’t about to admit that the main reason he’d agreed to come was to see her again, so he added, ‘I’m just a bit curious to find out what kind of man could make my mother forget her marriage vows.’
She said nothing for a long time, but he had the strangest sensation she could see right past his show of indifference. The truth was he was more than a little curious about the duca and his son, and why his mother had betrayed his father, or the man he had always thought of as his father, all those years ago.
He felt the unfamiliar flush of colour rise up his neck under her unwavering gaze, then her fingers touched his arm.
‘You seem to have a lot of unresolved anger towards your mother.’
