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Her stomach twisted. Her smile was lopsided, her cheeks bright pink.
“Come, mingle,” Clara encouraged. “The Waltons are here; Debbie was just asking about you.”
It was all the confirmation Bronte needed – reinforcement of the fact that having Luca here was an essential shield, even if it did mean lying to the family she adored.
A tiny, white lie, she reminded herself urgently. No harm could come of this – no one needed to know that their relationship was, and always would be, purely professional. No one needed to know that some chivalrous instinct within Luca had been fanned to life at the sight of Bronte in tears and with her desperate confession that she’d told everyone she had a new boyfriend. When this was over, she could easily extricate herself from that lie, and in time, probably confess the entire truth to her family. They’d laugh about it. No harm done.
But Debbie Walton was a huge gossip and she’d always been competitive with Bronte. She could just imagine how the other woman would have been enjoying the prospect of Bronte’s heartbreak. Having Luca beside her was a small – and petty – victory.
He was charming, of course, in that easy way of his, chatting to Debbie, her cousin Margaret and Mrs Walton about the coastline of Italy and the region of Tuscany he had grown up in, explaining about the grapes they grew on the property and harvested each year to turn into their own private wine. The women were hanging off his every word.
“It’s fascinating to see you in action,” Bronte murmured as they walked away, just the two of them in a sea of well-dressed revellers. She grabbed another glass of champagne as a tray was paraded by.
“In action?” He responded with a lift of his brow.
“You’re soooo charming. You can wind women around your finger with no effort whatsoever.”
His expression showed amusement. “I was making conversation.”
“You were being charming.”
“I didn’t realise. Do you want me to stop?”
A smile twisted her lips. “No, on the contrary, I like it.”
“Oh?”
“I’m the envy of the room.” She batted her lashes and he laughed, so her smile slipped a little as the full force of his handsome good looks hit her like a battering ram.
“That woman – Debbie – looked at you as though she wanted to smother you.”
Bronte took a sip of her champagne. “Quite possibly.”
“You don’t get along?”
Bronte considered that. “I guess we’re frenemies.”
“Frenemies?” He repeated, the phrase one he clearly wasn’t familiar with.
“You know – enemies and friends?”
He shook his head. “Can you be both at the same time?”
“Apparently. You’ve never had someone like that in your life?”
“If someone is my enemy then no, cara, they are definitely not in my life.”
She stared at him, bemused. What must it be like to live with such clear-cut certainty?
“What if they’re a family friend?”
He was quiet a moment. “That wouldn’t happen.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“My family is loyal to a fault. My enemy would be their enemy.” His words were infused with something sharp, something that made her blood turn cool. For a moment, she understood what it would be like to be pushed out by that family of brothers and cousins and a shiver ran down her spine.
“You can say that with certainty?”
