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Damn you, Dante.
Mia was very used to spending her evenings alone in the Suite al Limone. The drapes had been drawn by Sylvia and, having showered and pulled on a slip nightdress, she climbed into bed, dreading tomorrow and the funeral a hundred times more so now.
Of course it brought back memories of her parents’ funeral and though she tried to push that aside, the mere thought of being alone in a car behind the hearse made her feel sweaty and more than a little nauseous.
Mia wanted some tea, something hot and soothing, but until Dante left there was no way she would go downstairs and make some.
And though she wanted Dante gone, conversely she was not looking forward to him leaving for that would mean she would be here on her own.
Since Rafael’s death, Mia had found it creepy to be alone in this house at night.
In fact, she found it to be terrifying.
Sylvia and her husband had a cottage close by, and she could call them, of course—not that she ever would for something as trivial as tea. Yes, this really was to be her last night here because the very stiff upper lipped Mia was, in fact, petrified of ghosts. There was no way she could stay here, knowing Rafael was buried in the grounds. Her cases were all packed and tomorrow, once the reading of the last will and testament had taken place, she was leaving.
The Romanos wanted her gone anyway, that much she knew.
Well, she’d make it easy on them.
Mia lay there trying to read, but when she heard Stefano arrive to collect Dante for the vigil she put her book down. There was the sound of the main doors closing followed by wheels on the gravel and only then did she pull on a robe and come out of the suite. Turning on the lights as she went, jumping at every creak, gingerly Mia made her way down the stairs. She pushed open the doors to the kitchen and realised then that she wasn’t alone, for there, sitting silent and nursing a brandy, was Dante.
‘Oh!’ Mia exclaimed when she saw him, and clutched the top of her robe, more than a little embarrassed to face him in her night attire. ‘I thought you had gone.’
‘No. I decided not to go to the vigil.’ He rarely explained himself, and found himself questioning why he was doing it now. ‘As I just said to Stefano, I saw him the day he died; I don’t need to again.’
Mia nodded. Privately, she could think of nothing worse than spending a night in a church with an open coffin. ‘I was just getting a drink. Do you want one?’
He gave a slight shake of his head, and then, perhaps remembering they still had tomorrow to get through, he answered her more politely. ‘No, thank you. I am just about to head to the hotel. Oh, and there is a slight change of plans to tomorrow. Stefano insists that Eloa comes to the burial.’
‘Of course she should be there,’ Mia said, but then frowned because his disapproval was evident as he stared into his glass. ‘What, don’t you like her?’
‘What the hell does that have to do with anything? The fact is he wanted his children there, not some ship that passes in the night.’
‘Hardly a ship,’ Mia said. ‘They’re engaged to be married.’
‘Let’s hope then that Roberto draws up a watertight pre-nup for him.’
‘Do you never consider they might be in love?’
‘God help them if they are; love causes nothing but problems.’
‘You’re so cynical.’
‘Said the young widow on the eve of her rich husband’s funeral.’
Bastard, she wanted to hiss, but turned her back on him instead.
Dante tried not to notice the slight shake of her hand as she prepared a tray and made tea.
It surprised him. Not so much the shake of her hand, more that she made tea and served it herself, instead of summoning the staff.
He rather imagined her sitting up in bed, ringing down for tea to be served, and then he hauled his mind from that for he did not want to think, even for a second, of Mia in bed.
And certainly he did his best not to notice her feminine shape beneath the silk robe.
Something had shifted between them since his father’s death. The self-imposed rules of avoidance, to which Dante had strictly adhered, were starting to crumble and he fought hard to rebuild them.
He looked over towards the vast windows, but so dark was the night that he might as well have been looking at a mirror. Suddenly she turned and met his gaze in the window, then spoke to his reflection. ‘Dante, I don’t want to travel at the front of the procession.’
