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‘Indeed.’ Gian nodded. ‘The whole menu was chosen by Ariana to reflect that—the truffles are from his home.’
‘How lovely,’ Mia said, and glanced over at Ariana, who refused even the slightest truce, and instead rather pointedly turned her elegant shoulders and spoke to the guest on her other side.
When the main course was served, Mia hadfiletto di maiale alla mela, and it took her straight back to the fragrant scent that had greeted her after a long ride on Massimo, but the gentle reminiscence was soured when she saw the woman next to Dante place her hand on his arm as she vied for his attention. Worse, he turned to her and smiled in agreement at whatever it was she had said.
Oh, Mia was more than jealous. Disappointment coursed through her for no matter how she might deny her reasons for being here, the simple fact was that she wanted time alone with Dante.
She wanted that dangerous dance.
As desserts were cleared away—again a selection of Rafael’s favourites all chosen by Ariana and displayed to perfection—Eloa at least made an attempt at conversation. ‘Ariana has also been helping us with our wedding preparations.’
‘Oh.’ Mia smiled. ‘When is the wedding?’
‘May,’ Eloa said.
‘It’s going to be amazing.’ Ariana slipped in a dig. ‘Anyone who’s anyone has been invited.’
And Mia, given she hadn’t been, was clearly a no one to them.
Eloa at least had the decency to blush.
When the meal was over, and before the speeches and silent auction, there was to be socialising and dancing. Of course, out of respect to Rafael, Mia sat out the dancing and thankfully Gian took the poisonous Ariana off to dance.
Yet, despite the tension at the table, despite Ariana’s caustic words, despite herself even, Mia found that she had missed them all.
Yes, even if it made perfect sense that she hadn’t been invited to Stefano and Eloa’s wedding, even if it would be hell to attend, it hurt that she wouldn’t be there.
That their lives were all moving on without her.
She was hormonal, Mia decided, sniffing back sudden tears and then doing her best to speak with the Minister of Something, though she had no real idea what was being said. That she could not focus had nothing to do with her less than fluent Italian, for the minister spoke in perfect English. It was more that she was so acutely aware of Dante. Like a black panther, he sleekly worked the room; his beauty was raw and exquisite and accentuated by his stunning attire and she was very aware that she knew the beauty of his body beneath.
But then came the hell of watching him dance with his date.
Mia had never been jealous in her life until Dante, but now she found that it felt like a corkscrew stabbed into her chest, twisting tighter and tighter, making it impossible to focus on what the Minister of Something said. ‘Of course we attend every year, but this is special indeed.’
‘Yes,’ Mia attempted. ‘Rafael would have loved it.’
‘Yet he didn’t attend last year?’
‘No,’ Mia agreed, though her eyes kept drifting to the dance floor as she tried to fathom how it might feel to be wrapped in those velvet arms. ‘Rafael wasn’t well.’
‘That’s obvious now! Although we weren’t privy to that information at the time...’ On and on he went, clearly affronted that he hadn’t been personally informed that Rafael was ill. ‘I’ve done a lot for the foundation...’ the minister continued, but it was all white noise to Mia as she watched Dante laugh at whatever his dance companion had said.
Dantelaughed. Mia had never, ever seen Dante laugh before. The corkscrew twisted again and she gritted her jaw at the exact moment his eyes met hers—another woman in his arms, his narrowed eyes assessing her. She felt them scald her bare shoulders and it was as if his hands were at the back of her neck and freeing the tie, for her breasts felt prickly in the fabric of her gown...and then his gaze came back to her eyes and her cheeks stung as if she’d been slapped.
‘Don’t you agree?’ the minister said.
‘I’m sorry?’ Mia couldn’t even attempt to recall whatever he’d said, for not only hadn’t she been listening but Mia was suddenly, embarrassingly, near to tears. ‘If you’ll please excuse me for a moment,’ Mia said. She made her way out of the ballroom and to the powder room, which was as decadent as any she’d seen—not that she had the energy to really take in her surroundings. Instead she gripped a marble bench and looked into a large antique mirror at unfamiliar, made-up eyes that were glittering as brightly as the diamonds that hung from her ears.
‘You’re doing well,Signora,’ a middle-aged woman said. ‘It must be a difficult night for you.’
‘Thank you.’ Mia smiled, and after taking a moment to gather her breath she stepped out of the bathroom and walked almost straight into Dante.
‘Come with me,’ he said, and led her across the foyer. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘I am running the speech by you, in case we are seen stepping out.’
‘Yes.’
Finally, they had some privacy for he had led her to a delicious occasional garden. As the French doors closed on them, she dragged in a lungful of cool night air. It was Mia who spoke first. ‘Who is she?’
