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CHAPTER SIX
CONNIEWASCHOPPINGvegetables for dinner, carefully following the Italian recipe displayed on the laptop propped up on the gleaming work surface of the kitchen in Dante’s high-tech kitchen in Milan. She’d bought the ingredients that afternoon, and wanted to surprise Dante. It would be the first time she’d cooked for him.
They’d come back from their island idyll a few days ago. Dante had headed back into the office, and she was spending her days happily exploring Milan. So far Dante had always ordered food in for the evening meal. Not pizza or curry—something far more gourmet than that! But now she wanted to prove that she could produce an edible meal for him by herself. It seemed a wifely thing to do.
A memory drifted through her head from long ago. Watching, as a little girl, while her mother chopped vegetables for dinner. Her father would come in from work, kissing her mother affectionately, saying how hungry he was, how good a cook she was, and her mother would beam with pleasure, telling him about the recipe she was preparing.
Connie had watched them, feeling safe, secure, and her father had come across to her, scooping her up into a protective hug, telling her with a grin that he hoped she’d grow up to become as good a cook as her mum and then her husband would always love her, like he loved her mother...
She felt her mind flicker between the long-ago past and the vivid present.
As if on cue, she heard Dante letting himself into his apartment and she called out. ‘I’m in the kitchen!’
He strolled in, looking gorgeous as he always did, whether he was wearing casual holiday clothing or, like now, a business suit. He came over and kissed her lightly on the cheek, then surveyed her culinary preparations ruefully.
‘I hate to say this, but would this keep till tomorrow? We’ve been invited out to dinner,’ he announced.
Had he looked somewhat taken aback to see her so domestically employed? she wondered. But she was happy to cook for him—more than happy.
The echo of her father’s words so long ago sounded again...
‘It’s Raf,’ Dante went on. ‘He’s in Milan tonight. Flown up from Rome on business. Says he’s looking forward to seeing you again.’
‘Oh,’ said Connie.
She had wondered if she was going to be introduced to some of Dante’s friends here in Milan. And she had no objection to seeing Rafaello. He was a close friend of Dante’s, even if he did live in Rome.
When they arrived at the restaurant where they were meeting him, Connie was aware that she felt self-conscious. Though Dante often mentioned him, she hadn’t seen Rafaello since being in Milan after the wedding. It hadn’t been hard to pick up the fact that he’d thought Dante mad to marry her, though he’d been nothing but polite. Would he think differently now?
She gave a mental shrug. Even though he was Dante’s friend, Rafaello’s opinion was immaterial. Even so, it would be nice, for Dante’s sake, to see appreciation in his friend’s eyes at her new appearance—so very different from when they’d first met. Maybe he might finally consider her worthy of his friend, she thought a touch tartly.
Rafaello greeted her courteously—smoothly, even—but made no comment about her changed appearance.
The outfit she was wearing now could not have been more different from the tent-like blue dress she’d worn for her wedding. It was a cream two-piece, with a narrow skirt and a bolero-style bodice with delicate, self-coloured embroidery around the neckline and cuffs. Her hair was in a low chignon, with ornamental combs, and she’d applied her make-up with care.
Glancing around the upmarket restaurant at the other fashionable Milanese gathered there, she knew she passed muster and was glad of it.
They went straight to their table, Dante’s arm coming protectively around her back. He was being very attentive, but there was an air of slight tension about him all the same. Maybe he, too, was conscious of the vast gulf in appearance between old Connie and new Connie...
Well, she was new Connie now, and she had no reason to feel anything but confidently assured in a place like this, knowing she looked like every other designer-clad female here.
Her expression softened. But she was infinitely more privileged than they were.
Because I have Dante.
‘A little different from the trattorias we’ve been used to on holiday,’ Dante remarked dryly, as they took their places at the table. ‘Raf likes to dine in style,’ he added with a wink.
‘Trattorias aren’t exactly your usual style either, my friend,’ was Rafaello’s cool reply. ‘But perhaps things have changed since we last met...’ His glance went between them. Veiled. Assessing. ‘So where did you go on holiday?’ he went on, his voice less cool, more simply enquiring.
Dante named the island in the Tuscan Archipelago and Rafaello raised his arched eyebrows. ‘Definitely off the beaten track,’ he murmured. ‘But it’s done you good—you’re looking very relaxed, old friend.’ His tone was warmer now as he continued, ‘And that’s good to see.’
He turned his attention to Connie, and when he spoke again his voice was sympathetic.
‘I was sorry to hear about the death of your grandmother—please accept my condolences.’
It was sincerely said, and Connie felt her throat tighten, tears threaten. Immediately Dante took her hand, squeezing it comfortingly.
‘Thank you,’ she managed to say to Rafaello. His unreadable gaze had taken in Dante’s protective gesture, she could see.
