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The speaker was gushing—there was no other word for it. And she looked exactly the kind of woman to gush.
Connie stared. Blonde, incredibly slender, tall like a model, she was wearing, Connie could instantly see, an outfit that had come from a top Milan fashion house. The woman stooped on her six-inch heels and swooped an air kiss down on Dante’s cheek. Rafaello and Connie she completely ignored.
Connie’s eyes went to Dante. His face had become expressionless, although he’d got to his feet politely.
‘Bianca,’ he greeted her, and took his seat again.
In front of Connie’s eyes, the woman—Bianca—helped herself to the fourth chair at their table, and gushed again, targeting Dante with more Italian that Connie did not understand.
Then, as if belatedly aware of her and Rafaello’s presence, she turned towards them, bestowing a dazzling smile upon them.
‘E Rafaello Ranieri, vero? Ci siamo conosciuti, ma credo in Roma—’
The smile widened to encompass Connie now.
‘E tu sei l’ultima fidanzata di Rafaello? Che bello!’
Then, dismissing them again, she returned her lavish attentions to Dante, blatantly touching his cheek as if in reproach, her voice becoming sorrowful. Connie guessed that Bianca was lamenting the fact that Dante had been depriving himself of her affection. She could see Dante’s expression freezing, his eyes darkening, but it was Rafaello who interjected.
He spoke in English. ‘There’s a slight misunderstanding here, I’m afraid. Connie is not with me—she is with Dante.’ His voice was cool.
Immediately the blonde’s expression changed. An openly hostile look was flashed towards Connie.
‘Since when?’ she demanded bluntly, eyes narrowing. She too, spoke in English now.
‘Since they were married,’ Rafaello answered, his voice icy now.
‘Sposato?’
Another volley of Italian broke from the blonde, and then she pushed back the chair she’d commandeered and bolted to her feet. The look she threw at Connie was pure poison.
As for Dante, he’d gone completely rigid, his expression steeled. But not because of Bianca, Connie realised with an awareness that came to her at a level she could not explain.
Because of Rafaello.
The blonde threw one last angry word at Dante, then stalked off. Connie stared at Dante—then at Rafaello. Not understanding. Not wanting to understand. Something was passing between the two men—something that was registering in Dante as a rigid tension and in Rafaello as a studied coolness.
Dimly, something occurred to her.
He said that deliberately—about Dante being married to me.
But why was Dante reacting like this? Theyweremarried. So why—?
‘Thanks, Raf,’ Dante said bitingly, casting daggers at his friend. ‘Bianca Delamondi is the very last damn person I would have wanted to know that!’
He glared furiously at Rafaello, but his friend, Connie could see, was sublimely unconcerned.
‘It seemed the quickest way of getting rid of her,’ he said, calmly reaching for his coffee cup and draining it. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better call it a night,’ he said, in the same unruffled manner. ‘I’m on a morning flight to Palermo. An elderly client is being sued for divorce by his much younger second wife, and is objecting to her financial claims,’ he said lightly, but with a discernible touch of cynicism. ‘I must see what I can do to protect his money from her.’
‘You do that,’ Dante said shortly. ‘It’s what you’re best at.’ His voice was tight. ‘That and shooting your mouth off!’
The only response he got was a laugh from Rafaello as he summoned the bill for their dinner.
Connie felt awkward. Currents were running, and she did not fully understand them.
As if conscious of her disquiet, Rafaello threw her a half-amused look. ‘Do not be alarmed—Dante and I have been sparring with each other since we were teenagers. He runs hot and I run cold—it’s why we’re such good friends.’
Connie eyed him doubtfully. Dante still had that tense, closed-off look on his face.
