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Her brows tugged together.
Santo cielo.
What was wrong with her?
She didn’t wallow like this.
She was strong—a battler like her mamma had been—not a dreamer given to fits of melancholy like her father, a man who had become so lost in his grief, so consumed by addiction, that he’d neglected his children and forced his son to assume the role of provider before he’d even reached his teens.
Looking back on those years always reminded her how lucky she had been to have Leo. She’d been only seven when their mother died, so Marietta’s memories of her were limited, but she knew in her heart that Estelle Vincenti would have been proud of her son for stepping up.
And would she have been proud of you?
Marietta’s frown sharpened as the question popped into her head. She liked to think her mother would have forgiven the fractious, rebellious teenager she’d been—the girl who’d acted out in the absence of a mother’s love and influence—and regarded the woman she’d become with pride and affection.
Yet she would never know for certain the answer to that question, would she?
Her eyes prickled and she cursed.
Enough.
It was being stuck here on this remote estate with a man who clearly didn’t wish to spend more time with her than was necessary that was plunging her into this funk. A friendly voice and distraction—that was what she needed. She turned her wheelchair and headed for the house. She’d call her sister-in-law, Helena, and see how the plans for Ricci’s birthday party were coming along.
Except when Marietta reached the beautiful blue and white guest bedroom she’d been given and fished her mo
bile out of her bag, she discovered the phone was dead and realised she’d forgotten her charger.
She swore again, and wheeled out of the room. Had she seen a landline phone anywhere in this sprawling modern abode? She rolled along the wide hallway and paused outside the open door to the study where Nico had spent most of the afternoon. He’d emerged half an hour ago and declared that he was going for a short run. She’d pasted on a smile and waved him off as if she couldn’t care less what he did.
She looked into the room. It was neat and masculine, with lots of sharp edges and straight lines, glass surfaces and sleek, pale wood. A textured black rug, a tan leather sofa and a matching desk chair were the only soft furnishings.
And on the glass-topped desk sat a phone.
More eager by the second to hear a familiar voice, she glided over to the desk and dialled her sister-in-law’s mobile number.
‘Helena,’ she said a moment later. ‘It’s me.’
‘Marietta!’ Helena’s posh English voice rushed down the line. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all weekend. This whole business is just dreadful. Is everything all right over there? Is Nicolas treating you well?’ A fleeting pause. ‘He’d better be treating you well.’
Marietta smiled to herself. ‘Everything’s fine. A little quiet, that’s all.’
She stared out of the large window which faced the terrace, her gaze trailing over the pool and the table where she’d sat drawing for much of the afternoon. Her brows pinched. Had Nico watched her from his desk while he’d worked?
‘Tell me about Ricci’s party,’ she said, pushing aside that thought. ‘How’s the planning going?’
‘Great. Except Leo is such a proud papà he’s invited half of Tuscany—and Rome...’
Marietta was still smiling as she wound up the call, some ten minutes later. ‘Give Ricci and Leo my love. I’ll see you in six days.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. I’ll be there,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not missing Ricci’s first birthday for anything.’
She hung up feeling lighter, less maudlin and more like herself. This ugly business of her stalker would be over soon and she’d have her life back. She reversed away from the desk, turned towards the door—and saw something against the wall on the far side of the doorway she hadn’t noticed upon entering. It was a piece of antique furniture totally at odds with the rest of the decor and yet so lovely it commanded her attention for a long moment. She inched closer and recognised it was a vintage rolltop desk, crafted from a rich golden oak which gleamed as if someone had polished it only yesterday.
And, oh, it was magnifico. A stunning piece of craftsmanship her artist’s eye couldn’t fail to admire. Lured by its beauty, she brushed her hand over the intricate gold leaf designs on the drawer-fronts and fingered the little gold lock and key at the bottom of the tambour lid. She’d always adored the idea of these old-fashioned desks, with their hidden nooks and crannies, and before the left side of her brain could issue a caution she had turned the key and pushed up the slatted tambour to reveal the interior.
Immediately Marietta knew she had gone too far—gone somewhere she shouldn’t have—because everything inside the desk...every item sitting in its neat, allotted space...was too pretty and feminine to belong to a man.
