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Marietta looked up, her liquid dark eyes startled at first, then veiled and wary. One graceful eyebrow rose. ‘Are we celebrating something?’ She looked from the bottle to him. ‘Perhaps you’ve caught my stalker and you’re gracing me with your presence to tell me I can return to civilisation tomorrow?’
Nico let the sarcasm slide. He’d avoided her for much of the day and she was upset with him. Women didn’t like to be ignored—he remembered that much from his too brief time as a married man. He took in her pale cotton pants, the soft green halterneck top which clung to her generous curves and left her golden shoulders exposed. Had she changed especially for dinner? A needle of guilt pricked him. She’d knocked on his study door an hour ago, offered to fix a meal for them, and he’d grunted a response through the closed door, telling her to eat without him.
He opened the bottle and poured a double shot of cognac into each tumbler, put one in front of Marietta and settled in a cushioned seat beside her. ‘You do not consider Île de Lavande to be civilised?’ He swirled the cognac in his glass. ‘Or perhaps you are referring to the company?’
Colour crept into her cheeks but her chin stayed elevated. ‘I’m sure parts of Île de Lavande are very civilised—I’m simply yet to see most of the island. As for the company—so far it’s been...’ She shrugged minutely. ‘Satisfactory.’
Despite the tension in the air Nico felt his facial muscles twitch, and then his lips were stretching into a rare smile. Had a woman ever described him as ‘satisfactory’ before? No. He didn’t think so. On the infrequent occasions when he indulged in female company, he made damn sure the woman was a great deal more than satisfied when he was done with her.
He raised his glass. ‘Touché, Marietta.’ He swallowed a mouthful of the expensive cognac and noted she hadn’t touched hers. ‘You are angry,’ he observed.
‘No...’ she began, and then stopped, shook her head and puffed out a quiet sigh. ‘Si. A little,’ she confessed. ‘I made a mistake and you won’t accept my apology. I’m angry with myself and with you.’
He lifted his eyebrows. ‘That’s a candid statement,’ he said, which maybe shouldn’t have surprised him. Marietta had never struck him as a smoke-and-mirrors kind of woman. She was headstrong and honest. Unafraid to speak her mind.
She reached out suddenly, and curled her hand around his wrist. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude, Nico,’ she said softly. ‘And I truly am sorry—about your wife.’
Heat radiated from her touch—a sharp, unsettling contrast to the inevitable icy chill that swept through him whenever he thought about his wife—and then she was sliding her hand away, sitting back.
‘How long were you married?’
His chest grew uncomfortably tight. ‘Two years.’
‘She was very beautiful.’
So she had taken a good look at the photograph. He didn’t know how he felt about that. He took another generous sip of cognac, held the liquid in his mouth for a moment before letting it burn down his throat. He did know he wasn’t going to have this conversation.
‘Who did you call?’ he asked, and the abrupt change of subject elicited an immediate frown.
‘Scusi?’
‘You said you went into my study to use the phone,’ he reminded her. ‘Who did you call?’
‘My sister-in-law.’
‘Because...?’
Her shoulders stiffened. ‘Because I wanted to hear a friendly voice,’ she said, her tone turning defensive, faintly accusing.
Nico cursed himself silently. He’d come out here to make peace, to defuse the tension between them before it sprouted claws—not to pick a fight. He had no wish to speak of his late wife, no desire to dredge up the darkness that lurked too close to the surface, but he could have deflected Marietta’s curiosity in a less antagonistic manner.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, his voice gruff, the words alien on his tongue.
Rarely did he apologise or seek forgiveness. The last time had been ten years ago, the day of Julia’s funeral, and on that day his father-in-law had been disinclined to forgive.
‘You may call whomever you wish, whenever you wish,’ he said. ‘The house and its facilities are yours to use as you desire. However, I will ask one thing of you.’ He held her gaze, kept his voice low. Measured. ‘Please do not ever again speak of my wife.’
For a long moment Marietta’s gaze didn’t falter from his, then her lashes lowered, shielding her expressive eyes from him. She backed her chair away from the table.
‘Understood,’ she said, glancing up, her gaze reconnecting with his briefly. ‘Buona notte, Nico.’
And then she turned her chair around and wheeled into the house, leaving her drink sitting untouched on the table.
Nico watched her go and something pierced him. Something, he thought darkly, like regret. He reached for her glass, downed the double shot of cognac and scowled into the empty tumbler. That had not gone at all how he’d planned.
* * *
‘It’s not the ex-boyfriend, boss.’
