The Bride's Awakening - By Kate Hewitt Page 0,9

she realized with a vicious little stab of fury. He’d probably enjoyed seeing her squirm, relished her awful confession. I’m not exactly the kind of woman… He knew just what she’d meant, and his expression told her he agreed with her. As many had before.

‘A business proposition,’ she finally repeated, the silence having gone on, awkwardly, for at least a minute. ‘Of course.’

‘It might not be the kind of business proposition you’re expecting,’ Vittorio warned with a little smile and Ana tried for an answering laugh, though inwardly she was still writhing with humiliation and remembered pain.

‘Now you have me intrigued.’

‘Good. Shall we say Friday evening?’

Ana jerked her head in acceptance. ‘Very well.’ It didn’t seem important to pretend she needed to check some schedule, that she might be busy. That she might, in fact, have a date. Vittorio would see right through her. He already had.

‘I’ll pick you up at Villa Rosso.’

‘I can meet you—’

‘I am a gentleman, Ana,’ Vittorio chided her wryly. ‘I shall enjoy escorting you somewhere special.’

And where exactly was somewhere special? Ana wondered. And, more alarmingly, what should she wear? Her wardrobe of businesslike trouser suits hardly seemed appropriate for a dinner date…except it wasn’t a date, had never been meant to be a date, she reminded herself fiercely. It was simply a business proposition. A trouser suit would have to do. Still, Ana was reluctant to don one. She didn’t want to look like a man; she wanted to feel like a woman. She didn’t dare ask herself why. For over ten years—since her university days—she’d dressed and acted not purposely like a man, more like a sexless woman. A woman who wasn’t interested in fashion, or beauty, or even desire. Certainly not love. It had been safer that way; no expectations or hopes to have dashed, no one—especially herself—to disappoint. There was no earthly reason to change now. There was every reason to keep as she’d been, and stay safe.

On Friday night she stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, gazing rather ruefully at her reflection. She wore a pair of fitted black trousers with a rather unfortunately boxy jacket; it had looked better on the rack. Her one concession to femininity was the cream silk beaded tank top she wore underneath, and that was completely hidden by the jacket. She piled her hair up on top of her head, wincing a little bit at the strands that insisted on escaping to frame her face and curl with surprising docility along her neck. She couldn’t decide if the loose tendrils gave her a look of elegance or dishevelment. She didn’t attempt any make-up, as she’d never mastered the art of doing her face without looking like a child who had played in her mother’s make-up box.

‘There.’ She nodded at her reflection, determined to accept what she saw. Wearing a sexy cocktail dress or elegant gown would have been ridiculous, she told herself. She never wore such things—she didn’t own such things—and, considering Vittorio’s business proposition, there was no reason to start now.

Her father was, as usual, in the study when Ana came downstairs. Most evenings he was content to hole up in the villa with a book or a game of solitaire.

Enrico looked up from his book, raising his eyebrows at her outfit. ‘Going out, my dear?’

Ana nodded, suppressing a little pang of guilt. She hadn’t told her father about this dinner with Vittorio; she told herself she’d simply forgotten, but she knew that wasn’t true. She hadn’t wanted him to know, and start reading more into this dinner than there was or ever could be.

‘Yes,’ she said now, dropping a kiss on the top of his thinning hair. ‘Dinner.’

‘A date?’ Enrico asked, sounding pleased. Ana shook her head and stepped away to look out of the window. Twilight was stealing softly upon the world, cloaking the landscaped gardens in violet.

‘No. Just business.’

‘Always business,’ her father said a bit grumpily, and Ana smiled.

‘You know I love it.’ And she did love it; the wine, the grapes were in her blood. Her father loved to tell the story about when he had taken her to the vineyards when she was only two years old. He’d hoisted her up to the vines and she’d plucked a perfectly ripe grape, deeply purple and bursting with flavour, and popped it into her mouth. Then, instead of saying how tasty it was, she’d pronounced in a quite grown-up voice, ‘Sono pronti.’ They’re ready.

‘I worry you