Italy's Most Scandalous Virgin - Carol Marinelli Page 0,46

you say?’ she asked.

‘That you were a poor timekeeper...’ He watched her fight not to smile. ‘And I said you were a little slovenly in your habits...’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘Well, you did leave your underwear on the floor of my lounge.’

He loved the way she blushed as she asked, ‘What else did you say?’

‘That in all fairness I could not recommend you to an old family friend.’ Yet as nice as this conversation was starting to be, Dante held firm. ‘You’re not working for him Mia.’

‘I’ll decide that, Dante.’

She was a different Mia without his father or family here.

They were different and the closer they got the more he wanted her. But there was still so much to sort out, for though he believed her about the contraceptive mistake, Dante still felt he was being lied to.

Always.

‘Mia, what were you doing, married to my father?’

The sliver of orange on her tongue felt like sand as he asked the inevitable question and she took her time to chew and then swallow as she worked out how best to answer him.

Or rather how not to answer him. ‘Dante, I think we have enough to sort out with the press and my being pregnant without discussing your father.’

‘There is nothing that can be sorted until I understand what you were doing with him. A torrid affair I might not like, but I could better understand it, yet you never slept together. Were you supposed to be some warped attempt to salvage his pride because my mother was sleeping with my old high school tutor?’

Mia was suddenly reminded of the hot-and-cold childhood game, and had to fight not to blink as she thought, How warm you are, how warm you are...as Dante inched ever closer to the truth.

‘How did it start, Mia?’ Dante persisted. ‘How did the two of you...?’

‘We met at work.’

‘I meant,’ Dante snapped, ‘how was this sham of a marriage conceived—tell me, Mia, how does a trainee executive assistant, with only passable Italian, get the role as my father’s PA, mistress, and then wife?’

He wanted his father’s memory to rest, yet these questions were buzzing and swarming and he needed to hear the truth, yet Mia refused to answer him. He was getting nowhere, and Dante pushed back on his chair and stood. ‘How the hell are we supposed to sort this when you can’t trust me enough to be honest?’

‘It’s not that.’

‘Then what?’

Mia pressed her fingers into her temples. She felt railroaded and unsure how to proceed. All Mia knew was that she had to work out, carefully, whether or not to tell Dante the whole truth.

And if she did, how to tell him?

‘Mia?’ Dante pushed, but when nothing more was forthcoming, exasperated, he strode off. ‘I’m going out.’

‘Where?’

But Dante didn’t answer.

He badly needed some advice.

Dante could have walked to Roberto’s; it was just a twenty-minute or so stroll to where he lived, but in case there were any dramas with the press, he took the car. Roberto had given him good advice on a couple of personal predicaments in the past.

Except it didn’t look as if Roberto was home.

Remembering that Roberto had been unwell, Dante negotiated the pots of orchids on the porch to peer through a window, but found the drapes were closed.

What if he’d fallen? Dante thought. What if...? But his concern momentarily faded as Roberto came to the door.

‘Dante!’ Roberto greeted him. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

‘Hey,’ Dante said. ‘I thought for a moment you were out.’

‘No, no, I was just having a rest.’

‘How are you feeling?’ Dante asked, troubled by Roberto’s complexion.

‘Better, though I could not have made it there last night. So, tell me, how was the ball?’

‘You haven’t heard?’ Dante raised his eyebrows because Roberto was usually sharp and the first to know what was going on with the Romanos. ‘Roberto, I need some advice.’

‘Then come in.’

Dante tried not to frown as Roberto let him in, for the place wasn’t in its usual neat order and neither was Roberto, who he was sure was wearing yesterday’s clothes, for they were rumpled and less than fresh. The drapes were closed too and there was the smell of stale whisky on Roberto’s breath, but Dante made no comment.

‘We’ll go through to the study...’ Roberto said, and waved him through.

It was a little messy with the smell of cigarettes hanging in the air, and the study was rather dusty. ‘Excuse the mess,’ Roberto said. ‘I haven’t been in here for a while.’

‘It’s fine,’ Dante said. ‘What did