I know it bothers him a little that I’m being so cagey about things, but it’s just how I feel at the moment.
And I’m not sure if the moment will change while we’re here.
I know that our fling is supposed to be no-strings attached, and meeting someone’s parents and being introduced as more than a friend are strings. What would happen down the line when this is all over and I’m back in my sad flat in Edinburgh, and his parents wonder what happened to me? What happens if Vanni gets wind of that, the fact that we were together behind his back and didn’t even tell him?
Then there’s the fact that I care as much about his son’s opinion as I do Jana’s. He matters to me. So, as long as it can all stay a secret between Claudio and me, then we’re good. But if it goes beyond that, things get tricky. Once again, we can’t evolve into something more than sex. We can’t get serious.
And I most definitely can’t fall in love with him.
I swallow at that thought, my throat feeling caked in sawdust.
I try to give that word, that feeling, as little power as possible, in the event that I end up manifesting it, in the event I start believing it.
It will do neither of us any good.
But you’ll still be powerless to stop it.
I ignore that and clear my throat, straighten my shoulders, smooth down my hair, and leave the room.
The house seemed to have one level at first, but there’s an open area leading down to another floor which seems to bleed out onto a terrace, dotted with potted plants, an awning overhead. Some of Claudio’s statues are in the corners, a pair of women rising from the waves. Four chairs are set up facing the sea, which sparkles between the bay below and the dark mound of Corsica in the distance. How neat that we’re so close to France.
“There you are,” Claudio says, twisting in his chair to look at me, a cigar hanging from his fingers. “The guest of the hour.”
I walk across to them, smiling at his mother and father, both of them getting out of their chairs.
His father is the spitting image of him, just with white hair. A very handsome, distinguished looking man. Well-dressed too. He carries himself with a lot of confidence, his eyes sage and bright, but I guess that happens when you’re a famous painter.
Sandro Romano.
“Buona sera,” I tell him, since it’s nearly seven o’clock.
“Ah yes. Ciao. Your Italian is very good, by the way,” he tells me, kissing me on both cheeks, the smell of his cigar tickling my nose. “Please sit down.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” his mother asks me as I sit down next to Claudio, quickly flashing him an appreciative smile. “Campari and soda?”
“That would be lovely,” I tell her.
“That’s a nice dress,” Claudio comments. His words sound innocent, but there’s no denying the glint of desire in his eyes.
“Thank you,” I say innocently.
“So, Grace,” his father says, and I turn my attention to him. “This is the first time you’ve been to Elba?”
“Yes. First time in Italy.” I pause. “Actually, I was in Rome for one night, but I got food poisoning on the way over and didn’t see any of the city.”
“Ah, that’s not good. Rome is a wonderful place sometimes. What month was this?”
“Uh, a few years ago. August.”
He waves his hand at me and makes a dismissive noise. “Then you were better off. Rome in August is awful. Only tourists there. All the Romans are on holiday, they go elsewhere. Some even come here.”
Well, that would have been good to know.
“It’s just as well,” I tell him. “My partner managed to see the Trevi Fountain early in the morning, but then both of us were flying out.”
It takes me a moment to realize I’ve just mentioned Robyn.
“Partner? For work?” he asks, puffing on his cigar.
Shit.
“Aye,” I tell him, hoping he’ll leave it at that. “A work partner.”
I glance quickly at Claudio, but he’s looking across the sea, his hand dipping into a bowl of olives that sits between us.
A beat passes. “What kind of work do you do?” his father asks.
I give him a quick smile. Here it goes. Maybe I can tell the truth without Jana even having to come up.
“I’m an author.”
“An author?” he exclaims, slapping his palm against his knee. “This is true? What do you write? What type of story?”
“Murder mystery. I