“I am a widower,” Gianni said, cutting in peremptorily.
“Oh, I’m sorry….” Her voice faltered under his stern gaze.
He shook his head. “I am not going to be a hypo-crite, Stephanie. You know what a terrible marriage I had. And we were separated when she 400 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
died. Renata left me twelve years ago. For another man. When she died four years ago, she was still with him.”
“I see. How are Carlo and Francesco?”
A sorrowful expression crept into his eyes.
“Francesco is dead, Stephanie. My son was killed in a car crash five years ago. But Carlo is well.”
“I am so very sorry, Gianni, truly. I know how you loved him.” She shook her head. “You too have had your tragedies, your share of pain.”
“That is so. But life is hard for everyone. In different ways.” There was a brief silence between them, until he asked, “And tell me, who does Chloe think her father is? You must have put some name…on her birth certificate. What is the name?”
“John Lane.” A smile stole onto Stevie’s face. “I do believe you know him.”
Gianni laughed, his passionate dark eyes so like Chloe’s suddenly full of merriment. “I do. John for Gianni—Giovanni. And Lane because I always stayed at the Dorchester on Park
Lane
. My code name when I telephoned you at Jardine’s.”
She nodded.
“What is she like, this daughter of mine?”
Stevie reached for her handbag, opened it. As she pulled out a photograph of Chloe, the telephone rang.
“Excuse me, I must take this.” He jumped up, hurried across the room to his desk, where he picked up the receiver and spoke into it quietly.
Power of a Woman / 401
Stevie’s eyes followed him. He had not changed much in eighteen years. He was fifty-four, seven years older than she was, but he did not show his age. He had thickened slightly, and appeared more muscular, but his face was relatively unlined, and tan as it always had been. He was a sportsman, loved tennis and skiing and sailing; he was a man who spent time outdoors. His thick dark hair had grayed slightly at the temples, but it was hardly noticeable. And he was still a very handsome man.
Probably the most handsome man she had ever known. Tall and vital, he was full of energy, and it had been that energy that had appealed to her years earlier. No, he had not changed, not on the surface at least. But life had got at him, as it got at everyone, and in more ways than he had already mentioned.
She could tell; there was a deep sadness in him, a sorrowfulness.
He had become, in the intervening years, Italy’s greatest industrialist; he was known as the silk king, but he also owned fashion houses, manufacturing plants, shopping centers, real estate, and hotels. She knew all this because she had read about him over the years; he was frequently mentioned in the
Financial Times
and the
Wall Street Journal
.
As Gianni hung up and walked back to the seating arrangement, she could not help thinking how impeccable he looked in his beige gabardine suit, blue shirt, and yellow-and-blue-patterned silk tie. He had never been anything
402 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
but beautifully dressed, from the top of his well-groomed head to the tips of his highly polished dark brown loafers.
“Is that photograph for me?” he asked, sitting down again.
Stevie handed it to him, explaining, “It was taken last summer in Connecticut.”
Gianni stared at it for a long time. “She looks like me.”
“Very much so. Especially the eyes and the forehead, and she has your strong jaw, Gianni.”
“May I keep this?”
“Yes. But won’t you come and see her for yourself?”
“You could not stop me. No one could.” Gianni rose, came and sat next to Stevie on the sofa.
Looking deeply into her face, he took hold of her hands and said very softly, “If only you had told me then, Stephanie, perhaps I could have found a way.”
That sadness she had noticed before was reflected in his dark eyes once more. It made her catch her breath, so acute was it.
“Perhaps,” Stevie murmured, returning his long, intense look. “All I want now is to introduce the two of you. I did a very wrong thing, keeping you apart.
I want to make amends.”
In the past Gianni had always driven his cars very fast. He had become a much more careful driver, Stevie noticed. As he drove his Ferrari out of Power of a Woman / 403
Milan, heading in the direction of Lake Como, his speed was moderate.
Gianni chatted to her nonstop, or, rather, he continued to ply her with questions about Chloe, keeping up the continuing conversation, but he never took his eyes off the road.
At one moment he said, “I’m no longer a speed freak, as I used to be when I was younger. When I knew you years ago, Stephanie. Francesco’s death cured me of that addiction. He was driving fast and talking to his girlfriend and he didn’t see the truck coming. It was a head-on collision. Francesco and Liliane were killed instantaneously.”
“I’m so very sorry,” Stevie murmured softly. “I remember how much you…how much you loved him.”
“Yes.”
For the remainder of the drive to his house on Lake Como, Gianni was silent. Stevie sank down into herself, thinking about him. During their meeting at his office he had suddenly asked her if she would have dinner with him, and she had accepted. Now, here they were, driving along as if their eighteen-year separation had never happened. They had always been compatible with each other in the past, and incredibly that easiness, that sense of comfort, still existed between them. We’re not much different now than we were then, she thought suddenly. Not deep down. Yes, we’re older, and life has changed us both in certain ways; but essentially we are still the same people
404 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
inside. Despite the ease which she felt existed between them, Stevie was tense inside. That acute feeling of nervousness she had first experienced in his office had persisted. And she was also very conscious of him as a man, conscious of his masculinity, his vitality, and his power. She had found him mesmeric when she had been younger; he had not lost his charismatic appeal for her. If anything, it was more potent than ever.
How she had longed for him over the years, longed to see his face, to hear his voice. She had never forgotten his voice. It was deep and resonant.
Because he had been educated in England and America, his command of English was flawless.
She had given him up all those many years ago, and she was nothing if not disciplined. Once she had made the decision to cut him out of her life, she had not wavered in her determination. She had never again seen him, but the yearning had always been there.
She stole a look at him out of the corner of her eye, saw the strong set of his jaw, the well-defined nose, the shapely head. Chloe had his head, his eyebrows, his eyes.
Stevie could not help wondering about his life, about the women in his life over the years. And there must have been many, well, some…he was too sexual a man not to have been involved romantic-ally. And he had told her he had been separated from Renata for twelve years.
Power of a Woman / 405
She clamped down on these thoughts, clamped down on other more dangerous thoughts of him that had been creeping into her mind for hours. She had come to Milan to see him because of Chloe, their daughter, wanting to bring them together at last. And that was her only purpose for being with him tonight.
When they arrived at the house on the shores of Lake Como, where many of the Milanese lived, Stevie was not in the least surprised at its size or its beauty. After he had parked in the courtyard, he led her inside to the large white entrance hall. It was elegant but somewhat austere, relying on its propor-tions and simplicity for its intrinsic beauty. Scanning it quickly, her eyes caught sight of a beautiful tapestry on one wall, a large gilt mirror on another. There was a huge crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, a wide staircase flowing upward, and flowers everywhere.
A white-coated houseman greeted them, and Gianni spoke to him rapidly in Italian before taking her through a large living room. They came out onto a long terrace overlooking the lake.
“It’s a beautiful house, Gianni,” she said after a moment, glancing out at the water, then turning to him.
“Too big for one man, I think.”
“Doesn’t Carlo live here with you?”
“No.”
“Is he married?”
“No, he’s not. He lives in Rome. He has a flat 406 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
there. Carlo runs my Rome office. He and I—” He broke off, shrugged lightly. “Carlo…was always his mother’s son, hers more than mine. It is odd, is it not, the way one child will gravitate to one parent more than the other? And we never mean to make favorites, do we?” He smiled at her a little regretfully. A brow lifted. “You are a mother, Stephanie; you know how it is.”
“I do, Gianni. Of my sons, Miles has always been a child of my heart, as Chloe is, too.”
“Francesco was the child of
my
heart, but now he’s gone. Ah, life. It is difficult sometimes.” He gestured to a chair. “Please.”
The houseman returned with a bottle of champagne and two glasses on a tray, went to a small table behind them and opened the bottle.
Gianni smiled at her. “Veuve Clicquot for you, Steffie. You see, I have not forgotten.”
A moment later they were clinking glasses. “Now.
Tell me more about her. Tell me about Chloe.” He began to chuckle unexpectedly. “If my grandmother were alive, she would be pleased to know my daughter was named for her. Thank you for that.”
She spoke about Chloe for a while, telling him about her childhood, her relationships with her brothers and the rest of the family.
At one moment, when she paused to take a sip of the icy champagne, he asked, “When are you returning to London?”
“Tomorrow.”
Power of a Woman / 407
“Thursday. Mmmm.” He regarded her over the rim of his glass, his eyes speculative. “I think I shall go with you. I want to see her.”
“But it’s too soon!” Stevie exclaimed. “I must prepare her. Explain everything.” Stevie stopped when she saw the disappointment flashing across his face.
“How long is that going to take you? Fifteen minutes at the most. If that, Steffie.”
There he was again, calling her by the name only he had ever used. Stevie looked across at him, found him suddenly irresistible. She glanced away, biting her lip. She said nothing.
There was a silence between them.
Gianni did not let it lengthen. He said, “That is true, isn’t it? It won’t take you very long to tell her about me…about her father.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she acknowledged without looking at him.
Gianni Caracelli sat back, studying her as she gazed out toward the lake. She had not changed at all. She was exactly the same as she had been twenty years before, when he had first met her in London.
At a jewelry exhibition. He had taken one look at her and fallen head over heels in love. And so had she with him. It had been a
coup de foudre
, as the French called it, struck by lightning. It had been the most important and passionate relationship he had had with a woman in his entire life. His eyes narrowed slightly in the dimming light. Not a wrinkle on that lovely face, not a
408 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
line. He smiled inwardly at himself. Of course there were tiny lines around her eyes and mouth; he had noticed them in his office earlier. But they had disappeared in an instant because he saw her as she had been then, not as she was now. In his mind she had never aged.
Clearing his throat, he said, “Let us go to London together, Stephanie. Tomorrow. On my plane.”
Still, Stevie remained silent. She was afraid, if the truth be known. Afraid of him, of his power as a man, and of the appeal he had for her.
“I want to see Chloe,” he insisted, although his voice was light. “And as soon as possible. Why wait?”
She turned to look at him.
His dark eyes were intense as they held hers. “So many years wasted, Steffie. Let us not waste any more.”
“H
OW DO I LOOK, MOM?” CHLOE ASKED, COMING
into Stevie’s bedroom. She stood in front of her mother, then turned around slowly. “Do you like this pants suit? Like the color?”
“Yes, I do,” Stevie answered, the expression on her face approving. “The burgundy is wonderful on you. It’s odd, but dark colors have always suited you, even when you were little.”
“It’s my olive complexion; I just look better in muted shades.”
“I suppose so.”
Holding her head to one side, studying Stevie, Chloe exclaimed, “You’re very dressed up, Mom!
Who did you say we’re meeting for lunch?”
“Do I look too dressed up?” Stevie asked worriedly, and went to the mirrored closets that ran along one wall of the blue-and-white bedroom. She regarded herself thoughtfully for a second, then said,
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m not dressed 410 / Barbara Taylor Bradford
up at all. I’m not even wearing much jewelry, just a brooch and earrings.”
“I know, but that’s your new suit. You told me you were saving it for a special occasion. And I’ve never seen that pin and those earrings before.
They’re wonderful sapphires, Mom. Are they new?”
“No.” Stevie swung around, gave her daughter a careful look, and plunged in. “Your father gave them to me.”
“My father!
When?
”
“Nineteen years ago.” Walking across the floor to Chloe, Stevie took hold of her arm. “I want to talk to you. Let’s go into the study for a minute.”
“Okay. But what do you want to talk about? And why have you never worn those sapphires before?”
Chloe eyed her mother curiously, wondering what this was all about.
“Come and sit with me” was the only answer Stevie gave her daughter as she hurried out.
Chloe followed her mother, sat down in a chair near the window, and focused all her attention on Stevie.
“When I was sitting at your bedside at the infirmary in Leeds, praying for you to come out of your coma, I made a promise to you in my heart and in my mind,” Stevie explained. “I vowed that I would tell you the truth about your father. I am keeping that promise, Chloe, I want to tell you about him now.”