The Costanzo Baby Secret (11 page)

“But I said I’d take you out.”

“I decided to save you the trouble.”

Mystified, he shook his head. “Costanzo wives don’t cook for their husbands.”

“This one does.” She ushered him to the table. “Sit and enjoy your wine while I serve.”

“We hire maids to do that.”

“Not today,” she said, and hurried back to the kitchen to put the finishing touches to the main dish.

Following her, he leaned against the center island and watched, bemused as she drizzled toasted almond slivers over chicken breasts coated with tarragon-flavored cream sauce. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Unlike you, I didn’t grow up surrounded by servants, Dario. I can cook and clean house if I have to.”

“Not our house, you can’t. I draw the line at that.”

“Really?” She angled a smile his way. “Were you always this bossy, or is it because I’m showing some independence that you’re suddenly oozing testosterone from every pore?”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Well, let’s just say you’re being very much the macho Italian. It wouldn’t surprise if, any minute how, you started beating your chest.”

He lowered his lashes and favored her with an outrageously lascivious leer. “I’d rather beat yours.”

“Behave yourself,” she said severely. “And if you insist on getting in my way, make yourself useful and slice the bread.”

“You’ll be making me wear an apron next,” he grumbled,
brandishing the bread knife with an expertise that told her he wasn’t quite as averse to the domestic arts as he’d like her to believe.

“An excellent idea.” Not missing a beat, she took off her apron, a pretty flowered affair with a ruffle along the hem, which she’d picked up in an open-air market near the delicatessen, and tied it around his waist.

Abandoning the bread, he pinned her between him and the center island. “Now you’ve gone too far,
principessa.
It’s time I taught you a lesson.”

She tried to wriggle free, at which his pupils flared and a splash of color stained the skin along his cheekbones. “Know what it’s like to make love on a kitchen counter, Maeve?” he inquired, his voice raw and dangerous with desire.

Breathless herself, she whispered. “I don’t imagine it’d be very comfortable.”

He kissed her so hard she went weak at the knees. “Then stop tempting fate and serve me my lunch. Your punishment can wait until later.”

The uninhibited banter and passion of that day left its mark on those that followed. With no household staff to monitor their comings and goings, they lived like ordinary people.

She wore her bathrobe to make him breakfast, and if he sometimes pulled her onto his lap when she went to serve him his espresso, and the coffee grew cold as a result, she didn’t complain. He came home for lunch and often didn’t return to his office until late in the afternoon, again because, somehow or other, he became distracted.

Occasionally they went out for dinner, once to a restaurant
at the top of a building so tall that it brought them face-to-face with the gargoyles on the Duomo. Another time he took her to an elegant place in the Piazza Republica where they enjoyed an exquisite five-course meal.

On the Thursday she went shopping for something to wear to the benefit. Despite the selection in her dressing room, the evening dresses were more suited for winter or spring wear, and the October weather was still mild. “Use it to buy whatever you want,” Dario instructed, pressing a credit card into her hand before he left for the office that morning.

“You’re spoiling me.”

“It pleases me to do so,
amore mio,
” he returned.

She found the perfect gown in an atelier showroom on the Via Montenapoleone. Made from yard upon yard of ivory chiffon lined in silk, it fell from a strapless bodice nipped in at the waist to a cloud of airy swirls at her feet. Given her fair skin, she’d normally have chosen a deeper shade of fabric, but the delicate color complemented the golden tan she’d acquired on Pantelleria.

She didn’t need accessories. She had the bejewelled sandals in her closet and enough evening purses to stock her own boutique. But her hair needed attention, and upon Dario’s insistence, she made a Saturday-morning appointment at a very exclusive salon spa. Massage, facial, manicure, pedicure and hairdo, she had them all, with champagne served on the side, along with a tray of little appetizers to keep up her strength.

Such pampering! she thought, amused. In the old days she’d have fixed her own hair and painted her own nails, and done a creditable enough job of both. But tonight was
too important for amateur efforts. She wanted so badly to be beautiful for Dario, and was desperate to win favor with his family.

When she emerged from her dressing room a few minutes before they were to leave for the benefit, she knew all the effort had been worthwhile. For once he was speechless and simply stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.

“Look at you,” he finally said, his gaze roaming from the top of her head where the stylist had coaxed her hair into a smooth, upswept golden coil, to the jeweled sandals on her feet. “
Una signora cosi bella
and all mine.”

“Does that mean you won’t be embarrassed to introduce me to your family again?”

“Embarrassed?” He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and dropped a reverent kiss on her mouth. “Maeve,
innamorata,
I could not be more proud.”

His approval buoyed her up during the drive to the hotel where the benefit was being held. It sustained her when he offered his elbow and escorted her into the room adjacent to the ballroom, where a well-dressed crowd was enjoying pre-dinner cocktails. It gave her the courage to meet the discreet stares of strangers, and fortified her enough that she was able to smile when he led her to a group gathered off to one side.

At their approach, an older man with thick silver hair and dark gray eyes like Dario’s stepped forward.

“My father, Edmondo,” Dario murmured.

“Buona sera, signor,”
she said, horribly aware of being the center of attention of just about everyone in the room, most particularly Dario’s mother, whose expression suggested she’d been assaulted by an unpleasant odor.

“What is this
signor
all about?” his father exclaimed, embracing Maeve warmly. “You might have forgotten that you once called me
Papa,
but I have not.”

His kindness, especially in the face of his wife’s overt hostility, made Maeve’s eyes sting with incipient tears. “Oh,” she said, and cringed at her inane response.

“And my sister, Giuliana,” Dario continued, bracing her with an arm at her waist.

“Maeve,
cara!
” His sister swept her into a hug that pretty much squeezed the breath from her lungs, but went a long way toward restoring her equilibrium. “I am so happy to see you again. You look wonderful, doesn’t she, Lorenzo?”

“Sì,”
the tall man who was with her agreed, and brushed a kiss over both Maeve’s cheeks. “
Ciao,
Maeve. We have all missed you.”

Throughout the introductions, Dario’s mother continued to observe her disdainfully. “This is an unexpected turn of events, Dario,” she finally announced, in a stage whisper that probably carried as far as Pantelleria. “Are you sure it was wise to bring her here?”

“And you’ve met my mother, of course,” he said smoothly, the chilly glare he bestowed on Celeste enough to turn her to stone.

“Yes.” Rallying her pride, Maeve extended her hand. “How very nice to see you again, Signora Costanzo.”

No affectionate hug from that quarter, or offer to call her
Madre.
Not that Maeve wanted to. Celeste Costanzo was about as far removed from the mother she’d loved so dearly as chalk was from cheese.

“Indeed,” Celeste replied. “And may I say how very nice
it is to see you more appropriately attired than when we last crossed paths.”

The rest of Dario’s family might have been happy to see her again, but any hope Maeve had nursed that she and her mother-in-law might make a fresh start died at that. Before the evening so much as got underway, the battle lines had been drawn.

K
EEPING
an eye on Maeve, who went into dinner on his father’s arm, Dario pulled Giuliana aside and, under cover of the general buzz of conversation surrounding them, asked, “How’s Sebastiano? It’s been over a week since I last saw him, but it feels more like months.”

“He’s fine, Dario. As I told you when we spoke this morning, we left him and Cristina with Marietta because we saw no point in dragging them all the way from the island just for one night. But earlier this evening, Lorenzo phoned her to find out how they were doing, and both children were already in bed and asleep. They’ll hardly have time to miss us before we’re home again.”

“While his mother continues to live in ignorance of his very existence.” Dario ground his teeth in frustration. “I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this, Giuliana. I miss my son.”

“But you have your wife back, and that’s progress, surely?”

“I tell myself it is and certainly she’s seemed much happier this last week. If it weren’t for the fact that we have a child, I could let the past go and build on what we’ve got now. As it is, we’re in a holding pattern, waiting for something to jog
her memory, and who’s to say what that might mean? She could decide she wants no part of me or our marriage.”

“I seriously doubt that’ll ever happen. She wears the look of a woman in love with her husband.”

“Even assuming you’re right, love based on misconceptions doesn’t stand much chance of surviving, once the truth comes out. I’m deliberately keeping her from her baby. If the situation were reversed, I would find that impossible to forgive.”

“You’re following her doctor’s advice, Dario.”

“Barely. Sometimes I come so close to ignoring everything Peruzzi believes is the right way to go about things that it’s all I can do not to simply tell her exactly how the accident came about, and let the chips fall where they may.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because it could destroy her. You and I both know self-esteem isn’t her strong suit. Unfortunately, patience isn’t one of mine.”

His sister touched his arm sympathetically. “You must be doing something right, Dario. She’s positively glowing.”

“For now,” he said. “But who knows how long that will last, once her memory returns?”

Weaving his way deftly through the crowd, Edmondo led Maeve to a table at the far end of the ballroom and handed her into her chair with courtly, old-world charm. “Here we are,
cara mia
. I’m putting you next to me in order for us to get to know each other again.”

“And I,” Lorenzo announced, taking the seat on her other side, “intend to do the same.”

“I’m flattered,” she said, and scanned the room, trying not
to betray how jittery she felt. She was out of her element in this smart, sophisticated crowd. “Where’s Dario?”

“Mingling with his guests for a change,” Celeste informed her loftily. “In his position, he can scarcely remain so frequently absent from the social scene and not expect to perform double duty when he does choose to appear.”

“I’m afraid it’s my fault he’s spent so much time away, Signora Costanzo.”

“We are well aware of the reason, my dear,” Edmondo said, patting her hand kindly. “His first duty was, and is, to you, his wife, something we all understand.”

All except for Celeste, Maeve thought, silently berating Dario for suggesting she attend this blasted affair, then leaving her to his mother’s untender mercies.

Some of her dismay must have been apparent to Lorenzo because he leaned close and murmured, “Don’t take Celeste’s words to heart, Maeve. Her bark, as they say in English, is much worse than her bite.”

“I’m not inclined to put the theory to the test.”

Giuliana arrived at the table in time to overhear their exchange and laughed. “Smart lady,” she said. “It takes most people years to arrive at that conclusion.”

Following close behind, Dario stopped long enough to trace a discreetly intimate finger over the exposed skin of Maeve’s back. “Sorry I left you to fend for yourself,
amore
. How are you doing?”

“Better now that you’re here,” she told him, her annoyance evaporating in the warmth of his touch.

“I’m yours for the rest of the night,” he promised, giving
her shoulder a squeeze before taking his place between his mother and sister as a hovering waiter began to pour the wine.

When all the glasses were filled, Edmondo stood up, cleared his throat and turned a benign glance Maeve’s way. “This date has long held special meaning for me because it was my grandfather’s birthday. I have always been proud of him for his efforts to improve the lot of those less fortunate than himself, and prouder still that my children continue to support the work he began. But I don’t know that I’ve ever been prouder than I am tonight, when I look around this table and see my grown-up family complete again.” He raised his glass. “I therefore ask you to join me in a toast to a very special young woman. To you, Maeve, and a full recovery very soon,
cara mia
. We have missed you.”

Her father-in-law meant well, she knew, but the last thing Maeve wanted was to be the focus of everyone’s attention. She hadn’t liked it when she’d been singled out in high school, and she didn’t like it now. In an agony of embarrassment she looked across the table to Dario, silently begging him to deflect the spotlight elsewhere.

He met her gaze and held it steady, his calm gray eyes telling her she was not alone, and that whatever surprises the evening might bring, he’d be beside her and together they’d cope. He made it possible for her to breathe air into her beleaguered lungs and unclench her fingers, which lay knotted in her lap. Because of him she was able to return Edmondo’s smile, murmur her thanks and not mind too terribly much that Celeste barely managed to acknowledge the toast without gagging.

At length Edmondo sat down again, and general conversation resumed as a melon-and-prosciutto appetizer, the first
of several courses, was presented. A delicate chicken consommé came next, followed by artichoke salad with capers brought all the way from Pantelleria, then scampi on a bed of braised endive. Before the entree, palate-cleansing basil and lime sorbet appeared in thimble-size stemmed glasses.

Somehow, Maeve was able to manage it all without dribbling, drooling, using the wrong fork or otherwise embarrassing herself—this, despite having Celeste watch her the entire time like a hawk waiting to pounce on a rabbit. Of course, it helped that throughout the feast, Dario also captured Maeve’s glance and smiled a private little smile, one so loaded with sensual promise that she was almost able to ignore Celeste’s hooded scrutiny.

Between courses, with a lift of one eyebrow and a meaningful nod at other couples gliding around the floor to the strains of the orchestra, he invited her to dance. She melted dreamily in his arms, her pretty dress floating around her ankles like morning mist, and lost herself in the spicy scent of his after-shave and the firm reassurance of his body pressed close to hers. She wished the evening would never end, at the same time that she wanted it to be over so that they’d be alone again.

He scattered tiny kisses against her brow. Held her ever closer and told her how proud she made him, how beautiful she was. And when the chandeliers dimmed and the music slowed to a sultry beat, he drew her closer still and whispered other things in her ear. Shocking, sexy, outrageously thrilling things not meant for anyone else to hear.

With his every wicked word, desire built, streaming through her blood and leaving her body and spirits soaring. Suspended in breathless anticipation.

Perhaps she soared too high. How else to account for her clumsiness when she returned to the table after a particularly stirring slow waltz, and somehow managed to knock over Lorenzo’s wine? One second she was easing into her chair, preparing to enjoy the medallion of filet mignon on her plate; the next, the glass was tilting in precarious slow motion and the contents spilling out to leave the front of her gown stained a dark purplish-red.

“Oh, my goodness!” she cried, mopping ineffectually at the river of wine still trickling into her lap. “Lorenzo, I’m so sorry.”

“Not at all,” he insisted with impeccable courtesy. “My fault entirely.”

But it wasn’t. She knew it, and so did everyone else at the table, except for Giuliana, whose seat was empty. A well-bred commotion arose: Dario summoning a waiter to rectify a situation beyond repair; Edmondo gently insisting such things happened and no one was to blame; Lorenzo apologizing needlessly, again and again. And a sudden hush from nearby tables as attention shifted to the drama unfolding at the Costanzos’.

Maeve shriveled inside and wished she could die. Aware of all eyes on her, the anonymity she craved again denied her, she muttered her excuses, stumbled awkwardly to her feet and fled, her brief Cinderella reign at an end.

The ladies’ room, smothered in the scented silence of gardenias, was as elegantly appointed as the ballroom. Low white leather benches on spindly legs fronted a long marble vanity topped by a beveled mirror. Crystal wall scones shed a flattering light.

Too much light! One glance at her reflection revealed with
glaring accuracy in its unwinking surface, the extent of Maeve’s fall from grace. Her dress was ruined. The wine had seeped right through the chiffon to the silk lining, putting paid to any far-fetched notion she’d entertained that sponging it with cold water might be able to effect a miracle. She could have wept.

Behind her, the door whispered open and to her added horror, Celeste appeared.
Ah, no,
Maeve thought in despair.
Not this, not now!

Her mother-in-law glided across the thick carpet, subjected Maeve to a pitying stare and, without so much as a word, took a wand of lip gloss from her beaded purse and applied fresh color to her mouth.

Her silence condemned more thoroughly than any verbal attack she might have launched. Unable to bear it, Maeve said haltingly, “It
was
an accident, Signora Costanzo.”

Celeste snapped her lipstick closed and leaned forward to inspect herself in the mirror. “You’re rather fond of accidents, it would seem,” she drawled.

Maeve sucked in a shocked breath. “Are you saying you think I did this on purpose?”

“I think you’re a magnet for disaster, which follows you wherever you go. The pity of it is, it touches the people around you, as my son has discovered to his cost.”

Chagrined, Maeve said, “Have I never managed to do anything right in your eyes?”

“You used to dress well enough at least to
look
the part of a Costanzo wife.” Celeste’s gaze skimmed over her, coldly, pitilessly. “Now you can’t even do that.”

Although Maeve stood at least three inches taller than her
mother-in-law, at that moment she felt herself shrink into an old, all too familiar insignificance. “I have tried to fit in,” she said.

Celeste let out a snort of contempt. “You will never fit in. You’re a nobody.”

“You’re quite right,” Maeve said, stung into retaliating. “I was not born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I come from very humble origins. But my parents had their priorities straight. They understood what common decency was all about, and instilled in me a sense of humanity you completely lack. What kind of woman rejects another for something beyond her control? More to the point, what kind of
mother are you,
that you refuse to accept your son’s wife?”

Celeste turned white around the mouth. “You have the effrontery to lecture me about how a mother should behave? You, who has turned over responsibility for her—”

“That’s enough,
Madre!
” Suddenly Giuliana was there, inserting herself between them. “Not another word, do you hear? Maeve,
mia sorella la più cara,
Dario sent me to find you. Come with me now.”

“No,” Maeve said, standing her ground. “Not until she finishes what she started to say.”

“It is not my mother’s place to say anything,” Giuliana insisted, grasping her by the elbow and marching her to the door. “This is between you and Dario. Let him be the one to answer your questions.”

Shaking from the aftermath of her confrontation with Celeste, Maeve whispered, “How can I face him? This evening is such an important occasion for your family, and I spoiled it.”

“You did no such thing.” Opening the door, Giuliana
almost shoved her out to where Dario waited. “Get her away from here,” she told him urgently. “In fact, get her out of town quickly, before our mother finds a way to finish what she just started. Enough damage has been done for one night.”

He nodded, wrapped Maeve’s velvet evening cape around her shoulders and ushered her from the hotel to his chauffeured car parked in the forecourt. Bundling her into the backseat, he climbed in after her, slammed closed the door and told his driver,
“A Linate.”

Linate was the airport where the corporate jet had landed on its arrival from Pantelleria, her island prison. “Are we going back to the villa?” she asked in numb resignation.

“No,” he said. “We’re going back to Portofino, where we began.”

“Why bother? It won’t change who I am.”

“You’re my wife.”

“Take a good look at me, Dario,” she said, throwing open her cape, while the tears she’d so far managed to suppress flooded her eyes. The city streetlights flashed intermittently over her ruined evening gown, turning the stain dark as blood. “I’m a pathetic misfit.”

He folded her hands between his and chafed them. “It’s only a dress, Maeve,” he said gently. “Not worth getting upset about.”

“Oh, it’s about so much more than that, and we both know it. It’s my life, disguised under a veneer of high-society money and sophistication to hide who I really am underneath. Your mother’s right. I don’t belong with a man like you. You should let me go and find someone from your own strata of society to be your wife.”

“It’s much too late for that.”

“Why?”

He hesitated, and she realized how often he’d done that in response to her questions over the last weeks, as though he had to launder his answer before daring to utter it.