The Valtieri Marriage Deal (11 page)

But it was the view that held Isabelle’s attention, and she stood at the window and stared out over the landscape, her face turned away from him so he couldn’t read her expression.

‘Is this land all yours?’

‘Yes. Pretty much what you can see from here belongs to the family.’

‘I thought you were farmers,’ she said, her voice shocked, and he winced.

‘Well, we are, in a way. Growing grapes and olives is farming.’

She gave a tiny but distinctly unladylike snort. ‘How large
is
your farm, Luca?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Massimo, he’s the figures man. Several thousand hectares. I’m not sure how it’s divided up. About one third each of pasture, vines and olive groves. I’ll take you on a guided tour—or get him to do it. He’ll be better, if you’re really interested. It’s his passion.’

She turned away from the window, her nerves starting to get the better of her the more she found out.

‘Is there a bathroom? I’d like to wash and change, then we need to go and drop this bombshell on your parents,’ she said, and he could tell from her expressionless face how much she was dreading it.

‘Sure,’ he said, and opened the bathroom door. ‘Help yourself.’

She took her washbag from her case and paused in the bathroom doorway.

‘You don’t need to wait,’ she told him. ‘I’ll come and find you when I’m ready. Where will you be?’

‘My bedroom’s through that door. We share the bathroom. I’ll go and get changed—give me a tap when you’re finished so I can shave.’

She nodded and closed the door, turning her back to it and staring round at the very modern and beautiful fittings. Marble walls, a huge walk-in shower with a head the size of a dustbin lid and a bath you could get an entire family in.

She looked at it longingly, but settled instead for a shower,
which made her feel a little better, but by the time she’d dried and dressed herself in her new trousers and a soft sweater, her heart was pounding.

She went into the bathroom and tapped on the door. ‘I’m finished,’ she called, and the knob turned and he came through it.

‘Thanks. I won’t be long.’

He’d changed his trousers, but he’d taken off his shirt and the sight of that shadowed jaw above his beautifully muscled chest made her mouth dry. She backed away, shut the door to her side and walked to the window, sitting down on the padded window seat and staring out over the beautiful rolling countryside.

A few minutes later he tapped and came through, looking good enough to eat. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ she said, and stood up, running her hands a little nervously over the front of the trousers. ‘Will I do?’

He smiled at her and nodded. ‘You look lovely. Cool and fresh and composed.’ His smile softened. ‘They’re just people,
cara.
That’s what my old university professor used to say to us about patients, whether they were intimidating or from a very humble background. “We’re all just people.” Remember that.’

‘Just so long as they do,’ she murmured under her breath, and squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she followed him through the twisting, winding corridors, down the ornately frescoed staircase to the courtyard, and then round to the other side and into a huge room overlooking the terrace.

‘Ah, they’re outside, taking advantage of the sun.’

A group of people, three men and a woman, were sitting under a beautiful colonnaded pergola entwined with the stems of jasmine, just bursting into leaf, and he took her by the hand and led her towards them, their feet crunching over the
gravel and alerting the dogs, who leapt up and ran towards them, tails wagging furiously as they greeted Luca and checked her out.

‘Luca!
Figlio mio!’
An elegant middle-aged woman got to her feet and hurried over to him, hugging and kissing him, and then her eyes found Isabelle’s and she let him go and put her head on one side, a hesitant smile touching her mouth, as if she was uncertain of her ground. As well she might be, Isabelle thought, suddenly presented with a strange woman on the arm of her son.

‘And you must be Isabelle. Welcome to Italy,’ his mother said, and she thought there was something a little wary about her eyes. Oh, lord, what am I doing here? she thought, but then his mother smiled and took her hand. ‘I’m Elisa, and this is my husband Vittorio.’

‘I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m sorry, I don’t speak any Italian—I feel really rude but I will try and learn it.’

‘It’s no problem. We all speak English,’ Vittorio said. ‘It’s good to meet you, too. Welcome.’

He shook her hand firmly, his eyes assessing but less wary than his wife’s, and then she was being introduced to two men who were clearly related to both the others—Luca’s older brother Massimo, who apparently ran the estate, and his younger brother Gio—the lawyer who’d delivered the thinly veiled threat, owner of the black Ferrari and with a distinctly speculative look in his eyes.

Then Roberto hobbled up with a tray of glasses, and someone appeared with an ice bucket and champagne, and a plump, white-haired woman who looked almost as old as Roberto bustled in with a tray of nibbles and Luca took the tray from her, set it down and swept her up into his arms.

‘Carlotta!’ he said, kissing her wrinkled cheek, and she laughed and coloured like a girl and said something in Italian.

‘Si.
Carlotta, this is Isabelle.
Cara,
Carlotta knows more about me than anyone in the world. She delivered me, and my father before me, and she is a very important member of the family. She is also the
cucinare
—the cook—and so even more important. Be nice to her.’

She laughed and smacked his hand, then turned to Isabelle with a beaming smile.
‘Signorina,’
Carlotta said, taking her hand and clasping it in both of hers, her eyes sparkling with delight. ‘Welcome.’

‘Thank you.’

She rattled off something in Italian, and Luca laughed and translated.

‘Carlotta’s a superb cook. She says she’s looking forward to cooking for you.’

Oh, lord. And she’d have to eat all sorts. Well, she was feeling a little better this week, so maybe it would be all right.

‘Si.
I look after you,’ she said, patting her hand, and for a moment she wondered if Carlotta had realised she was pregnant. No. She couldn’t have done. It didn’t show.

‘Grazie,’
she said with a smile.

Carlotta beamed and said,
‘Prego,’
and waddled away, wheezing slightly.

Prego?
she thought in panic, and then remembered it meant something on the lines of ‘You’re welcome’ and was nothing to do with pregnant.

But then she forgot Carlotta, because Luca slid his fingers through hers and held her hand firmly against his side, and said, ‘We have something to tell you.’

The family snapped to attention. Luca’s fingers tightened
fractionally, and, turning to her, his eyes smiling reassurance, he went on, ‘Isabelle has done me the honour of agreeing to become my wife.’

He didn’t get any further, because his mother gave a little cry and threw her arms around them both, then his father was moving her gently out of the way so he could kiss Isabelle on both cheeks, his eyes, so like Luca’s, warm with welcome.

Then it was Massimo’s turn, at first a formal handshake, then a hug and a smile, and it was down to Gio.

Gio, who’d warned her not to hurt his brother, who’d told her she’d have him to deal with and that he never lost in a court of law. He walked over to her, took her hand and bent to brush his lips against her cheek.

‘Welcome to the clan, Isabelle—but remember what I said and be kind to him,’ he murmured, and stepped back, the smile not really disguising the warning in his eyes.

But Luca was there, his arm round her again, holding her firmly by his side in a demonstration of possessive affection that nobody could misunderstand, and she met Gio’s eyes and didn’t back down. Why should she? She had no intention of hurting Luca. She just hoped he felt the same way.

‘So, we have to plan the wedding!’ Elisa said, clapping her hands. ‘Oh, Luca, we’ll get Anita tomorrow, she’ll be marvellous—and, Massimo, call your sisters, tell them to come, we need to celebrate! Vittorio, open the wine!’

‘Mama, slow down, we want a quiet wedding,’ Luca said, laughing softly. ‘A hundred people, max.’

‘A hundred!’

Isabelle and Elisa spoke in unison, but she had the feeling her future mother-in-law was appalled at the small number, whereas she—

A loud pop interrupted her thoughts, and Vittorio poured the Prosecco into the glasses. ‘Here,
cara,
welcome to the family,’ he said kindly, handing her a glass, and she had a tiny sip before Elisa came over to her and took her hand and led her to the chairs.

‘Come, sit next to me and tell me all about my new daughter-in-law. I can’t tell you how much I’ve looked forward to this day. I was beginning to wonder if Luca would ever find a woman he could love, but he has. I can see it in his eyes, and I’m so happy for you both.’

She didn’t bother to correct her. How could she? But in the warmth of her welcome, she was able to forget about Gio’s warning for a while, and concentrate on getting to know her future husband’s family.

They moved inside when the wind picked up, sipping wine and nibbling all sorts of tasty little treats until Roberto called them to the table, and while the conversation ebbed and flowed around her, Isabelle watched them all and wondered what it must be like to grow up in a family. Suffocating? She didn’t think so…

‘See? I told you they’d love you.’

‘Well, some of them. Gio’s a bit suspicious.’

‘Ignore him. My mother thinks you’re wonderful.’

‘I think your mother’s wonderful—a really very nice woman, but she doesn’t know about the baby yet,’ she pointed out, and stifled a yawn. It had been a long day, starting before six that morning with the drive to the airport, and it was almost nine at night now.

Lunch had gone on until almost four, and they’d had a light supper an hour ago. Now, they were strolling hand in hand
along the terrace, snuggled up in coats and letting Carlotta’s plain but delicious food settle before they went to bed.

It was nice to be alone, she thought. His family were lovely, but she was tired, and as they stood there in the cool of the evening she yawned again.

‘Come,
cara,
you’ve had a long day. You need to go to bed,’ he murmured, letting go of her, and she felt a pang of loss.

They walked back along the terrace, then up the steps to the pergola where they had all sat earlier, and he took her hand again as they went in through the doors into the lovely sitting room. His parents were there, sharing a last cup of coffee before bed, and they looked up and smiled.

‘Buonanotte,’
he murmured, and his mother blew him a kiss.

‘Don’t hurry in the morning,’ she said, a smile in her voice. ‘Breakfast can wait for you. You are on holiday now, and you both work too hard. Enjoy it.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Buonanotte,
Isabella—and welcome.’

As they walked back through the corridors and courtyards, their footsteps echoing quietly in the night, she felt awe again that he lived here, in this spectacular house—that this was his home, his birthright. And it would be her child’s.

The thought was daunting.

He opened the bedroom door for her, and she saw that the room had been prepared—the covers turned down, her case emptied and set aside, her clothes presumably hung up in the cupboard. More evidence, as if she needed it, of the gulf between them.

Her nightdress and dressing gown were laid over one side of the bed, and she turned to him in the doorway. ‘What time do you want me to get up tomorrow?’ she asked, and he shrugged.

‘I don’t. Please yourself—I’ll be around. Give me a call on my mobile when you wake up and I’ll get you something light to eat before you get up—and come and ask me if you need anything in the night. I’m going to find my brothers now and have a drink with them, but I won’t be long. Call me if you need anything.’

Only you, she thought as he bent his head and kissed her. And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving her alone with her tumbling thoughts and emotions.

‘So what’s the story, then?’

Luca dropped into the battered old leather sofa in Massimo’s apartment in the house and rolled his eyes.

‘Gio, shut up,’ Massimo said softly. ‘Luca, what can I get you? I’ve got a nice Pinot Grigio in the fridge, or there’s a lovely Barosa open.’

‘No, I’ve drunk enough.’

‘Rubbish. Give him the Barosa, loosen his tongue a bit. I want to hear all about his
bella regazza.
I can see why you’ve fallen for her. She’s gorgeous. I just hope it hasn’t blinded you.’

‘Leave her alone, Gio. She’s done nothing to deserve this treatment from you.’

Gio arched a brow. ‘Let’s just wait and see.’

‘Shut up, Gio. Where did you meet her?’ Massimo asked, butting in.

‘Firenze, in a café, in January.’

Massimo put a glass in his hand. ‘The day of your interview? You dropped off the radar for twenty-four hours. Could this be anything to do with the lady in question?’

He gave a soft snort and nodded.
‘Dio,
does nothing escape you guys? Yes. I spent the day with her.’

‘And the night,’ Gio prodded, and he sighed.

‘Do you have to be so damn rude?’

‘That’s a yes, Massimo, by the way. So how come you’re working with her?’

‘It’s just coincidence.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘No, really. I’m helping a friend out with a locum job—’

‘Why? You’re right in the middle of your research paper,’ Massimo said, getting to the heart of it. ‘And what happened about the professorship in Firenze?’

‘I took a rain check.’