Free The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding by Jennifer Blake

when she answered the quiet knock on her door.
    He had changed out of his suit. The expert cut and color of
what he wore, the tobacco brown linen pants paired with a polo shirt two shades
lighter, turned what should have been casual wear into a fashion statement. Or
maybe it was the man who wore them, who could say?
    His gaze, brief and impersonal, skimmed over the fresh
blouse she wore with the same suit skirt and plain low-heeled pumps. A frown
settled between his dark brows.
    “Sorry if I’m not dressed for the occasion,” she said in
answer to that implied criticism. “I was not allowed time to pack, if you will
remember. But I’ve made a list of the things I’ll need while here.”
    “Permit me,” he said, holding out his hand.
    “I can do my own shopping, thank you.”
    “Don’t, please, turn this into another test of wills. I am
not proposing to outfit you for my personal pleasure.”
    Hot color rose to her hairline at the idea of being dressed
for his enjoyment. She wondered what he would choose for bedtime wear or if he
would choose anything at all.
    No, she didn’t. She did not.
    “There will be no quarrel if you will allow me do my own
shopping.”
    “But there is the difficulty. The villa is some distance
from the stores. You will have to be driven to the better boutiques in
Florence. If someone else chooses a few things for you, it will be less time
wasted that could be spent with your brother. Besides, it’s what personal
shoppers are for.”
    It made sense, particularly as she feared the transport
mentioned might be the limo making a series of stops on the way to or from the
hospital. The last thing she wanted was to search out what she needed while her
host waited in a purring Mercedes at the curb or prowled up and down outside
the dressing room door.
    “Oh, very well, but please tell the shopper I can only
afford the basics and off the rack, no designer fashions.” Turning to the dressing
table, she retrieved the list she’d made, added various sizes in a quick
scribble, then walked back to slap it into his hand.
    “ Bene ,” he said with a smile that lighted the
espresso darkness of his eyes with golden gleams. “Now we go to lunch.”
    Bene indeed, Amanda thought with a sigh of defeat,
but was still aware of an odd lightness in her step as she walked beside him.
    The terrace lay at the rear of the house, a series of levels
floored in black and white mosaics, and with wide steps marked by large vases
overflowing with flowers. Below it was a garden that blended into the distant
view of silver-gray olives and endless rows of grape vines backed by the
blue-green line of the Ligurian Sea. The air smelled of sunshine, fresh herbs
and flowers, also of warm, just-baked bread and the seafood salad Erminia was
serving in pottery dishes so gorgeous they should be displayed as artwork.
    Three women sat waiting on the upper level, not far from the
luncheon table beneath its bower of grape vines. The eldest was white-haired
and elegant, with a fortune in pearls at her throat. The next was dark-haired,
dark-eyed, voluptuously rounded and beautifully groomed in a chic, middle-aged
fashion. The third was younger, and sat half-hidden behind the other two.
    “Nonna — Grandmother — and Aunt Filomena, may I present our
guest, Miss Amanda Davies.” Nicholas paused in this formal introduction while
Amanda shook hands. Then he turned to draw the younger girl to her feet. “And
this is Carisa.”
    Amanda drew a silent breath of surprise. Carita’s twin was
pretty in a gentle, almost fragile manner, with a softly rounded body, fine
textured hair that curled on the ends, childish mouth and sweet expression. She
also carried upon her small features the unmistakable imprint of Down’s
syndrome.
    Amanda glanced at Nicholas, but he was smiling down at his
sister. His face held such warm and gentle affection that it made Amanda’s
throat ache to see it.
    It was so unexpected, this accident of birth when