Free In the Italian's Sights by Helen Brooks Page A

conversazione over coffee on the veranda, si ?’
    Before she could object, he had stood up and movedround the table to draw her chair away. Taking her arm, he led her through the dining room’s French windows and out on to a balcony which ran along the side of the house. It held several comfy chairs and sofas, along with low tables on which citronella candles were burning, presumably to keep away troublesome insects.
    Cherry made sure she seated herself in one of the chairs rather than the more intimate sofas. She saw Vittorio’s black eyebrows quirk but he said nothing, sitting down opposite her just as Rosa came through the French doors. The maid said something in Italian, to which he answered, ‘ Si , Rosa. Grazie ,’ before turning to her and saying, ‘The coffee will be here in a few moments.’
    Cherry nodded stiffly. She wished it was this time yesterday. A week ago. A month ago. She had accepted this man’s hospitality, swum in his pool, eaten his food and drunk his wine, and now she was about to repay his kindness with the sort of news she wouldn’t have wanted to spring on her worst enemy. Whatever way you looked at it, it was a bum deal.
    Before she could speak, Vittorio said softly, ‘Look at the sky, mia piccola . It is aflame with stars and glowing with the colours of celestial bodies—a night when starlight throws long shadows on the gardens and the countryside, and makes strange apparitions out of the trees, the buildings and us. A night which reminds us how small and insignificant we are and how timeless is the past and the future.’
    Cherry didn’t look at the night sky. She looked at Vittorio. And in that moment she knew she was attracted to this handsome, autocratic stranger in a way she had never been attracted to a man before. She had known itfrom the moment she laid eyes on him, which was why she had fought it so ferociously.
    The shadows had carved dark hollows in the male bone structure, but his eyes were glittering granite as he looked into the heavens. And then he turned to her, a self-disparaging smile on his face as he murmured, ‘But I digress. What is it you wish to tell me, Cherry from England?’

CHAPTER FIVE
    C HERRY was always to remember the next few minutes. They would be burnt into the very fabric of her soul. Rosa stepping through the doors with the coffee. Vittorio pouring her a cup of the rich dark liquid with its fragrant aroma. The scent of the candles and the sudden cry of a startled bird disturbed in its refuge for the night. They all led up to the moment his gaze held hers and he said again, ‘Well? What is it?’ as he lifted his cup to his lips.
    There was a faint ringing in her ears, but she knew she just had to say it, baldly and with no lead-up, or she would lose her nerve. ‘It’s about Sophia. The reason she has been so difficult for the last month or so—’
    ‘Multiply that by twelve and you are about there,’ he interrupted sardonically.
    ‘She is expecting a baby, Vittorio.’
    She actually felt the earth shudder on its axis. There followed a moment of complete stillness.
    ‘What did you say?’ His voice was flat—curiously flat.
    ‘She and Santo—It wasn’t his fault, not really—That is, Sophia said—’
    ‘What did Sophia say, Cherry?’
    His face frightened her. ‘She is petrified, Vittorio.She hasn’t even told Santo yet, and she insisted it was her fault. She persuaded him. He didn’t really want to—’
    An explosive few words in Italian followed and Cherry was glad she couldn’t speak the language. She stared at him, her eyes huge in her white face, and found it actually pained her to see the agony and an almost boyish vulnerability distorting the hard handsome face.
    He stood up, and she said quickly, ‘She isn’t here. She’s gone to see Santo. To tell him about—about the baby.’
    He stared down at her, an avenging monochrome in the thick twilight in which stars twinkled above them and all nature seemed hushed and