LITMIR.BIZ

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as sure, as if Lindsay had run out of the strength required to continue. Or perhaps she’d been too blinded by the tears, which had blurred the last few lines and left watery stains on the paper—stains made even larger by Corinne’s own tears now.

      Desperate to keep her grief private, she flushed the toilet, hoping the sound would disguise the sobs tearing at her, then mopped at her face with a handful of tissues. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know her makeup was ruined. The mascara stung her eyes, adding insult to injury.

      “Oh, Lindsay,” she mourned softly, “you know I’d do anything for you…anything at all. Except this.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      SHE RETURNED to the main room to find the moon casting an icy swath across the ink-black waters of the harbor. Within the suite, a floor lamp poured a pool of warm yellow light over the love seat next to the window, but at the linen-draped dining table, candles now shimmered over the crystal and silverware, and lent a more subtle blush to a centerpiece of cream roses. She was glad of that. Candlelight was much kinder, its subdued glow helping to disguise her reddened eyes, bereft now of any trace of mascara.

      Raffaello Orsini held out her chair before taking a seat opposite, and nodding permission for the hovering waiter to pour the wine, a very fine sparkling white burgundy. Still shaken from rereading Lindsay’s letter, Corinne could barely manage a taste, and was sure she’d never be able to swallow a bite of food. She deeply regretted having accepted her host’s imperious invitation. Quite apart from the fact that her composure lay in shreds, she knew she looked a mess, and what woman was ever at her sharpest under those circumstances?

      At least he had the good grace not to comment on her appearance, or her initial lack of response to his conversation. Instead, as braised endive salad followed a first course of crab and avocado pâté served on toast points, with foie gras-stuffed quail bathed in a sherry vinaigrette as the entrée, he regaled her with an amusing account of his tourist experiences earlier in the day. And almost without her realizing, she was coaxed into doing at least some justice to a meal he’d clearly taken great pains to make as appealing as possible.

      By the time dessert arrived, a wonderful silky chocolate mousse she couldn’t resist, a good deal of her tension had melted away. The man oozed confidence, and reeked not so much of wealth, although he clearly had money to burn, but of the power that went with it. A heady combination, she had to admit. Watching him, enjoying his dry wit and keen observations, and more than a little dazzled by the smile he allowed so sparingly, she was almost able to push aside the real reason for their meeting and pretend, just for a little while, that they were merely a man and woman enjoying an evening together.

      Lulled into a comfortable haze induced by candlelight, and a voice whose exotic cadence suggested an intimacy worth discovering, if only she dared, she almost relaxed. He was a complex man; an intriguing contradiction in terms. His wafer-thin Patek Philippe watch, handmade shoes and flawlessly tailored suit belonged to a CEO, a chairman of the board, a tycoon at his best wheeling and dealing megamillions in the arena of international business. Yet the contained strength of his body suggested he could sling a goat over one shoulder and scale a Sicilian mountainside without breaking a sweat. Despite that, though, there was absolutely nothing of the rustic in him. He was sophistication personified, and much too charming and handsome for his own good.

      Or hers. Because, like a hawk luring a mouse into the open, he suddenly struck, diving in for the kill before she realized she’d left herself vulnerable to him. “So far, I’ve done all the talking, signora. Now it’s your turn. So tell me, please, what is there about you that I might find noteworthy?”

      “Not much, I’m afraid,” she said, disconcerted by the question, but not yet suspecting where it would lead. “I’m a single, working parent, with very little time to do anything noteworthy.”

      “Too occupied with making ends meet, you mean?”

      “That about covers it, yes.”

      “What kind of work do you do?”

      “I’m a professional chef.”

      “Ah, yes. I remember now that my wife once mentioned that. You were snapped up by a five-star restaurant in the city, as I recall.”

      “Before my marriage, yes. After that, I was a stay-athome wife and mother. When my husband died, I…needed extra income, so I opened a small catering company.”

      “You’re now self-employed, then?”

      “Yes.”

      “You hire others to help you?”

      “Not always. At first, I could handle the entire workload alone. Now that my clientele has increased, I do bring in extra help on occasion, but still do most of the food preparation myself.”

      “And offer a very exclusive service to your patrons, I’m sure.”

      “Yes. They expect me to oversee special events in person.”

      “A demanding business, being one’s own boss, don’t you find? What prompted you to tackle such an undertaking?”

      “It allowed me to be at home with my son when he was a baby.”

      “Resourceful and enterprising. I admire that in a woman.” He steepled his fingers and regarded her sympathetically. “How do you find it, now that your son’s older?”

      “It’s not so easy,” she admitted. “He’s long past the age where he’s content to play quietly in a corner while I create a wedding buffet for sixty people.”

      He allowed himself a small, sympathetic smile. “I don’t doubt it. So who looks after him when you’re away taking care of the social needs of strangers?”

      “My next-door neighbor,” she replied, wincing inwardly at his too-accurate assessment of her clientele. “She’s an older woman, a widow and a grandmother, and very reliable.”

      “But not quite as devoted to him as you are, I’m sure.”

      “Is anyone ever able to take a mother’s place, Mr. Orsini?”

      “No, as I have learned to my very great cost.” Then switching subjects suddenly, he said, “What sort of place do you live in?”

      Bristling, she snapped, “Not a hovel, if that’s what you’re implying,” and wondered how much Lindsay had told him about her straitened circumstances.

      “I didn’t suggest that it was,” he returned mildly. “I’m merely trying to learn more about you. Paint the appropriate background to a very attractive portrait, if you like.”

      Mollified enough to reply less defensively, she said, “I rent a two-bedroom town house in a gated community several miles south of the city.”

      “In other words, a safe place where your son can play in the garden without fear that he might wander away.”

      She thought of the narrow patio outside her kitchen, the strip of lawn not much bigger than a bath towel that lay beyond it and her neighbors on the other side, the Shaws—a crusty old couple in their eighties, who complained constantly that Matthew made too much noise. “Not exactly. I have no garden as such. I take him to play at a nearby park instead, and if I’m not available, my sitter takes him for me.”

      “But there are other children he can visit in this gated community, boys his own age, with similar interests?”

      “Unfortunately not. Most residents are older—many, like my baby-sitter, retired.”

      “Does he at least have a dog or cat to keep him company?”

      “We aren’t allowed to own pets.”

      He raised his elegant black brows. “Dio, he might as well be in prison, for all the freedom he enjoys.”

      In truth, she couldn’t refute an opinion which all too closely coincided with her own, but she wasn’t about to tell him so. “Nothing’s ever perfect, Mr.

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