LITMIR.BIZ

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third floor.

      ‘It is now. I bought it a couple of years ago,’ he replied, throwing open the double doors into the main salon, with its high ceilings, gilded furniture and matchless views over the ancient city. ‘Although the Emperor Napoleon III happened to live here in 1830.’

      ‘Here? Good grief, Renzo.’ She stood in the centre of the room, looking around. ‘It’s gorgeous. Like...well, like something you might see in a book. Why don’t you live here? I mean, why London?’

      ‘Because my work is international and I wanted to establish a base in London and the only way to do that properly is to be permanently on-site. I don’t come back here as often as I should, but maybe some day.’

      ‘Renzo—’

      But he cut her off with a shake of his head. ‘I know. You want to talk—but first you should unpack. Get comfortable. We need to think about dinner but first I need to do a little work.’

      ‘Of course,’ she said stiffly.

      ‘Come with me and I’ll show you where the main bedroom is.’

      Down a high-ceilinged corridor she followed him to yet another room which defied expectation. The enormous wooden bed had a huge oil painting on the wall behind it, with elaborate silk drapes on either side, which made it seem as if you were looking out of a window onto mountains and trees. Darcy blinked as she stared at it. How am I even here? she wondered as she unwound the soft blue scarf which was knotted around her neck. She looked around the room, taking in the antique furniture, the silken rugs and the priceless artwork. Yet this staggering display of a wealth which many people would covet had little meaning for her. She didn’t want things—no matter how exquisite they were. She wanted something which was much harder to pin down and which she suspected would always elude her.

      She showered and changed into a cashmere tunic with leggings, padding barefoot into the salon to see her new husband at his computer, the familiar sight of one of his spectacular designs dominating the screen. But despite her noiseless entrance he must have heard her because he turned round, those dark-rimmed spectacles on his nose giving him that sexy, geeky look which used to make her heart turn over.

      Still did, if she was being honest.

      ‘Room to your satisfaction?’ he questioned.

      ‘Bit cramped, actually.’

      He gave the glimmer of a smile. ‘I know. Makes you claustrophobic. Hungry?’

      ‘After that enormous lunch?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Funnily enough, I am.’

      ‘Good.’ His gaze roved over her, black eyes gleaming as they lingered a little too long. ‘Looks like you have some catching up to do. You need to put some meat on those bones.’

      She didn’t reply to that. She wasn’t going to tell him that she felt all breasts and bump. She wanted to tell him not to look at her body any more than was absolutely necessary.

      And yet she wanted him to feast his eyes on it all day and make her glow inside.

      ‘We could eat out,’ he continued. ‘I could take you to Trastevere, where you can eat some real Italian food and not something designed to try to appeal to an international palate. Or...’

      She raised her eyebrows questioningly. ‘Or?’

      ‘We could order in pizza.’

      ‘Here?’

      ‘Why not?’

      She shrugged as she stared through an arch to see a long, softly polished dining table set with tall silver candelabra. ‘It seems way too grand.’

      ‘A table is there to be used, Darcy, no matter what you’re eating.’

      It seemed decadent to find themselves there an hour later sitting on ormolu chairs, eating pizza with their fingers. As if they had broken into a museum and had temporarily set up home for the night.

      ‘Good?’ questioned Renzo as she popped the last piece of anchovy in her mouth and licked bright orange oil from her fingers.

      ‘Heaven,’ she sighed.

      But it still seemed like a dream—as if it were happening to someone else—until they returned to the main salon and he asked her if she wanted mint tea. She didn’t know what made her ask if he had hot chocolate and was surprised when he said he’d find out—and even more surprised when he returned a few minutes later with a creamy concoction in a tall mug. A potent memory squeezed at her heart as she took the drink from him—perhaps it was the sweet smell of the chocolate which made the words slip out before she could stop them.

      ‘Wow! I haven’t had this since...’

      She caught herself on but it was too late.

      ‘Since when?’

      She kept her voice airy. ‘Oh, nothing to interest you.’

      ‘I’m interested,’ he persisted.

      She wondered if the shaky way she put the mug down gave away her sudden nerves. ‘You’ve never been interested before.’

      ‘True,’ he agreed drily. ‘But you’re carrying my baby now and maybe I need to understand the mother of my child.’

      And Darcy knew she couldn’t keep avoiding the issue—just as she knew that to do so would probably intrigue him. Even worse—it might make him start to do his own investigative work and then what might he discover? Her heart sank. She knew exactly what he would discover. He would discover the reason for the deep dark shame which still festered inside her. She stared at the cooling chocolate, wishing she could turn back time and that this time he wouldn’t ask. But you couldn’t turn back time. Just as you couldn’t hide everything from a man who was determined to find out.

      ‘It sounds so stupid—’

      ‘Darcy,’ he said, and his voice sounded almost gentle.

      She shrugged. ‘The chocolate reminded me of going out to a café when I was a little girl. Going to meet some prospective new foster parents.’

      The image came back to her, unbearably sharp and achingly clear. She remembered strawberry-covered cakes gleaming behind glass frontage and the waitresses with their starched aprons. It had been one of those awkward but hopeful meetings, with Darcy’s social worker the referee—observing the interaction between a little girl who badly needed a home and two adults who wanted to give her one. They’d bought her hot chocolate in a glass mug, topped with a hillock of whipped cream and a shiny cherry on top. She’d stared at it for a long time before she could bear to disturb its perfection and when she’d drunk from it at last, the cream had coated her upper lip with a white moustache and made everyone laugh. The laughter was what she remembered most.

      ‘Foster parents?’ prompted Renzo, his deep voice dissolving the image.

      ‘I didn’t have the most...stable of childhoods. My mother was seventeen when she was orphaned. The roads were icy and her father took the bend too fast. They said he’d been...drinking. The police knocked at her door on Christmas Eve and said she’d better sit down. She once told me that after they’d gone she looked at the Christmas tree and all the presents underneath it. Presents which would never be opened...’ Her voice trailed off. It had been a rare moment of insight and clarity from a woman whose life had been lived in pursuit of a constant chemical high. ‘And it... Well, it freaked her out.’

      ‘I’m not surprised. Did she have any relatives?’

      Darcy shook her head. ‘No. Well, there were some on the west coast of Ireland but it was too late for her to get there in time for the holiday. And she couldn’t face intruding on someone else’s Christmas. Being the spectre at the feast. Being pitied. So she spent the holiday on her own and soon after she went to Manchester with the money she’d inherited from her parents but no real idea about a career. In fact, she had nothing to commend her but her looks and her new-found ability to party.’

      ‘Did

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