The Truth Behind his Touch by Cathy Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

Both had the same proud, aristocratic features and the long, lean lines of natural athletes. Of course, Alberto was elderly now, but it was easy to see that he must have been as striking as his son in his youth.
    ‘Oh, stop that endless chattering, woman, and run along.’
    He waved her off and Caroline, steadying her nerves, got to the front door just as the doorbell chimed.
    She smoothed nervous hands along her skirt, a black maxi in stretch cotton which she wore with a loose-fitting top and, of course, the ubiquitous cardigan, although at least here it was more appropriate thanks to the cooling breeze that blew off the lake.
    She pulled open the door and her mouth went dry. In a snug-fitting cream polo-necked shirt and a pair of tan trousers with very expensive-looking loafers, he was every inch the impeccably dressed Italian. He looked as though he had come straight from a fashion shoot until he raised one sardonic eyebrow and said coolly, ‘Were you waiting by the window?’
    Remembering that she
had
, actually, been at her window when his car had pulled into the courtyard, Caroline straightened her spine and cleared her throat.
    ‘Of course I wasn’t! Although I
was
tempted, just in case you didn’t show up.’ She stood aside; Giancarlo took a step through the front door and confronted the house in which he had spent the first twelve years of his life. It had changed remarkably little. The hall was a vast expanse of marble, in the centre of which a double staircase spiralled in opposing directions to meet on the impressive galleried landing above. On either side of the hall, a network of rooms radiated like tentacles on an octopus.
    Now that he was back, he could place every room in his head: the various reception rooms; the imposing study from which he had always been banned; the dining-room in which portraits of deceased family members glared down at the assembled diners; the gallery in which were hung paintings of great value, another room from which he had been banned.
    ‘Why wouldn’t I show up?’ Giancarlo turned to face her.
    She looked more at home here, less ill at ease, which was hardly surprising, he supposed. Her hair which she had attempted to tie back in Milan was loose, and it flowed over her shoulders and down her back in a tangle of curls, dark brown streaked with caramel where the sun had lightened it.
    ‘You might have had a change of heart,’ Caroline admitted in a harried voice, because yet again those dark, cloaked eyes on her were doing weird things to her tummy. ‘I mean, you were so adamant that you didn’t want to see your father and then all of a sudden you announced that you’d changed your mind. It didn’t make sense. So I thought that maybe you might have changed your mind again.’
    ‘Where are the staff?’
    ‘I told you, most of the house is shut off. We have Tessa, the nurse who looks after Alberto. She lives on the premises, and two young girls take care of cleaning the house, but they live in the village. I’m glad you decided to come after all. Shall we go and meet your father? I guess you’ll want to be with him on your own.’
    ‘So that we can catch up? Exchange fond memories of the good old days?’
    Caroline looked at him in dismay. There was no attempt to disguise the bitterness in his voice. Alberto rarely mentioned the past, and his memoirs, which had taken a back seat over the past few weeks, had mostly got to the state of fond reminiscing about his university days and the places he had travelled as a young man. But she could imagine that Alberto had not been the easiest of fathers. When Giancarlo had agreed to visit, she had naively assumed that he had been willing, finally, to overlook whatever mishaps had drastically torn them apart. Now, looking at him, she was uneasily aware that her simple conclusions might have been a little off the mark.
    ‘Or even just agree to put the past behind you and move on,’ Caroline offered helpfully.
    Giancarlo sighed.