The ballroom could never be described as understated, but without hanging moons and ivy vines tonight it looked its elegant best, and Ariana caught the sweet scent of gardenias as she took her seat. Mia entered and took her seat at the table too, Gian sitting between them. He was, of course, his usual dignified self and made polite small talk alternately with both Mia and Ariana.
Like a parent wedged between two warring siblings and trying to give both equal attention, Ariana thought.
‘I shouldn’t have worn red,’ Mia said as the pasta was served. ‘It was the gown I had for last year...’
‘You look stunning,’ Gian told her—again. And Ariana gritted her teeth.
Gian tried his level best to be his usual self, as Ariana smouldered beside him. The drama of waiting for her to explode was painful, but he told himself she was not his problem. He told himself that the Romanos, the whole lot of them, were each a theatre production in themselves.
The bed-hopping, the scandals—Dante and Mia doing their best not to make eye contact. He was rather certain that the heavy earrings she wore had been in the box that he had earlier delivered to her door. Rafael’s lover was too ill to attend but his orchids took pride of place. Eloa and Stefano were desperate for the night to be over so they could be alone.
And don’t get me started on Ariana, he thought.
He could feel her, smell her, hear her when she spoke, and of course she was asking for more pepper.
She jangled his nerves and she beguiled him, because for once she behaved.
Almost.
She turned her back when Mia tried to speak, which he did his level best to ignore and gloss over.
And then the appalling Nicki came over between courses and moaned about her seat. ‘Ariana, you really have stuck me beside the most boring people and I’ll never hear the speeches back there.’
Gian stared ahead, but said in a low voice for Ariana’s ears, ‘My offer still stands.’
He would move, Ariana knew. Right now, Gian would get up and stalk off and it was the last thing she wanted. She looked at her friend and, for the first time ever, stood up for herself. ‘Nicki, the sound engineer is the best in Rome. I’m sure you’ll be able to hear.’
Well done, he wanted to tell her. Well done, Ariana.
But he stayed silent. It was not his place.
Yet he wanted it to be.
There was just one unkind comment, as dessert was being served, when Eloa spoke of her wedding that was now just a few short weeks away. She told Mia, ‘Ariana is helping us organise a few things,’ clearly trying to feed her into the conversation.
‘Yes.’ Ariana flashed a red-lipped smile at Mia. ‘It’s going to be amazing. Anyone who’s anyone has been invited...’
Meaning—not you!
Gian caved.
Ariana felt his hand on her thigh, and the grip of his fingers actually halted her words.
‘That’s not a good idea,’ she said to Gian, while looking ahead. ‘If you reward me each time I go too far...’
‘Would you prefer the discipline method?’
She threw her head back and laughed.
Even with Mia at her table, Ariana found that with Gian beside her she could still have such a wonderful night.
And it was then that she got another reward, for as the desserts were served and shots of coffee were tossed over ice creams, there was a special dish, made just for her. Tutti-frutti.
Ariana gasped.
‘Yes.’
It was better than being handed chestnuts on a freezing night; it was better than a sliver of gold when she could not face her father’s funeral alone.
‘Thank you.’
She wanted to cry as she tasted the sweet candied ice cream and remembered how her father had, over and over, let her get away with buying three cones, just so she could devour them all.
Happy memories reigned as little shots of sugar burst on her tongue and when she finished she had to dab at her eyes with her napkin. ‘Ice cream has never made me cry before,’ she admitted to Gian as the waiter cleared her very clean plate. ‘Happy tears, though. It was beautiful, thank you.’
‘Shall we get it over with?’ Gian asked as the band struck up.
‘Get what over with?’ Ariana said, as if she didn’t know.
‘The duty dance.’
It had been months since she had known the bliss of his arms, and for Gian it had been months with no feminine pleasure.
He’d known he would only be thinking of her and, besides, no one else had her scent.
‘Your perfume,’ he said, as he held her at a distance and resumed their old wars.
‘I’ve told you,’ she said, ‘I don’t wear any.’ She looked right at him. ‘You’re the only one who complains.’
‘I’m not complaining.’
‘Why do you always hold me at such a distance?’
‘You know why,’ he said, and pulled her deep in so she could feel him hard against the softness of her stomach. She flared to the scent of citrus and bergamot and testosterone and the roughness of his skin seemed to burn her rouged cheek. ‘You didn’t shave...’
‘Because you like me unshaven.’
‘Gian.’ She was trying to breathe and dance and deal with the change all at the same time. She simply didn’t understand him. ‘You’ve ignored me most of the night...’
‘I tried to,’ he admitted.
‘You’ve ignored me for weeks...’ He shook his head, but then nodded when she quoted his impersonal sign-offs. ‘“Kind regards, Gian”?’
‘How else could we get the ball done?’
‘And after tonight will you ignore me again?’
He didn’t answer because he didn’t know. He could not afford to think of tomorrow now.
The judgements of the coroner’s report should be flicking through his mind, except tonight those violet eyes turned his warning systems off.
He gave her no promises, just told her the card for his private
