‘I’m interrupting—my apologies,’ he said. His eyes went back to his guests. ‘Enjoy your evening,’ he said, his smile warmer now as it encompassed the three people whose presence in his hotel he did not begrudge.
He walked away and Nic heard the Conte putting a question about a certain wine to Pietro, who immediately got involved. Nic left him to his discussion, aware that Fran wanted to speak to him.
‘I didn’t know you once worked here,’ she said.
That air of puzzled questioning was still in her tone of voice, her eyes, and Nic knew she was remembering that conversation they’d had in the motel by the desert lake, and him telling her how he’d got his start in life. He felt more memories push at him, seeking entrance—memories of everything else that had happened at that humble lakeside motel.
He crushed them from him. Returned to the moment in hand. Pietro had left them, to find the wines selected for their evening.
‘Yes, my first job was here, at sixteen. Right after the police made it clear it was either get work or be charged for assault for beating up the man beating up my mother.’
He was addressing the Conte and his Contessa now, not caring if he shocked them.
It didn’t shock Fran, hearing me tell her that.
The thought was in his head even as he saw Il Conte’s features tighten and the Contessa looking taken aback.
Then she rallied. ‘So you came to work here? I’m glad,’ she said. ‘My stepfather, Guido Viscari, was always keen on giving disadvantaged youngsters a start in life.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Nic dryly, ‘he certainly was happy to give us a start—providing we knew our place and kept to it.’ Like never aspiring to race up the management ladder ahead of his precious nephew.
‘Evidently he did not succeed in your case,’ Cesare murmured dryly.
Nic’s eyes flashed to his. ‘Evidently not,’ he agreed, with a tightness that was acerbic.
Then the maître d’ was coming up to them, murmuring to Il Conte that their table was ready for them. Dutifully, they all got to their feet.
Fran, Nic could see, had an introspective air about her. He held out his arm. ‘Shall we?’ he said.
With a little start she rested her hand on his arm, and they followed behind the Conte and Contessa into the opulent dining room beyond the bar. It was the lightest of touches but he still caught her scent, a delicate, expensive fragrance, and felt it pluck at him.
He almost turned to look down at her and smile, but then his attention was caught by another diner, whom he recognised as a society journalist who ran a diary column in one of the upmarket dailies. The Contessa had clearly spotted him too, and Nic recalled that she was some kind of journalist as well.
He watched as the Contessa murmured something sotto voce to her husband, resulting in a brief nod from him.
‘It was inevitable.’
He caught Il Conte’s reply, and knew what he was referring to.
He bent his head slightly towards Fran. ‘It seems we may make a news item tomorrow morning,’ he warned her.
Fran gave a little start again, and the Contessa explained. ‘He won’t be waspish. I know his style. But he will,’ she went on, ‘definitely speculate.’
‘He may also feed the news to his colleague on the finance pages, given that it is Nicolo Falcone dining at the Viscari,’ Cesare contributed.
Fran shut her eyes for a moment. She did not relish reading about herself and Nic in the morning papers.
I should have foreseen this.
Rome was such a hive of gossip, with everyone buzzing about what everyone else was doing, and who they were doing it with. Since living in the USA she’d forgotten just what a fishbowl it was. Belatedly, it dawned on her that the other diners here might well see her too, and speculate as to why she was here with Nicolo Falcone. And that might reach her parents.
I don’t want them to find out like that. I have to tell them myself.
She gave a sigh, opening her eyes again. Letting her gaze go to Nic.
But he isn’t Nic, is he? He’s Nicolo Falcone, a man rich and powerful enough to provoke the interest of journalists.
‘He’s welcome to do so,’ she heard him say, and there was a coldness in his voice that belonged to the billionaire hotelier, not to the man she had once known.