Poor old lady with no family to take care of her, and her awful stepson trying to steal her home. When Honora had asked why her family didn’t help, she’d learned that the woman’s children had died when they were babies. Pregnant as Honora was, her heart broke even more.
After that, she made sure to check on her every day, just to say hello, but mostly to make sure the sweet old lady didn’t break her leg trying to haul groceries up alone.
But one such morning, after nearly four weeks in Italy, changed everything.
It had started out so well. The proprietor of one of the little shops had found Honora the ball gown of her dreams, handmade in Naples by his cousin, who’d come that morning to do the final touches on the fit. Her belly was huge now, she had to concede. As she left the shop, the owner and his cousin promised to have the dress delivered to the villa. Just in time too, because their formal reception was tomorrow.
Walking back up the cobblestoned road, the dog bounding happily behind her, Honora hummed happily to herself. Her husband had promised, absolutely sworn, that he’d finalize his business that afternoon. Apparently his acquisition of the Villa Caracciola was on the verge of a breakthrough. His team of lawyers had cracked the current owner’s legal objections, apparently by some unorthodox means.
“Unorthodox?” she’d asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” he’d replied, smiling. “It just means we’re going to win.”
To celebrate, he was going to sail with her on his yacht to the isle of Capri. She was already dressed for the excursion, in maternity capri pants, a white bateau T-shirt, with a red scarf wrapped around her dark hair.
So after tomorrow night’s formal reception, they’d be able to go home to New York. Finally. Her baby’s due date was growing perilously close, less than a month away. She’d started visiting a doctor in Positano for checkups, just in case, but she wanted to be back in New York when she gave birth. Her grandfather kept sending messages, asking when she was coming home.
Honora blinked herself out of her thoughts when she saw the elderly woman, Egidia, standing outside her gate in Trevello, looking around anxiously. As soon as she saw Honora, with Figaro beside her, the woman blurted out, “Is it true your husband is Nico Ferraro?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Do you know him?”
The white-haired woman’s face crumpled. “He is the one who is taking my home...”
Then she’d told Honora a story she’d hardly been able to believe. One she kept thinking about, over and again, for the rest of her dazed walk home.
“There you are,” Nico said when she finally came inside. “Where have you been all this time?”
“Out.” Squatting down, she let Figaro off his leash, and the little dog raced back to the kitchen.
Nico’s forehead furrowed. He seemed confused by her cold tone, as well he should be—he’d never heard it before. “Are you ready to go for a little adventure?”
“Yes,” she said qu
ietly, feeling like she’d already had more adventure than she could stand. As she looked at Nico in the checkered hallway of the elegant villa, it was as if she were seeing him for the first time. He was darkly handsome, wearing a blue shirt with the top two buttons undone. His body was so powerful, his shoulders broad. She’d kissed every inch of his skin, as he had hers.
She’d thought she knew him. She’d only known the man she’d wanted him to be.
Frowning at her unusual reserve, he looked her over from her sandals to her capri pants, to the red scarf in her hair, then bent to kiss her on the cheek. “You look beautiful. Were you shopping in Trevello again?”
“I found a gown for the reception.” She tilted her head. “I was walking Figaro. And talking to people in the village,” she mumbled.
“Figaro?”
Did he really not know? “Luisa twisted her ankle a few weeks ago. Tripped on a stepstool. He’s her dog. You haven’t noticed her hobbling around the kitchen on crutches?”
Nico looked at her in surprise. “Is she? I didn’t notice.” He nuzzled her. “I should bring you to work for me,” he said lazily. “You’re better than a bloodhound. We’d get our deals done faster, and probably cheaper, too, if we knew everyone’s secrets.”
Honora stiffened. “It’s not about ferreting out secrets. It just helps to know what people are going through.”
“Helps what?”
“To know how to be kind, and comfort them through it.”
Nico barked out a laugh, then sobered when he saw she was serious. Looking away, he said in a low voice, “I’m sorry. I just learned to see people’s secrets differently.”
“As weapons?”
He gave a brief nod. “In business, if you know your rival’s priorities—or better yet, their guilty secrets—it’s very useful. If you know someone is running out of cash, you can get them to drop their price because they’re desperate. If you know secrets about their banker, their lawyer, you can convince them to do a shoddy job for their employer. If you—”