'What do I need another doctor for?'
A smile angled over her. 'Amnesia is a distressing condition, or so the story goes. I've never seen you like this…at least,' he paused, 'not in a long time.'
'You've never asked me to marry you before,' she whispered shyly.
'A serious oversight. You've never tried to seduce me in the back of a limousine before, either.' Golden eyes rested on her intently and then, abruptly, he took his attention off her again. 'I don't think you'll find Dr Scipione too officious. He believes that time heals all.' He strolled back to the door, lithe as a leopard on the prowl. 'Bernardo's wife will come up and help you to get into bed.'
'I don't need—'
'Catherine,' he interrupted, 'one of the minor advantages of being my wife is being waited on hand and foot, thus saving your energy for more important pursuits.'
Her eyes danced. 'And one of the major ones?'
Hooded dark eyes wandered at a leisurely pace over her, and heat pooled in her pelvis, her stomach clenching. 'I'll leave that to your imagination, active as I know it to be. Buona sera, cara. I'll see you tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow?' She sat up in shock.
'Rest and peace.' Luc made the reminder mockingly and shut the door.
She stared up at the elaborately draped canopy above her. You were flirting with him, a little voice said. What was so strange about that? She couldn't ever recall doing it before. As a rule, she guarded and picked and chose her words with Luc in much the same fashion as one trod a careful passage round a sleeping volcano. Only at the beginning had she been na;auive enough to blurt out exactly what was on her mind.
But she wasn't conscious of that barrier now, hadn't been all day or even last night. She was no longer in awe of Luc. When had that happened? Presumably some time during this past year. And yet Luc had said he had never seen her like this in a long time. What was this? This, she conceded, hugging a pillow dripping lace and ribbons to her fast-beating heart, was being wonderfully, madly and utterly without restraint…happy.
The rails of clothing in the dressing-room bedazzled Catherine. Encouraged, the little maid, Guilia, pressed back more doors: day-wear, evening-wear, leisure-wear, shelves of cobwebby, gorgeous lingerie and row upon row of shoes, everything grouped into tiny bands of colour. Co-ordination for the non-colour-clever woman, she thought dazedly. Luc had bought her an entire new wardrobe.
Such an extensive collection could not have been put together overnight. Overwhelming as the idea was, she could only see one viable explanation—Luc must have been planning to bring her to Italy for months! As her fingertips lingered on a silk dress, Guilia looked anxious and swung out a full-length gown, contriving to be very apologetic about the suggested exchange.
'Grazie, Guilia.'
'Prego, signorina.' With enthusiasm, Guilia whipped out lingerie and shoes and carried the lot reverently through to the bedroom. Catherine recognised a plant when she saw one. Guilia was here to educate her in the nicest possible way on what to wear for every possible occasion. Luc excelled on detail. Guilia had probably been programmed to bar the wardrobe doors if presented with a pretty cabbage-rose print.
It was eight in the evening. She had slept the clock round, slumbering through her first day at Castelleone. Last night, Bernardo's wife, Francesca, had fussed her into bed with the warmth of a mother hen. Dr Scipione had then made his d;aaebut, a rotund little man with a pronounced resemblance to Santa Claus and an expression of soulful understanding.
Only when he had gone had she realised that she had chattered her head off the whole time he was there. He had only made her uneasy once by saying, 'Sometimes the mind forgets because it wants to forget. It shuts a door in self-protection.'
'What would I want to protect myself from?' she laughed.
'Ask yourself what you most fear and there may well lie the answer. It could be that when you fully confront that fear your mind will unlock that door,' he suggested. 'I suspect that you are not ready for that moment as yet.'
What did she most fear? Once it had been losing Luc, but since Luc had asked her to marry him that old insecurity had been banished forever. And the truth was that a little hiccup in her memory-banks did not currently have the power to alarm her—despite a nagging anxiety which she resolutely banished.
Attired in the fitting cerise-hued sheath, which was tighter over the fullness of her breasts than Guilia seemed to have expected, judging by the speed with which she had w
hipped out a tape-measure, Catherine sat down at the magnificent Gothic-styled dressing-table and smiled at the familiarity of the jewellery on display there. Her watch, stamped with the date she had first met Luc; clasping it to her wrist, she marvelled at how long it seemed since she had worn it. A leather box disclosed a slender diamond necklace and drop earrings; a second, a shimmering delicate bracelet. Christmas in Switzerland and her birthday, she reflected dreamily.
Leaving the bedroom, she peered over the stone balcony of the vast circular gallery. Bernardo's bald-spot was visible in the hall far below. She hurried downstairs and said in halting Italian, 'Buona sera, Bernardo. Dov';aae Signor Santini?'
Bernardo looked anguished. He wrung his hands and muttered something inaudible. Abruptly she turned, her eyes widening. Raised voices had a carrying quality in the echoing spaces around them.
One of the doors stood ajar. A tall black-haired woman, with shoulder-pads that put new meaning into power-dressing, was ranting, presumably at Luc, who was out of view. Or was she pleading? It was hard to tell.
Catherine tensed. She had no difficulty in recognising Rafaella Peruzzi. She was the only person Catherine knew who could argue with Luc and still have a job at the end of the day. She inhabited a nebulous grey area in Luc's life, somewhere between old friend and employee. She was also Santini Electronics' most efficient hatchet-woman. She lived, breathed, ate and slept profit…and Luc.
She had grown up with him. She had modelled herself on him. She was tough, ruthless and absolutely devoted to his interests. At some stage she had also shared a bed with Luc. Nobody had told Catherine that. Nobody had needed to tell her. Rafaella was a piece of Luc's past, but the past was a hopeful present in her eyes every time she looked at him. The women who blazed a quickly forgotten trail through his bedroom didn't bother Rafaella. Catherine had.
'You've got six weeks left. Enjoy him while you can,' she had derided the first time Catherine met her. 'With Luc, it never lasts longer than three months, and, with the clothes-sense you've got, honey, another six weeks should be quite a challenge for him.'