Bride By Choice

‘There’s nothing to straighten out,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ll drop you off at the Elroy and go on alone.’

‘I see,’ he said glumly. ‘The frozen mitt treatment.’

‘You’re lucky it’s not the frozen sock-on-the-jaw treatment.’

She should have known better. He stuck out his chin, pointing to it hopefully.

‘Oh, stop it,’ she said, trying not to smile. He was wicked and irresistible.

‘No, go on, thump me if it’ll make you feel better.’

She abandoned the struggle not to laugh, clenched her fist and punched his chin very, very gently. Another mistake. He seized her hand and kissed it.

The swift action took her by surprise, invading her senses before she could suppress the memory of that other kiss, full on the lips, by a young man who kissed subtly and with intent. It all came back to her now, so that although his lips were moving across her hand she seemed to feel them on her mouth. She must tell him now, coolly and primly, that this must stop at once.

But she felt neither cool nor prim. She felt as though waves of warmth were laving her, and thoughts of wine and roses were going through her head.

Just when she was starting to panic, he stopped, releasing her hand suddenly and abandoning her to a sense of loss that sent warnings jolting through her. Basta! Enough!

‘There’s Elroys,’ she said, with relief. ‘Don’t worry about my parents. I’ll call them tomorrow and explain that you and I won’t be seeing each other in future.’

‘But what about our wedding?’ he asked, sounding hurt.

‘I shall tell Momma that we decided against it.’

‘After what she saw?’

‘We got carried away. On reflection we realised we were mistaken.’

In the semi darkness of the cab she could see his teeth gleam. ‘About what?’

‘About—about being carried away.’

‘I don’t mind if you want to carry me away. We could—’

‘Now you cut it out,’ she flashed. ‘That innocent little boy charm may floor my mother but it leaves me cold.’

‘I was afraid it did,’ he said mournfully.

The cab drew to a halt. ‘Goodnight, Mr Martelli. It was a pleasure meeting you and I wish you every success.’

‘No, you don’t. You wish you could boil me in oil.’

‘I was giving you the polite version.’

‘In that case, thank you, Miss Angolini, for a lovely evening. I hope our paths cross again one day.’

She returned his smile with deadly intent. ‘Not if I can prevent it,’ she said. ‘Goodnight. Sleep well.’

She watched him go into the hotel and vanish from sight. That was that. Somehow she would contrive not to see him again.

She gave the driver the address of the apartment on East 77th Street that she shared with Dilys.

Her friend was home ahead of her, dressed for bed. ‘So how was your evening?’ she asked. ‘I saw you talking to the life-guard. Any good?’

‘’Fraid not,’ Helen said, yawning. ‘Handsome on the outside, but nothing to him. Boring really.’

Next morning Helen found a message to report to Jack Dacre.

‘I’ve got a new assignment for you,’ he said, ‘and seeing as how you and Signor Martelli have already broken the ice, I know you’ll enjoy it.’

‘Really?’ Helen was holding herself in neutral.

‘I want you to look after him. Apparently his English isn’t as good as I first thought. He admits that a lot of the time he’s only pretending to understand. He’s happier in Sicilian dialect, which I gather you speak, so you can act as his interpreter. That way you can keep an eye on his other dealings. It all works out very well.’

‘Especially for Lorenzo Martelli,’ Helen murmured wrathfully as she knocked on Lorenzo’s door.

It opened apparently of its own accord. She walked in and found him tucked behind the door, regarding her with apprehension.

‘Will you stop playing the fool?’ she said, half laughing, half exasperated.

‘It’s nice to see you.’

‘You’re just up to your tricks again. Pretending your English is no good, when I know it’s perfect.’

‘Is true, is true,’ he clowned in excruciating stage Italian. ‘Me no spikka da English.’

She just looked at him, trying not to smile, but it was hard to be severe when the dancing light in his eyes was tempting her to dreams of delight.

‘I’ve been detailed to assist you,’ she said, trying to sound business like. ‘Shall we discuss the programme for the day?’

‘Why don’t you show me the sights?’

‘Mr Martelli, I’m a busy woman.’

‘OK, OK,’ he said in resignation. ‘It was worth a try. Here’s a list of places I have to visit. There are no other hotels in New York, but several restaurants.’

‘None of these are Italian restaurants,’ she objected, studying the list.

‘Of course. That’s the idea. I’m out to make converts and Italians already know that Martelli produce is the best.’

‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘True. As a good Sicilian, you should have known.’

‘Lorenzo—’

‘I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it. Let’s go.’

Over the next few hours she began to give him a grudging respect. Lorenzo was a first-class salesman who used his charm to get himself into the customer’s good graces before knocking him for six with the quality of his product. By the evening he had a solid wad of orders, all of which he’d promised to fulfil by the next day, having taken the precaution of hiring a warehouse and filling it in readiness.

‘And I’m exhausted,’ he complained at last. ‘Let’s go in here and relax.’

The place he’d chosen at random was called Fives, and it overlooked the Hudson. Darkness had fallen and lights glittered along the river, entrancing Helen, even though she was used to such views. Tonight all her senses seemed heightened. Even edge was a little clearer, each colour a little sharper.

She felt good. It had been a pleasant day with a delightful companion, for when Lorenzo wasn’t being maddening he was amusing. Recently her life had been all hard work and not enough laughter, she realised.

‘I feel as though I’d done a week’s work in one day,’ he observed.

‘So do I.’

‘I shouldn’t have made you work so hard, should I?’

‘Right. I was only supposed to be translating for you.’

‘But I don’t need a translator,’ he said innocently.

‘No, but you sure needed a dogsbody—make a note of this, jot that down—’

He blew a kiss at her. ‘You take the best notes in the business. Let’s get them into the computer while they’re still fresh.’ He produced his laptop and studied some scraps of paper. ‘I can’t read your writing.’

‘I’ll put them into the computer. You get me something to eat before I faint with hunger.’

The waiter arrived with the menu. Lorenzo ordered drinks, and when they were alone he made an excited exclamation.

‘This is a vegetarian restaurant. Just what I need. We’ll try as many dishes as possible to see where we can improve them.’ He began to read from the menu, pausing at each dish to observe, ‘I’ll bet I can improve on that.’

The drinks arrived, and between taking sips and tapping into the laptop Helen failed to notice that the waiter had returned, taken an order from Lorenzo, and departed.

‘But I didn’t tell you what I wanted,’ she protested.

He looked awkward. ‘The things is, I thought we should cover as wide a range as possible between us so—’

‘So you ordered for me something that suited you?’

‘Well—yes.’

‘That’s the sort of thing my father would do,’ she said wrathfully.

‘Ah, but that’s different. Your father is simply an old-fashioned patriarch. I act from nobler motives.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’m making money.’

It was no use trying to out-talk him. She sighed, but her lips were twitching.

‘Talking about your father,’ he said, as their starters arrived, ‘I begin to understand what you mean. He’s very traditional, to put it mildly.’

Helen nodded. ‘In some ways Papa is a wonderful man. He’s kind, and he works long, long hours for his family. But in return he expects to make all the big decisions. Mamma simply has no say.’ Her mischievous spirit made her add, ‘A bit like you just now.’

‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘I was nine years old when my father died, but I remember him well, and I’m sure he never spoke to his wife as brusquely as your father does. I’m also sure I’ll never speak to mine like that.’

She pointed a courgette at him. ‘I’m not marrying you, Martelli.’

He grinned. ‘Tell your father that. He was practically planning the wedding present last night.’

‘You tell him. You’re the man, the authority, the one who speaks while the little woman is silent.’

‘Who, me?’ He looked alarmed.

‘Yes, you. Are you a man or a mouse?’

‘A mouse,’ he said promptly. ‘It’s much safer that way.’

‘You mean you don’t have to explain to my father,’ she chuckled.

He regarded her askance. ‘You’re so contrary you’d refuse to marry me just to annoy him.’

‘That and plenty of other reasons,’ she assured him.

He made a parade of relief. ‘Phew! Then I’m safe!’

‘Eat your starter,’ she advised him. ‘The next course will be here soon and I can’t wait to find out what The Great Man ordered on my behalf.’

CHAPTER THREE

THE next dish was bean and artichoke salad, which was delicious. As Lorenzo poured her a glass of light wine he asked, ‘What about your sisters? Do they feel the same as you about your father and all the rest?’

‘No,’ she said, realising the truth of the words as she said them. ‘Oh, they have arguments with Mamma and Poppa, but they’re only normal growing-up stuff. They don’t feel suffocated by the whole family thing as I do.’

‘You feel suffocated by your family?’ he asked with a frown.

‘By their expectations. Last night, when they saw us together in the street, nobody was surprised. They thought it was just the plan working out.’

‘But you’re going to trump them with Erik?’

‘It’s not about Erik—it’s not about any man. Why should everyone think that if I’m not romancing one man I must be romancing another?’

‘Because romance is natural,’ he protested. ‘Men and women pair off. That’s how the human race gets restocked.’

‘But can’t there be more to life? Suppose I see myself as an hotel manager rather than a “re-stocking agent”?’

‘Can’t you be both?’

‘Not if I marry a Sicilian,’ she said firmly.

‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘so if I were to go down on one knee and say, “Be mine forever”, I could count on you saying no?’

‘You could count on me having you placed under restraint. After what you know about me, you’d have to be losing your wits to want me.’

‘That’s very true. Thanks for the warning.’

They smiled together and she said, ‘If you knew how nice it is to be able to talk freely, knowing I’m not going to get cries of horror.’

‘That’s what friends are for.’ He gave her a sudden intense look. ‘I think you need a friend.’

‘Men and women can’t be friends,’ she said mechanically.

‘Who said that? Not you.’

‘No, Mamma. And Poppa. At different times. Poppa says it’s impossible because women just don’t understand anything outside the kitchen. And Mamma says it’s impossible because men only want “one thing”.’

‘Well, we’re going to prove them wrong,’ he said gently. ‘Men and women need to be friends because we each light up the other side of the world for the other.’

‘That’s what I think too,’ she said eagerly. ‘But from where I come from—’

‘And where I come from,’ Lorenzo agreed. ‘But they’re wrong. It can be done.’

He stretched out his hand and she took it, smiling. Out of the corner of his eye Lorenzo noticed people grinning at them. Helen looked around and understood.

‘You know what they’re thinking?’ she said.

‘Yes, they think we’re in love. Why else should a man and woman clasp hands and smile into each other’s eyes?’

For a tense moment they both fell silent. Why else?

‘If we told them the truth they wouldn’t believe it,’ she said.

‘Right. How could they understand that we’ve discovered the second most important relationship of our lives?’

‘Second?’

‘I suppose one day I’ll fall in love for good. And you’ll meet a man you don’t reject in the first five minutes.’ He squeezed her hand lightly to show he was joking. ‘And they’ll mean more to each of us than we mean to each other.’

‘Yes, I suppose they will,’ she said blankly.

‘But until then—?’

‘Friendship comes first.’ Then something occurred to her. ‘What did you mean, “fall in love for good?” How do you usually fall in love?’

‘Well—you know.’ He coloured.

‘Come on,’ she laughed. ‘Tell your friend. You’re “faithless and unreliable” aren’t you?’

‘They invented the words just for me,’ he admitted. ‘You were very clever to see through me so fast. Now, where’s our food?’

While they were waiting for the next course Helen asked, ‘Why were you suddenly on edge last night when Poppa asked about your brothers? Do you have one or two?’

‘I have one full brother and one half brother.’

‘You mean, one of your parents was married before?’

‘Not exactly,’ he said uneasily. ‘I know you’re going to think the worst of this, but my father had another relationship with a lady called Marta. And Bernardo is Marta’s son.’

‘Another relationship? While he was married to your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your mother knows?’

‘She always knew. She promised Poppa that if he died she would take care of his other family.’

‘His other—? Well, of all the—’ Helen was rendered speechless, giving Lorenzo a chance to enjoy the flames that glowed in her eyes. ‘Are you telling me that she did that?’ she demanded when she’d recovered her voice. ‘She actually befriended the other woman when your father died?’

‘She didn’t have to. My father and Marta died together. But Mamma brought Bernardo into our home to be raised like her own sons.’

Helen stared at him in horrified disbelief. ‘Your mother must be a saint,’ she said at last.

‘She is.’

‘She actually—? I don’t believe this. That poor woman.’

‘Mamma isn’t a poor woman,’ Lorenzo said firmly. ‘She rules us all with a rod of iron.’

‘But her heart must have been broken.’

‘I don’t think it was. She and my father always got on well.’

‘You mean, she put up with whatever he did because she had no choice, and made the best of it. Well, you know what I think about that.’

‘Yes, but that wasn’t why I didn’t mention it last night. Surrounded by your family, and your sisters being so young—’

It dawned on Helen that Lorenzo was embarrassed. She smiled, liking him again.

‘You’re really straight out of the old country after all, aren’t you?’ she asked.

‘Well, I am a Sicilian,’ he admitted. ‘But then, so are you.’

‘No way.’

‘Deny it all you like, you can’t escape it.’

‘You’re asking for this sauce in your lap, Martelli.’

‘OK, I give in.’

‘Tell me some more about your half brother. Is he really a member of the family?’

‘He could be if he wanted. If anything, he rejects us, not the other way around. He won’t call himself Martelli. He sticks to Tornese because it was his mother’s name. We don’t see much of Bernardo. He lives in a little mountain village called Montedoro, where he was born. He despises money, won’t even take his rightful share of the inheritance. Recently he fell in love with an English woman, Angie. Everything was fine and we were waiting for the announcement when he suddenly found out that she was rich. That was it. He sent her away.’

‘And she let him?’

‘Not her. Angie’s a doctor, so she bought up the practise in Montedoro, and now she’s living just down the street from him. He’s mad as fire, but he can’t budge her. She won’t stand for that nonsense about knowing her place any more than you do.’

‘Good for her. I like the sound of Angie.’

‘You’d like her if you met her. And I think she’s going to win. She’s blonde and fluffy, and looks as if a wind would blow her over, but she’s got more guts than anyone I’ve ever known.’

‘How did they meet? Was she visiting Sicily or was he travelling?’

‘She came to Sicily with Heather,’ Lorenzo said vaguely, and again Helen had the feeling that he was embarrassed about something.

‘Heather’s married to your older brother, Renato, right?

‘Right.’ Before she could ask any more questions he added quickly, ‘This is good food but I could make it better. We have a potential customer.’

He continued on this subject throughout the next course. He was full of ideas, and Helen had to admit that he was an excellent businessman.

‘I saw Giorgio bending your ear last night,’ she said when he paused for breath. ‘I needn’t ask what about.’

‘Why aren’t we selling his family’s goods?’ Lorenzo confirmed. ‘I’ve already been in touch with Renato about them. Their goods are borderline. They’ve been told to improve the quality and try again, but instead of doing something they just wail about the injustice.

‘There’s no excuse for poor produce,’ he went on. ‘Sicily is the most fertile land in the world. Everything grows there, and grows well if it’s properly tended.’

Something seemed to come over him as he began to talk about his country. He spoke in a new way, with a feeling she could only call love. This light playboy with his silk shirts and easy manners had a passionate attachment to the land that breathed through every word. She watched him, fascinated, and at last he noticed, and smiled.

‘The Martellis have to know about the land,’ he said. ‘It’s how we earn our bread.’

‘It’s more than knowing about it,’ she said gently.

‘Well—yes. It’s part of me and I’m part of it. I can’t help it. I go away but I always go back, and I always will. It’s part of being Sicilian. You never quite escape.’

She smiled sympathetically, but inwardly she was thinking how right she’d been to reject him at the start. Lorenzo was a man who would always win love easily. His charm, his looks, his kind heart, were made to be loved, and a woman would have to be armoured in advance—as she was—to avoid the danger.

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