Читать книгу Moth To The Flame - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

HE was an expert driver, but then naturally he would be, Juliet thought crossly as the low-slung sports car purred its way almost noiselessly through the evening traffic.

She wanted to ask where they were going, but felt it was better to pretend that she knew, and she tried not to look too eagerly around her as they drove through part of the city she had never seen before. Jan, she was sure, would take her surroundings very much for granted.

Her companion seemed silent as they drove and she was thankful for it. All sorts of snags which she had not previously taken into consideration were now beginning to occur to her—the major one being that she would probably be expected to be quite conversant with any number of intimate details about Mario and his immediate family, not to mention his friends. What on earth was she going to say if Santino began to question her on the subject? She would be bound to make all sorts of glaring errors, and his suspicions would be aroused at once. He was no doubt already thinking that it was odd that a girl who worked in Rome should have next to no knowledge of the Italian language, unless he had simply concluded that she was too lazy to learn it.

Juliet found herself wishing that she had made her identity known at the very start, and steadfastly denied all knowledge of Mario and his involvement with her sister. She could have pretended that Jan had sub-let the apartment to her—all kinds of explanations and excuses, some more convincing than others, were coming to mind. Anything, she thought ruefully, would probably have been better than the web of deceit she had started to spin. It would only take a little judicious probing from the brooding man beside her, and her whole fragile fabrication would come tumbling down.

She hoped apprehensively that the restaurant would not be too fashionable. The fewer people she was seen by the better. And the darker the restaurant was the better too, she told herself. By candlelight, in a secluded corner, she might just be able to pass for Jan if she was seen at a distance by someone who actually knew her sister.

But her hopes were dashed when they finally reached their destination. Santino had chosen a restaurant right on the outskirts of the city. It was large, popular and quite clearly expensive, and their table, far from being hidden in some dark corner, was almost in the centre of an enormous terrace, overlooking exquisite formal gardens, and with a panoramic view of the city itself.

Juliet found herself the cynosure of all eyes as she walked to the table, and she had not been in Rome long enough to be untroubled by the frankness of some of the masculine glances and sotto voce remarks which pursued her. She sank rather thankfully into the chair the waiter was holding for her, and hoped she had managed to mask her embarrassment at the small ordeal. It was the kind of situation that Jan would have revelled in, she supposed, being escorted by someone as dark and devastating as Santino Vallone. It was quite a relief to shelter from prying glances behind the huge menu that she was handed. She wondered with dismay if she was supposed to appear knowledgeable about the choice of food being offered, and heard her companion give a low-voiced order to the waiter for two dry Martinis to be brought to them.

He leaned back in his chair and gave her an enquiring look. ‘What do you wish to eat, Janina? A simple steak and a salad, perhaps?’

‘Certainly not,’ she denied indignantly, her eye focussing on a magnificent trolley laden with hors d’oeuvres which a waiter was steering between the tables.

He raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘You do not fret perpetually about your weight? Meraviglioso!’

Juliet suddenly found herself thinking of the idle remark she had made to Jan—a lifetime ago, it seemed. Could it really be only twenty-four hours? She flushed a little.

‘No,’ she said with constraint, ‘not at the moment.’ She glanced about her, casting round for a change of subject, wanting to get away from any personal element. ‘What a magnificent view!’

‘Have you never been here before?’

She lifted one shoulder casually. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t remember …’

‘One goes to so many places,’ he finished for her, rather mockingly. ‘You are a true Roman, Janina. I am surprised that you still find the skyline romantic.’