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“I promise I’ll read up on your family history at some point,” she told him. “Right now I want to know more about you. Isn’t that the point here?” She gave him a playful smile. “Did you grow up here?” She gestured to the water lapping near their feet, the huge villa rising up on the other side. “Was your mom ever worried you’d fall into the lake?”

He laughed, sounding surprised and a little discomfited. “Luca was the one who would fall into the lake,” he told her. “I was always very cautious.”

“From birth?” Rose asked skeptically, and Christos laughed again.

“So my mother says. She said I came out looking and acting like a little old man. Very serious all the time, with a frown on my face.” He shook his head, the faint smile that had curved his mouth already starting to slip away. “That’s why we loved Luca, you see, because he was so fun. He could always make us laugh—clowning about even when he was small, never taking anything seriously, even when you wanted him to. But I could not be mad at him long, or even at all. He was too good-natured for that.” He sighed, the sound full of grief, and impulsively Rose slipped her arms around him.

He stiffened with surprise under her touch. Then, as she simply stood there, her cheek against his chest, her arms around his waist, he started to relax. His arms came around her, so instinctively she nestled in closer, enjoying the unexpected intimacy of the moment.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I keep forgetting how fresh it all is for you. How much it still hurts. And maybe it feels complicated, because Luca was complicated. Having always to be responsible for him. Feeling guilty when he got into trouble. And now he’s gone.”

For a second, Christos stiffened once more, and Rose thought he would push her away, put them back to a businesslike footing. Then his body relaxed once more, his arms tightening around her as he rested his chin on her head.

“It does feel complicated,” he whispered, the words an ache. “I don’t know which I feel more, grief…or guilt.”

“Oh, Christos.” She leaned into him, her cheek pressed against the steady thud of his heart, glad that he’d admitted as much, knowing there was nothing she could say to make it better. Both emotions were something he would have to work through, and maybe she could help him. Simply being there, she hoped, was a start.

Chapter Fifteen

“Ciao cara, che gioia conoscerti finalmente!”

Rose started in surprise as Esmerelda Amanti, Christos’s mother, started toward her, her arms thrown open wide, her elegant face wreathed in smiles. Rose didn’t know what she’d said, but it had sounded warm and welcoming.

This was so not the reception she’d been bracing herself for.

“Come, come,” the older woman entreated in English, kissing her soundly on both cheeks. “I get to meet you at last. Look at you! Blooming! Isn’t she blooming, Christos?” She fired something off in Italian at her son that had Rose looking at Christos in dazed query.

“She said you’re beautiful,” he told her with a smile. “Which is true.”

Rose was processing that quietly uttered statement as Esmerelda Amanti held her by the shoulders, smiling up at her—the woman was tiny—her dark eyes now glassy with what looked like tears as she shook her head, her elegant silvery bob swinging. She seemed overcome with affection and emotion, and Rose did not know what to make of it all.

After Christos had shown her the rest of the estate—the lake frontage, the extensive gardens, the vineyards stretching seemingly all the way to the horizon in row after row of dusty grapes—they’d come back to the villa for lunch. It had been a surprisingly pleasant morning, and whenever one of her offhand jokes or teasing remarks had made Christos smile, it had felt like a victory. But the smiling sense of relaxation Rose had felt had slipped away as they’d headed inside, to be replaced with a queasy anxiety.

Christos had gone to check on some work matters while she’d gone upstairs to freshen up—and steel herself to meet his mother, whom she’d built up in her mind as some wicked and conniving stepmother straight out of a fairy tale.

She’d been bracing herself to meet someone coldly disapproving and as autocratic as Christos could sometimes be, but his mother was anything but. Petite, elegant and a whirlwind of emotion was more like it.

She kissed Rose on both cheeks again for good measure before releasing her.

“Sei bellissima,” she murmured in approval, and Rose felt herself start to blush.

“Grazie,” she said, and Esmerelda clapped her hands.

“You speak Italian?” she asked delightedly.

Rose blushed all the more as she admitted, “Sorry, no. That was about the extent of it.”

“Never mind, we give you lessons,” Esmerelda told her. “You will be speaking Italian like a native before the bambino is born, yes?” She looked emotional again as she glanced at Rose’s slight bump. Then, with a tearful smile and a slight shake of her head, she gestured for them all to move into the elegant dining room with its huge table, the end set for three, and frescoed walls that looked as if they’d been painted five hundred years ago, for lunch.

Rose didn’t know what to make of the unexpectedly warm reception. She wanted to step into it the way you would a warm bath, every smiling exclamation a balm to her battered soul, but…a couple of hours ago, this woman had been asking how much she’d sell her baby for. It was hard to let go of a little suspicion.

“You must be tired from your journey,” Esmerelda remarked. Her voice was richly accented, and as she moved around the table, filling up a plate with various delicious offerings, she reminded Rose of a hummingbird, tiny, beautiful and moving very fast. “You must rest and relax! We will take good care of you. I have already engaged a masseuse to come. Here.” She indicated Rose’s seat at the table, putting the plate she’d loaded up in front of her. “Eat. You are thin, maybe too thin.” She smiled and patted her hand before taking her own seat.

Okay, so maybe Christos’s mother was a little bossy, Rose acknowledged as she looked down at her overflowing plate, but strangely, she didn’t mind. It seemed to come from a place of kindness, which was startling, but also welcome…if she could trust it.

“My mother,” Christos told her, leaning over as he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “is a force of nature. It’s best just to ride the whirlwind.”

“I heard that,” Esmerelda said, her eyes snapping with good humor. “Antonia,” she called to the housekeeper, who was standing by the door. “Will you bring the wine?” She turned back to Rose. “A glass of Madeira once a day is good for the baby.”