Too Close to the Sun by Diana Dempsey Page B

pass up the chance to see Vittorio for the first time
since she'd left Castelnuovo. Maybe, she told herself, seeing him
might actually help her. Maybe he'd changed in some horrible way
that would make her wonder how on God's earth she'd ever fallen in
love with him. Maybe he'd gotten grotesquely fat or gone bald or
sprouted nose hairs.
    Or maybe she was trying to rationalize what
she was about to do, which on some level she was ashamed of. Going
out of her way to see Vittorio after what he'd put her through made
her either a fool or a glutton for punishment. Or both. She noticed
she told no one about her intention to meet him—not Cam, not Lucia,
not her mother, not her father. No one. Because she knew they'd try
to talk her out of it, or insist on going along, and she knew she
wanted to be alone with him.
    For in a tiny, mischievous part of her brain,
where naughty ideas lurked and pranced, she wondered if maybe
Vittorio hadn't gotten married after all. Maybe he'd pulled out at
the last minute, so overwhelmed by his love for Gabriella DeLuca
that he couldn't possibly wed another. Maybe he'd succeeded in
bringing his parents around. Maybe the senior Mantuccis were
willing to accept her now, seeing how their beloved Vittorio was
still—one year later—so desperately in love with the pretty
American.
    Who was, after all, of Italian descent.
    She arrived at Bistro Jeanty slightly late so
as not to appear overanxious. That had required sitting in her car
for ten minutes, which had required parking on a side street so
Vittorio wouldn't happen to see her when he himself arrived. She
had deliberately chosen a restaurant as the place to meet in the
hope that being in a public place would keep her from screaming or
throwing things or maybe even crying. And she'd dressed down—black
slacks and sweater, minimal jewelry, subtle makeup—both because she
didn't want him to think she'd gotten all dolled up just for him
and because she knew he liked her best this way.
    She ordered herself to be strong, exited her
car, marched into the tiny restaurant—cozy and chic and French—and
felt something akin to a heart spasm when she spied him at a table
in the rear, looking as handsome and sweet and wonderful as ever.
Lovable, loving, warmhearted Vittorio.
    Wearing a wedding ring.
    "Gabriella." He rose from his chair and
grasped both her hands, then kissed her cheeks, Italian-style. His
dark eyes were alight with the fire she remembered; his features
were as straight and Roman; he was as tall and lanky and well
dressed in the casual but expensive clothes he purchased twice
yearly in Milan.
    Damn .
    "You look beautiful," he murmured.
    So do you , she almost said, their
little private joke, though it didn't seem all that funny anymore.
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," she said instead, which wasn't even
true.
    They sat. The business of fine French dining
buzzed on around them. People chattered and clinked glasses, and
oohed and ahhed over their selections. One thought chanted nonstop
in her brain: It's Vittorio. Vittorio. Vittorio .
    "What brings you to the valley?" she asked
him.
    "Business. You know, it's gorgeous here. As
lovely as you told me."
    He had never come home with her while they
were dating. When she returned to California to visit, which she
did twice, she traveled alone. It was one of the few points of
contention between them. It was also an omen, she realized later,
that she had failed to heed. There had been a reason he didn't want
to meet her family or to see where she came from. On some primal
level, he must have known he wouldn't do right by her.
    A waiter came by. They ordered sparkling
water—his preference—and French wine—hers. A bit of a slap at him.
Small-minded, she knew, but nastily satisfying.
    "How is your family?" he asked.
    "A week ago I would've said fine. But then my
father had a heart attack."
    "Oh, no." Vittorio's features twisted in what
looked like genuine concern. "Gabriella, I'm sorry. How is