been invited to the dinner afterward, and in that case, he decided, remembering the smile, he’d skip the dinner and invite her to dine with him in a restaurant. If he messed up Marisa’s seating arrangements, that was just too bad. The girl appeared from the kitchen clutching a towel. He didn’t even know her name.
“India Haven,” she said, mopping his sleeve. “Take off your jacket and let’s see how wet your shirt is.”
Aldo waved away the cloth impatiently. “Forget the shirt,” he said, “it’ll dry. How can you possibly be called India?”
She stared at him in surprise. “Very simply. I was conceived there. In a houseboat called
Moonrise
on Lake Srīnagar in Kashmir.”
“Why not Moonrise, or Srīnagar, or Kashmir?”
“An eccentricity of my mother’s. My elder sister is named Paris, my younger sister Venetia—an aesthetic variation of Venice. I always say thank God it wasn’t Ganges or Katmandu!”
Aldo threw back his head and laughed. “India Haven, have dinner with me tonight.”
Her hesitation was delightful. He could read the thoughts behind her translucent brown eyes. First interest, then maybe, then firmness. No, she couldn’t.
“But why not?”
“I’m invited to the dinner afterward at Fabrizio’s. I can’t possibly not go.”
“Say no more, Cinderella,” cried Aldo triumphantly. “We are both going to the dinner.”
“Really?” India’s laugh filtered along the corridor. “Then I’ll see you there. I must leave now, though. I promised Marisa that I’d check everything was ready before the guests came. Not that there’s any real need—her staff is more competent than I am.”
“You work for Marisa?”
Aldo’s arm felt firm under her elbow as they walked back along the corridor.
“No. For Fabrizio. I must hurry. I’ll see you there.” India strode off on her high heels along the corridor. “Oh,” she said, turning as she reached the door, “but I don’t know your name.”
“Aldo,” he replied, “Aldo Montefiore.”
Their gaze locked.
“Montefiore,” she murmured, her voice sliding velvety over the syllables, “what a
lovely
name.” She turned on her heel and was gone, and for a moment Aldo stood there, still hearing her voice saying his name, and thenhe quickened his pace and followed her through the crowded room.
He found her again outside in the street gazing at the empty space where her tiny red Fiat had been parked. The sign on the wall clearly stated, NO PARKING .
“I expect it’s been towed away,” Aldo said sympathetically. Her misfortune was his advantage. It meant he could drive her to the villa … and take her home afterward.
“Oh, damn it!” Angry tears stung India’s eyes. She loved that car. She hated anyone else touching it. God knows what state it would be in; the towing trucks were notoriously “uncareful” with illegally parked automobiles. “Now what shall I do?”
“Let’s go.” Aldo took her arm again and led her across the street to where his black VW Rabbit waited beneath a prominent no-parking sign.
“I don’t believe it!” gasped India.
Aldo shrugged.
“They’re doing the left-hand side first tonight,” he explained. “They’ll be back later for those on the right.”
“Just my luck! Still, if it hadn’t been me it would have been you, and that would have been worse. Imagine having drink spilled all over you by some careless female at a party and then having your car towed away as well.”
“Imagine! There probably would have been nothing for it but to retire to the country, to a life of solitude, far from the pressures of city life.”
India laughed as he helped her into the car and closed the door. Yes, she definitely liked Aldo Montefiore.
LONDON
Morgan McBain was enjoying himself. This evening, which he had expected to be at the least boring or, evenworse, stiffly British and boring, had turned out to be a winner.
His hostess, on whose right he was sitting, had a witty charm that
“India Haven,” she said, mopping his sleeve. “Take off your jacket and let’s see how wet your shirt is.”
Aldo waved away the cloth impatiently. “Forget the shirt,” he said, “it’ll dry. How can you possibly be called India?”
She stared at him in surprise. “Very simply. I was conceived there. In a houseboat called
Moonrise
on Lake Srīnagar in Kashmir.”
“Why not Moonrise, or Srīnagar, or Kashmir?”
“An eccentricity of my mother’s. My elder sister is named Paris, my younger sister Venetia—an aesthetic variation of Venice. I always say thank God it wasn’t Ganges or Katmandu!”
Aldo threw back his head and laughed. “India Haven, have dinner with me tonight.”
Her hesitation was delightful. He could read the thoughts behind her translucent brown eyes. First interest, then maybe, then firmness. No, she couldn’t.
“But why not?”
“I’m invited to the dinner afterward at Fabrizio’s. I can’t possibly not go.”
“Say no more, Cinderella,” cried Aldo triumphantly. “We are both going to the dinner.”
“Really?” India’s laugh filtered along the corridor. “Then I’ll see you there. I must leave now, though. I promised Marisa that I’d check everything was ready before the guests came. Not that there’s any real need—her staff is more competent than I am.”
“You work for Marisa?”
Aldo’s arm felt firm under her elbow as they walked back along the corridor.
“No. For Fabrizio. I must hurry. I’ll see you there.” India strode off on her high heels along the corridor. “Oh,” she said, turning as she reached the door, “but I don’t know your name.”
“Aldo,” he replied, “Aldo Montefiore.”
Their gaze locked.
“Montefiore,” she murmured, her voice sliding velvety over the syllables, “what a
lovely
name.” She turned on her heel and was gone, and for a moment Aldo stood there, still hearing her voice saying his name, and thenhe quickened his pace and followed her through the crowded room.
He found her again outside in the street gazing at the empty space where her tiny red Fiat had been parked. The sign on the wall clearly stated, NO PARKING .
“I expect it’s been towed away,” Aldo said sympathetically. Her misfortune was his advantage. It meant he could drive her to the villa … and take her home afterward.
“Oh, damn it!” Angry tears stung India’s eyes. She loved that car. She hated anyone else touching it. God knows what state it would be in; the towing trucks were notoriously “uncareful” with illegally parked automobiles. “Now what shall I do?”
“Let’s go.” Aldo took her arm again and led her across the street to where his black VW Rabbit waited beneath a prominent no-parking sign.
“I don’t believe it!” gasped India.
Aldo shrugged.
“They’re doing the left-hand side first tonight,” he explained. “They’ll be back later for those on the right.”
“Just my luck! Still, if it hadn’t been me it would have been you, and that would have been worse. Imagine having drink spilled all over you by some careless female at a party and then having your car towed away as well.”
“Imagine! There probably would have been nothing for it but to retire to the country, to a life of solitude, far from the pressures of city life.”
India laughed as he helped her into the car and closed the door. Yes, she definitely liked Aldo Montefiore.
LONDON
Morgan McBain was enjoying himself. This evening, which he had expected to be at the least boring or, evenworse, stiffly British and boring, had turned out to be a winner.
His hostess, on whose right he was sitting, had a witty charm that
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