To Love Again by Danielle Steel

answer the questions in his eyes. She had told him for the past four days that she was sick and didn't want to give him her germs so he had to keep busy and play with Mamma Teresa, his nurse, in his room or outside. Papa was on a trip; the school had called, and everyone was having a vacation. Thank God, he was only five. But she succeeded in avoiding him once again on her way out and was suddenly grateful for Maria Teresa's busy routine for the child. She couldn't have dealt with him just then, couldn't have faced him without holding him too tight and bursting out in a fierce, frightened cry.
    Va meglio, signora? Enzo gazed at her thoughtfully in the rearview mirror as they pulled away, and she only nodded tersely as her unmarked police escort discreetly pulled away from the curb.
    Si. She gave him the address of the shop next to Paccioli's, not very far from her own house of couture, and decided that she didn't give a damn if Enzo knew why she was going there. If he was one of the conspirators, then let him know that she was doing her best. The bastards. There was no one left she could trust. Not now. And not ever again. And Bernardo, damn him, how could he have been so right? She fought back tears again as they drove to the address. The ride took less than fifteen minutes, and she made a quick business of stopping briefly in two boutiques and then disappearing quickly inside Paccioli's. Like the House of San Gregorio, it was a discreet facade, in this case marked only by the address. She stepped into the silent beige womb and spoke to a young woman at a large Louis XV desk.
    I want to see Signore Paccioli. Even in a scarf and no makeup, it was difficult to divest herself of her tone of command. But the young woman was unimpressed.
    I'm terribly sorry, but Mister Paccioli is in a meeting. Clients are here from New York. She looked up as though expecting Isabella to understand. But she had missed her mark. And the anonymous brown leather bag on Isabella's shoulder was cutting into her skin.
    I don't care. Tell him it's ' Isabella.
    The woman hesitated, but this time only for a moment Very well. There was something desperate about the woman, something frighteningly crazy about her eyes as she kept shifting her handbag higher up on her shoulder. For an insane moment the young woman prayed that this oddly disheveled stranger was not carrying a gun. But in that case there was all the more reason to summon Mr. Paccioli from inside. She walked down a long narrow hall, leaving Isabella alone with two blue-uniformed guards. And she returned in less than a minute, with Alfredo Paccioli walking hurriedly at her side. He was somewhere in his early sixties, almost bald, with a delicate white fringe that matched his mustache and somehow accented his laughing blue eyes.
    Isabella, cara, come stai? Shopping for something to show with the collections?
    But she only shook her head. May I speak to you for a moment?
    Of course. He looked at her more closely then and didn't like what he saw. Something was terribly wrong with her. As though she were very ill, or perhaps a little bit mad. What she did a moment later almost confirmed it as she silently yanked open the brown bag and pulled the silk-wrapped bundle out, spilling its contents on his desk.
    I want to sell it. All of it. Then had she gone mad? Or was it a fight with Amadeo? Had he been unfaithful? What in God's name was wrong?
    Isabella ' dearest ' you can't mean it. But that that piece has been in your family for years. He gazed in horror at the emeralds, the diamonds, the rubies, the ring he had sold to Amadeo only months before.
    I have to. Don't ask me why. Please. Alfredo, I need you. Just do it.
    Are you serious? Had their business gone suddenly bad?
    Absolutely. And he could see now that she was neither ill nor insane, but something was very seriously, desperately wrong.
    It may take a little time. He lovingly fingered the exquisite pieces, thinking of finding each one a home. But