Finding Isadora(8)

“I’m pleased to meet you, Isadora,” his father was saying. He did have an accent, just the trace of one. Italian? No, not exactly. Whatever it was, it went perfectly with his Mediterranean coloring. The lingering way he spoke my name—my full name—turned my legs to jelly. His accent turned the usual buzzing Iz sound to a softer, lilting Ees, and for the first time I heard the word “adore” in my name. Adore? Oh god, what was I thinking?

I had come close to flirting with Richard’s father. Words, much less poise, had utterly deserted me.

My embarrassment and confusion must have been obvious to both men. Richard frowned and his father looked concerned.

“Find anything you’d like to bid on, Iz?” Richard asked, clearly searching for an innocuous topic.

I darted a quick glance around the room, a kaleidoscope vision of ice wine, romantic weekends, chocolate truffles. Chocolate eyes… Richard’s father. Suddenly, I couldn’t stand there a moment longer.

“I have to go to the…” I turned and rushed away.

Thank heavens for ladies’ rooms. I scurried through the door like a mouse fleeing a cat.

Bracing myself against the marble counter inside my mouse-hole, staring at my flushed face in the mirror and waiting for my heart to stop racing, I told myself I had no reason to be embarrassed. I’d misread the signals. Mr. DeLuca hadn’t been flirting, he’d just given me a friendly smile. And I’d returned it.

Friendly. Then why had my toes curled?

I splashed cold water on my burning cheeks. Then I stared sternly into my own eyes. All right, I’d found the man attractive. That wasn’t a sin. Nor was it a sin if, by chance, he’d been attracted to me too. Past tense. Now that we’d been introduced, we’d begin an … appropriate relationship. How childish of me to run away. Should I make some explanation?

Probably not. The men would be polite and not ask. They’d put it down to nerves over meeting Richard’s father. I took a deep breath, forced my shoulders back and my head up, and strode briskly out the door.

Straight into Gabriel DeLuca. If he hadn’t taken a quick step backward, I’d have ended up in his arms. “Oh!” I squeaked—mouse emerging from mouse-hole to be confronted by cat—then promptly cursed myself. Was oh the only word I could say to this man? “Sorry, you surprised me.” I glanced around. “Where’s Richard?”

“People are heading in for dinner and I told him to go ahead. I said I’d find you and bring you along.” He was frowning, studying my face much too carefully.

“Well, here I am. Let’s go.” Being alone with this man wasn’t high on my wish list.

“I want to talk to you first. About earlier. I had no idea you were Richard’s fiancée.”

Was he admitting that he’d been flirting? Or only referring to the smile I’d tossed his way? Damn the man, couldn’t he pretend nothing had happened? Well, I could. Shaking my head vigorously, I said, “It was just a smile. It didn’t mean a thing.”

I expected him to nod in relieved agreement, but to my astonishment he gave me a sexy grin. “So you’re not interested in following up on that smile?”

My eyes opened wide, wider, until they were in danger of popping out of my head. “No! Of course not! Richard and I are engaged. I love him, I’m committed to him.” Richard had certainly been right in saying this man was a terrible father. I glared at him. “I’m shocked you’d suggest it.”

Mr. DeLuca smiled again, but now it wasn’t in the least flirtatious. It was eye-crinkling and seemed genuine. “Sorry, Isadora. Just checking. I needed to know if you were the kind of person who would—”

He’d actually thought… “Cheat on Richard?” I hissed in a low whisper, aware of people drifting past, heading in to dinner.

“Yeah.”

Guilt warred with indignance. I wasn’t about to admit to Richard’s father that I’d actually felt attracted to him, even though I’d had no intention of doing anything about it. Continued denial was the safest course of action. “No, I wouldn’t cheat on Richard. I’m insulted you’d think it. Look, it was just a smile. I was feeling … out of place here, and it was nice to, uh, connect with someone. But it’s not like I’m, uh…”

“Attracted to me?”

Damn, but he cut to the chase. I summoned another glare. “Good heavens, you’re Richard’s father.”

I was afraid he’d notice I hadn’t actually answered his question, and call me on it. Instead, he nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, I am Richard’s father.”

For the first time I studied his face for traces of Richard. Richard’s skin was lighter, his features less pronounced—tempered no doubt by Diane’s English genes—but I could see similarities in the shape of the nose, the firm jaw line. I got a sense of how Richard might, with luck, look as he grew older. Noting the resemblance between them didn’t, unfortunately, do the slightest thing to counteract the fact I still found Mr. DeLuca attractive. Damn, this was a nuisance. Why couldn’t Richard’s father have been fat, balding, and ugly?

Why couldn’t he at least look his age? I remembered Richard saying his parents had been in second year university when they had him. Richard was now twenty-five, so Gabriel had to be in his mid forties. He looked ten years younger.