Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [16]
Fabrizio had been quite brutal with her at first, mistaking her enthusiasm for pushiness, her smart appearance and multilingual facility for rich-girl boredom. “It’s not all line and color,” he’d snarled moodily, “it’s plumbing and cement and shouting at workmen and coaxing craftsmen. It’s dealing with rich complaining customers who have everything and want you to give them more—and it must always be different! It’s bloody hard work, and not for your sort at all.” His own fight from his poor childhood in Naples had added venom to his words, and India had shrunk back into her chair. Her big brown eyes had gazed at him, reproachfully innocent of ulterior motives, and instantly he’d regretted his words. Not that they weren’t true, but even though little could be poorer than a poor childhood in the tenements of Naples, it was no reason for taking it out on the girl. She couldn’t be much more than twenty or so. It had been a difficult morning and he was tired. After a glance at his watch Fabrizio had apologized and said he regretted that he had to leave now for lunch. He’d left her sitting there in stunned silence and then he’d turned suddenly at the door and said, “I don’t suppose you’d like to have lunch with me, would you?”
He still remembered her response. Her face had lit with the same smile she was giving him now. “Would I?” She’d laughed. “And how!”
Lunch had been fun. And he’d done all the talking. He’d told her all about his childhood in Naples, about how its teeming narrow thoroughfares, its jumbled crushing buildings and thronging humanity had made him yearn for space and clean lines, of the scholarships to school, university, the endless architectural training, the design courses, and the long haul to success. And he’d told her of his marriage to Marisa, which naturally had considerably eased that success.
“Oh, but it’s truly all because of you,” she’d breathed admiringly. “Mother always said that money doesn’t bring success unless you have the talent.”
“And how did your mother get to be so wise?” he’d asked with a wry smile.
“She’s Jenny Haven,” India had said simply.
“India.”
“Fabrizio.” Her kisses were warm on his smoothly shaven cheeks.
He smelled of Eau Sauvage and Disque Bleu cigarettes.
“It’s a success,” she said happily.
Fabrizio shrugged. “I suppose so. You look wonderful in scarlet. Did Jenny give you a break and send money?”
India grinned. “Does it look expensive?”
“It certainly does. You’d better remind me on Monday to give you a raise. Someone’s got to keep you in the style to which you obviously would like to be accustomed, and if not your mother, I’d better do what I can to help.”
“I’ll hold you to that, Fabrizio. But what about this carpet—just look at it.”
Her eyes, rounded with dismay, made him laugh. “I have a second one ready to be laid tomorrow. I knew this would be ruined tonight—that’s the way it is at parties. I’ll tell you what,” he said with sudden inspiration. “There may be a few cigarette burns, but the stains should come out with cleaning. It’ll be useless for the showroom. Why don’t you take it for your apartment?” He knew India’s apartment and its crumbling cold marble floors could surely use the luxury of his thick pastel woollen carpet, cigarette burns and all.
“Fabrizio Paroli! Do you really mean it?”
He wished Marisa had looked like that when he’d given her the Bulgari ruby necklace at Christmas. “Of course I do. You may have to cut it and patch it here and there, but it will look good in your place.”
“Oh,” gasped India, “I do love you, Fabrizio.”
He was aware of heads turning as her distinctive American-accented Italian rang across the