Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [18]
“It was my fault,” he repeated gently. “I shouldn’t have startled you like that.”
“Not at all, I’m just sorry about your jacket. Oh, dear, look at it, it’s still so wet. I tell you what—come with me and I’ll get a towel from the kitchen.” India grinned at him, the brave scarlet of her lips as glossy as her sparkling eyes. “I can’t guarantee it’ll be good as new,” she announced, leading the way, “but it will be drier.”
The kitchen was almost as busy as the showroom: relays of waiters picked up trays of hot hors d’oeuvres and harassed chefs maneuvered, grumbling, about the small area.
“Wait here,” cried India, darting through the crush.
Aldo leaned against the wall of the corridor out of the way of passing waiters. He had first spotted her parking the red Fiat on the corner and had followed her along the street to Paroli. If she hadn’t turned into the showroom he would have followed her to wherever she was going, but it was his good fortune that they had both apparently been going to the same place. He still didn’t know who she was, but she obviously knew Fabrizio pretty well, and she knew her way around the showrooms and offices. She must work here. If so, she probably hadn’t 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 Srinagar in Kashmir.”
“Why not Moonrise, or Srinagar, 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 then he 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.