Sister Swap. Lilian Darcy
used between big and deal.
Uh-oh. What now?
Pia wanted to take the drawing with her. She’d already defaced a whole big corner of the travel poster. Actually removing it altogether would not look good for a thirty-five-year-old senior executive and principal shareholder in the renowned Di Bartoli Cosmetics Corporation.
“No, Pia,” her papa said, speaking down at her from the impressive height he’d risen to after letting go of the hug. His face tightened. With anger?
No.
With dread.
Dread of the screaming that he could obviously see was going to start at any moment.
Rox could see it, too.
“Because, Pia,” she said, quickly stepping close and bending down, “if we take it with us, everyone won’t be able to see it anymore. All these people. Why don’t we leave it here so it makes the airport prettier?”
She looked across the top of Pia’s thick, satiny black hair, seeking Gino’s approval. He looked startled. His mouth was shut hard—lips not too full, not too thin, she noticed. For a moment, she thought they were going to get the tantrum from him, instead. Then he gave a tight little nod.
“That’s a very good idea, isn’t it, Pia?” he said.
The little girl nodded and smiled and took the hand he held out. He looked relieved, and ready to flee the airport before something worse happened.
Another whew!
Lady Luck is soooo blowing things my way today, Rox thought. Rowie would be happy with me, but it can’t last.
It didn’t.
Walking toward the exit, Gino said, “You gave in to her.” It was an accusation, not a compliment.
“Gave in to her?”
“But at least we avoided the tantrum.”
Okay, so maybe that was kind of a compliment, but she couldn’t let the You gave in to her bit go by.
Harlan’s Reason Number Nine, incidentally. “You jump on every tiny thing.”
“I didn’t give in to her!” she said. “I made a positive suggestion that appealed to her, and deflected her feelings of frustration.”
“We have been having serious problems with Pia’s tantrums for a long time,” Gino said, in a tone that could have frosted a pond. “We have a clear policy in place for dealing with them, and that involves never giving in to her. I appreciate that this time, in a very public locale, you managed to avoid the tantrum, but please, in the future, once we’re at the family estate, I would ask you to stay within your own area of expertise.”
My own area of expertise…
Would you like your eggs easy over or sunny-side up? And with a side order of opera or cabaret?
“Sure,” Roxanna said, resisting the temptation to start mentally running through the list of antique rose varieties she’d been trying to memorize on the plane.
She noticed that Gino didn’t specify who we was. Himself and Mrs. Gino Di Bartoli, she assumed. No prizes for guessing who the chief architect of the tantrum policy was, however. Hint—someone who didn’t appear to understand bright, creative kids.
Someone who drove a Ferrari, she discovered a few minutes later.
A red Ferrari.
And who drove it fast.
Oh, it was wonderful! Rox didn’t feel scared for a second. Gino drove to suit the conditions, and she’d seen the careful way he’d strapped his daughter into a child seat in the back before they started. On curvy or traffic-filled streets, he didn’t attempt to weave between lanes or put his foot hard on the gas. Even the odd aggressive gesture or muttered curse were pretty restrained, compared to what Rox understood about Italian drivers.
When they hit the motorway heading to the north, however…
So cool.
She looked sideways at him, expecting to see a lazy grin of satisfaction, an enjoyment of the power and speed and sheer exhilaration, but no; his face still looked tight.
“Children grow out of tantrums,” she blurted out, feeling stupidly responsible for the tight look and stupidly eager to make it go away.
Bleahh! Reason Number Eight. “You never think before you speak.”
His mouth snapped open just far enough for speech. “They don’t grow out of them if they’ve learned that tantrums are the secret to getting their own way.”
“Does she ever get her own way?”
“No. As I said, we’ve been very strict about it. I should say, Miss Cassidy has been very strict about it, since she is the one who has spent the most time with Pia.”
Miss Cassidy.
Had to be the nanny.
Explained Pia’s perfect English, with its occasional scary overtones of deceased British royalty.
Gino pronounced the nanny’s name as Meess Cassidi, which was—so far—the only cute thing about him.
Once again failing to think before she spoke, Rox said, “I think sometimes a child needs to get her own way. She needs to know that people understand what’s important to her. And she needs to learn…oh…how to tell the difference between the things she really wants and should have, and the things that are just a passing whim or in conflict with what others need. Isn’t a blanket no just as bad as a blanket yes? Does anyone ever actually listen to her?”
Gino felt a steel band tighten around his head.
Had she made up her mind to sleep with Francesco? Did she think she was going to marry him? Was that why she’d suddenly shed her rabbity image and started offering opinions on issues that were none of her business? Did she think that they were her business now, because she was about to become a permanent part of the Di Bartoli family?
“I am not interested in discussing this with you any further, Dr. Madison.”
Short silence.
“No. Of course. I’m sorry.” She sounded more than sorry. She sounded chastened, as if she were really angry with herself. “I’ve been told before that I tend to do that.”
“To interfere in things that aren’t your business?”
“To speak first and think afterward. Foot-in-mouth disease.”
“What? A disease!”
She was diseased? He was bringing her into his home with his precious daughter and she was—
“No, no. Oh, gosh! Language barrier. American slang. It’s supposed to be funny. If you’re tactless, if you say things you shouldn’t have said, people say you’ve put your foot in your mouth. Foot-in-mouth disease. Get it?”
“Okay.” He couldn’t help grinning. Not so much at the allegedly humorous expression, but at her manic, anguished reaction to their misunderstanding.
“I’m so sorry if I gave you a heart attack there!” She was wincing and flapping her hands, clasping them together, begging him to understand, acting sincerely distressed. “I do that. I say things. And—oh my gosh! My blouse isn’t even done up right. You’re never going to beli—” She stopped, then fastened the slipped-through button that had caught his attention when she’d first come up to him in the terminal.
“Never going to what?” he asked.
He was curious.
And he’d started to have a theoretical inkling about what Francesco might have seen in her.
There was a beat of silence.
“Never going to forgive me,” she said.