She heard his tight intake of breath and felt him recoil inside, though his face remained warm against her lips.
‘He is a British Army Officer, Caterina.’
As if that were enough.
‘Is the army above corruption?’
His eyes focused on hers. ‘There are so many temptations here.’
It was his look, rather than his words, that seemed to melt the barrier of ice that had formed around her heart the moment she’d seen her brother lying limp in his arms, his cheeks drained of colour. She clenched her fists on Jake’s army shirt and pulled him close.
‘Do you think of me?’ she whispered. ‘When you’re busy waving your gun in somebody’s face or ordering your men to seize a hoard of treasures from a cellar. Do you think of me, Jake, when you least expect it?’
‘No.’
Her heart dropped.
‘I think of you, Caterina, every waking moment. You are always there like sunlight in my mind. So no, I don’t think of you when I least expect it. Because I always expect it.’ He unlocked her fingers. ‘No matter what, I cannot stop it.’
He kissed her hard and hungrily on the mouth, and despite all the pain and terror of the day, desire raced through her with a force that dragged a howl from her, stifled only by his lips. Nothing had prepared her for this, this seething, raging heat in her blood or this desire to devour him alive.
She slid off her chair, forcing him to fall backwards on to the cool tiles, just as the chime of the church clock nearby insinuated itself into the room as it struck midnight. She sat herself astride him on the floor, her thighs gripping his hips, and his eyes narrowed into dark slits of hunger.
‘Jake, do you think your Colonel Quincy has taken secret possession of my father’s jewelled table too?’
‘What?’
But he saw her smile and realised she was teasing him. She bent down and kissed his throat, pressed her tongue on to its rapid pulse. Because right now there was no table to find. No dragon to kill. Time had stopped. It discontinued as abruptly as if cut by a knife and she floated free in his arms.
‘Caterina.’ His breath touched her skin. ‘Caterina, promise me something.’
‘Anything.’ Her lips felt so heavy they could scarcely form the word.
‘Promise me you will not put yourself in deliberate danger again.’ His hand gripped her thigh and squeezed hard. ‘The way you did with the scugnizzi. With Aldo in your workshop. With Drago Vincelli in the church. Promise me, never again.’
Her thigh hurt. The heat of it shot straight to her groin and she moaned softly.
‘You can’t wrap me in cotton wool, Jake.’
‘Promise me. Stay at home and lock yourself in with your brother and grandfather until I can—’
She didn’t promise. Instead she tore the buttons from his shirt and kissed the gun-shot scar that lay beneath it. Her tongue swept over the hard muscles of his broad chest and the taste of him was seared on to her tongue. A taste of salt. Of strength. And of something stubborn that made her whole body hungry for him. She revelled in the long lean limbs of this man who had so inexplicably become a part of the fabric of who she was and she uttered a deep moan of pleasure as he slid her dress from her shoulders and put his lips to her naked breast.
She felt a lurch of something deep within her. Something so profound that it had no name. She knew she wanted this man as fiercely as she wanted to go on living, needed him like she needed to breathe.
The house was cooler now. The timbers creaked and clicked as it flexed its beams, but it was hard for Caterina not to imagine stealthy footsteps on the floorboards. Time and again her head jerked round, chasing shadows. She reminded herself that Jake was downstairs, a long-limbed guard-dog who would prowl till dawn.
She was in Luca’s bedroom and it smelled different. Even though Luca had scrubbed his skin till it was raw, the stench of the foul floorboards under which he had been imprisoned seemed to cling to him as though it had seeped into his flesh. Into his fresh young mind.
In the darkness she caught the sound of her own breathing, a harsh enraged sound, and she forced it into a quieter rhythm. She didn’t want to bring Luca her anger. Just her love. Her anger she would save for where it belonged, for the person who did this atrocity to her brother. She lay down on the bed beside him, curled her body in a tight ball around him and held him close, and as she kissed his hair, she felt the slight shift of his weight towards her, taking refuge.
Enough.
She wanted to scream the word. Enough. No more. She wanted to tear Aldo’s eyes out and shred Drago Vincelli’s heart into the gutter.
Today.
It must end.
Caterina felt Jake’s lips brush hers, full and warm. He was leaving. They were standing beside the front door and dawn was only minutes away. Her arms encircled his waist, hands locked together, unable to let go.
‘Don’t open the door to anyone,’ he instructed, his mouth still against hers. Eyes unwavering on hers.
‘Don’t go out.’
‘Don’t let Luca or Nonno go out.’
‘Lock the door and stay here till I get back.’
Each instruction punctuated by a kiss.
Don’t leave. The words were there on Caterina’s tongue and she had to bite down hard to prevent them tumbling out. Don’t leave. Don’t leave me to do the things I will do today. Save me from myself.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ he promised. ‘As soon as I have news.’
She smiled. She nodded. She kissed him. She let him go. Wrenching her heart from her chest. Outside, the street lay in a muted pre-dawn greyness that swallowed Jake until all that remained of him for her to hold on to was the sound of his boots on the black slabs.
The wind whipped the sea into choppy wavelets that made the ferry crossing rough. The sea was laced with white caps that the early morning sun painted gold and scattered with streaks of crimson. Caterina turned away. It looked too much like blood.
The old ferryboat, smelling strongly of diesel fumes, was almost empty at this hour and the beauty of the emerald island of Capri rising out of the sea mist in the distance should have given her a moment of peace, but it didn’t. It made her impatient. The clock was ticking fast. A pair of seagulls swung low over the boat and she envied them their wings.
Bait.
That’s what she was setting herself up as. Not fish-bait for seagulls, but tunnel-bait for those who wanted her dead. She had not breathed a word to Jake about Luca mentioning Aldo’s threat to hide him in the black tunnels ‘along with all the rest of the things down there’. If she did, the army would pour down there in a wave of khaki and Drago Vincelli and Aldo would vanish like the mist, only to reappear one day with a knife at Luca’s throat.
She had thought it through. She must be the bait.
‘Leave,’ Jake had said to her last night when she lay naked on the rug beside him. ‘You must leave Sorrento. You and your brother and grandfather. I will help you to set up a new life somewhere else where . . .’
She had kissed the words from his lips. ‘No, Jake. You don’t understand. They would come after me. They would hound me down till they found me and then they would kill us all. That’s what Italians do when it is a matter of honour. I cannot leave.’
She had rested her head on the jagged scar on his chest, a hairless silver platter that was a perfect fit for her cheek. She could hear the beat of his heart.
‘No, Caterina.’ His hand buried itself in her hair and she could sense the desperation in his words. ‘I have some money saved. I could take you away to . . .’
‘Jake, I don’t want your money.’ She stretched out on top of him, inhaling his breath deep into her lungs. ‘I want you.’
‘She’s eating breakfast on the terrace.’
‘I apologise for calling on you so early, Signorina di Marco, but it’s urgent. May I speak with her, please?’
Caterina adopted a polite smile. She was wearing a dark green skirt and an
olive short-sleeved blouse that she hoped had a military feel. She wanted people to do as she asked, no questions asked, like they did for the military, because today was not a day she had time to waste.
Octavia di Marco seemed to sense it. She was dressed as usual in a tapered black trouser suit, her sleek hair swept up, and after a moment’s consideration led the way through the maze of white corridors, past the sunken pool and out on to the elegant terrace where Leonora was sipping a long glass of something that looked green and unappetising. Caterina was pleased to see the dog, and for once the dog seemed pleased to see her because it bounded forward with a wag of its plumed tail.
‘Caterina!’
Leonora jumped to her feet, came over and hugged her visitor.
‘I missed you last night,’ Leonora said, lowering her voice so that only Caterina would catch her words. ‘You didn’t come to inspect the caves with me.’
‘I couldn’t, Leonora. Something urgent arose that took me to Naples.’
The young girl pulled a face, but she didn’t take offence and slid her slender arm through Caterina’s to lead her to the spot where she had been sitting.
‘Signorina Lombardi. Here again. It seems you cannot keep away.’
It was Count di Marco who spoke. He was again reclining on his chaise longue, draped in white robes under the shade of the canopy. Its creamy fringe was ruffled by the wind off the sea, as the sky and the sea emerged reluctantly from the mist.
‘So,’ the Count exclaimed. ‘What news of my table?’
From nowhere Octavia di Marco appeared at Caterina’s elbow with a caffè espresso and laid it on the table in front of Caterina. It was the old chess table that her father had made before she was born, but it occurred to her that this terrace was one huge chessboard, with the Count as the white king and Octavia as the black queen. But the games were not with ivory and ebony pieces; they were with people.
‘Grazie.’ She nodded at the Count. ‘You are right. I came back to Capri for a reason today.’
‘What reason?’
‘To tell you that I have found someone who has seen the jewelled table.’
All three di Marco faces stared at her, mouths open, perfect white teeth on show.
‘Who?’ The Count’s frown deepened. ‘Who is this person?’
‘A girl who caught sight of it in my father’s workshop shortly before he died. She claims it was the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. I thought you would like to know that it was completed, according to her. It did exist, not just on paper.’
‘Did?’ the Count demanded. ‘Or does?’
‘I don’t know for certain but I believe it does still exist. Someone has hidden it.’
‘Or sold it.’ It was Octavia who spoke, remote in her own patch of shade under her brother’s canopy. She waved a dismissive hand. ‘It is probably out of the country by now in the back of some American’s truck. Blood spilled over it.’
‘Aunt Octavia! Don’t be so morbid.’
‘I’m not morbid, Leonora. I am realistic.’
‘But it’s mine by rights,’ Leonora exclaimed.
‘Indeed it is not yours, Leonora,’ her grandfather pronounced. ‘They are my jewels. Understand, young lady. Your marriage did not take place.’
‘So what makes you think it was removed and secreted away?’ Octavia asked in her cool voice. She didn’t sit. Didn’t look hot. Her black suit had no creases.
‘Because,’ Caterina responded, ‘the Rocco brothers in Sorrento were murdered, as well as the two American Intelligence soldiers who had questioned them.’
‘What has that to do with my table?’ the Count demanded.
‘The Rocco brothers’ house was near my father’s workshop.’
Leonora’s eyes were appalled. ‘You think they saw something? Somebody? Taking the table?’
‘Yes, I do.’
The Count edged forward. ‘Where,’ he asked, ‘is it now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you have a suspicion?’
She made him wait. Sipped her coffee. Did not wipe the sweat on her palms on to her skirt.
‘Do you know anything about the tunnels under Naples, Count?’
A stillness descended on the terrace.
‘Do you believe,’ Octavia said in a sceptical tone, ‘that the table is down there?’
Caterina said nothing. The Count was scrutinising her face, and then dabbed his forehead with a small white hand-towel at his side. ‘Tell me more.’
Caterina put down her cup, slipped her bag on her shoulder and rose to her feet. She crossed the expanse of white marble between them and picked up the towel he had discarded. For a moment he was too surprised to object and by then it was inside her bag.
‘I will tell you more, Count, when I have more to tell. I should know by the end of today. Good morning to you.’
She strode out of the shade into the dazzle of the sunlight and stopped in front of Leonora and her dog. She held out her hand.
‘Come with me, Leonora, you and Bianchezza. Please, I need your help.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
‘Take the gun, Leonora,’ Caterina urged.
The girl reached for it eagerly, eyes alight. It was a Mauser HSc, a German pistol that was far smaller than Caterina’s cumbersome old Bodeo, but much easier to fire. It was the one Caterina had taken from Aldo in her workshop. Leonora’s hand wrapped around the well-designed wooden grip as though made for it and her fingers brushed along its richly-blued blunt muzzle.
‘You know what you have to do?’ Caterina asked.
‘Yes. Sit here and shoot anyone who comes through that front door uninvited.’
Caterina kissed her cheek. ‘You are a life-saver. Literally.’
A moan of protest came from a corner of the room where Luca was sharpening a long carving knife on a whetstone.
‘I can defend us, Caterina,’ he said. ‘Especially if you let me have the gun.’ He wielded the knife like a sword, slicing the blade through the air. ‘I want to come with you to defend you. I don’t want you to go alone.’
‘I know, Luca. But I couldn’t bear you to have blood on your hands too.’ She walked over and ruffled his short hair, touched his young cheek. His skin was so taut she thought it might split.
‘Let me come with you, Caterina, I can help you,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t want you in danger. Let me meet him again face to face, but this time with a knife in my hand.’
‘No, you are too young. It is dangerous.’
‘Please, Caterina,’ he whispered.
‘No. You must stay here, my love, and help Leonora guard Nonno. Keep him safe for me.’ She kissed his brow. ‘And keep Leonora safe too, Luca. I’m relying on you.’
His voice sank lower. ‘Don’t die, Caterina.’ His eyes clung to her face with a desperation that turned her heart over. ‘Ask Major Parr to help.’
‘I can’t, Luca. At the first sound of army boots, everyone would flee. But don’t worry, I’ll be well guarded.’
She meant the gun but they both looked at the dog. It opened its mouth, showed off its white fangs and whined, eager to start. Leonora knelt down beside it and kissed the animal’s muzzle, her arms wrapped tight around its muscular neck. Its pink tongue licked her bare shoulder and without a word she returned to her feet.
‘You remember the command?’ she asked Caterina.
‘Yes. Seek. I won’t forget.’
‘Go then.’
Caterina made a rapid check on the contents of her shoulder bag and then looked around the room. Imprinting it on her mind. Nonno’s chair. Luca’s fishing rod lolling against the wall. Papà’s pipe on the mantelpiece. Each one branded for one last time on her eye. On her mind. Just in case. Nonno had shut himself away upstairs, alone with his anger, so she didn’t go to say goodbye to him, but she hugged the others. The weight of the Bodeo in her bag steadied her smile. Aldo’s Mauser lay in Leonora’s hand and Caterina did not doubt that her friend would use it if she had
to.
Caterina picked up her cardigan, despite the heat of the day, and walked into the hallway.
‘Caterina.’
It was Nonno calling her name. He was standing at the top of the stairs, with his white hair, white shirt and white eyes the only points of light in the gloom of the stairwell. His hand brandished his ebony cane in the face of invisible foes.
‘I forbid you to go, Caterina.’ He smacked his cane against the banister rail. ‘I order you to remain here. In time Drago Vincelli will forget.’
‘Nonno, no Italian ever forgets. I cannot stop now.’
She walked to the front door, and as it shut behind her she heard her grandfather shout, ‘Caterina.’
Yesterday’s rain had settled the dust. The road up to the Cavaleris’ place on the far edge of town was steep, but up here the air was luminous and bees hummed in bright splashes of wild flowers. To Caterina’s left loomed the blunt shoulder of the Monte Faito mountain with its emerald coat of beech and chestnut trees, and above it the sky stretched in a hard blue band. It felt like a day designed for peace. Not a day for death.
Bianchezza was padding silently at her side as Caterina entered the courtyard, but the dog flattened its ears, hackles raised, and thrust its white head forward when a barrage of barking erupted within the house.
‘Get that creature out of here.’
Augusta Cavaleri had dragged open the front door.
‘Good morning, Signora Cavaleri.’
‘Get yourself and that animal off my property at once.’
‘I need to speak to you about your son, Stefano. May I please come in?’
‘No.’
The woman tried to slam the door in Caterina’s face but she pushed her foot forward over the threshold, jamming it open.
‘It’s important, Signora Cavaleri. You wouldn’t want me to go to the police instead, would you? Let me in.’
The woman hesitated. Just enough. Caterina took a resolute step into the house.
‘Is Stefano here?’
‘No.’
‘I can speak to you instead.’
The Liberation Page 37
