Mary Lyons - The Italian Seduction

by The Italian Seduction (lit)

  He was, calm, cool, taking no notice of her tight-lipped, barely controlled rage at the position in which she found herself; it was his blue eyes glinting with amusement and hidden laughter, in an otherwise bland, expressionless face, which was mainly responsible for driving her up the wall.

  Arriving at Heathrow airport this morning, Antonia had done her best to feel positive about the trip to Italy.

  After her experiences with the Middle Eastern clients, trailing around various high-class shops was now low on her list of priorities. However, it occurred to her that, while in Milan, it might be a good idea to restock her own ward­robe, by visiting the designer shops and small, trendy bou­tiques for which the city was famous.

  It was a thought that had kept her feeling reasonably content through the brief airport formalities and on to this private plane, which Lorenzo had hired for the journey.

  Walking across the tarmac, he’d explained that he’d be­come totally fed up with regular, scheduled flights, when he’d seemed to spend far more time on the ground than in the air. Which was why he was experimenting with the hire of a private jet. If it proved successful, he might well ac­quire one for his company.

  She had no quarrel with his decision—who wouldn’t pre­fer to travel in comfort, rather than be squashed up like a sardine on a scheduled or chartered flight?---and it wasn’t until they were in the air that she finally realised the full extent of Lorenzo’s recent deceitful behaviour.

  When the intercom between themselves and the pilot first crackled into life, a few minutes after take-off, she wasn’t taking much notice as he ran through a list of the height and speed at which the plane was travelling.

  However, she was utterly shocked and stunned to hear the pilot explaining that, with a following tailwind, their arrival at the airport, just outside Florence, was likely to be twenty minutes earlier than the normal time for the journey.

  ‘Florence... ?’ She turned to glare at Lorenzo, who was busy removing a large number of files from his black brief­case. ‘What on earth’s the pilot talking about?’ she de­manded angrily. ‘I thought we were supposed to be landing in Milan?’

  Lorenzo merely raised a dark, quizzical eyebrow. ‘Why should I wish to fly to Milan?’ he drawled smoothly. ‘I can’t imagine what gave you that idea.’

  ‘But ...but you said...’

  He gave a quick shake of his dark head. ‘I certainly told you that I was returning to Italy. However, I have no rec­ollection of saying that Milan was my destination.’

  She was silent for a moment, quickly reviewing in her memory his few references concerning his departure from Britain.

  He was right. Now she came to think about it, he’d never actually mentioned the word ‘Milan’, had he? It was just that she’d, naturally assumed that he was returning to his office. And the swine had done nothing to correct her false assumption. So, what the hell was going on?

  ‘OK ...so Milan is off the itinerary,’ she conceded grimly. ‘But why Florence? Have you got business there?’

  ‘No,’ he drawled coolly. ‘I am intending to take a few days off, to visit my old family home. And to see my mother too, of course.’

  Antonia looked at him in surprise. That he should sud­denly abandon his trip to England, returning as soon as possible to sort out a business problem, was perfectly un­derstandable. But to suddenly alter one’s plans in such haste, purely to visit an aged relative, seemed very odd indeed.

  However, Lorenzo explained that his mother had been a widow for many years, ever since his father’s unexpected and untimely death from cancer, when he’d been only a small boy. And, since she hadn’t been too well lately, he wished to satisfy himself as to her general health and well­being before returning to take up the reins of business in Milan.

  All of which struck Antonia as quite understandable, and she realised that there was no more to be said.

  Besides, she’d heard that many Italian men, even when they had families of their own, remained attached to their old mothers’ apron-strings. It was just, she mused, that she hadn’t quite seen Lorenzo in that light.

  But then, what did she know? Because nothing about the man seemed to fit into a plain, straightforward pattern of behaviour. One moment he was cool, calm and collected, and the next he could erupt like Vesuvius, in a pyrotechnic display of rage and bad temper. Was this what people meant when they talked about the Latin temperament?

  Since she had no way of answering the question, and Lorenzo was currently ignoring her as he concentrated on his work, there seemed no point in trying to find an expla­nation for the inexplicable. She’d be far better employed reading the magazine which she’d just had time to pick up at the airport, and should just wait and see what happened when they arrived in Florence.

  After an uneventful flight, they landed at Amerigo Vespucci airport in the early afternoon. However, by the time they’d cleared Customs, Antonia was feeling tired, sticky—and, above all, hot!

  That’s another thing he didn’t tell me about, she thought wearily. She could feel herself rapidly wilting from the to­tally unexpected, blazing heat of the sun as a porter carried their bags to where a uniformed chauffeur was standing beside a long black open sports car.

  ‘Thank you, Tommaso,’ Lorenzo murmured as the chauf­feur handed him the keys, before stowing away their lug­gage. ‘At the moment, I’m intending driving myself back to Milan,’ he added, dismissing the man before opening the door and settling himself down in the driver’s seat.

  Thanks to her job, Antonia was well used to the extraor­dinary way of life lived by the rich and famous. So, she wasn’t at all surprised to realise that Lorenzo’s chauffeur had driven the car up from Milan that day—simply to en­sure that his boss could drive his own, private vehicle around the roads of Tuscany.

  ‘Well...’ Lorenzo barked, his voice abruptly breaking into her thoughts. ‘Are you coming—or not?’ he asked, switching on the engine.

  ‘It doesn’t look as if I’ve got any choice, does it?’ she grumbled acidly, her words perhaps fortunately drowned beneath the powerful roar of the open sports car’s high-­performance engine.

  Antonia was profoundly thankful that she’d remembered to pack her dark sunglasses. She was equally relieved to note that she wasn’t expected to drive his Ferrari. She def­initely didn’t relish the prospect of handling this powerful vehicle on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, and in this searing heat.

  She did up her seat belt as Lorenzo let in the clutch, the car almost seeming to leap through the air as they roared out of the airport. Quickly clamping her eyes shut, she leaned back against the head-rest, muttering a prayer that they would not only arrive where they were going in one piece, but that it wouldn’t be long before she was able to have a cool drink.

  Lorenzo turned to grin at the girl beside him, who was looking unusually tired and weary. He, of course, loved the heat. But Antonia, with her blonde hair and fair skin, was clearly finding it a trial.

  ‘It won’t be long before we’re off the autostrada and up into the hills,’ he told her soothingly.

  ‘But I thought...’ She turned her head to look at him in surprise. ‘Aren’t we going into the city?’

  ‘No.’ He gave a quick shake of his head. ‘It’s much too hot and crowded with tourists at this time of year.’

  Mentally waving goodbye to the idea of getting her hands around a long, cold drink, Antonia gave a heavy sigh. Goodness knows where they were going to end up.

  However, as Lorenzo had promised, the scorchingly hot and humid conditions gradually gave way to cooler air and a welcome, light breeze as they climbed up through the hills, driving past large vineyards and olive groves.

  ‘This is lovely countryside,’ she breathed, leaning back against her head-rest, and relishing the feeling of cold, fresh air on her face. ‘And what’s that? It looks like an old castle,’ she said, shielding her eyes from the sun as she gazed at the passing scenery on their left.

  He nodded. ‘
It’s the castle of Nipozzano, owned by the Frescobaldi family, whose vineyards produce an outstand­ing Chianti Riserva. They also own many vineyards and property in the region,’ he explained. ‘Including a vineyard at Pomino—not so far away from here—which produces a really delicious white wine.’

  ‘I’m not a great drinker,’ she shrugged. ‘So I don’t really know anything about vineyards and wine.’

  ‘Never mind, Antonia...’ he laughed, before concentrat­ing on passing a lumbering old truck, which was weaving all over the road.

  ‘As it happens, you are now in the prime wine-producing area of Italy,’ he continued, when all risk of danger was past. ‘So I will make sure that you have plenty of oppor­tunity to learn more about the subject. Because I can assure you that the finest Tuscan wines are second to none!’

  Antonia realised that she must have become somewhat shell-shocked by a surfeit of emotions over the past few days. Because it had taken her some time to realise that, ever since landing in Italy, Lorenzo seemed to have shrugged off the cold, icy personality with whom she’d had to deal recently. He was now once more the warm and friendly, highly attractive man with whom she’d fallen, she now realised, so deeply in love.

  Was this change of heart due solely to the fact that he was back, in his own country? Or did he possess a cha­meleon type of personality, taking on the shades and col­ours of wherever he happened to be at any one time?

  But, Antonia told herself ruefully, she’d been spinning around in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions ever since turning up at the London hotel to look after Lorenzo. And she no longer was certain of anything—let alone her usual good judgement, and ability to predict how people would act in any given situation.

  In any case, she admitted to herself, she was sick and tired of fighting Lorenzo. If he was making an effort to be an amiable, friendly companion, she might as well respond in the same way.

  ‘Where, exactly, are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re heading for my old family home in Vallombrosa, high up in the Pratomagno hills.’

  ‘Oh, yes—I remember you mentioned it. It isn’t far, is it?’

  ‘No. The whole journey is less than an hour by road from Florence,’ he told her with a smile. ‘It won’t be long before we are there.’

  As the road appeared to climb more steeply, through beech, fir and pine woods, Antonia could almost feel the stresses and strains of the past few days slowly seeping out of her tired mind and body. The cooler mountain air was wonderfully refreshing, and she sat contentedly back in her seat as Lorenzo explained that the old house had been in his family for many generations.

  ‘Although, of course, my mother has a town house in Florence. But she likes to open up the old family home during the hot summer months. Both I and my two older sisters and their families like to take the opportunity of enjoying a summer holiday with her. With the added bonus, of course, of being able to enjoy a cool retreat from the heat of the city.’

  Taking a narrow turn off the main road, and driving slowly through a dense beech wood, he smilingly admitted that there was nothing particularly extraordinary or special about Vallombrosa. Although there was, apparently, a small modern summer and winter sports resort, just over a mile away at Saltino.

  ‘But that’s just about it—other than the monastery, of course. You might find that interesting,’ he added. ‘I be­leve that your English poet, John Milton, stayed there for some time in the early seventeenth century.’

  ‘What...? You mean the man who wrote “Paradise Lost”?’ She turned to look at him in surprise. ‘I wonder what on earth he was doing here? I didn’t know that English travellers were wandering around Europe at such an early date.’

  He shrugged. ‘That is not an early date, as far as we Italians are concerned. Marco Polo, for instance, who came from Venice, was a great traveller, and discovered China in the thirteenth century.’

  ‘OK...you’ve definitely won that round!’ she conceded with a smile, amused by the note of pride in his voice, before he slowed down, turning the car through a wide entrance guarded by stone gateposts.

  As they drove down a country track, she gazed up at the large beech trees, arching like a church nave overhead, and then they were coming to a halt in front of a very large building.

  ‘Good heavens!’ she exclaimed, gazing up at the massive walls, painted a yellow ochre colour, surrounded by tall cedars and large, brilliantly coloured shrubs and flowers. ‘This isn’t a house—it’s practically a palace!’

  He laughed and shook his head as he got out of the car, coming around to open the passenger door. ‘I can assure you that it is very far from being a palazzo, my dear Antonia. As you will very shortly find out,’ he added, be­fore turning around to face what seemed to be a pack of noisy, barking dogs racing towards his tall figure.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Get down, you horrid animals,’ a cool English voice called out.

  Antonia, who thought that she’d already had quite enough surprises for one day, could only stare in open­mouthed astonishment as a tall, slim, very elegant-looking woman with pale blonde hair emerged from around the side of the house, smiling broadly at Lorenzo.

  ‘Darling! How marvellous—I wasn’t expecting you far at least another hour. Did you have a good flight?’ she was saying as Lorenzo stepped forward to give her a big hug.

  It was moments before Antonia managed to get a grip on the fact that this woman—who had to be at least sixty years of age, but looked at least ten years younger—must be Lorenzo’s mother.

  Well! So much for the white-haired, arthritic old mamma!

  Feeling distinctly confused, Antonia found herself being introduced to Signora Foscari, who smilingly shook her hand and bade her welcome to their home.

  ‘I understand that you’ve been acting as bodyguard to my son,’ the older woman said, with what turned out to be three elderly dogs running before them, as she led the way through the open front door and into a large, marble-floored hall. ‘I do hope that he hasn’t given you too much trouble?’

  Thinking about the incident later, Antonia could only assume that she was either suffering from jet lag-which didn’t seem likely—or her sluggish brain must still have been in a state of bewilderment and confusion. Because she was utterly appalled to hear herself giving a low, caustic laugh. ‘Not give me any trouble? You must be joking!’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ His mother turned to grin at her. ‘It sounds as if Lorenzo must have been extremely tiresome!’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it!’ Antonia agreed swiftly, before realising, to her horror, that she was being extremely rude about this woman’s son!

  Hastening to make amends, she added quickly, ‘I’m so sorry, Signora Foscari. I really can’t think what’s come over me.’ She frowned and shook her head. ‘I must apol­ogise for being so rude. Believe me, I never meant...’

  ‘My dear girl,’ the older woman said quickly, putting a hand on her arm, ‘there’s no need for you to apologise. I know my dear son—only too well!’ she added with a laugh.

  Smiling weakly as the sound of his mother’s laughter echoed around the hall, Antonia could feel her cheeks flush­ing with embarrassment. She desperately wished that she’d kept her stupid mouth shut. What on earth would this woman think of her?

  But, as Lorenzo entered the hall with their suitcases, Antonia was amazed when, instead of appearing offended, his mother slipped a friendly arm through hers.

  ‘I’m sure you must be dying for a nice cool drink,’ she murmured, leading her visitor out of the hall and into a large sitting room.

  ‘Now, Antonia, I’m looking forward to getting to know you,’ she added, waving towards a comfortable chair. ‘So, I think we should make a start by calling each other by our Christian names, don’t you? Which is why I’d be very pleased if you’d call me Sara.’

  ‘Yes ...er...Sara,’ she muttered, still feeling distinctly light-headed.

  ‘Ah, I see you two are getting to know one ano
ther,’ Lorenzo said, strolling into the room a few moments later.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ his mother said, turning to smile at him as she handed Antonia a cool glass of ice-cold lemonade, while indicating his own drink, standing ready for him on a small marble table by one of the large windows.

  ‘I think you could even say,’ she added in an amused drawl, giving Antonia a slight wink, ‘that we’re already well on the way to becoming extremely good friends!’

  CHAPTER NINE

  WITH a sigh of pleasure, Antonia leaned against the sturdy iron railings of the balcony outside her bedroom, gazing down over the wide expanse of lawn.

  During the day it was a cool green oasis, surrounded by brilliantly flowering shrubs, leading to dense beech woods overlooking a steep valley, with the misty, mountainous peaks rising in the far distance.

  But now, late at night, it appeared totally bleached of all colour—silvery and mysterious in the bright moonlight.

  With its cool pine and beech woods, flower-filled mead­ows and, on the lower slopes, vineyards and olive groves, she was beginning to think that this area of Tuscany must be one of the most heavenly places on earth.

  On landing at the airport she’d been hot, tired and men­tally exhausted from the emotional trauma of her deeply confusing, troubled relationship with Lorenzo. But, in this peaceful house, run with quiet efficiency by Sara Foscari, she’d become aware of the nervous stress and strain slowly beginning to drain from her body.

  It had a lot to do with the beautiful location, of course. But she’d also had some days of total peace and quiet, which had helped to restore her spirits. Which was clearly due to the absence of Lorenzo—who, almost as soon as they’d arrived at the villa, had completely disappeared!

  He’d certainly been around when, following their arrival, she was being shown to this charming, simple bedroom by Sara Foscari. Because she’d been able to hear, despite the thick walls, the faint murmur of Lorenzo’s voice talking on the phone, downstairs in his study.