“I speak English,” the tall man said. “Who is your uncle? And who are you?”
Caro detected a slight German accent mingled with Italian. “Could we speak privately?” she asked. She didn’t know if Sky News reached this island, but even if it didn’t, she was leery of giving her name.
“No,” the tall man said. “State your business or leave.”
Jude unzipped his backpack and jotted a note on a napkin. Sir Nigel Clifford’s niece must see Della Rocca about a triptych. Then he passed it up to the frowning tall man.
Panic twisted through Caro’s stomach as she watched the man read the note. After a moment, he opened a mobile phone and pivoted, giving a full view of his mammoth shoulders. His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke into the phone.
The driver spat in the water. “The police will come now.”
The tall man turned. “Signore Della Rocca will see you.”
The driver scrambled to his feet and helped Caro out of the boat. Jude hopped out with their bags. Caro saw a flash of green as wild parakeets flitted into the olive trees.
“This way.” The tall man strode ahead, his shoes clapping over the stone path.
“Nice chap.” Jude frowned. “Large vocabulary, too.”
The island wasn’t landscaped so much as sculpted. Stone nymphs danced around a fountain. Further out, boxwood hedges formed crosses. Next to the front steps, topiaries were carved into mythological beasts.
Caro followed the tall man to a terrace. Stone gargoyles peered down from an upper balcony. Music drifted from the house, and she recognized the rhythmic beat of “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. It was about raw, animalistic sex. Phoebe used to play it all the time.
The music lent a jarring note in this sumptuous atmosphere. Caro wondered just how old Della Rocca was.
Jude grabbed her arm. “I don’t like this,” he whispered.
The tall man strode toward the main entrance, up rough marble steps to a terrace. Caro stared at the man’s wide shoulders. She could have set teacups on them with room for scones and clotted cream. He stepped past the life-sized statuary and opened a massive front door.
Caro stepped into a vestibule, and her reflection moved over a black-and-white checkerboard floor. A grand staircase curved up into the gloom. The tall man strode toward an arched hallway. Caro started to follow, then she heard a tinkling noise and looked up. A six-tiered crystal chandelier swayed from a domed ceiling, the prisms trembling in rhythm with the eerie music. Perhaps Signore Della Rocca was a heavy metal musician.
A word floated into her mind: Hardly. She looked up to see if Jude had spoken. But his lips were clamped together. Her mind was playing tricks. She stared at the oil paintings that lined the staircase wall, hunting dogs biting into feathered things.
The music changed to a Type O Negative song. As the goth-metal band sang “Haunted,” their dark, heavy voices echoed like liturgical chants.
“Odd music selections, wouldn’t you say?” Jude whispered.
“Depends on what you call odd,” she said. “At least it’s not Cradle of Filth.”
They caught up with the tall man in the hall. The violent artwork continued, with hunt scenes giving way to Hieronymus Bosch paintings. Caro peeked into a large, formal room with French antiques grouped around a zebra rug. A bombé chest held a collection of crosses. She relaxed. Crosses didn’t mesh with vampires or devil worshippers.
The disturbing music got louder when their escort flung open double doors and directed them into a windowless library.
A man with long platinum-blond hair sat in a plush Bergere chair, petting a small black dog with a monkey face. It growled, the dark eyes shifting from Caro to Jude.
“I am Signore Raphael Della Rocca,” the blond man said with a faint Italian accent. “Welcome to Villa Primaverina.”
Caro had been expecting an older fellow, but Signore Della Rocca looked to be Jude’s age, early thirties, maybe even younger. His dark eyes and brows made a striking contrast against his pale hair. He wore a black shirt and faded jeans with gaping holes.
Caro started to introduce herself, but Della Rocca held up his hand.
“I know who you are,” he said. “Sky News claims you’re dangerous.”
“I can explain,” she said, pushing down a fresh surge of panic.
“Please do.” Della Rocca gestured at a carved settee. Jude tucked his bag under a table and sat down. Caro continued to stand, clutching her bag. In case she had to run, she’d be ready.
“Beppe thinks you are disturbed by my music.” Della Rocca nodded at the tall man. “But I think you are disturbed by me. Whatever the cause, not to worry. I have changed the selections. I trust they will be to your satisfaction.”
Beppe? Caro glanced at the man. He stood beside the doors and stared straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back. She wondered when, and how, he’d shared this information with his employer.
Della Rocca sat down. Pearl Jam began to sing “Alive,” something their host was clearly not. Della Rocca laughed. “Perhaps you prefer Smashing Pumpkins? Or Sting?”
She narrowed her eyes. Only a moment earlier, she’d hoped he would play something by Sting.
Caro glanced around the library, wishing she could poke through the books. “Your villa is lovely,” she said.
“Grazie mille,” Della Rocca said. “A house like this would be unbearable without books. And yes, you may look at them later.”
She tilted her head. Had she spoken out loud? She looked at Jude to see if he’d heard, but he was talking to the dog. The animal showed its teeth, then lurched forward and snapped.
“No!” Della Rocca snapped his fingers at the dog. “Bad Arrapato!”
“Arrapato means ‘horny,’ ” Caro told Jude, who immediately withdrew his hand. The dog’s silver tags jingled, and he showed his teeth again.
You speak Italian? asked Della Rocca.
“Yes,” she said.
Jude sat up straight, looking confused. “Yes, what?” he asked.
“Signore Della Rocca asked if I spoke Italian.”
“He did?” Jude frowned. “When?”
Raphael stroked the dog. Perhaps Arrapato distracted the young man, he said.
Caro distinctly heard Della Rocca’s voice, but his lips hadn’t moved. Jude hadn’t spoken, nor had the sphinxlike Beppe.
“What are you playing at?” she asked Della Rocca.
I am reading your thoughts, Della Rocca said. Again, his lips didn’t move.
Caro’s knees buckled, and she sat down hard on the settee. Della Rocca sniffed as if he’d detected something pungent. The little dog raised his head and sniffed, too.
This is impossible, she thought. A warm flush spread up her neck.
I’ve made you blush. He smiled.
Della Rocca was either a mind reader or a skilled ventriloquist.
She pushed a thought in his direction: It’s rude to read people’s thoughts. Stop it this instant.
I will try. But I cannot promise. Della Rocca raised his brows.
Caro narrowed her eyes. Her thoughts weren’t any of his damn business.
You are a feisty one.
I told you, stop reading my mind.
Please forgive me, mia cara. I’m trying to control it, but there is too much power in this room. I feel it coming from you and from him—so much from him. This kind of power makes angels fly too close to mountains. It has been a long time since I have been near the beginning of love. It builds the way great music builds.
You don’t know what you’re talking about. Caro glanced away.
But I’m not talking.
She flinched as Della Rocca’s words hit her own thoughts and scattered like dust motes. You’re wrong. He doesn’t love me. He’s going to dump me here with you.
Would that be so tragic?
Again, his words flitted away. She met his gaze, and a blinding pain throbbed behind her eyes.
The headache and confusion are less if you do not resist
. Relax. Let my words move through you like water. Otherwise the pain can worsen.
His gaze lingered on her neck.
What’s that supposed to mean? she thought. Had the bites caused her to read minds? She cupped her hand over the scabs. She had a bad feeling about Della Rocca. Yet her uncle had sent her to Villa Primaverina, and she didn’t want to leave without answers.
The bites have enhanced what was already inside you. Della Rocca shrugged. The dog began to pant, its pink tongue curling like a witch’s shoe.
She’d known Della Rocca three minutes and he was lecturing her about love, mental telepathy, and genetics. The trouble was, they weren’t moving their lips and it was disconcerting, like watching a movie with the audio out of sync.
Please, call me Raphael. Della Rocca is too formal.
Jude crossed his legs and placed one arm on the back of the settee. She didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that the silence was making him uncomfortable.
Look at his body language. Raphael tilted his head. He is telling me that you belong to him. He is warning me to back off.
“He is not,” she snapped.
“What?” Jude’s eyes widened.
“It’s nothing,” Caro said hastily.
A flush spread down Jude’s cheeks as he glanced from Raphael to Caro. “Could someone explain what’s going on?”
“I shall try.” Raphael faced Caro. “But before we begin, please accept my condolences. I was saddened to learn about Sir Nigel’s death. He was an extraordinary man.”
“You knew him?” Caro asked.
“Indirectly.”
Raphael glanced at her duffel bag. “You have brought two icons.”
Jude flinched. “How do you know?”
“He’s reading our thoughts,” Caro said.
“Not all of my kind can do this,” Raphael said. “I do it poorly. My talents lie elsewhere.”
“Your kind,” Jude said. It wasn’t a question. “You’re a vampire?”
“I prefer to be called Raphael. And don’t make the mistake of thinking all immortals are alike. Because we’re not. I can sense the presence and thoughts of other vampires, but I cannot read all human minds. Some are closed. My gift is stronger if I have an emotional investment in a person. I knew you were coming, Caro, and I knew you weren’t alone.”
“Why should we believe you?” Jude said.
“You look like you need a drink,” Raphael said. “What would you like?”
“A single-malt scotch if you have it,” Jude said.
“With ice?”
“Please.”
Raphael turned to Caro. “And you, signorina?” Sei molta bella.
“Nothing, thank you.” Flatterer.
Beppe vanished into the gloomy corridor, presumably fetching the scotch. Raphael stroked the dog. “It is late. I am sure you’re exhausted. Have you eaten? Beppe’s wife is an exquisite chef. Perhaps she can prepare you a meal.” A moment later, Beppe stepped into the room carrying a tray. Ice cubes tinkled in a glass.
“A vampire has a chef?” Jude asked Raphael, then took a quick swallow of his drink.
“I love to host parties, even if I choose not to eat. But during my mortal life, yes, I enjoyed food. I still love to smell it. Some of my kind cannot abide it. Arrapato is unusual—he still likes bones and scraps. As I said, the immortals are wildly different in talents and tastes.”
Jude choked on the whiskey. “The dog is a vampire?”
“He is immortal, yes.” Raphael smiled. “I would be honored if you’d stay at the villa tonight. Arrapato and I love guests.”
“I’m sure you do,” Jude said. “Especially after dark.”
“You are an intractable young man,” Raphael said.
“And you’re a vampire.” Jude glared. “You drink blood.”
“You drink scotch.”
“But when I want a drink, I go to a bar. I don’t bite people.”
“I don’t bite them, either. Not anymore. Not in centuries.”
“How do I know you won’t attack us?” Jude asked.
“I’ll try to restrain myself.” Raphael smiled. His teeth were white and radiant. “I have a blood bank on the lower level. No need to worry. I will not harm Caro—or you. Besides, we haven’t discussed the icons.”
“Let’s discuss them now,” Jude said.
“It is late,” Raphael said. “We shall talk tomorrow after you have rested.”
I have answers for you, mia cara. If you want them. Raphael stood, cradling the dog, and bowed. “Beppe will escort you to the kitchen. I will see you tomorrow night. Dinner will be served on the south terrace at dusk. Ask Beppe to show you the way.”
CHAPTER 52
VILLA PRIMAVERINA
ISLA CARBONERA
Jude and Caro sat at a long walnut table in the kitchen, watching Beppe’s wife ladle potato soup into thick red pottery bowls. Across the room, flames crackled in the stone fireplace. Arched windows lined the opposite wall, showing a thread of moonlight on the black water. In the distance, a bright haze rose up from Isla Murano.
“I’m Maria,” Beppe’s wife said as she set down their bowls. She added wine and a basket filled with garlicky crackers.
“Anything else?” She tucked her wiry, gray-blond hair behind her ears.
“We’re fine, thank you,” Jude said.
Caro studied the woman’s mouth and complexion, trying to decide if she was human or vampire. But Maria’s face held a rosy glow; her teeth were small and white.
Jude must have been thinking along the same lines. “How long have you been Raphael’s chef?” he asked.
“Nine years. That’s how long Beppe and I have been married. We fell in love over a bowl of gnocchi.” She dipped a garlic cracker into olive oil, then bit down. A good sign, Caro thought.
Maria passed by a wall calendar that showed a Christmas scene. Was it still the sixth of December? Caro wondered.
“Signore Raphael wanted me to remind you about tomorrow night,” Maria said. “Antipasti will be served on the south terrace at sunset.”
“Where’s the south terrace?” Caro asked.
Maria smiled. “I’ll give you a tour when you are finished with your soup.”
“We’ll need one,” Caro said. A better name for this massive house would be Villa Confusionaria.
Maria lit a cigarette. An even better sign, Caro thought.
Jude tapped his spoon against the bowl. “Do you enjoy working for Raphael?”
“Very much. He is a kind man,” Maria said. “He has quirks—but don’t we all?”
Maria escorted them through the house, pointing out highlights: a mirrored weight room, an indoor lap pool, and a media center with Swarovski crystals embedded in the domed ceiling. They moved into the game room. A chandelier hung from a mirrored ceiling, reflecting a black leather sofa and a card table. Pinball machines lined the far wall. Jude walked to the billiard table and lifted a cube of blue chalk.
“Do either of you play golf?” Maria asked. “There is a virtual course down the hall.” Her cell phone rang and she stepped into an alcove.
“It’s not safe here,” Jude said. “We should call a water taxi.”
“I’m not leaving until I see Raphael’s icon.” Caro folded her arms. “You’re not thinking he’s dangerous?”
“You tell me. There’s roughly twenty pints of blood between us.”
“Raphael didn’t seem violent.”
“Why? Because he’s wealthy?” Jude flashed a doubtful look.
“He owns a blood bank. And if that redheaded vampire gets near the island, Raphael will sense it.”
“He’s like a canary in a coal mine?”
“Well, he knew we were coming.”
Maria stepped out of the alcove. “That was Beppe. Will you be staying in the same room or would you like separate accommodations?”
“Separate,” Jude said.
Maria moved into the hall.
“Aren’t you afraid to sleep alone
?” Caro whispered.
“I’ve got garlic.”
“Suit yourself.” So his distaste for sharing a bed with a half vampire outweighed his fear of getting bitten by a real one. But then why had he ravished her at Harry’s Bar? Correction, she’d attacked him. Totally. She strained to hear his thoughts, but all she felt was a steely resolve. From his end, it was finished between them. She’d better get used to sleeping alone, the sooner the better.
Maria led them upstairs, down a labyrinth of interconnected halls, and opened a paneled door. “This is your room, Caro,” she said. “It has lovely views of the lake. Tomorrow you will see.”
If I make it through the night, Caro thought, then immediately squelched the thought. She lingered in the doorway and watched Jude and Maria turn a corner. She wanted to know where he was sleeping—just in case she dreamed of the wild dogs again. She repressed an urge to follow Maria and stepped into her room. It was violently red—toile wallpaper, velvet draperies, a burgundy Persian rug with bold black swirls. A queen-sized canopy bed was swathed in more toile.
She was too tired to undress. She flopped onto the duvet. Raphael’s mind reading had taken its toll. She pushed her face into the feather pillow and fell asleep.
CHAPTER 53
Caro dreamed that the wild dogs were chasing her through brambles, toward a burning house. When she awoke, she thought her room was on fire. A reddish-orange hue tinted the air. She scrambled out of bed, ran to the window, and fumbled with the latch, thinking she’d climb onto the balcony and try to shimmy down the vines, but then she saw the sunset. No fire. No danger. Smoke drifted up from Isla Murano, turning amber as it passed through the late afternoon light.
How long had she slept? She ran her hand over her neck. The flesh was smooth. No new bites. Raphael hadn’t slithered under the door, or whatever vampires did, to sample her blood. She hoped he’d extended the same courtesy to Jude.
She heard a timid rap on the door. “It’s open,” she called.
A bell-shaped woman stepped into the room and curtsied, her black gabardine uniform creaking at the seams. “My name is Dorotea. I will attend your personal needs during your stay. Signore Della Rocca sends his greetings and a welcome gift.”
Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) Page 30
