At Dante's Service

by Chantelle Shaw

  It wasn’t hard to see where Dante’s attitude towards relationships stemmed from. ‘How old were you when your parents’ marriage ended?’

  ‘I was nine when they divorced, but I’d never known them happy together. They have very different personalities and argued constantly. I never understood how they got together in the first place,’ he said drily. ‘Fortunately I was packed off to boarding school and escaped the tense atmosphere at home most of the time.’

  Rebekah thought of the chaotic, noisy, happy home where she had grown up with her brothers. Her parents were devoted to one another, and their strong relationship was the lynchpin of the family.

  ‘Did either of your parents marry again?’

  ‘My father had two more attempts, but with each subsequent divorce he had to sell a chunk of the estate to pay the alimony bill and he finally realised that marriage is a mug’s game. I’ve taken steps to ensure that his mistresses, Barbara and Elise, will be provided for if he dies before them, but they can’t make a claim on the Jarrell estate’s remaining assets.’

  ‘What about your mother?’ Rebekah asked curiously.

  ‘She’s halfway through her fourth marriage. They last on average about six years,’ he said sardonically.

  She did not miss the cynical tone in Dante’s voice. ‘I suppose it’s not surprising you have such a warped view of marriage when your parents both had bad experiences.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I have a warped view,’ he argued, ‘just a realistic one.’

  Nor was his attitude towards marriage based entirely on the hash his parents had made of relationships, Dante brooded. Inexplicably, he found himself tempted to tell Rebekah about Lara. Maybe she would lose that judgemental tone in her voice if he explained how his wife had betrayed him and deceived him and played him for a fool.

  But what was the point? He did not care what she thought of him, did he? He was only taking her to Tuscany with him for one reason—two, he amended—she was a fantastic cook and an exciting lover. He was looking forward to spending the coming month with her, but after that, when he had become bored with her, as he inevitably did with his mistresses, they would go their separate ways.

  ‘Your mother still sings, doesn’t she?’ Rebekah said. ‘I read that Isabella Lombardi is regarded as one of the greatest sopranos of all time. Will she be at your house in Tuscany?’

  ‘No. She lives in Rome, but I think she might be on tour at the moment.’ Dante shrugged. ‘To be honest, I don’t see her very often.’

  ‘What about your father—are you close to him?’

  ‘Not at all. We meet for lunch three or four times a year, but really from the age of eight I lived pretty independently from both my parents. I was at school, my mother was always travelling the world for performances and my father was busy with his own life.’

  ‘I can’t imagine not being part of a close-knit, loving family.’ Rebekah pictured her parents at their remote farm and felt a sharp pang of homesickness. ‘I love knowing that, whatever happens, if ever I have difficulties, I can rely on my family to help me.’ She glanced at Dante. ‘Who do you turn to when you have problems?’

  He gave her a quizzical look. ‘I don’t have problems, and if I did I would deal with them on my own. I’m a big boy of thirty-six,’ he said mockingly.

  ‘Everyone needs to have someone they can rely on,’ she said stubbornly.

  The image of his grandmother flashed into Dante’s mind, and he felt a dull ache beneath his ribs. Nonna Perlita had helped him through his darkest days after Lara had left him and all he had wanted to do was drink himself into oblivion. But that had been a long time ago, and he would never put himself in a position where he could be hurt again.

  ‘I don’t need anyone, so stop trying to analyse me.’ He lifted his hand and undid the clip that secured her hair on top of her head, grinning when she gave him an angry glare. ‘Leave it loose,’ he said, when she began to bundle the long silky mass back up into a knot. ‘You look very sexy with your hair down.’

  She was so lovely, he mused, feeling a curious tug on his insides as he studied her face. There was something about her, a gentleness that touched him in some way he did not understand. She was surprisingly easy to talk to. He had revealed things about himself and his childhood that he had never mentioned to anyone else. But the kind of women he tended to be associated with only showed a superficial interest in him and were far more interested in his wealth and social status, Dante thought with a flash of cynicism.

  Unable to stop himself, he leaned towards her and captured her mouth in a long, slow kiss that heated his blood. He was conscious of the laboured thud of his heart when after a few seconds her lips parted beneath his.

  She should not be responding to him, Rebekah thought frantically, as Dante brushed his warm lips over hers and probed his tongue between them to explore the moist interior of her mouth. She had told herself that she would keep him at arm’s length; that she would be coolly polite and professional so that he would quickly lose interest in her—which she assured herself she hoped he would do. He might even allow her to leave her job without completing her notice and she would be able to return to England and get on with her life.

  The sweet seduction of his kiss and the ache of longing he evoked inside her made a mockery of her intentions. But when he had told her about his unhappy childhood she had glimpsed a hint of vulnerability in him that he kept hidden beneath his self-assured, sometimes arrogant persona, and she had not been able to resist him.

  ‘Tell me about your grandparents,’ she said huskily when he eventually ended the kiss and she drew a ragged breath. ‘It was lovely that your grandmother finished renovating the house she and your grandfather had planned together. She must have loved him very much.’

  ‘They adored each other,’ Dante agreed. ‘They met during the war and were married for many years.’

  ‘So, not all marriages in your family are doomed to failure. Doesn’t the fact that your grandparents were happily married for so long make you think you should reassess your attitude towards marriage?’

  He laughed, but his eyes were hard as he said, ‘If that’s a roundabout way of asking whether there’s any possibility of our affair leading to a permanent relationship then let me make it crystal-clear there’s absolutely no chance.’

  Rebekah ruthlessly quashed the sharp little pain his words induced. ‘I hope one day to meet the right man, and we’ll fall in love and decide to spend the rest of our lives together,’ she told him, wondering if she would ever really have the courage to risk her heart again. ‘But he won’t be anything like you.’

  Why not? What the hell was wrong with him? Dante wondered, feeling an inexplicable surge of annoyance at her casual dismissal of him as prospective husband material. Not that he had any ideas on that score, of course. But he wouldn’t make a bad husband. In fact he had been a damn good one. He had done his best to make Lara happy, but the bitter reality was that his best hadn’t been good enough.

  He stared moodily out of the plane window and was glad when the flight attendant came to serve them coffee and his conversation with Rebekah ended.

  ‘It was once a Benedictine monastery,’ Dante explained as the car rounded a bend and a huge house built of pale pink brick and darker terracotta roof tiles came into view. ‘Parts of the original building date back to the eleventh century. It was renovated at various times over the years, but my grandparents—well, my grandmother mainly—turned it into the beautiful house it is now.’

  ‘It looks amazing.’ Rebekah was stunned by the size of the building and impressed by its history. The monastery stood on a hill overlooking rolling green fields and others filled with golden sunflowers and scarlet poppies. In the distance was the distinctive semi-desert landscape of the area known as the Crete Senesi. A narrow road wound past olive groves and tall cypress trees up to the Casa di Colombe—The House of Doves.

  A few minutes later Dante drove through the gates into the courtyard, wher
e it was easier to appreciate the huge amount of restoration work that had been done on the ancient monastery. On three sides of the courtyard the cloister had been fitted with arched glass windows which gleamed in the bright sunlight. In one corner was an ancient well, and all around the courtyard stood terracotta tubs planted with lavender, lemon and bay trees and a profusion of different herbs.

  The splash of a fountain was the only sound to disturb the silence. As Rebekah climbed out of the car she was struck by the serene atmosphere. It was not difficult to imagine the Benedictine monks who had once lived here going about their daily lives with quiet devotion to their religious beliefs.

  ‘Nonna Perlita was a keen gardener,’ Dante told her when she admired the plants. ‘The knot garden on the other side of the house was her pride and joy. There is also a swimming pool, and in the grounds of the estate there’s a lake, although I wouldn’t recommend you swim in it. I used to catch newts in it when I was a boy.’

  ‘Who looks after the place now that your grandmother is no longer here?’

  ‘I employ staff from the village—a couple of grounds-men tend to the gardens and carry out any maintenance work, and two women come regularly to clean the house.’

  Dante opened the heavy oak front door and gave a deep sigh of pleasure as he ushered Rebekah into the cool stone-floored hall. ‘For me this is home. One day I intend to move back here permanently.’

  Rebekah gave him a surprised look. ‘Did you used to live here? I thought you grew up in England.’

  ‘I was born here—much to my father’s displeasure. He wanted his heir to be born in England, at the Jarrell estate. But my mother went into labour early while she was visiting my grandparents, and so this house is my birthplace.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘Apparently my father accused my mother of giving birth early on purpose because she wanted me to be born in Italy. It was just one of many things they could not agree on—as was the language I should be brought up to speak. My father only spoke English to me and my mother taught me Italian, so I grew up bilingual.

  ‘I went to school in England, but spent most of the holidays here with my grandmother,’ he continued. He shrugged. ‘I enjoy living in London, but I think of myself as Italian rather than English.’

  His Italian heritage was obvious in his dark olive skin tone and his jet-black hair, Rebekah mused. At his house in London she mostly saw him dressed in one of the superbly tailored suits he wore for work. He always looked gorgeous, but today he was wearing black jeans, matching shirt and designer shades and was so impossibly good-looking that she felt a fierce ache of longing whenever she looked at him. In fact she was so intent on not looking at him that she walked across the entrance hall to inspect a large framed photograph hanging on the wall.

  The woman in the photo was clearly very elderly. Her hair was white and her face lined, but despite the marks of old age she was startlingly beautiful and bore an aura of serenity that was reflected in her bright silvery-grey eyes.

  ‘Is this lady your grandmother?’ She spun round and her heart lurched when she discovered that Dante had moved silently to stand beside her.

  His eyes were focused on the picture. ‘Yes, that was Perlita a few months before she died.’

  Unexpectedly, raw emotion clogged Dante’s throat. Usually when he’d arrived at the house he’d gone straight to see his grandmother. He wished she was still here, and curiously, because he had never brought any of his mistresses to the Casa di Colombe, he wished that Rebekah could have met her. In many ways the two women were very alike, he realised. Like Nonna, Rebekah was independent and, he suspected, fiercely loyal to the people she cared about. He had heard the love in her voice when she spoke about her family.

  He glanced down at her and for the first time it struck him how petite she was compared to his tall frame. He hadn’t noticed when he had danced with her at the party because she had been wearing high heels, but now she was wearing flat shoes and he was surprised by a feeling of protectiveness. He ran his finger lightly down her cheek. ‘How are you feeling? You still look pale.’

  ‘I’m fine now that the sickness has stopped,’ she assured him.

  ‘I want you to take things easy for the next couple of days.’ Dante’s eyes glinted wickedly. ‘In fact I think you need to spend most of the time lying down.’

  Rebekah’s common sense told her to move away from him, but her heart refused to listen and her senses were swamped by his virile masculinity. The scent of his aftershave was tantalisingly sensual, as was the warmth that emanated from his body as he stepped closer and slid an arm around her waist.

  ‘Naturally, I will lie down with you to keep you company,’ he murmured in his rich as molten syrup voice.

  A shiver of excitement ran through her. Common sense urged her to pull herself out of his arms, but she was trapped by the feral gleam in his eyes so that when he lowered his head she sank against him and parted her lips in readiness for his kiss.

  Remembering his hot, hungry kisses when he had made love to her after the party, she was unprepared for the soft brush of his mouth on hers. As light as gossamer, he teased her lips apart in a slow, sweet kiss that was utterly beguiling. Rebekah melted into it, her whole being attuned to the exquisite sensations he aroused in her and the thudding drumbeat of desire that pounded in her blood and made her ache for his possession.

  This was not keeping him at arm’s length, taunted a voice inside her head. She had promised herself she would not be swayed by his sexy charm. But she had glimpsed the flare of pain in his eyes when he had looked at the photo of his grandmother and her heart had ached for him. He had told her that this was his first visit to Tuscany since his grandmother’s death and she sensed he was still grieving for Perlita.

  When she had slept with him two nights ago she had thought she could indulge in a passionate fling with him that would mean nothing to either of them, even though she was scared of her emotions becoming involved. But the discovery that there were depths to Dante she had been unaware of made her afraid that he could pose even more of a threat to her emotions. She could not risk falling for him, and so, calling on all her willpower, she tore her mouth from his and stepped away from him.

  ‘I guess I should start dinner. It’s getting late,’ she mumbled, flushing beneath his quizzical stare. ‘Although I’ve heard that it is usual in Mediterranean countries for people to have dinner late in the evening,’ she added rather desperately as he continued to regard her with an intentness she found unsettling. ‘But you’re probably hungry,’ she finished lamely.

  ‘I’m ravenous, but I have a feeling we’re talking about different appetites,’ he said drily.

  Dante did not understand why Rebekah had backed off, but the curious half-wary, half-defensive expression in her eyes forced him to control his frustration. She clearly carried a lot of emotional baggage—which meant that she was exactly the sort of woman he usually avoided. So why wasn’t he heading for the hills to get away from her? Why had he brought her to the Casa di Colombe, which was his private sanctuary and a haven of peace? He felt anything but peaceful at the moment, he thought grimly. And, strangely, his frustration was not only on a sexual level. He wanted to know who had put the shadows in her eyes, and conversely he was annoyed with himself for his curiosity when all he wanted was a temporary affair with her.

  With an effort he controlled his impatience. ‘I have a few things to do, so why don’t you go and explore the house? The maids should have made up the beds and stocked the kitchen with basic provisions. We can pick up fresh fruit and vegetables at the market in Montalcino tomorrow.’ He pointed down the hallway. ‘You’ll find the kitchen that way.’

  From the outside, the house did not look very different from how it must have looked when it had been built and used as a monastery centuries ago. But, inside, the Casa di Colombe had been expertly renovated and turned into a charming, comfortable home. Much love had gone into the interior design of the house, Rebekah thought as she strolled through the
airy, sunlit rooms on the ground floor where the old stone floors blended perfectly with the pale walls and elegant furnishings. She remembered the serene face of Dante’s grandmother in the photograph hanging in the hall. Nonna Perlita had left her mark on this house, she mused.

  She continued her exploration and fell in love with the kitchen the minute she walked through the door. The terracotta tiled floor, stone walls and pale oak cupboards gave it a rustic charm, but at the same time it was fitted with every piece of modern equipment she could want. It was a perfect setting to take photographs of the recipes she had now perfected for the cookery book, and she was keen to start work. She discovered that the pantry and fridge had been well stocked and she was debating what to cook for dinner when the sound of voices from outside the kitchen window made her glance towards the garden.

  Dante was standing with a tall, slim blonde-haired woman wearing very short shorts that revealed her long tanned legs. The woman turned her head and Rebekah saw that she was stunningly beautiful. A tight knot formed in her stomach as she watched the woman laughing with Dante. It was clear they shared a close relationship. Was the blonde his mistress? If so, then why had he insisted on her coming to Tuscany with him? And why on earth did she feel jealous?

  Feeling angry with herself, she went to investigate the upper floors of the house. Her suitcase had been left in the hall and she carried it upstairs. There were five bedrooms on the first floor, one of which was obviously the master suite. Next door to Dante’s room, the guest bedroom had been prepared, she assumed, for her. It was a pretty room, with the same neutral-toned walls as the rest of the house and a lemon-yellow bedspread.

  The blinds at the window shaded the room from the hot sunshine of a Tuscan summer’s afternoon, but Rebekah still felt too warm in her skirt and jacket. A cool shower was tempting. Taking a shower cap from her case, she walked into the en suite bathroom and emerged ten minutes later to slip into a lightweight floral cotton skirt and T-shirt that she had packed for the trip. She was pulling a comb through her hair when there was a knock on her door, and she spun round to find the woman she had seen in the garden standing in the doorway.