by Sara Craven
When the bell didn’t work, Lucy hammered on the door, but to no avail. There was no sound or movement in the house.
She stood on tiptoe, peering through the window. The room was totally bare. No furniture. No sign of life at all.
Lucy bit her lip as she stepped back onto the street. First Maddalena, she thought uneasily, now Tommaso. What on earth’s going on?
She glanced round, uncertain what to do next. Her phrasebook didn’t equip her to deal with errant maids and missing landlords, and she had the uncanny feeling, anyway, that she was being watched from several adjoining houses, and not in any kindly spirit either.
I’d better find the others—tell them, she decided, and began to retrace her steps, glad to get away from the mean, narrow street and its unseen eyes.
But she must have taken a wrong turning, because she found herself in a different square altogether. No bars or bustle but dominated by an elaborate Gothic church, and completely deserted apart from the statutory pigeons.
Lucy heard her own footsteps echoing as she crossed the cobbles and she paused, wondering which of the many alleys leading off the square would take her back to the town centre.
The silence was oppressive—threatening. Then suddenly it was shattered by the roar of a motorcycle coming from behind her.
The pigeons flew up in a flurry of alarmed wings. Lucy spun round, had a confused impression of two figures, leather-clad and anonymous in helmets, and realised a gauntleted hand was reaching towards her as the bike swerved in her direction.
She cried out, and tried to jump back as the hand snatched at the strap of her shoulder bag and tried to jerk it from her. But Lucy clung on grimly, refusing to let go. She heard the snarl of the throttle, warning her that the bike was about to accelerate away, and was pulled forward, falling painfully onto the cobbles. She was going to be dragged behind the bike if she didn’t release her bag.
She screamed, ‘No,’ her voice cracking, half in fear, half in anger. Then she cried, ‘Help me, someone,’ and heard a man’s voice shout in answer.
She saw a dark figure running towards her, felt another shoulder-wrenching jerk at her bag, and then suddenly the metal clips on the strap gave up the struggle and she was left lying on the ground, winded, bruised but free, her bag still clutched in both hands, while her assailants sped off with the dangling strap as their only prize.
It seemed safer to stay where she was. Her heart was pounding, she was shaking all over, and she felt deathly sick. She was dimly aware of someone bending over her, of a man’s deep voice speaking urgently in Italian, of a hand touching her shoulder.
‘No.’ She was galvanised into panicky reaction, kicking out. ‘Get away from me.’
She heard him mutter something under his breath as her foot connected with his shin. He said curtly in English, ‘Don’t be a fool, signorina. You called out for help. Can’t you see that’s what I’m trying to do? Are you badly hurt? Can you sit up?’
Wincing, Lucy allowed him to help her into a sitting position. The hands that touched her were gentle as well as strong, and a faint musky scent of masculine cologne teased her senses.
She turned her head slowly and looked at him, tensing with dismay as she realised that her saviour was none other than the man from the pavement café.
Nina’s designer stud, she groaned inwardly. It would be.
At close quarters, he was even more devastating. Handsome as a Renaissance prince, and, she acknowledged as his eyes narrowed in recognition, just as distant.
‘So, we meet again,’ he commented without pleasure. ‘What are you doing, wandering alone like this? Don’t you know it isn’t safe?’
‘I know now.’ She lifted her chin and gave him her own brand of dirty look. ‘Actually I was looking for someone, and I thought things like this only happened in big cities.’
‘Unfortunately, criminal elements from bigger places now sense there’s a living to be made even in towns like Montiverno.’ His tone was dry. ‘Now, let’s see if you can stand.’
She would have dearly loved to slap his patronising hand away, not to mention his sneering face, but she let him help her to her feet. She was bitterly aware that she was filthy from her contact with the ground, and that her new white cotton trousers were torn beyond repair. Every part of her seemed to be throbbing, and she knew an ignominious impulse to burst into tears.
Instead, she said, her voice wobbling slightly, ‘They wanted my bag, but I wouldn’t let them have it.’
‘Stupida!’ he said crushingly. ‘Better to lose your bag than be killed or maimed.’
Lucy pushed her dishevelled hair out of her eyes with a shaking hand. She said, ‘I’ve just been through one of the worst experiences of my life, and all you can do is criticise.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not all I can do. My car is nearby. I will drive you to the clinic for a check-up.’
‘No.’ The denial was instinctive and immediate, driven by some deep female consciousness that motorbike thieves were far from the only danger in the situation.
He was very still, his brows rising in regal hauteur. He said very quietly but with cool, relentless emphasis, ‘I beg your pardon?’
To add to her other ills, Lucy felt herself blushing all over as the amber eyes swept over her, slowly and comprehensively.
She said hurriedly, ‘I mean—thank you, but there’s no need for you to bother any more. I’m fine—really. Just—a little shaken.’
‘And prey, I think, to certain illusions.’ He was smiling, but there was no amusement in his eyes. ‘I am offering my help, signorina, but nothing more. I do not require sexual favours as a reward for my assistance, whatever fantasies you or your friend may enjoy,’ he added bitingly.
The contempt in his face and voice stung Lucy like a flick from a whip. There was no real reason to feel so mortified, she told herself angrily. He was a stranger to her, and she was never going to see him again, so what did it matter if he thought she was tarred with the same brush as Nina?
Yet somehow, and quite ridiculously, it seemed to matter a lot.
She said stonily, ‘Think what you wish, signore. I’m grateful for your help but not your opinion of me.’
‘Then accept my aid,’ he said. ‘Believe that I cannot simply walk away and leave you here like this.’ And, when she still hesitated, he added, ‘But on the other hand, signorina, I do not have the entire day to devote to your interests either. So please make up your mind.’
Lucy bit her lip. ‘Well—perhaps a lift back to the main square. I’m meeting my friends there.’
‘Of course,’ he said softly. ‘No doubt there will be more male talent to be reviewed. You should take care, signorina. You are not in the cold Anglo-Saxon north now. To provoke a Tuscan is to play with fire.’
She gave him a frigid Anglo-Saxon look. ‘Please don’t worry about me, signore. I’m fireproof, I assure you.’
Not that she felt it. Her abiding impression was that she had been run over by a bus, but she gritted her teeth and limped along beside him to where his car was parked in an adjoining street.
It was a sports car, naturally, black, long and low, with concealed power in every menacing line. Rather like its owner, Lucy decided, trying to extract some humour from the situation and signally failing.
She accepted his assistance into the passenger seat with as much dignity as she could muster, and sat in silence, hoping she was not bleeding onto his upholstery, as he expertly wove his way through the tangle of streets and traffic, out into the bustling familiarity of the main square again. Where he halted.
He said with cool politeness, ‘You are sure I may not take you to the clinic?’
‘Absolutely. The damage is only superficial, and I had an anti-tetanus jab before I came away.’ Lucy was aware that she was babbling, and stopped. ‘You’ve been very...’ She halted again. The only word she could think of was ‘kind’, so she said it, although she wasn’t convinced it was appropriate.
Sh
e fumbled for the door-catch, and he leaned across her to release it. Again she was aware of that tantalising musky fragrance, and of the disturbing warmth of his body close to hers. Too warm. Too close.
She met his gaze, saw a tiny flame dancing in the amber eyes, and heard herself swallow. Deafeningly.
He said sardonically, ‘So you think you’re fireproof?’
He leaned forward, took Lucy’s chin in his fingertips and kissed her on the mouth, slowly and very thoroughly.
Then he released her, and, with a graceful wave of his hand, indicated that she was free to go.
Burning, Lucy stumbled out of the car. Only to hear his voice following her, softly, mockingly.
‘I hope your Italian stud did not disappoint you. Arrivederci, signorina.’
Then, silently as a panther, the car slid away, and she was left staring after it, a hand pressed to her trembling lips.
CHAPTER TWO
FOR heaven’s sake, Lucy castigated herself wearily, not for the first time. You’re not a child. You’ve been in love with a man. You’ve lived with him. So one kiss, even from a complete stranger, is no big deal. Pull yourself together.
She was lying on the bed in her room at the villa, staring at the ceiling. Trying to get all that had happened into some kind of perspective.
The others had been genuinely shocked and concerned when they’d returned from their boutique trip and found out what had happened to her. At first, they’d wanted to call the police, but Lucy had vetoed this. She had neither the number of the motorcycle nor any adequate description of its riders. Besides, apart from the ruin of her bag and trousers, she’d lost nothing, and her only witness had driven off into oblivion.
She’d described him solely as a passer-by. It seemed wiser not to revive Nina’s interest, or lay herself open to any inconvenient questions, she’d decided, passing the tip of her tongue over her still tingling lips.
Nina had driven the Fiat back to the Villa Dante with exaggerated care, while Sandie and Fee had plied Lucy with offers of everything from grappa to a homely cup of tea.
They’d been frankly sceptical, however, when she’d told them about Tommaso. The collective feeling was that she’d gone to the wrong address.
‘I mean, would a man who owns a place like this be camping out in some kind of slum?’ Nina had demanded, and Lucy had to admit it seemed unlikely. Tomorrow, she’d thought, she would make proper enquiries.
However, there was still no sign of Maddalena, which meant Nina and the others had to prepare for their party themselves.
Lucy, however, was not expected to help. Nina had escorted her somewhat perfunctorily upstairs, asked if she wanted anything, and vanished at Lucy’s polite negative.
Once alone, she’d filled the big sunken tub which took pride of place in the adjoining bathroom, and soaked herself luxuriously, letting the warm water soothe as well as cleanse.
She had superficial grazing on her knees and elbows, and there would undoubtedly be bruising to follow, but she would survive, she’d decided with a faint sigh.
But her injured feelings were not as easily mollified, she’d thought as she’d dried herself carefully and put on her lemon silk robe.
It was galling to be classified with the man-hungry Nina, but probably unavoidable under the circumstances. However, she would never have to face her tormentor again, so the only sensible course was to put the whole basically trivial incident behind her, and enjoy the rest of her holiday.
Hers was not the largest bedroom, but it had the best view across the valley, and she liked the uncluttered lines of its furnishings and the plain, heavy cream drapes. It occurred to her now that the room was almost masculine in concept. Maybe this was where Tommaso usually slept, she thought, her flesh creeping at the very idea.
Someone had brought up a pitcher of fruit juice and some paracetemol while she was in the bath. It was a genuinely kind thought, and maybe it would mark a new phase in her somewhat chequered relationship with her companions.
They were younger than her, even if it was only by a matter of a few months, perfectly aware of their own considerable attractions, and looking for a good time. And where was the real harm in all that?
You should stop being so critical and join in more, she told herself forcefully. Make the best of things, starting with tonight’s party. Remember that you’re single too now, instead of half of a couple.
Aided by the painkillers, she slept for a while, her dreams confused and disturbing. And, throughout them all, a man’s dark figure walked on the edge of her consciousness, his face as proud and beautiful as a fallen angel’s.
She awoke in the twilight with a start, her hands reaching across the empty bed for a presence that didn’t exist, and lay still, waiting for the drumming of her pulses to subside.
Philip, she thought. I must be missing Philip.
She did not feel particularly rested, and she was beginning to stiffen up, too, her bruises announcing their existence. It wouldn’t have taken much for her to cry off from the evening’s festivities and stay in her room, she acknowledged, hauling herself gingerly off the bed and over to the big, heavily carved guardaroba. But then solitude had no particular appeal either. It gave her imagination too much scope, she decided wryly.
Most of the clothing she’d brought with her was casual, but at the last moment she’d thrown in a dress that was strictly after-dark gear.
She looked at it without enthusiasm. Philip had urged her to buy it, against her better judgement, during the last week they’d been together. It wasn’t her style, being brief-skirted and body-hugging, with the neckline slashed, back and front, to a deep V, which did no favours at all for her slender curves. And that shade of dark red was wrong for her too, draining her own natural colour.
It seemed to have been designed for a very different woman, and having caught a brief, piercing glimpse of Philip emerging from a fashionable Knightsbridge restaurant with his new lady—a vivid brunette built on voluptuous lines—she could guess only too well who’d he’d been thinking of when he’d picked it out.
But it was the only party wear she had, she thought as she zipped herself into it. And maybe it would do her good to wear it, as a tangible reminder of how little her relationship with Philip had come to mean.
She had spent days and nights since their break-up tormenting herself with self-blame. Asking how she could have been so blind, or why she hadn’t suspected in time to put things right—win him back.
Now, as she brushed her hair into a smooth curve swinging just above her shoulders, she knew there was nothing she could have done. And found herself questioning for the first time whether she should even have tried.
For the truth was, she realised almost dispassionately, that the magic had gone out of their lives long before he’d left.
In the first, euphoric flush of love, she’d ignored the fact that their lovemaking fell short of rapture for her. That Philip had always seemed more concerned for his own satisfaction than hers. That, invariably, she was left stranded, aching for a fulfilment which she could only guess at, having never actually experienced it in reality. And, towards the end, it had become perfunctory—almost a mechanical ritual because they shared a bed.
But how was it that she could suddenly see all this so clearly? she wondered, biting her lip in confusion.
Because today a man had kissed her—someone she would never meet again—and in those few moments when his mouth had possessed hers she had been shaken to the depths of her being, her body shocked into an instant arousal she had never known before.
In her dreams, it was not Philip she had sensed at all, but this other man—the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the scent of his skin, the casual strength of the arms which held her. And in her dreams she had wanted more—much more—than his kiss alone.
She looked at herself, half-wonderingly, in the mirror, her hand going once more to her lips.
She thought, Dear God, what’s happening to me? And could find
no answer in her heart.
In spite of all her good resolutions, Lucy could not get into the swing of the party.
The guests had arrived, already uproarious, bringing a crate of assorted wine and a ghetto blaster blaring out heavy rock.
Fee had prepared an enormous bowl of spaghetti carbonara, which they ate in the dining room. Lucy winced as she saw Dave carelessly stub out his cigarette on the comer of the huge polished table.
‘What a fabulous place,’ Ben commented, leaning back in his chair. ‘You were damned lucky to find anywhere in this neck of the woods. When my parents first came out here looking for a holiday place, they found everything in the district belonged to a crowd called Falcone—bankers from Florence, by all accounts. And they weren’t prepared to part with one inch of land, or a single brick of property.’
‘Falcone?’ Lucy questioned, frowning. ‘How strange. There’s a carving of a bird like a falcon over the main door here. I wonder if there’s a connection?’
‘Lucy,’ Fee said patronisingly, ‘is heavily into old buildings. She notices things like that.’
Hal leaned forward. He was tall and blond, older than the others.
‘Maybe she could switch to the present day and notice me instead.’
He gave a mock leer, making everyone laugh, but Lucy noticed how his eyes lingered on her cleavage, and felt uncomfortable.
Ben picked up one of the bottles on the table. ‘Or we could all notice this—Chianti Roccanera—one of the Falcone local by-products.’ His voice took on a reverent tone. ‘Dad would kill me if he knew we’d helped ourselves to some of this.’
Nina raised her glass. ‘Then let’s drink a toast to Ben’s father, and all the Falcones, including the one over the door,’ she said lazily. ‘And our landlord, Tomasso Moressi, who managed somehow to beat the system.’
When supper was finished, they rolled up the rugs in the salotto and danced. Lucy found herself watching the pairing-off process with detached interest. That it was not going to be to everyone’s liking was more than evident.
