by Sara Craven
I doubt it, Lucy thought drily. I think she’s always been like this, and that now she’s just not bothering to pretend any more.
‘I don’t know what to do for the best,’ he went on fretfully. ‘I’ve a good mind to clear out myself. Cut my losses and go back to England. What do you think?’
Lucy gave him a look of total disbelief. ‘I think the decision has to be yours, Philip. I’m hardly the best person to advise you.’
‘You’re a woman,’ he said impatiently. ‘Would it bring her to her senses if I walked out on her?’
It certainly brought me to mine, Lucy thought wryly, but not in the way you mean.
She said quietly, ‘I think that when you love someone you should stand your ground and fight for them, whatever pain it may cause you. I don’t believe in giving up—in running away.’
‘Bravo, Lucia.’ A familiar voice, tinged with mockery, broke in as Giulio walked down the stairs towards them. His smile was taut as he surveyed her. ‘I wonder if your courage will get the reward it deserves?’
The careful little speech—grateful without being grovelling, she’d assured herself—was immediately erased from her mind. For a fleeting instant, she allowed herself one devouring glance, absorbing the elegance of the light summer suit, sitting easily across his broad shoulders and unashamedly defining the narrow male hips and long legs. His shirt was pale cream, and the silk tie bold with colour.
Dressed to kill, she thought. And she should be glad she wasn’t the intended victim. Should be—but wasn’t...
She felt her lips twist crookedly, achingly. ‘I wouldn’t think so for a moment, Count Falcone,’ she returned composedly. ‘Now I must go and find the children.’
She had just reached the salotto when she heard Emilia’s voice rising in a torrent of angry words to a scream.
‘Oh, God.’ Lucy flung open the door in time to see Emilia, tears pouring down her face, launch herself at the contessa, beating at her with her fists.
She started forward, but Giulio was there before her, striding ahead to seize the hysterical child and pull her away, holding her with firm hands.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ His voice was harsh. ‘What happened?’
‘My flowers.’ Emilia’s voice was thick with sobs. ‘The flowers I bought for Mamma—she has thrown them away. I hate her—I hate her...’
‘Hush, darling.’ Lucy intervened swiftly, going down on one knee and putting a sheltering arm around the child’s heaving shoulders. She gave the contessa a level look. ‘I’m sure there must be some mistake. Your grandmother wouldn’t deliberately destroy your mother’s present.’
Claudia Falcone’s painted mouth was set like a snare. She shrugged. ‘I found this tasteless jumble of flowers in a bowl on that table. They were clearly dying so I disposed of them.’
‘They weren’t dying—they weren’t...’ Emilia lifted a tear-stained face from Lucy’s shoulder. ‘You’re lying. You’re wicked—a witch.’
‘Basta! Enough.’ Her uncle’s voice silenced her. He turned to the contessa. ‘You did this thing? Why?’
She sighed elaborately. ‘I cannot bear to be in a room with wilting flowers—it is a foible of mine and—’ a metallic note had crept into her voice ‘—surely a minor matter compared with the outburst of wild and violent temper to which I have been subjected. As you saw for yourself, caro Giulio, Emilia is clearly beyond control—maybe even unbalanced. Perhaps Fiammetta will believe me now when I say the child needs strict and disciplined supervision.’
She took a step forward, and Lucy felt Emilia shrink towards her.
‘This nomadic life, following their parents from one city to another, is not the kind of stable existence that children need. How many times have I said it? And after this latest episode Fiammetta must and shall agree with me.’
Giulio was frowning, his expression withdrawn. ‘Something will certainly have to be done,’ he said, after a pause, his amber eyes resting expressionlessly on Emilia.
‘You can’t mean that.’ The words seemed to burst from Lucy as the child flinched in her embrace. She looked up at Giulio in passionate appeal. ‘Emilia shouldn’t have behaved like that, but she was hurt and upset. And provoked,’ she added hotly. ‘Treating the flowers she chose for her mother like unwanted garbage was cruel—and heartless.’
There was a taut silence, then the contessa said, ‘So Signorina Winters is now the arbiter of conduct in this house.’ Her laugh jarred. ‘We need not ask ourselves who has been encouraging Emilia to behave like some child from the gutter. The child attacks me violently, and the young woman to whom she has unwisely been entrusted makes excuses for her.’
Giulio’s face was stern. He said quietly, ‘Take the children back to the casetta, Lucia. I will ask Teresa to serve your meal there.’
Lucy scrambled to her feet, Emilia’s hand trembling in hers. She said, ‘Signore—Giulio—please may I speak to you alone?’
He seemed to look through her. ‘I regret that I have no time at present, signorina. We will speak tomorrow.’
‘Then I’d like a private word with Signora Rinaldi.’ Lucy stood her ground.
‘Fiammetta is suffering from a severe headache. She will be dining in her room and does not wish to be disturbed.’ He spoke with faint impatience, as if his mind was elsewhere. ‘Now do as I ask, Lucia, per favore.’
As if on cue, Angela appeared in the doorway. ‘Caro.’ Her voice dripped reproach. ‘I’m waiting. We’re wasting a beautiful evening.’
Her hair gleamed like black silk, and the vivid pink dress showed off her tan to perfection.
Lucy, with detachment, imagined her bald and with several front teeth missing as she shepherded her charges, one still sobbing, the other protesting hotly, to the door, and safely out of the room.
But not before she heard Giulio say, ‘Forgive me, mia cara. I promise the remaining hours will be devoted solely to you.’
Not to mention the rest of his life, Lucy thought wearily as they all trudged silently back to the casetta. But if he was determined to tie himself to such a spoiled, manipulative bitch there was nothing more to be said. And for the sake of the Falcone bank she could only hope he had better judgement in financial matters then he did in his choice of wife.
‘Why are you crying?’ Marco demanded.
‘I’m not,’ Lucy denied, blinking hard.
‘Zio Giulio will not take us on the picnic now,’ he opined gloomily. ‘And I have been good. It is just Emilia.’
Lucy sighed. ‘That’s unkind and unjust,’ she said sternly. ‘How would you like it if your grandmother threw away a present you’d bought?’
‘She would not,’ he said, unanswerably.
So sure of his position as the favoured child, Lucy thought sadly, unlike the sniffing waif walking at her other side.
She managed to persuade Emilia to eat some of the delicious food which Teresa, full of sighs and commiserating looks, brought down to them, and then diverted both children with games of picture snap and snakes and ladders until bedtime. She’d expected problems with Emilia, but the little girl was asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.
Lucy herself felt restless and on edge. She washed up the supper things and piled them onto a tray, ready to return to the villa, then tidied away her paints, pencils and sketch blocks.
She played solitaire for a while, but found herself deadlocked after only a few moves in each game. How like life itself, she thought with irony as she shuffled the cards together and thrust them back into the pack.
She tried to read, but the story failed to hold her attention.
Almost as a last resort, she went to bed, but her attempts to sleep were futile. She found herself tossing restlessly on her pillow, her mind awake and all too alert, her imagination filled with images of Giulio and Angela, dining together on some moon-drenched terrace high in the hills, their voices hushed and intimate, his hand assured as it reached for hers across the table...their fingers clasped c
losely in promise ...
‘Oh, to hell with it,’ Lucy said angrily, sitting up and pushing away the encircling sheet. ‘Midnight or not, I’m going to wash my hair.’
In the past it had always worked as a kind of panacea. Now, standing under the cascading water, allowing her fingers to massage away the tension in her scalp, Lucy felt soothed and refreshed almost in spite of herself.
Changed into a clear white cotton nightshirt, she glanced in at the children to make sure they hadn’t been disturbed, before going quietly downstairs in her bare feet. She put water on to boil for coffee, then unlatched the front door and wandered outside, wincing a little at the chill of the cobbles.
After the heat of the day, the night air felt still and strangely heavy, and, glancing up, she saw the moon, hazy and unsubstantial behind a mask of vapour.
A clouded moon, she thought, grimacing, as she unwound the towel she was wearing turban-fashion and began to rub vigorously at her damp hair. Storms ahead.
She paused, stiffening suddenly, as every instinct warned her that she wasn’t alone. That one of the shadows in the comer of the courtyard was real and substantial, turning into the figure of a man, and coming towards her.
For a desperate instant, she asked herself what she was doing outside and defenceless. She opened her mouth to scream, and found that no sound would come.
Above the swift pounding of her heart, the roaring in her ears, his voice reached her, quietly and unmistakably. ‘Lucia.’
‘Giulio—oh, God.’ Almost sick with relief, she slumped back onto the bench, her fist pressed to her lips. ‘It’s only you.’
‘I must apologise.’ He sat on the bench beside her, maintaining a careful distance between them. ‘I seem always to be frightening you.’
And angering me, she thought. And bewildering me. And filling my heart with such ridiculous, overwhelming joy and delight that I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. As in right now.
Aloud, she said sedately, ‘Isn’t it a little late for social calls?’
‘It was not my intention to disturb you.’ She could hear a slight undercurrent of anger in his voice, which instinct told her was not aimed at her but at himself. ‘It did not occur to me that you would still be awake at such an hour. I—I could not sleep, and came out for a walk—to clear my head.’
‘With me, it’s hair-washing.’ Lucy ran her fingers through the tangled, still damp strands, tossing them back over her shoulders, realising too late, when she heard him draw a quick, harsh breath and curtly turn his head away, that the action had clearly outlined her breasts under the thin cotton shirt, reminding her quite unequivocally that she was naked beneath it.
She said hurriedly, trying to conceal her dismay and embarrassment, ‘I—I hope you had a pleasant evening.’
‘It was all that I could have hoped for.’ His silky tone gave little away. ‘But I did not come here to discuss my social life.’
Lucy swallowed. ‘No—you said you’d talk to me tomorrow—which it now is, I suppose.’
‘But hardly the interview I had in mind.’ He met her gaze again, a faint smile playing round his mouth, making her wish more than ever that she’d put on a robe—something that buttoned from throat to ankles.
‘But we’re here, all the same, and we may as well get it over with.’ Lucy drew a quick breath, fighting for composure. ‘If you wish me to apologise to the contessa, signore, I can’t. I think her treatment of Emilia is a disgrace, and I always will.’
‘Fortunately, it will soon no longer be your concern.’
She bit her lip. ‘No—but you can’t believe it would be good for her to be sent away to some ghastly school?’
‘Whatever I think, the final decision must be left to Fiammetta and Sergio.’
‘Over whom you naturally have no influence.’ Lucy’s tone was crisp.
‘Not as much as Claudia has over Fiammetta.’ Giulio pushed the hair back from his forehead in a weary, irritable gesture. ‘And Emilia does not aid her own cause by clashing with her grandmother—whatever the provocation,’ he added swiftly as Lucy’s lips parted indignantly.
‘If you really wish to help the child,’ he went on, ‘then keep her away from Claudia—make sure there are no more confrontations—between any of you. My stepmother makes a vindictive enemy.’
‘I think I’d managed to work that out for myself.’ Lucy’s voice was subdued. ‘I suppose leaping to Emilia’s defence was about the worst thing I could have done.’
‘Without a doubt.’ He gave a quick, sharp sigh. ‘When I asked you to look after the children, I had no idea there would be all these difficulties—these added complications.’
‘Or you’d have thought twice about it,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes.’ He sounded as if he’d been goaded into the admission. ‘But at the time, Lucia, it seemed the only possible way. How could I have known that it would all go so terribly wrong?’
She said haltingly, ‘You mustn’t blame yourself—really. After all, everything’s working out for the best...’
He drew a harsh breath. ‘You can truly believe that?’ he demanded. ‘In spite of everything?’
‘I have to believe it.’ Lucy got to her feet. ‘I don’t have a choice.’ She turned determinedly towards the door of the casetta. ‘Goodnight, signore.’
‘Wait.’ His voice halted her. ‘I want to tell myself,’ he said savagely, ‘that you will be happy.’
One day, she thought, when I’ve managed to cut you out of my heart, and erase you from my mind, I shall manage a measure of content. But never more than that. Because I can never be happy without you. I feel as if I’ve been shown paradise, then told I’ll always live in outer darkness. But at least I’ve had that one glimpse. So many people can’t even comfort themselves with that.
She smiled at him, lifting her chin. ‘I’ll be fine. And now you really must go. It’s so late...’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Too late for us both.’
She took a step backwards into the lamplit room, and he followed, as, somehow, she had known he would from the beginning of some distant time.
He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, his hands spread against the timbers, as if he was keeping in touch with some last remnant of sanity and dared not let go.
His eyes met hers. Held them. He said very quietly, ‘I want to see you, Lucia. Just this once—will you show yourself to me? So that I have it to remember—when you are gone?’
For a long moment, she looked back at him, letting the torment in his amber gaze, the shaken yearning in his voice blind and deafen her to the dictates of reason.
She was trembling inside, but her hands were steady as she began slowly and deliberately to undo the twelve tiny buttons which fastened her shirt. When the last one had been dealt with, she shrugged the garment from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. She stood naked in the lamplight, an offering of rose and pearl, dazzled by the flame in his eyes.
He was totally still as he looked at her, only the convulsive movement of a muscle in his taut throat betraying his tension.
She said his name once, softly, pleadingly.
And saw him shake his head, a slow, reluctant movement as if he was in pain.
He said softly, ‘I cannot come to you, mia cara. I cannot kiss you or touch you because I dare not. Because if I did I would take you, and we both know that is not possible. Not now. Not ever.
‘All I can promise is that I shall never forget this moment. That I shall always be thankful I can carry this picture of you in my soul.’
He turned and went from her.
For a while, she remained where she was, then, shivering slightly, she bent stiffly to retrieve her shirt from the floor and wrap it protectively round her body.
‘And I shall remember too,’ she whispered into the silence. ‘I shall remember the sound of the door closing behind you—finally and for ever.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
LUCY was woken from a restless
sleep by an unusual sound—the persistent splashing of water. For a moment, she thought she might have left the shower running the previous night, but, as she scrambled out of bed to check, the cool grey light permeating the room through the shutters told a different story.
The clouded moon had fulfilled its gloomy promise, and a curtain of rain was sweeping the hills, hiding the landscape behind a dank, impenetrable curtain.
The change in the weather had made the children peevish and uncooperative, she soon discovered, when she went in to get them washed and dressed.
‘No picnic today,’ grumbled Marco.
They were halfway to the villa, under the shelter of an ancient black umbrella which she’d found slumped like a dead crow in the corner of the living room, before Lucy had time to worry about coming face to face with Giulio again in what was literally the cold light of day.
The remembrance of their parting last night was an agony to her. She had offered herself, and been rejected, not because she was undesirable—the burning look in his eyes, every taut line of his body had told her differently—but for purely practical reasons.
His course in life was set. He was going to marry Angela, and Lucy was an inconvenient diversion, nothing more.
At least he had never tried to deceive her about his intentions, she thought, with an inward grimace. She didn’t have to bear the humiliation of being used and discarded in a casual holiday affair—which was what she might have been offered if Angela had not suddenly arrived at the villa.
On the face of it, Angela might not seem the ideal wife, but at least Giulio had no illusions about her. She was from his background, approved by his family, and clearly they were both able to shrug off each other’s premarital peccadilloes. It would be a pragmatic marriage, and who could say it would not work better than a relationship born of a sudden conflagration of passion?
But there was to be no immediate confrontation between them. As Lucy was bracing herself to shepherd the children into the dining room, Fiammetta appeared wanly in the door of the salotto, indicating that she wanted a private word.
