by Sara Craven
‘It is.’ His face was straight, but the note of amusement danced in his voice again.
‘Of course.’ Lucy sighed. ‘I’m an idiot. It’s part of your estate. Do you own the whole of Tuscany by any chance?’
‘Only in my dreams,’ he returned drily. ‘In reality, my property is quite small compared to others.’
And I, Lucy reminded herself ruefully, own a one-bedroomed flat with a window box. Way down on the relative scale of property values.
She did not want to contemplate the chasm of wealth or the centuries of history which divided them, so she busied herself with spreading the rug and unpacking the food from the basket. It was a varied selection, ranging from quail’s eggs, a whole boned chicken stuffed with pate and ham, salads in rich and subtle dressings and tiny savoury pastries to more homely slices of pizza, intended, Lucy guessed for the children. For dessert, there were peaches and grapes, and there was a bottle of dry, sparkling wine which Giulio cooled in the river.
She said shyly, deeply aware of his nearness beside her, ‘You’ve been to a great deal of trouble.’
‘More than you know, Lucia.’ He was cutting deft slices from the chicken and putting them on her plate. ‘You see, I did not come back solely to see the children but to bring some good news.’
She thought, He’s going to tell me that he’s marrying Angela very soon. And how can I bear it?
With a calm born of despair, she said, ‘Good news, signore? That sounds exciting.’
‘It will solve certain problems,’ he said. ‘But, all the same, you may not approve.’
The chicken was wonderful, but she might as well have been chewing sawdust.
She said carefully, ‘It’s really none of my business.’
‘You are wrong, Lucia. It concerns you very closely.’ He paused. ‘Maddalena is coming back.’ He observed her stunned expression, his mouth twisting. ‘You were not expecting that, I think.’
‘Well—no.’ None of her tortuous imaginings had come up with that one, she thought, swallowing. ‘How—how did you find her?’
‘She found me. She came to the bank in a terrible state, distressed and crying, begging me to forgive her—to help her. It seems Moressi has been arrested for some other fraud, and is now in jail.’ He spread his hands. ‘She has worked for our family for a long time. She is not a criminal herself—just fatally weak where her nephew is concerned.’ He paused. ‘Although now she has learned, with great sadness, that she can be weak no longer.’
Lucy ate some salad. ‘And of course she’ll want to come back to the casetta.’ She spoke her thought aloud. ‘I’ll need to move out.’
‘Yes.’ She was aware of his searching gaze, but took care not to meet it. ‘So, you are free, Lucia. Free to go home at last—to get on with your life. Does that please you?’
‘Well, naturally.’ She put down her plate and fork. Her mouth was dry, her heart hammering. ‘It—it’s marvellous news. Although I shall miss Emilia and Marco, of course.’
She hesitated. ‘What about the children? Will Maddelena be able to look after them as well as the house?’
‘I think so. When she is not terrified out of her wits about Tommaso and what he will do next, she is very capable.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, it will not be for very long.’
Lucy said woodenly, ‘Then it’s all worked out perfectly.’ She wanted to cry and howl, to beat the earth with her fists, and scream her misery at the uncaring sun.
But, more dangerously, at the same time she wanted to reach across the small space between, them and touch his hand, feel the crispness of his dark hair under her fingers just once more, encounter the lean strength of his body under her questing hands.
Free to go, she thought with irony. What freedom will I ever know again?
‘All for the best, indeed.’ His tone was expressionless. ‘And you, Lucia. What will you do?’
She shrugged. ‘Get the next available flight back to Britain, naturally.’ Her voice sounded light and rather brittle.
‘Of course.’ There was a silence. ‘As I told you originally, Lucia, I shall meet all your expenses in this matter. But are you so keen to rush away? Would you not like to continue your vacation—to explore my Tuscany? You have seen and done so little ...’
She thought, I’ve changed my life. I’ve discovered what love should be. I’ve broken my heart. What more could there possibly be?
Anguish gripped her by the throat, but she managed to speak normally. ‘It’s a kind thought, signore, but I have to go back—pick up the threads. And the sooner the better.’
He said quietly, ‘You touched il Porcellino. So one day you will have to return to Firenze.’
She forced her stiff lips into a smile. ‘I don’t believe in superstition.’ Or in fairy tales. Or in happy ever after, she added silently. She drank some wine, feeling it run down her throat like ice. ‘And, anyway, this is the perfect place—the perfect way to say goodbye.’ She held up her glass in mimicry of a toast. ‘Salute.’
Something flickered in the amber eyes as he lifted his glass in response.
‘You are glad to be leaving?’
‘Well...’ Lucy studied minutely the bubbles in her wine ‘... all good things must come to an end.’
‘You consider that your time here has been a good thing?’
‘I think I’ve done a reasonable job.’
‘That,’ he said, ‘is not what I asked.’
She said in a low voice, ‘It hasn’t always been easy.’ ‘No,’ he said, and anger burned in his voice. ‘It has been il purgatorio—the tortures of the damned’
Lucy bent her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why do you apologise when I alone am to blame? The entire situation was of my making.’
She said painfully, not looking at him, ‘Not—all of it.’
‘No.’ The fine mouth twisted. ‘You are right, of course. The wanting was—mutual, I think, and for that we must share the guilt.’
Her voice was husky. ‘We—we shouldn’t talk about guilt. Not on a day like this—when everything’s so beautiful.’
‘And you,’ he said, ‘the most beautiful of all. Ah, Lucia...’
She had not dared reach for him, but his fingers closed round hers instead, drawing her towards him with an insistence, a mastery that withstood any thought of denial. Words of negation—of self-preservation—drummed in her head, but she had no time to utter them. No time, nor any real inclination, she realised with her last coherent thought as she went into Giulio’s arms.
His other hand possessively cradled her head as he bent from the dazzle of sunlight to kiss her mouth.
Her response was instant, incandescent, her lips trembling apart in welcome and surrender. Mouths locked, they drank from each other in the sweet delirium of their kiss.
Lucy was hardly aware of the actual moment when his weight bore her backwards down onto the rug. She already felt part of him, her entire being brought to vibrant life by the warmth of his body against hers.
The rush of the nearby water was echoed by the singing of her blood, by the moist heat of longing in her loins.
He kissed the line of her throat, his lips lingering erotically on the sensitive area below her ear. When he finally reached the delicate hollow at the base, he buried his face there for a moment, raggedly breathing in the scent of her skin.
His hands were shaking as they loosened the buttons on her shirt and drew it apart. The amber eyes were lambent, almost golden as he looked down at her.
He whispered, ‘There has not been a moment of any day—of any night—when I have not thought of you—remembered you—wanted you—like this. Ah, mia bella—mia carissima...’
His mouth was reverent, almost worshipful as it moved on her skin. His palms cupped the roundness of her naked breasts, while his thumbs brushed her nipples with gentle sensuality, making her whole body twist beneath him in quivering delight.
When he took first one aroused, rosy peak and then the other into his mouth
, an involuntary moan of pleasure tore from Lucy’s throat. Her hips lifted towards him in mute entreaty, begging him to remove the last barrier. Longing for the ecstasy of his caress at the secret core of her womanhood, for the triumph of his maleness to be enclosed in her deep liquid flame.
She wanted to pleasure him—to satisfy him in undreamed-of ways. To be his woman, his lover, throughout some passionate eternity, and to die the little death of all lovers in his arms.
And felt him, instead, suddenly and unbelievably, draw back from her. Heard his voice, like a stranger’s say, ‘This is madness.’
‘Giulio?’ She knelt upright, her hands clinging to the front of his shirt, feeling the hurry of his heartbeat under her palm. ‘What’s wrong?’
His laugh was mirthless. ‘Almost everything, I would say, columbina—wouldn’t you?’
‘You said you wanted me.’ Pride no longer mattered, she realised numbly.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I want you—so badly that I was ready to forget honour—every other obligation—so that I might lose myself in you for a while. And I lose my own soul in consequence,’ he added with sombre bitterness.
The golden radiance of the sun was shattering, fragmenting into shimmering droplets which stung her eyes and burned like acid on her skin. She shivered, forcing back the tears. Drawing the rags of her courage around her.
‘Forgive me, Lucia.’ He took her small, clenched fists and carried them to his lips. ‘I should have stayed in Firenze.’ He threw back his head and looked up at the sky, the muscles taut in his throat, his voice suddenly harsh. ‘I should have known I could not trust myself.’
There was a silence, then he looked at her again, still kneeling rigidly in front of him, and his face and tone softened. ‘Try not to hate me. Try to understand why I must be strong for us both, even now—at the moment of no return.’
‘There’s no such thing.’ Somehow Lucy clambered to her feet, her fingers clumsy as she forced her shirt buttons back through their holes. ‘There’s always a way back.’
Unless you love someone as I love you—beyond pride, or honour, or even reason. Unless you’re prepared to sacrifice them all for the beloved—as I would have done for you.
The unspoken words beat at her brain and scalded her heart. Anything, she thought with pain. I would have done anything...
She lifted her chin. ‘Will you take me back to the villa, please? I—I want to pack.’ And she saw him bend his head in silent acquiescence.
The return journey seemed endless. Giulio stared ahead of him, his face like a bronze mask, in a silence Lucy did not dare to break, even if she could have found the words to do so.
To her relief, he drove straight round to the casetta. As soon as the car stopped, she scrambled out, desperate to get away, to be alone when her self-control snapped.
But Giulio came after her, stopping her in the doorway, turning her to face him, his hands like iron on her shoulders. He said huskily, ‘Don’t hate me, mia cara, or I shall not be able to bear it. This is for the best. We must both believe that.’
‘Yes.’ Her smile felt as if it had been nailed there. ‘All for the best.’ She took a step backwards, away from him, holding out a determined hand. ‘Goodbye, signore.’
‘Al diavolo!’ He almost spat the words. ‘To hell with it. That is no way to part, Lucia. It must be like this.’ And regardless of her stifled protest, he took her in his arms, and kissed her slowly and deeply on the mouth.
‘Addio.’ He held her for a moment, and she felt him trace the sign of the cross on her forehead. He said very quietly, ‘Remember always—as I shall.’
Then he turned and walked away. Lucy stood very still, staring after him, listening to the subdued growl of the car engine as it powered into life, watching as he drove swiftly away, under the arch, leaving a faint haze of exhaust fumes in his wake, which would soon disappear also.
And she knew that she had never felt so alone in her life.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LUCY was halfway through her packing when she heard someone knocking at the door. When she went down, she was surprised to find the contessa’s sour-faced maid waiting on the doorstep.
I must stop calling her that. Her name’s Agnese, she thought guiltily, and tried a welcoming smile which was not reciprocated. In fact, the older woman looked grimmer than ever as she explained, in a few terse words of Italian, that Signora Rinaldi and the children had returned, and Lucy was wanted at the villa.
More goodbyes to be said, she acknowledged with an inward sigh and a polite word of thanks.
She found Fiammetta in the salotto, with Marco, who was playing with his car. Emilia, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Fiammetta was transformed, her face alight. ‘Lucia— such wonderful news. Giulio was here, waiting for us, when we returned.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Lucy forced a smile. ‘He—he told me, too—about Maddelena.’
‘Maddalena?’ Fiammetta echoed scornfully. ‘Maddalena is nothing to this.’ She raised rapturously clasped hands. ‘Sergio is coming back. Giulio says he will be here tomorrow.’
‘That’s marvellous,’ Lucy said, and meant it for all kinds of reasons. ‘I’m really happy for you.’
‘Oh, I cannot wait to see him. In the morning, I shall go to the beauty salon in Siena. And buy something new to wear.’ Fiammetta plunged into a world of fabrics, colours and designers.
When she paused for breath, Lucy said mildly, ‘I’ll take the children down to the casetta to change for dinner. Is Emilia playing outside?’
‘I left her in my room. She wished to dress up in some of my clothes.’ Fiammetta’s pretty brow creased. ‘Blue, do you think, or perhaps a really deep yellow...?’
Lucy sighed, and went upstairs. She found Emilia parading up and down in a pink dress which trailed everywhere, a handbag dangling from her wrist.
‘I am a principessa,’ she announced.
Lucy dropped a curtsy. “Then it’s time Your Highness changed for tonight’s state banquet.’
Emilia allowed herself one pout, but submitted with rare docility to being divested of the pink creation and taken back to the casetta.
Both children were in good spirits, sky-high over the news about their father. And Emilia was clearly relieved that Alison was making good progress, and soon to be discharged from the clinic.
‘I miss her.’ A small hand was slipped into Lucy’s. ‘Not that I do not like you, Lucia.’
‘Yes.’ Marco gave her a quick hug, too. ‘Shall we ask Papa if you can come to the sea with us, Lucia?’
‘That’s sweet of you.’ Lucy smiled at him. ‘But I have to go back to England now. Maddalena’s taking my place, you see.’
‘Since I woke up this morning, everything has changed.’ Emilia sounded slightly uncertain about this swift passage of events.
‘That’s life,’ Lucy confirmed drily.
She would have to finish her packing in the morning, she decided, glancing at the half-full suitcase on her bed as she changed into a simple black shift which she’d selected from the garments still hanging in the wardrobe. Only one more meal to endure, she reminded herself, trying to cheer herself up—to alleviate the aching hollowness inside her which had nothing to do with hunger.
The walk up to the villa was lively enough, with a child attached to each hand, chattering nineteen to the dozen. But as soon as they entered the hall Lucy knew something was wrong.
Teresa was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her face blank with dismay, while from the salotto the contessa’s shrill voice could be heard ranting fortissimo, interspersed with Fiammetta’s softer tones.
‘Cosa succede?’ Lucy asked. ‘What’s happening?’
Teresa lifted her shoulders in a shrug that mingled incomprehension with incredulity and vanished back into the kitchen.
Lucy found she was bracing herself as she pushed open the salotto door. Her instinct had not misled her.
‘Ah.’ Claudia Falcone turned like a t
igress sighting her prey. ‘The so-good, so-trusted Signorina Winters. Perhaps she can explain this mystery.’
‘Mamma,’ Fiammetta protested instantly. ‘You have no right...’
‘I have any right I choose. We know nothing of this girl, who appeared from nowhere so conveniently in this house. She has no references—no recommendation from anyone we know.’
‘From Giulio,’ Fiammetta ventured unhappily.
The contessa made a sweeping gesture of dismissal. ‘That is another acquaintance which has never been explained to my satisfaction. Who knows what they have been to each other—or what this—this puttana may have read into it?’
Lucy’s Italian might still be sketchy, but she knew what she’d just been called, and outraged colour stormed into her face.
She said in a choked voice, ‘How dare you...?’
‘Oh, do not play the innocent, signorina. Do you think we are all blind—that we have not seen the way you gaze at my stepson...?’
There was a small, stifled sound, and Lucy saw that tears were running down Emilia’s cheeks.
‘Cara.’ She went down on one knee beside the child, as Marco too burst into noisy sobs.
‘Mamma!’ This time Fiammetta’s voice held a note of steel. ‘That is enough.’ She went to the door and called to Teresa, who appeared with discreet promptness and whisked both children away.
‘Lucia, we have a problem. Something bad has happened, and we are all a little upset. The ruby—the Falcone ring—has vanished from my mother’s bedroom. We have searched everywhere but found no trace of it.’ She paused in obvious distress. ‘You understand we must ask, difficult though it is, if you have seen it.’
There was a brief, loaded silence, then Fiammetta went on almost desperately, ‘You see, Lucia, you were here alone today. Both Angela and Philip left for the day while my mother was still in her room, and neither of them has returned yet.’ There was another pause. ‘Perhaps you saw someone—a stranger—who could have entered the villa—’
‘Fiammetta, you are a fool,’ the contessa broke in impatiently. ‘There was no stranger.’ She spat the word. ‘The girl already pries where she has no business. Agnese saw her coming out of my room a week ago. And today Giulio tells her that Maddalena is returning, and that her time here is at an end, so she decides she will award herself a bonus for her dubious services. No more discussion—let us call the police.’
