She mentally shook herself. She was letting herself get carried away. The first step was to find out if this was the Max Castanien. Her heart thudding with sudden nervousness, she typed his name into Google. As she’d expected, there were several pages of entries. Skimming down the first page, she found an interview that Max Castanien, textiles tycoon, had given recently; she read every word.
When she came to the end of it, she was shaking.
Max answered questions about his role in his local business community, and then, when he’d been asked what he did in his free time, he told the interviewer that he’d just bought a place in Umbria and was planning to offer art classes.
It was the same man.
For several moments, she stared at the screen, motionless.
And what about Peter? He was the older brother, if she remembered rightly, so he was probably the guiltier of the two. Was Peter also involved in the art project? She typed in his name.
Seeing the obituaries felt like a blow to the face.
She drew her breath in sharply. Peter had died after a short illness five years ago. She’d been hating him for those five years, and he hadn’t even been alive.
Feeling sick to her stomach, she clicked on the first of the obituaries and read it. He’d left a wife and a son of fourteen, Stephen – not a lot older than she’d been when she lost her father. The obituary quoted Max’s eulogy, word for word. He had spoken movingly about his brother, praising him as an excellent businessman and as a loving brother, husband and father, and he’d ended up by promising that he would always be a strong presence in the life of his nephew, Stephen.
Peter may well have been all those things, she thought in a sudden wave of bitterness, but he certainly wasn’t a good friend. And nor was Max.
She glanced at the small photograph of Peter in the corner of the obituary, clicked on it to make it larger, and stared at it long and hard. He'd been nothing out of the ordinary, she thought – quite attractive, but he had a weak chin.
She closed the obituary and returned to the pages about Max. Further down there was an article about the family business, and as she’d suspected there’d be, there was a photograph of him. She enlarged the photo and studied his face. He was definitely better-looking than Peter, and he had a stronger chin. In fact, she hated to admit it but he was good-looking.
Neither man looked unpleasant, but that just showed how deceptive appearances could be. A person’s actions told the truth, and what the Castaniens had done spoke volumes about them.
But one thing was clear from the photos of the brothers, and that was that she’d been wrong in thinking that Peter would have been the power behind every action that they’d taken. Despite being several years younger, it would have been Max. There was a strength and determination in his face, in the set of his chin and in his eyes, that was lacking in Peter’s.
She sank back in her chair, her eyes still on the screen. It felt very strange, seeing their faces after all this time. She could have looked at their photos at any time over the years, but she’d never wanted to. It had been difficult enough to know that they’d destroyed her family; seeing them would have made everything horribly real. But now … now that there was a chance that she might be able to meet Max in person …
She sat up. There was no time to waste. She must apply for the job at once, and her letter must be good enough to get her an interview. She glanced at the words of the advertisement again, and wondered how best to begin. She knew that she had enough experience to run his art classes: two years’ working before university, her Art degree, and her teaching qualification, and that must come across in her application.
And so must her ability to speak Italian.
Alongside her main subject, she’d also studied Italian. The photos of her work, which all of the teaching trainees had been advised to send in with any job application, would show both her painting ability and her genuine interest in Italy. She’d spent two summer vacations in Florence, looking after children, and she’d be certain to send photos of the best of the paintings she’d done in her free time there. And if she wrote a few lines in Italian at the end of the letter, and included a translation, that would make her application really stand out.
She bent over the computer, her fingers hovering above the keyboard, but her mind was blank and she couldn’t move. For several minutes, she stared helplessly at the empty screen, but then she straightened up. It was no good: she felt completely drained and she hadn’t a clue how to begin.
Her shoulders ached as if she was carrying a huge weight on them, and she rubbed the back of her neck with her hands. She’d leave the letter until the following day, she decided. By then, she’d feel fresher and less emotionally exhausted by having discovered Max Castanien and by what she was planning to do.
She shut down the laptop, closed the lid and stood up.
The Holborn traffic was loud behind her. She glanced up at the tall office block, and her steps faltered. Everything had happened so quickly. Was she really ready to go through with this?
The day after she’d seen the advertisement, she’d written her letter of application, attached the photos of her work, and had e-mailed everything. She was confident that he’d never recognise her mother’s maiden name, the surname they’d used since the newspapers went overboard after the inquest into her father’s death. Jenny had felt a stab of guilt about acting in such an underhand way. But there wasn’t any alternative. And she was doing this for her mother as well as for herself. She wouldn’t tell her mother what she was doing, though. There’d be time enough for that if she was successful. And if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t have raised her hopes in vain.
Two days later, her teaching mentor at the school pulled her aside and told her that her references had been taken up. Her momentary numbness had been followed by a mixture of excitement and fear.
A few days after that, Max Castanien’s assistant, Louisa, had telephoned to ask if she could come up to London for an interview. Apparently, he’d been greatly impressed by her work, Louisa had told her, and by the fact that she spoke Italian. Both things had made her a strong contender for the position.
The gap between the phone call and the interview had passed in a daze.
But she was now in London, and she was about to face him for the first time. She took a step forward, and her heart thumped loudly.
Chapter Two
Louisa gave her an encouraging smile, knocked on Max Castanien’s door, opened it and stood aside. Jenny took a deep breath, went through the doorway, and hesitated.
‘You’ll be fine, I’m sure,’ Louisa said. ‘Good luck.’ And the door closed behind her.
She took a step forward.
Vaguely, she was aware of a tall, dark-haired man getting up and coming round his desk, his hand held out to her.
‘Good morning, Miss O’Connor. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m most grateful to you for making the effort to come to London.’
Her hand was lost in a strong grip, and she found herself staring up into dark brown fathomless eyes.
‘N-not at all,’ she stammered, her voice seeming to come from somewhere miles away. ‘I really want the job, and you obviously wouldn’t hire anyone you hadn’t met. And you’re busier than I am so you couldn’t come to me. Not that you’d do so anyway – you’re the employer, not me.’ She broke off, and went red with embarrassment. ‘I’m talking too much, aren’t I? It’s because I’m nervous.’
He laughed, his eyes crinkling in amusement.
He really is attractive, she thought. The photo she’d seen hadn’t come close to doing him justice.
‘I suggest we sit down,’ he said, and he led the way towards a seating area at the side of the room. ‘Louisa’s going to bring us in some refreshments, and we can talk. I take it coffee’s all right with you? If you’d prefer something else, just say.’
‘Coffee would be lovely, thank you. It’s very kind of you.’ She went and sat on the dark brown leather sofa on t
he far side of the glass coffee table. Max Castanien took one of the chairs opposite her. The door opened and Louisa came in, carrying a tray. When she’d finished pouring, she left the milk and sugar, a plate of biscuits and the half-empty cafetière on the table, and went out.
‘Help yourself to milk and sugar, if you take it,’ Max said, picking up his cup. ‘I take mine black. Given the amount of coffee I get through in a day, drinking it black isn’t a particularly good idea, I know, but that’s the way I like it.’ He settled back in his seat and smiled encouragingly across the table. ‘So, Miss O’Connor, I’m curious to know what first got you interested in art.’
She cleared her throat, and her mind went blank.
Oh, no, she thought in sudden panic. From the moment that she’d seen his name and confirmed that he was one of the hated family, she’d been waiting for this opportunity – she couldn’t fluff it now.
She cleared her throat again and tried to keep her shaking voice light. ‘It’s the classic story, I’m afraid – I had a brilliant art teacher in my first year at secondary school, and she started me off. I wouldn’t have used the word inspiring when I was eleven, but that’s exactly what she was. She helped me discover a talent for painting, and I haven’t looked back since then. And now I’d like to inspire other people in the same way. That’s about it, I suppose.’
‘That’s something we have in common, then: we were both lucky with our teachers. It was a teacher who opened the door to art for me, too. Unfortunately, though, it was the door to art appreciation only – I was beyond help when it came to the drawing side of things. You should have seen some of my efforts.’
She laughed, and she felt her nervousness start to disappear. She pulled herself up sharply. Whilst he was coming across as a very friendly man, from what she’d been told, there was another side to him, and she mustn’t let herself be so blinded by his superficial charm, that she forgot about that other side. If she relaxed too much, she might not get a chance to uncover what lay below the surface.
He gave her a broad smile, picked up the plate of biscuits and offered it to her.
‘No, thank you.’
He put it back on the table. ‘Well, if you change your mind, help yourself.’
‘I will, thank you.’
‘I’m curious to know why you chose to learn Italian,’ he said, sitting back against his chair. ‘I’m presuming your family’s not Italian.’
She gave an awkward laugh. ‘No, and there are no Italians that I know of among my ancestors. It was just that we had to pick two options at college, alongside art. I took the History of Art as one of them, and Italian as the other. I love the work of the Italian Renaissance artists so it seemed a good idea to learn their language, and I’m really glad I did. Thanks to my college, I got a summer job just outside Florence. It was brilliant, and the family asked me to go back again the following year, so I really got to practise my Italian. I’ve made a point of keeping it up since then.’
‘Well done, you. You’ve obviously got real tenacity. I admire that in a person.’
‘What about you? Do you speak any Italian? You’ve obviously got a place there.’
He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I’ve been trying to learn it, but I don’t seem to be making much headway. I could blame it on lack of time, but I think it’s more about a lack of flair for languages. I’m a businessman, not a linguist, and I’m afraid that my attempts to speak Italian are rather on a par with my attempts at painting.’
He laughed, and she quickly laughed, too.
He leaned forward and topped up their coffees.
From the expression on his face, she guessed that he was about to say something more serious, and she held her breath in anticipation. If only she’d done enough to get the job. She’d never have another chance like this.
‘Look, I don’t want to play games, Miss O’Connor,’ he said, putting the cafetière back on the table. ‘You were streaks ahead of the other applicants in the quality of your work, and your references are excellent. What’s more, you speak the language.’
Her heart was in her mouth.
‘Today was about seeing if we’d get on with each other. My house on the estate is only a stone’s throw from the one where the classes are going to be held, so I’ll be regularly bumping into whoever’s teaching them, and that makes it important that we rub along well.’
‘Of course,’ she said, nodding. She desperately hoped that he couldn’t hear the loud thudding of her heart. ‘That makes sense.’
‘I’m pretty sure that you and I could get on, and the job is yours if you want it,’ he said with a smile. A powerful wave of relief surged through her, and she felt weak. ‘But don’t worry,’ he added. ‘I’m not expecting an answer this moment. I’m sure you’ll want to go away and think about it, talk it over with your family perhaps.’
‘I don’t need to think about it,’ she said quickly. ‘From the moment I saw your advert, I’ve not been able to think about anything other than what a marvellous opportunity it would be. Thank you very much, Mr Castanien. I’d love to run the classes for you.’
His face broke into a broad smile and he reached across the table, his hand outstretched. As she leaned over to shake his hand, all she could see was the two broad shoulders in front of her.
He sat back. ‘Now that that’s agreed, I can tell you what I’ve decided. I know I said in the advert that the job was to run art classes throughout the summer, but I’ve been giving that some thought. My feeling is that it’s probably too late now to get a full summer of classes off the ground, especially as I’m short of material that I can use to advertise the courses. I suggest that we treat this as a practice year and run one class only.’
‘One class only?’ she echoed, her heart sinking.
‘Don’t look so downcast,’ he laughed. ‘I still want you there for the whole of the summer. I need you there well ahead of the class so that you can organise everything and order what you need. Then you’ll run the course for the week, and when it’s over, we’ll have a better idea of what to offer in the future, and how to plan it and price it.’
‘I suppose that makes sense.’
‘I really think it’s the best thing to do. I’ve worked out what to charge for the week this year, but much of it is based on guesswork. When the students have gone home, I’d like you to stay on for the rest of the summer and produce some sketches of the house and area that I can use for promotional purposes. And I was thinking of commissioning a painting of the estate – an original for my collection which could also be used in the marketing material. It would be a real waste not to take advantage of having an artist of your calibre there. So, what do you think of the idea?’
‘I think it sounds amazing,’ she said, fighting back a rising sense of excitement that she ought not to be feeling – the job was only a means to an end, after all. ‘I feel as if I’ve just been given the dream job: it’s the job of a lifetime. Thank you, Mr Castanien.’
‘Oh, I think you can call me Max now, don’t you? After all, we’re going to be working closely with each other this summer.’
She smiled broadly at him. ‘And I’m Jenny, of course.’ She paused a moment. ‘I hope I don’t disappoint you.’
He gave her a slow smile. ‘I don’t think you will, Jenny. I think I’ve been very lucky to find you. Now, let’s talk about dates and how we’re going to organise everything.’
Her senses spinning, she walked out of the building.
On the surface Max Castanien was charming, easy to get on with, and had dark good looks and a sense of fun that she’d normally find so attractive; in fact, he was the sort of man you could easily fall in love with. But not her. She wasn’t going to let herself be taken in by what was on the surface. She knew from what her mother had told her that his beauty could only be skin deep. She must never for one minute forget that he was one of the two men whose actions had led to the death of her father. Every time he turned on the charm, she must consciously remind h
erself of that.
She raised her arm to hail an approaching taxi. If only he were ugly, she thought as she stepped into the taxi; it’d be so much easier to think the worst of him.
Her ticket for Italy and the travel details came soon after her interview, along with a note from Max telling her that he and his nephew, Stephen, would be arriving at their house shortly before the week-long course began. He added that Stephen had said that he’d like to go to some of the classes, but only if she didn’t mind. She was fully at liberty to say no if she wanted to.
Of course she didn’t mind. On the contrary, she was thrilled: it meant that she was likely to meet her employer more often than she would otherwise have done. The more they met up, the greater the chance of a friendship developing between them, and her best hope of finding out what she needed to know lay in the exchange of casual comments between friends.
She’d promptly written back saying that she’d be delighted if Stephen joined the class. She’d paused a moment, and then added that she was very much looking forward to meeting Max again.
And, indeed, she was.
Chapter Three
The air was filled with the heady aroma of the lilac-coloured wisteria that grew in profusion around the grey stone walls of the Umbrian house.
Jenny paused in the middle of arranging chairs in a semi-circle at the edge of the terrace, and glanced across the garden towards the distant hills, which were shimmering in a haze of blue and purple. Drawn by the view, she left the rest of the chairs where they were, and went along a path flanked by lavender bushes that took her past the pool and out on to an expanse of lush green grass, which ended at the top of a steep slope.
She stood at the edge of the slope and stared at the scene in front of her.
Gorgeous Reads for Christmas (Choc Lit) Page 11
