Venetia had spent plenty of time in the sleepless hours of the night chasing this question around in her head. Although aware that thoughts of Judd haunted her as never before, she was forced to admit that it hadn’t been the memory of his caresses that had robbed her of sleep. Yes, in many ways Paolo reminded Venetia of Judd: his height, the breadth of his shoulders, the way he moved and held himself, even some of his mannerisms, like the habit he had of always blowing out the flame from his Zippo instead of just snapping it shut, and of running his fingers through his hair when restless.
But there was another thing: Venetia was aware of a poignant tenderness about Paolo, a surprising vulnerability in such a big man. She had never noticed it in Judd who, unlike Paolo, had possessed a hard edge. Judd was the soldier par excellence, trained to attack and defend, and though he had never talked about it, Venetia was sure he had killed. Both men exuded strength, but manifested it in different ways. Try as she might, Venetia couldn’t understand why the memory of Judd was refusing to loosen its grip on her.
Then, on top of all this, something else had given a searing edge to the torment of her feelings. Last night, while musing on the veranda, Venetia had caught sight of Allegra in a clinging red satin nightdress making her way towards the big house from the stables. She wondered painfully how much the Italian Amazon meant to Paolo. It was impossible that any man would not be moved and flattered by the attentions of such a beautiful and assured young woman – a woman who could fire his passion as she never could. Paolo was a passionate man too. They would take each other by storm.
If Venetia had been questioning Paolo’s feelings before, fearing that he did not care enough, this had removed all doubt: he didn’t care at all. The realisation was a bitter blow and she felt an atrocious sense of loss resonating in the depths of her once more; but how could she feel that when Paolo had never been hers to lose? She had rejected him again and again, so she only had herself to blame if he looked for comfort in another woman’s arms. Besides, the other woman was there before you came along, a nagging little voice reminded her bitterly, worming itself into her thoughts. All night, the misery had lain like a weight in her heart and she had sat for hours looking into the night shadows, staring at the starry sky, the cypress trees, the shimmering sea, and waiting for the first glimmers of dawn.
So it was with mingled excitement and nervousness that Venetia followed Ernestina when the housekeeper came to fetch her at ten o’clock.
That morning, Miraggio was swimming in a haze of sunshine, making its muted yellow stonework glow warmly. As the solid oak front door towered above her, Venetia was acutely reminded of its owner, as if the power of the man was reflected in the leviathan proportions of the house itself.
She went inside with Ernestina. The inside of the house sprawled round a central gallery, which stretched from one end of the building to the other. Though it had been made comfortable for present-day use, somehow Miraggio remained tinged with melancholy and steeped in romance. The scent of flowers and wax polish mingled in the wide hall, and Venetia was vaguely conscious of the beauty of the blackened oak beams, the twisting staircase with broad, shallow steps, a gleaming copper bowl of blue flowers, and the soft Persian rugs strewn about the polished floor.
‘I will go and fetch Signor Barone,’ Ernestina told Venetia as she led her into Paolo’s spacious study.
The room was curved, in a U-shape, affording a 180-degree view from the eight glass picture windows that punctuated its walls, leaving the place completely exposed to the exterior and making the most of the wide-ranging, stunning vistas. It was surrounded by sea, rocks and trees, allowing the landscape to penetrate the space and become another decorative feature, and capturing as much daylight as possible, especially the last rays of the setting sun.
It was painted a luminous white, complemented by the dark wood of the antique furniture, especially the enormous Italian Renaissance desk standing in the recess curve of the room. The burgundy and golden yellow in the rugs covering the floor and the accessories on the sofa, as well as in the two armchairs placed in a corner next to the door, added splashes of colour, providing the study with a sophisticated air. This part of the house looked as if it had been given a complete facelift, compared with the darker, more gothic appearance of the rest of Miraggio. Here, with its light and airy feel and its mixture of antiques and modern design, Paolo had created for himself a contemporary space within a historical setting. It was fabulous.
Venetia was standing with her back to the door, contemplating the only painting in the room. Set on the wall behind the desk, the huge portrait was of a beautiful young blonde woman with deep-set, laughing blue eyes that looked down at her mischievously. The artist had captured the obvious joie de vivre that shone through her smile. Paolo’s dead wife, Venetia thought, and her heart ached for him as she wondered how someone would get to grips with the tragedy of losing not just a loved one, but also one’s own identity.
She crossed over to the opposite wall, between two of the huge windows, where floor-to-ceiling bookcases stood. Glancing round, she could see that more vast bookcases stretched up between three other windows. Clearly Paolo was a voracious reader. Running her fingers over the beautiful leather-bound tomes, she walked alongside the shelves and suddenly stopped as something caught her eye, lying sideways on the top of the books.
She picked out the small volume, a copy of Canti by the Italian poet and philosopher Giacomo Leopardi that she had always admired. This was an antique version of the same book Judd had bought her when they were one day browsing through the antiquarian bookshops of Charing Cross. Her heart lurched in surprise at the sight of it, and a painful reverberation coursed through her. Was Fate yet again sending her a message of some sort, pushing her towards this man who seemed to steal inside her soul at every turn?
She heard the door slam shut and her head jerked round nervously to confront the smiling face of Paolo standing behind her. Hastily she returned the book to its shelf and, caught by the gleaming eyes that stared boldly at her, Venetia’s previous emotion gave way to an alarming, all too familiar reaction. She felt a disturbing tumult of her pulse and a nerve tightened at her throat. His presence seemed to shrink the room. This morning he was dressed in black: slim-fitting jeans and an open-necked shirt, sleeves rolled back, dark glasses perched on top of his forehead. It was unfair that one man should possess so much masculine appeal.
‘Buongiorno, Venetia. I’ve just been out to refill the car, that’s why I’m a few minutes late.’ His eyes rested on her with a rakish twinkle. ‘I’ve made you wait again, I apologise. La puntualità è la cortesia dei re, punctuality is the courtesy of kings,’ we say in Italy. I obviously don’t have blue blood running through my veins.’
Paolo’s sudden appearance when she’d been so engrossed in her thoughts had caught Venetia completely off guard, startling her into the present. Hearing that deep tenor set her heart pounding; it was infuriating the way her nervous system insisted on responding to his presence. Still, with relief and some surprise, she recognised Paolo’s light-hearted mood. She had feared there would be an uncomfortable uneasiness between them, given the last time they had met had been so highly charged.
Picking up the thread of humorous banter he was throwing her, she managed to smile coolly. ‘I think I can forgive you, Paolo. Actually, I don’t know who said that punctuality is the virtue of the bored. I can only believe that you have so much on, there are not enough hours in the day.’
‘Perfetto, I would hate for you to wait for me impatiently,’ he mocked.
‘No fear of that! As we say in England, “Punctuality is the art of guessing how late the other person is going to be.” I will bear that in mind next time we have a rendezvous.’
Paolo growled a half laugh, his piercing blue eyes alight with amusement.
‘Touché, mia cara. I stand chastised.’
There was a faint pause as they both look
ed at each other.
‘This is such a fabulous room,’ she ventured, changing the subject.
Paolo grinned. He was obviously pleased by the compliment. ‘When I bought Miraggio, the place was derelict. This part especially had been partly destroyed by fire and was almost falling into ruin. I tried to rebuild the house without making any modification to the original structure on the exterior, but when it came to this room I let my fantasy play.’ His voice was low now, and he looked at Venetia with the hint of a challenge curling his sensuous lips.
She cleared her throat a little too loudly, trying not to look at his mouth. ‘And what did your vivid imagination come up with?’ she asked, a suggestion of irony in her voice. She could still only manage a glance at him.
‘It was too much of a temptation to create a link between the architecture and the surroundings, and the only way was to use these big expanses of glass that would make the most of the stunning views.’ His gaze was unwavering. ‘Let’s make ourselves more comfortable, shall we?’
They moved to the far end of the room and, slipping behind his desk, Paolo gestured towards one of the leather chairs facing it. He placed his sunglasses on the desk and for a few moments he seemed content to relax, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He regarded Venetia through his thick black lashes with a disturbing intensity that made her feel uneasy.
Venetia fidgeted in her seat. Despite herself, her eyes kept returning to the beautiful woman in the portrait, whose smile seemed to be challenging her. Not only must I contend with a sexy mistress, but with the memory of a beautiful dead wife.
‘You paint, don’t you?’
Paolo’s question interrupted her train of thought. Venetia started guiltily, and her face flushed, wondering if he had known what she was thinking and had deliberately broken the thread.
‘Ye-yes,’ she stammered, ‘just a little. I mainly sketch – nothing very impressive, I’m afraid.’
‘You must paint Miraggio for me one day, cara.’ His voice was soft again, like warm honey, and he was scrutinising her. Venetia’s blush deepened. It was maddening – why did he have this effect on her?
‘I noticed a painting of the house in the cottage.’
‘Yes, La Torretta. That was its name before I bought it, but I changed it to Miraggio.’ A shadow passed over Paolo’s face. His eyes sought the far horizons beyond the sunny room to the scintillating sea outside, and Venetia felt that his mind had also wandered off for a few seconds before he turned to her again, his mouth curving into a sardonic twist. ‘The name seemed more appropriate.’
‘It’s a lovely name for a most beautiful house,’ Venetia whispered, and her smile was tender for the man who didn’t know that she was aware of his tragedy.
Paolo gave her a strange look, as though probing the sincerity in her eyes, before giving a slight perplexed shake of his head. ‘You’re a very sensitive and compassionate woman, cara. You fascinate me…’ He stroked his bottom lip with his long index finger and it seemed as if he was about to add something, but he changed his mind.
Venetia stared back at him, mesmerised by the finger on that beguiling mouth, trying to sort out her thoughts. Her body, her heart and her senses were clamouring hungrily for him, as they had from the moment she had set eyes on him, but she still remained confused, uncertain as to what she wanted.
With an abrupt change of mood, Paolo leapt up from his chair. ‘Andiamo,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I was going to show you the photographs and plans of the site before taking you there but I think it would make more sense for us to visit the location first so you can get an idea of the place, and then we’ll discuss it on paper at leisure. If we leave now, we’ll get there before the afternoon heat and can have lunch on the way back.’
Following suit, Venetia stood up. ‘That sounds very sensible,’ she replied, giving him her most charming smile.
‘I’ll show you around the house some other time. In some parts, the architecture is very old and I think it will interest you.’
‘Thank you, Paolo, I’d like that very much.’
Paolo’s dashing blue Ferrari Maranello was parked at the front door, shining and ready for their escapade. Venetia was not surprised that it was one of the more expensive models around – Paolo was rich and successful after all – but she wondered at his recklessness. As far as she knew, the car was the fastest on the market. Not so long ago, she had seen a documentary on Italian television about international sport cars and the Ferrari Maranello had been at the top of the list for speed. Had the accident not left any trace of fear in him, even if he had no memory of it? He held the door open for her and she took her place in the passenger seat.
‘The site is on the other side of Monte Argentario. We should be there in about half an hour,’ Paolo told her, as he slid in beside her and released the latch to the roof, which slipped back noiselessly. He turned on the ignition and made the car roar twice, grinning as he did so, and they were off, leaving a cloud of red dust behind them. Seeing the unimpressed look Venetia gave him, he feigned a sheepish expression, with an almost boyish smile that made her stomach flutter. His eyes twinkled wickedly. ‘Scusa, it’s all part of the fun of having this sort of toy.’
And Venetia couldn’t do anything but smile too. ‘Thank God for small joys!’
The smile he gave back to her was wry. ‘Most people seem continually to be making arrangements to live, and never actually living. Life is too unexpected, too short, non credi?’
For the second time that morning Venetia’s heart went out to him. He’s thinking of the accident, the loss of his wife and his memory.
The Ferrari climbed and twisted alarmingly along the rugged coastline, and through perched villages, on roads fringed with pink, yellow, and red wildflowers. Cars and buses roared past, racing and swerving round hairpin corners. The sun was as brilliant as ever, the air clear and stimulating, and everything aflutter in the sunny breeze. The shimmering hillside, planted with olives and vines, sloped steeply down; beyond the motionless spires of cypresses stretched the blue and green hills of Tuscany. The hollows and little valleys were brimming with whitish haze and the flat elder blossoms spread unmoving in the heat of this glorious day.
On the seaward side, they overlooked a necklace of small, sun-drenched, white sand beaches, separated by coves and craggy coral rock outcroppings. Viewed from far above, the shoreline was spectacular, with the great Tyrrhenian Sea stretching out beyond, sprinkled with islets and dotted with boats on its turquoise surface. The Ferrari tore past clusters of pastel-hued cottages framed by flowering trees, nestling in the hills that rose to windswept bluffs, where every turning had a picture-postcard view of sprawling green land, coloured villas and blue waters. Golden sunshine poured down, and Venetia’s face was bright with pleasure, chestnut curls flying across her face. She loved the feel of the wind in her hair and the smell of the sea.
With a contented sigh, she leaned back in her seat. Aware that Paolo was looking at her, she blushed.
‘I’m just happy being with you,’ he told her, echoing her own thoughts, and she wondered if this was also his way of telling her that he knew what she was thinking, and there was no need for her to feel self-conscious. ‘I hope you’ll like the site. The location and the views are quite magical but to create my dream will need a lot of work. The villa is derelict and the various historic buildings surrounding it are also in very poor condition.’
‘You seem to have a compulsion to restore derelict buildings.’
‘I would say it’s more of an irresistible urge to build, to turn waste into something worthwhile and useful. The landscape of Tuscany for the past three thousand years has been as much the result of man’s work as nature’s gift. If I’m able to put something back into the pot, make my contribution, why shouldn’t I?’
Venetia could see it now: how this man was driven to transform things out o
f destruction into something new – a metaphor for his own life, perhaps. She shook her head. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t criticising you, I was just making a statement.’
‘So you’re not telling me off, then?’ His gleaming teeth showed a moment in his smile, as his eyes followed the coastal route.
Venetia loved to see Paolo smile; she couldn’t say why, but somehow it was important to her that he should be happy. She turned to face him, her lashes hiding her thoughts.
‘Now would I?’ she said playfully.
He turned to face her, momentarily taking his attention off the road, and she stared into his eyes, a piercing blue, mottled with deep flecks, and their darker midnight rim.
He flashed her a wicked grin. ‘I’m not sure, cara. You’re so unpredictable, very much like your English weather: one minute sunny and the next incredibly stormy.’
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ she stammered suddenly. ‘What I said to you – I want to apologise. I’m really so very sorry – I, I really don’t know what came over me. Judd was part of my life once, but I haven’t seen him for ten years. I would quite understand if you didn’t want to have anything to do with me after that.’
She was aware that this breathless, apologetic rush of words was not at all the cool and dignified speech which she had intended if the subject had been brought up; but he had hit her with his teasing half-reproach when she had least expected it and it was all she could manage.
‘Non c’è bisogno di scusarsi, no need to apologise.’ His eyes had returned to the road, his expression impenetrable, but there was an almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. ‘If this Judd left such a lasting impression on you, maybe I should look at the issue from a different angle and be flattered that I remind you of him,’ he said gravely. ‘Most of the time, people only see what they want to see. I’ve learnt that the power of visualising is very important in life, that is, if you want to survive. Carl Jung said: “It all depends on how we look at things, and not on how they are themselves.” I think he had a point.’
The Echoes of Love Page 21
