by Anne Mather
Julia’s head jerked round and then, as if suspecting that the marchesa was provoking her, she forced a tight smile. ‘Just a couple of occasions,’ she corrected her, with obvious restraint. ‘Isn’t that right, Grace? I wouldn’t exactly call you and Matt—friends.’
‘Oh, but—’ began the marchesa, clearly about to argue, but Matteo himself intervened.
‘I think Grace is just a little shy,’ he said smoothly, and Grace realised that he had no intention of exposing his real intentions to his grandmother. He deftly changed the subject. ‘By the way, Ceci, I saw Domenico Pasquale in Siena this afternoon.’ His brows arched with warm humour. ‘He wonders why you haven’t returned his calls.’
‘Oh, Papà—’
‘Domenico?’ At least the marchesa was diverted. ‘You haven’t been avoiding Domenico, have you, cara?’
Ceci sighed, and Grace felt a surge of sympathy for her. ‘No, Nonna—’
‘Yet it seems he told your father that you hadn’t returned his calls.’ The old lady frowned. ‘Is this true?’
Ceci sighed again, and this time her father seemed to take pity on her. ‘I expect Ceci’s been so busy with her end-of-year exams, she hasn’t had time to phone all her friends,’ he declared gallantly. His eyes settled on Grace again, and this time she forced herself not to look away. ‘My daughter is a very popular young lady,’ he added mockingly. ‘Evidently, she does not take after her father.’
‘Oh, Matt!’ Julia leaned towards him and put a proprietorial hand on his arm. ‘You know she’s the image of you.’ She circled her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘Stop teasing Grace. She doesn’t like it.’
‘I’m sure Grace can answer for herself,’ the marchesa put in sharply. ‘Ring the bell, Matteo. I think we’re all ready for dessert.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
GRACE was deciding whether to wear trousers or shorts the next morning when she heard someone knocking at her door.
She had taken the precaution of locking the outer door the night before, but although she had lain awake until the early hours no one had disturbed her. Now, however, she quickly stepped into the pale green Bermudas that were easiest to fasten and called nervously, ‘Who is it?’
‘Who are you expecting?’ Julia’s response was terse, and Grace searched for an excuse as she opened the door.
‘It could have been the maid,’ she said, deciding no defence was necessary. And then her expression turned to one of concern. ‘What’s wrong? You look awful!’
‘Oh, boost my confidence, why don’t you?’ Julia remarked grimly, walking into the parlour with a cold facecloth pressed to her temple. ‘I’ve got a migraine, what else?’ She snorted. ‘Isn’t that just par for the course? Matt and I get a chance to spend some time together, and I go and ruin everything by getting a headache.’
Grace shook her head. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Yeah.’ Julia slumped down into a velvet-covered armchair. ‘Have you got any aspirin or paracetamol that I can take?’
‘Oh, but—’ Grace caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Ought you to be taking shop-bought medication?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well—’ Grace hesitated. ‘Because of—because of your condition.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Julia bent forward, resting her head in her hands. ‘Well, I’ve got to take something. This pain is driving me mad.’
Grace sighed. ‘I suppose paracetamol can’t do any harm.’
‘No, that’s right.’ Julia lifted her head again in evident relief. ‘Do you have some?’
Grace nodded and, going into the bedroom, she found the tape of tablets in her make-up case. Taking them back to her friend, she asked, ‘Do you want some water?’
‘I suppose so.’ Julia was squeezing two of the tablets out of their foil packet. ‘God, I’ll never drink red wine again.’
Grace came back with a glass of water and stared at her. ‘How much did you drink?’
‘I don’t know.’ Julia was offhand now. ‘Too much.’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose that’s bad for the baby, too.’
‘You know it is.’
‘Yes, well, I didn’t want Matt wondering why I’d suddenly become a teetotaller, did I?’ exclaimed Julia defiantly. ‘God, I feel sick!’
‘I’m not surprised.’
Grace was finding it difficult to feel any sympathy for her, and her hands balled into fists when Julia suddenly jumped to her feet and sprinted into the bathroom. That she was being sick was evident from the painful retching sounds she was making, and, pushing her own feelings of impatience aside, Grace walked through the bedroom and into the bathroom to offer her help.
Julia was now slumped beside the toilet basin, and Grace couldn’t help being moved by her obvious misery. ‘You need to go back to bed,’ she said gently, wetting one of the hand towels and using it to wipe Julia’s damp forehead. ‘Come on. You’ll feel better soon. My sisters always used to say that mornings were the worst.’
Julia allowed herself to be led back to her own bedroom and helped into bed. She was only wearing a silk robe over her nightdress so it was a simple matter to help her remove it before she sprawled on the sheets.
‘You won’t tell Matt, will you?’ she demanded weakly as Grace covered her with the sheet. ‘As far as he’s concerned, it’s just a migraine, okay? I’ll be all right by this afternoon.’
Grace pressed her lips together. ‘Can I get you anything else? Some dry toast, perhaps?’
‘No. Nothing.’ Julia rolled her head from side to side. ‘Just keep everyone else out of my way, right? I’m sorry about this, but I can assure you it’s not my choice.’
‘I know.’ Grace decided there was no point in being irritated. ‘I’ll make your excuses.’
‘Thanks.’
Julia nodded, but her eyes were closing, and, realising there was nothing more she could do here, Grace went out and closed the door behind her.
In her own apartments again, she spent a few minutes tidying the bathroom. The last thing she wanted was for the maid to think she had been sick, but she could feel the perspiration already beading between her breasts with the extra exertion. Opening a window, she trusted the sour smell would soon dissipate, and then checked her appearance in the full-length mirror.
Wisps of hair were stuck to her forehead in places, so she used a towel to dry the silvery strands. The friction made them curl against her cheeks instead, and she stared at her reflection with some frustration. With her sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, she looked little like the seriousminded woman she was used to seeing when she looked in a mirror. But the heat made the idea of wearing trousers totally unfeasible, and she decided that the shorts and black tee shirt would have to do.
Despite her inhibitions, she found her way to the dining room they had used the night before without too much effort. It was easier to get her bearings in daylight, and through the long arched windows that opened onto a sunlit verandah she could see the whole sweep of the valley, and hear the distinctive tolling of a church bell. It was a familiar sound, yet unfamiliar in these surroundings, and once again Grace was struck by the natural beauty of the place.
The dining room was deserted, however, and, glancing at her watch, she saw that it was barely eight o’clock. Somehow, she’d thought it was much later, and she wondered if she should have waited in her apartments until her breakfast was brought to her.
Frowning, she wandered out onto the loggia, and then came up short when she saw Matteo di Falco seated at the table where they’d had drinks the night before, reading a newspaper. Now the table was spread with a crisp white cloth, and the jug of orange juice, basket of croissants and half-empty pot of coffee bore witness to the fact that their host did not breakfast in bed. The mingled smells of coffee and warm rolls were mouth-watering, but Grace had the distinct feeling that she should not be here.
She glanced behind her, estimating her chances of leaving again without him noticing her, and then started when he said, ‘Don�
��t go.’ He folded his newspaper, laid it on the table beside him, and got to his feet ‘Join me.’
‘Oh, no—’ After what had just happened upstairs, Grace was in no mood to be civil to the man who was responsible for it all. ‘I—er—I was just looking around, that’s all.’
Matteo hooked his thumbs into the back of his belt and strolled towards her. He was wearing a black tee shirt, too, this morning, and his arms were brown and muscular beneath the short sleeves. Black jeans hugged his powerful thighs, and Grace despised herself for the shiver of awareness that feathered her spine at his approach.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ he asked, arching his dark brows, and Grace expelled a resigned breath.
‘No—’
‘I thought not.’
‘Well, you would, wouldn’t you?’ she muttered, pushing past him and going to stand by the floor-length windows that overlooked the sunlit gardens. ‘You probably know everything that goes on in the villa,’ she added, barely audibly.
‘Not everything,’ he amended mildly, coming to join her. ‘What’s the matter? What did I do wrong now?’
Grace snorted. ‘Do you have to ask?’
‘What?’ He was annoyingly tolerant. ‘I didn’t embarrass you last night, did I?’ He blew on her ear. ‘I thought I was amazingly restrained in the circumstances.’
Grace jerked her neck away. ‘I don’t want to be here.’
‘No, you told me.’ His voice lost a little of its patience. ‘That’s why I suggest you let me take you somewhere else.’
‘Somewhere else?’ Grace cast him a disbelieving look. ‘Are you crazy?’
‘Perhaps.’ He stroked a finger along the curve of her chin. ‘I’m not suggesting we run away together. I just thought it would be easier for both of us if we were not constantly in the company of other people.’
Grace gaped at him. ‘I wouldn’t go anywhere with you,’ she cried scornfully. ‘You have to be out of your mind if you think I’d do that to Julia. Even if I wanted to,’ she appended hastily. ‘Which I don’t.’
Matteo swore then, and although it wasn’t a word she’d heard before its meaning was evident. ‘Will you stop using Julia’s name like some kind of amulet between us?’ he demanded. ‘Surely you didn’t think I encouraged her last night? The way she behaved—that was for your benefit. I have never, at any time, given Julia any reason to think that our association was anything more than a casual—’
‘Affair?’ suggested Grace disparagingly, and he swore again.
‘If you want to call a weekend in Rome an affair, then okay.’ He thrust a frustrated hand through his hair, causing it to fall in disarming disarray onto his forehead. ‘Grace, you have to believe me here. I am not the—the playboy you are making me out to be.’
He stared at her then, and although she tried to tell herself he was probably the most skilful liar in the world she didn’t believe it. Much as she fought against it, she believed him, which made her situation even more impossible than it had been before.
‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ he asked, his voice thickening with emotion, his hand curling round the back of her neck to pull her towards him. And Grace didn’t know what might have happened if at that moment she hadn’t heard the unmistakable sound of the marchesa’s cane tapping across the floor.
‘What are you two whispering about?’ the old lady demanded huffily, and Grace breathed a prayer of thanks to whatever deity had saved her from making the biggest mistake of her life. Any sympathy she was feeling had to be balanced against the risks he’d taken in having sex with Julia, and if he hadn’t wanted the complications he should have made sure that she—that he—had some protection.
‘I was just trying to persuade Grace to let me show her the monastery of Sant’ Emilio,’ Matteo responded lightly, his hand falling harmlessly to his side. ‘After breakfast, of course. Will you join us, Nonna?’ He smiled. ‘I know how much you enjoy my company.’
‘Will I join you for what?’ the old lady asked tersely, though Grace could see she did have a soft spot for her grandson. ‘For breakfast? I ate an hour ago. Or an outing to Sant’ Emilio? I don’t think so. Perhaps you should ask Miss Calloway. She seems to consider that you’re the reason she’s here.’
There was another of those pregnant pauses, and then Matteo drew an audible breath. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, turning to Grace. ‘Do you know if your friend is awake yet? Shall I ask Gina to find out?’
‘No—’ Grace’s response was urgent, and she was unhappily aware that for a moment he thought she had changed her mind. ‘That is—Julia’s not very well,’ she murmured awkwardly. ‘She asked me to offer her apologies. She’s going to spend the morning in bed.’
‘I see.’ The marchesa’s gaze moved thoughtfully between them. ‘I wonder why. Do you think it was something she ate?’
‘Oh, I—’
‘Or something she drank, perhaps,’ continued the old lady shrewdly. ‘I regret to say that Miss Calloway has little regard for her liver.’
‘Nonna—’
The marchesa knocked away the warning hand Matteo had put on her shoulder. ‘I know, I know,’ she said crossly. ‘Grace is a friend of hers and naturally she does not agree.’ She breathed deeply. ‘You know, I think I will join you both for coffee, Matteo. Then, before it gets too hot, perhaps Grace would like to walk around the winery with me.’
It was not the most comfortable meal Grace had ever shared, but it was more relaxed than dinner the night before. She found herself telling the marchesa more about her work at the museum, how she dealt with the various artifacts that found their way to the museum from digs around the world, and the interesting stories that were attached to exhibits as diverse as ancient Chinese porcelain and the petrified remains of an extinct dinosaur.
The old lady was obviously fascinated by the whole concept of ancient civilisations, and she contributed stories herself about some of the valuable antiques that were housed in the villa. ‘I have often thought that they should be catalogued,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘Have you ever considered continuing your career in a more individual way, Grace? I am sure there are many owners, like myself, who have libraries and collections that would benefit greatly from your obvious dedication.’
‘I think Nonna is offering you a job, cara,’ remarked Matteo drily, and Grace wondered how she would have felt if she had not been aware of Julia’s condition.
‘I am merely pointing out what must be obvious to someone of Grace’s intelligence,’ his grandmother retorted before Grace could speak. ‘Come, my dear. Time is pressing. If you and Matteo intend to visit Sant’ Emilio later, we should not waste any more time.’
‘Oh, but—’
Grace was about to say that she had no plans for accompanying Matteo to Sant’ Emilio when the marchesa thwarted her again. ‘You do wish to see the winery, don’t you?’ she asked, apparently misunderstanding her, and Grace sighed.
‘Very much,’ she conceded through tight lips, but she was aware of Matteo’s amusement as she accompanied his grandmother through tall French doors that one of the maids hurried to open at their approach.
It didn’t take Grace long to come to the conclusion that the old lady was unlikely to have misinterpreted anything—unless she chose to do so, of course. For a woman who, she surmised, must be in her eighties, she was amazingly astute. All the time she was conducting her guest through the various buildings that made up the winery—where the grapes were crushed and eventually, in the case of the red wines they produced, at least, stored in vats to encourage fermentation—she carried on with the conversation they had earlier been having about Grace’s future, gradually learning more and more about her with a skill Grace could only admire.
She was sympathetic when it came to her mother’s illness, but she was adamant that Grace had made the right decision in coming away. ‘You’re too young to be expected to carry the whole burden yourself,’ she declared firmly. ‘Come; we’ll go down to the cellars now. Perhaps Alberto P
onti will permit us to taste the fine brandy he keeps for our special clients.’
It was ten o‘clock by the time they returned to the villa, and Grace was concerned that the marchesa had done too much. ‘Nonsense, child!’ the old lady exclaimed, though she did lean rather heavily on the younger woman’s arm as they entered the loggia. ‘If I do not exercise regularly, I will also become an invalid, and I do not intend to let that happen.’
Grace didn’t know whether she felt glad or sorry when she discovered Matteo wasn’t waiting for them. The table where they had had breakfast had been cleared, and there was no sign of the disturbing owner of the villa.
‘Caffè—per due,’ the marchesa ordered of the maid who appeared to ask if there was anything her mistress needed, and although Grace had no desire for any more caffeine she could hardly leave the old lady on her own.
The marchesa made herself comfortable on the cushioned lounger she had occupied the night before, but Grace was too much on edge to sit down. Where was Matteo? she wondered. Had he gone to check on Julia himself? And if so, ought she to be loitering here, as if she was obediently waiting for his return?
‘You say Miss Calloway intends to spend the day in bed?’ the marchesa enquired pleasantly, and Grace wondered if she was only imagining the note of satisfaction in the old lady’s voice.
‘Just the morning, I think,’ she answered, touching the leaves of a bell-shaped fuchsia that hung from one of the baskets that was espaliered to the wall. She found she couldn’t look the marchesa in the eye, and, wrapping her arms about her midriff, she added, ‘Perhaps I should go and see how she is.’
‘I’m sure Miss Calloway will join us as soon as she’s able,’ declared the old lady repressively, thereby putting an end to that suggestion. ‘Ah, here’s Matteo.’ She gave her grandson a speaking look. ‘We were beginning to wonder if you’d changed your mind.’
Grace had wondered no such thing; quite the contrary, in fact. She’d been hoping he had thought better of his invitation, but judging by the look he cast in her direction she’d been wasting her time.
