by Anne Mather
Santino frowned. ‘Consider the facts, Pietro. This man has raised money on the strength of this proposed merger and now he thinks he can call the tune. ’
‘McMaster’s is an old established concern,’ Pietro endeavoured to explain. ‘He’s a man who believes inherently in standing alone. ’
Santino sat up abruptly, wrenching off his dark glasses impatiently. ‘And yet he has not the business acumen to do so!’
‘No, I know.’
‘Years ago he must have seen this coming.’
‘I know.’ Pietro moved uncomfortably. ‘Even so, I sometimes think it is a pity that the little man can no longer survive—’
Santino uttered an exclamation. ‘Pietro, you’re mad! You know perfectly well that the reason W.A.A. is failing is because it’s such a small concern. It hasn’t the assets to buy in bulk and cut its costs. No one - but no one - intended that McMaster should be put out of business. This is his doing and his alone!’
‘I know, I know.’ Pietro raked a hand through his hair. ‘I know you’re right, all my instincts tell me so. Just take no notice of me.’
Santino regarded him almost compassionately. ‘There are times, my friend, when all of us experience a feeling of distaste for what we are doing. But when this happens, we must remember that in our position McMaster would not hesitate to crush us if he could. That is the way of the world. It took me some time to learn it too, and you are young yet, Pietro. You must learn to suppress weakness, for that is what it is. ’
Pietro sighed. ‘I suppose you are right. But sometimes it frightens me. ’ He turned his attention to Lucia, watching her as she lay on her stomach, dipping her hand over the side of the yacht to fill her bucket with water. Then he said, almost absently: ‘Tell me something, Santino. Have you never thought of marrying again?’
Santino was taken unawares and for a moment he did not reply. But when he did he was curt and uncompromising. ‘No!’
Pietro frowned now. ‘Why not? It’s over four years since Lucia’s mother died. And she needs — someone - a woman—’
Santino’s expression hardened and Pietro knew he had said too much. ‘Lucia has me, and she has Maria. That is enough. ’
Pietro shook his head, unable to prevent himself from disagreeing for once. ‘Maria is old, Santino. And you’re away such a lot—’
‘Pietro, I know you mean well. You are my brother-in-law and I think my friend. But in this there is nothing more to say. I loved Sancha, and I was distraught when she died giving birth to our daughter. Now I need no woman about the house, no companion for my future years. If my animal appetites require assuagement there is always Palermo. What more do I need?’
‘But there is still Lucia,’ Pietro persisted. ‘As she grows older, will you be able to share with her all the things a mother would share with her daughter? Will you be able to teach her the ways of a woman?’
‘You are becoming increasingly boring, Pietro,’ Santino grew impatient, his face hardening into the grim lines Pietro knew so well. ‘First you are concerned about McMaster -now it is Lucia! Are you becoming womanish yourself, Pietro? That is the question you should be asking yourself! ’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I think you should look to your own affairs and leave me to mine!’
Pietro coloured. Santino was always capable of reducing him to the stature of a schoolboy and he had long learned that his brother-in-law would accept advice from no one, least of all someone like himself. With a sigh, he turned on to his back and drawing deeply on his cigarette he gazed into the deep blue arc of sky overhead. As his eyes flickered lower he saw the stark walls of the castello like some bleak fortress outlined against the skyline, and he felt an unwilling stirring of pride. The, name of the castello was apt, he thought, the Castello di Strega, the castle of the witch, and its master a man who had the pride of il diabolo, the devil himself ...
CHAPTER TWO
As Stephanie came down the stairs she could hear them arguing. They were in the library and her stepmother’s voice, inherent of her theatrical training, carried easily to the girl as she stood silently gripping the banister rail. The deeper, more resonant tones of her father were raised in protest, but Stephanie knew that Jennifer would eventually wear him down by sheer persistence. She sighed and descended the rest of the stairs, halting uncertainly in the hall, wondering what they were arguing about now. They always seemed to be arguing these days and although Stephanie knew that her father’s temper was shortened by his anxieties over the company that didn’t altogether account for the situation.
She sighed and crossed the panelled hall to the lounge. Afternoon sunlight filtered through Venetian blinds on to the warm polished mahogany of the china cabinet which had been her mother’s, and dappled the tapestry-covered chairs and settee. It was a room which had changed little over the years since her childhood even though from time to time Jennifer changed the curtains, splashed new rugs and cushions about, and begged her husband to get rid of the three-piece suite. But in this Robert McMaster was adamant, the room retained the character of his first wife; and so the rest of the house was rife with Swedish wood and glass, but the lounge remained the same.
Now Stephanie walked to the wide windows which overlooked the sweep of lawn at the back of the house and hoped desperately that Allan would arrive soon and take her away from the sound of their voices.
Allan Priestley was a pilot working for her father’s airline. He was an attractive young man in his middle twenties, and they had been going about together for almost a year, since Stephanie’s eighteenth birthday party, in fact. Stephanie liked him tremendously and she knew that they were gradually drifting into a situation where he would ask her to marry him. It was already an accepted thing among their friends that they were always asked places together. Allan earned a good salary and Stephanie was quite prepared to work for a while after their marriage. She enjoyed working in the children’s ward of a psychiatric hospital and she did not want to give it up without reason. Besides, it was an accepted arrangement these days for a young wife to have employment and certainly there would not be enough to do about the house to interest her until they had a family of their own. She sighed. Wasn’t she being a little precipitate thinking like this? She was only eighteen when all was said and done and she wondered whether if her mother had still been alive she would have contemplated leaving home so soon. She turned away from the window and caught a glimpse of herself in the framed oval mirror above the fireplace. Was that troubled countenance really hers? Why did she, like her father, allow Jennifer to get under her skin? She wasn’t afraid of the woman, after all. It was simply that her attitude was such that unless one wanted a continual state of contention one avoided open confrontation.
With a deliberately firm shake of her shoulders, Stephanie regarded her image critically. The trouser suit which at first had seemed a little too modern looked rather attractive now, and as it was a cold September afternoon the trimming of fur at the collar and cuffs and around the bottoms of the trousers looked just right. She left her hair loose, and it caught on the fur collar as she moved her head, falling in silky tendrils about her face. Its tawny brilliance was startling against the olive green suiting and yet it blended with the amber fur trimming. She wore little makeup, accentuating only the strange liquid chartreuse of her eyes, and in consequence they were the first thing anyone noticed. She was not beautiful, she knew that, and yet there was something more than mere good looks in her small face. She had a tantalizing allure that denied all formal designation. Maybe it was the slight tilt of her eyes at the corners, or maybe it was the thick luxuriant softness of her hair, or even the gentle fullness of the curves of her body that showed none of the angular lines of a model. Or perhaps it was simply the invariably bubbling personality that reached out and enveloped her admirers. In any event, she had never found any shortage of male admirers and in consequence she knew quite a lot about the opposite sex.
The doorbell suddenly pealed and she started. She must have been
so wrapped up in her own thoughts she had not heard the sound of Allan’s car. Leaving the lounge, she walked out into the hall just as her stepmother came out of the library. Jennifer regarded her with unveiled mockery, raising her eyebrows critically.
‘Well, well,’ she remarked sardonically. ‘That’s new, isn’t it? I haven’t seen that - outfit - before, have I?’
The deliberate hesitation before the word outfit was not lost on Stephanie, but she refused to be drawn. Instead, she said: ‘No, you haven’t seen it. I just bought it last week. Out of my salary!’
She had the pleasure of seeing Jennifer’s lips tighten angrily, and she felt a momentary twinge of conscience. It was a moot point that her father had ordered Jennifer not to run up any more bills on clothes for the time being unless she could pay for them herself. The older woman was extravagant to a degree and this adjuration had not been taken lightly.
Stephanie saw Miller, the maid, coming to answer the door and waved her away and went to answer the door herself. Allan stood on the threshold and his eyes darkened admiringly as they surveyed her trim appearance. Then he smiled warmly at her before stepping past her into the hall where Jennifer still stood draped against the banister watching them.
‘Well, Allan,’ drawled Jennifer. “How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Mrs. McMaster. You’re looking well. ’
‘Am I?’ Jennifer heaved a sigh. ‘I feel positively drained.’
‘Oh!’ Allan glanced inquiringly at Stephanie, but she turned away abruptly, going to the hall closet to get her
gloves.
‘Yes,’ Jennifer went on, determinedly retaining his attention. ‘Robert’s having one of his regular purges and at the moment I’m being subjected to his strictures!’
‘I - see.’ Allan looked uncomfortable. ‘It’s a jolly cold afternoon, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ Jennifer moved impatiently. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ Stephanie came back at that moment. ‘I’m ready,’ she said, looked purposefully at Allan, and he nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go,’ he said, and with a polite smile at Jennifer they both went out.
Allan’s Triumph sports car stood outside with the hood up, and he helped Stephanie inside before walking round to get in beside her. The powerful little car shot away, churning up the gravel on the drive, and Stephanie lay back and relaxed. Allan glanced her way understandingly, and said: ‘Jennifer getting up your back again?’
Stephanie sighed. ‘That’s the understatement of the year. Oh, Allan, I just wish there was something I could do to stop that woman from killing my father!’ There was a fierce determination in her voice and Allan shook his head helplessly.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘this business with Ventura is getting everyone down. Once everything is settled, one way or the other, things will sort themselves out, you’ll see.’
Stephanie grimaced. ‘I wish I was as certain,’ she said glumly. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether things will ever sort themselves out again. ’
‘That’s a pretty defeatist attitude!’ exclaimed Allan. ‘Your father knows that sooner or later he’s got to accept Ventura’s offer.’
Stephanie looked mutinously at him. ‘Does he?’ She shook her head. ‘He’ll hang on to the business as long as he possibly can. I know him better than you do and I know it would kill him if he were thrust aside by Ventura’s management. He’s an active man, Allan, he’s been active all his life. You can’t throw a man like that on the stockpile!’
‘Nobody’s suggesting you should. This deal with Ventura was to be a merger. Your father would retain control. At least that’s how I heard it.’
‘But for how long?’ Stephanie stared at him. ‘Oh, these big syndicates know what they’re doing all right. They agree to merge with a small company like W.A.A. and then gradually they introduce their own ideas and their own management until in the end it’s more of a takeover than a merger. My father knows this and that’s why he’s fighting - and not only Ventura. The board as well.’
“You mean the board are against him?’
Stephanie flushed. “Well, Jennifer is, for sure. And Aunt Evelyn. When that man was here - that Signor Bastinado—’ ‘Pietro Bastinado?’
‘That’s right. Did you meet him?’
‘Not exactly. I saw him at the office when he was with your father. You realize who he is, don’t you?’
‘Of course. He’s a member of this syndicate.’
‘He’s Ventura’s personal assistant. Anyway, go on. I interrupted you. ’
Stephanie frowned. ‘Oh, yes, well, when Signor Bastinado was here he asked a lot of questions about shares and controlling interests. Oh, he did it very cleverly. Jennifer was easy to gull. She enjoys talking to any attractive man, but Aunt Evelyn ...’ Stephanie sighed. ‘You see - it means little to them who controls the company, so long as they get a return. But to my father it’s something else - it’s his life!’ Allan sighed now. ‘I see what you mean. But surely this could have been avoided. I mean your father must have known things were going downhill...’
‘Yes, but there was nothing he could do. The big airlines have such a tremendous advantage. They can fly their planes half empty and still talk about cutting their fares. W.A.A. relies on its charter services, but we need new planes - you know that - new equipment! But we can’t afford them without backing. ’
Allan patted her hands as they lay in her lap. ‘You really will have to let your father fight his own battles,’ he said.
‘I know that. But it’s Jennifer—’ She sighed again. “You know how extravagant she is—’
‘But your father married her. He chose to marry a woman half his age. It’s not your responsibility, Stephanie.’
‘But that doesn’t make it any easier to take, Allan. ’ Stephanie bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry. You must get sick of hearing my troubles.’
Allan smiled tenderly. ‘Not at all. In fact I’m glad you feel you can share them with me. It means you regard me as something more than just a friend.’
Stephanie looked at him quickly, sensing what he was about to say, and suddenly she didn’t want to hear it. For a brief moment, sheer panic shot through her being as she
realized that whatever feelings she had for Allan they were not yet strong enough to contemplate a serious commitment. She burst into speech, chattering stupidly about one of the spastic children she was caring for, telling him about a film she had watched on television the night before, and the moment passed. She sensed his pain, for he was not an insensitive man and he must have guessed why she suddenly behaved so carelessly. But there was nothing she could say to alleviate it. Maybe it was this trouble with her father, or maybe it was her own immaturity, but whatever it was she needed more time before placing herself in a situation she could not control.
They had a pleasant afternoon out together. They had arranged to go to an exhibition of paintings and sculpture by a young artist friend of Allan’s and afterwards they attended a cocktail party given by the gallery’s owner who had sponsored the showing. Most of the young people there were known to both of them and they were invited to a party that evening to be held at the apartment of another young artist. Stephanie demurred, but with Allan’s encouragement finally agreed on the understanding that she must be allowed to go home first to change and to see her father.
It was about seven-thirty when Allan dropped her at her father’s house, a tall Georgian-fronted building which stood in its own grounds overlooking one of those small squares that abound near Regent’s Park. As she climbed out of the sports car she noticed a long, sleek continental limousine parked to one side of the front door and she frowned curiously. Certainly it was not a car she had seen before or she would have remembered its elegance.
‘I’ll call back in an hour,’ Allan was saying, and she turned absently to him.
‘What? Oh, yes, yes, all right, Allan.’ She smiled and raised a hand as he drove away with his usual ebullience, and then turned to enter the house.
She shed her glo
ves in the hall and hesitated as she heard voices emanating from the library. Surely her father and Jennifer weren’t arguing again, particularly as they obviously had guests, and yet she could hear her father’s voice raised in anger and she wondered with trepidation who could be arousing such antagonism. Could it possibly be something to do with the proposed merger? Had Pietro Bastinado come back with some new proposition?
She moved compulsively towards the library door and then halted. It was nothing to do with her after all, and yet if Jennifer was in there perhaps her father would be glad of an ally.
With sudden determination she turned the handle and opened the door. The library seemed full of people, but she realized that was because they all seemed to be standing instead of relaxing in the comfortable leather chairs. Jennifer was there and so was Harold Mortimer, her father’s chief accountant. Robert McMaster was leaning heavily on his desk and Stephanie’s heart went out to him before she looked at the man who faced her father across the desk; a man she had never seen before, although the man behind him was familiar; it was Pietro Bastinado.
Her intrusion caused all eyes to turn in her direction and as she met the gaze of the stranger her whole being seemed to suffuse with colour at the insolent penetration of his dark eyes. He was a man like no man she had ever previously encountered. Tall and lean, with a kind of latent virility about him, he was not a handsome man, and yet the carved planes of his face and the grim lines about his mouth and eyes were disturbingly attractive. His hair grew thick and black, low on his neckline so that it brushed the collar of his immaculate white shirt. His clothes fitted him closely and accentuated his masculinity, and from the deep tan of his skin she guessed he was no Englishman. It was an effort to drag her gaze away from that intensive appraisal and she looked back at her father.
Robert McMaster straightened from his stooping position and said: ‘You’re back, Stephanie. You might as well come in. This affects you just as much as any of us.’ He ran a tired hand over his forehead and sank down wearily into his chair. ‘It seems - I can’t go on.’
