by Sara Craven
And, she thought, thrusting sun oil and dark glasses into her pale straw shoulder bag, she must never let herself forget that.
The grounds of the castello were a riot of blossom. As they made their way down the path Flora was assailed by scent and colour on all sides. Roses hung in a lovely tangle over stone walls and the stumps of trees, studded by the paler shades of camellias. Terracotta urns, heavy with pelargoniums, marked each bend in the track, which occasionally became shallow stone steps.
At one point their way was blocked by a tall wrought-iron gate.
‘My grandfather had it put there when I was a small child,’ Marco explained, releasing the catch. ‘He wanted to make sure I never went down to the beach to swim unsupervised.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘And did it work?’
‘No.’ He slanted a grin at her, and for a moment she glimpsed the boy he’d once been. Her heart twisted inside her.
The cove was bigger than she’d expected. At one end there was a boathouse, and a small landing stage, at the other, separated by a crescent of pale sand, was a platform of flat rock.
‘You can dive from that rock,’ Marco said. ‘The beach shelves quickly and very deeply. It is easy to get out of one’s depth.’
She thought, I’m out of my depth now—and drowning.
Aloud, she said, ‘Then I’ll have to be careful.’
There were sun loungers on the sand, two of them, under a large striped umbrella. And under the shadow of the cliff was a small pavilion painted pale blue, with a pretty domed roof.
‘It has changing rooms and a shower,’ Marco explained, as if it was all a matter of course. ‘Also a refrigerator with cold drinks.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Naturally it would have.’
His brows lifted. ‘You disapprove?’
‘No.’ She pulled a face. ‘I was just thinking of the poor souls who have to schlep down here to arrange the sun beds and refill the fridge.’
‘They provide a service for which they are well paid,’ he said, after a pause, adding drily, ‘As you do yourself, mia cara.’ He gave her a meditative look. ‘Would you prefer me if I lived in a city flat without air-conditioning and cooked for myself?’
‘No.’ Her tone was defensive. She gestured wildly around her. ‘I’m just not prepared for—all this.’
‘I hoped San Silvestro would please you.’
‘It does. It’s unbelievably beautiful and I’m totally knocked out by it. But I’m Flora Graham, and I do live in the city, without air-conditioning, and I do my own cooking—and I don’t know what I’m doing here.’
‘You are here because I asked you, Flora mia. Because I wanted you to spend some time with me in a place that I love.’ He stripped off the shirt he was wearing and held out his hand to her. ‘Now, let us go for a swim.’
The water felt like warm satin against her skin. She swam, then floated for a while, looking up at the unsullied blue of the sky, then swam again, making her way over to the rocks. She clambered up on to one of them and perched there, wringing the water out of her hair.
After a few moments Marco joined her, bringing the sun oil with him.
‘You must use this, cara, or you will burn.’
She applied the fragrant oil to her arms and legs, then handed him the bottle. ‘Do my back for me, please?’
He dropped a kiss on her warm shoulder. ‘The pleasure will be all mine,’ he assured her softly. He undid the clip of her bikini top, pushing away the straps, and began to rub the oil into her skin with deft, light strokes. She moved luxuriously under his touch, lifting her face to the sun, smiling when his hands moved to her uncovered breasts.
Then felt him halt, tensing suddenly.
‘Don’t stop,’ Flora whispered protestingly, teasingly.
‘Listen.’ His tone was imperative.
Mystified she obeyed, and heard the throb of an approaching engine. Next moment a boat, low, sleek and powerful, appeared round the headland, a solitary figure at its wheel.
Flora saw an arm lifted in greeting, then the boat turned into the cove, heading for the landing stage.
Marco said something quiet, grim, and probably obscene under his breath. Then, ‘Cover yourself, cara,’ he ordered.
Flora retrieved her bikini top and he clipped it swiftly into place.
By the time they had clambered down from the rocks the boat had come to rest and its occupant was on the landing stage, making it secure.
He was of medium height, and stockily built, with a coarsely handsome face. He was wearing minuscule shorts and a striped top, and he strutted towards them, his full mouth grinning broadly.
‘Ciao, Marco. Come va?’ He burst into a flood of Italian, his bold eyes raking Flora as he did so.
‘Tonio,’ Marco acknowledged coolly, his fingers closing round Flora’s.
A gesture not lost on the newcomer. ‘Ciao, bella. Come ti chiami?’
Flora lifted her chin. ‘I’m sorry, signore, but I don’t speak your language.’
There was an odd silence. Then, ‘Inglesa, eh?’ their visitor said musingly. ‘Well, well.’ The black eyes surveyed her unwinkingly. ‘And what is your name, bella ragazza?’
‘This is Flora Graham,’ Marco intervened coldly. ‘Flora, allow me to present Antonio Baressi.’
‘But you must call me Tonio.’ He gave her another lingering smile, then turned to Marco. ‘What a wonderful surprise to find you here, my friend. I thought, after your successful mission, you would be keen to get back to your desk in Milan. Instead you are entertaining a charming guest. Bravo.’
Marco’s mouth tightened. ‘What are you doing here, Tonio?’
‘Visiting Zia Paolina, naturally.’ He allowed a pause, then smote a fist theatrically against his forehead. ‘But of course—you did not realise she was in residence. She will be fascinated to know that you are at the castello. May I take some message from you?’
On the surface he was all smiles, and eagerness to please, but Flora wasn’t deceived. There was something simmering in the air, here, a tension that was almost tangible.
‘Thank you,’ Marco said with cool civility. ‘But I shall make a point of contacting her myself.’
Tonio turned to Flora. ‘My aunt is Marco’s madrina—his godmother,’ he explained. ‘It is a special relationship, you understand. Since the sad death of his parents they have always been close.’ The black eyes glittered jovially at her. ‘But I am sure he has already told you this.’
Flora murmured something polite and noncommittal. The sun was blazingly hot, but she felt a faint chill, as if cold fingers had been laid along her spine, and found herself moving almost unconsciously slightly closer to Marco.
‘You must bring Signorina Flora to meet Zia Paolina,’ Tonio went on. ‘She will be enchanted—and Ottavia, too, naturalamente.’ He dropped the name like a stone into a pool, then gave them an insinuating glance. ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to be alone.’
‘Si,’ Marco said softly, his hand tightening round Flora’s. ‘I think so.’
Tonio shrugged. ‘How well I understand. In your shoes I would do the same.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers, accompanying the gesture with a slight leer. ‘You are a fortunate man, compagno, so why waste valuable time paying visits?’
Marco said, very softly, ‘Or receiving them…’
‘Ah.’ The other’s smile widened. ‘A hint to be gone. You wish to enjoy each other’s company undisturbed. Si, capisce. Arrivederci, signorina. I hope we meet again.’
That, thought Flora, is the last thing I want. But she forced a smile. ‘Thank you.’
As they stood, watching the boat heading out to sea again, she stole a glance at Marco, aware of him rigid beside her, his face expressionless.
She said, quietly and clearly, ‘What a squalid little man.’
There was a silence, then she felt him relax slightly. He turned to her, his smile rueful.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘And today he was relatively well-behaved
.’
She hesitated. ‘We don’t—have to see him again, do we?’
‘I hope not.’ Marco’s mouth tightened. ‘But, as you see, he does not always wait for an invitation.’
She said slowly, ‘He’d need a hide like a rhinoceros to come back. You were hardly welcoming.’
‘I have my reasons.’
She bit her lip. ‘Are you going to tell me what they are?’
‘Perhaps one day,’ he said, after a silence. ‘But not now. Not yet.’ He moved his shoulders briefly, almost irritably, as if shaking off some burden. ‘Do you wish to swim again, cara, or shall we go back to the house? Has that fool spoiled the afternoon for you?’
‘He’s spoiled nothing. And he’s gone. So I’d like to stay for a while—catch the last of the sun.’ Flora moved over to one of the sun loungers and lay down on it. As Marco stretched himself silently beside her she looked at him, aware of his air of preoccupation.
She said suddenly, ‘Marco, if you feel you should visit your godmother, then that’s fine with me. I’ll be perfectly happy to stay here.’
‘Do not concern yourself, carissima. I have more than fulfilled my obligations to her, believe me.’
He spoke quietly, but she could hear an underlying note of almost savage anger in his voice, and was shaken by it.
There were undercurrents here, she thought, staring sightlessly at the sky, that she could not begin to understand. But, then, her comprehension wasn’t required, she reminded herself with a pang. His other relationships were none of her business. Because she was here to share Marco’s bed, not his problems.
So she wouldn’t ask any more questions about Zia Paolina.
Nor would she permit herself to speculate about the unknown Ottavia, and her place in the scheme of things. After all, Marco had enjoyed a life before he met her, and that life would continue after she was gone. She couldn’t allow that to matter.
But then she remembered the satisfaction in Tonio’s voice when he’d pronounced the name—the gloating relish in his black eyes—and she knew that Ottavia could not be so easily dismissed.
She thought suddenly, Tonio’s the serpent that Marco warned me about—the serpent waiting for me here in paradise.
And found herself shivering, as if a dark cloud had covered the sun.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WASN’T really a cloud, Flora decided. It was more a faint shadow. Yet she was aware of it all the time.
It was there in the sunlit days, while she and Marco went to the beach, swam in the pool, played tennis, and explored the surrounding countryside.
While they dined by candlelight, or sat on the moonlit terrace, drinking wine and talking, or listening to music.
It was even there at nights, when he made love to her with such exquisite skill and passion, or soothed her to sleep in his arms.
And the time was long past when she could have said totally casually, Who is Ottavia?
To ask now would be to reveal that it was preying on her mind. That it had come to matter. And she couldn’t let him know that.
Because she had no right to concern herself. The parameters of their relationship were in place, and there was no space for jealousy.
There had been no more unwelcome visitors. In fact, no visitors at all. The real world was hardly allowed to intrude.
Flora was wryly aware how quickly she’d adapted to life at the castello, where unseen hands seemed to anticipate her every wish.
It was the quiet, impassive presence of Alfredo, she knew, that made San Silvestro run with such smooth efficiency. And, whatever his private views on her presence, he treated her invariably with soft-voiced respect.
Which was more than could always be said for Ninetta, Flora acknowledged frowningly. And it was just unfortunate that she had more to do with her than any of the other servants at the castello.
Not that the girl was overtly insolent, or lazy. There was just something—sometimes—in her manner which spoke of a buried resentment. The occasional suggestion of a flounce, and a faint curl of the full lips when Flora requested some service.
Not that it happened often. However much Marco might tease her about it, Flora could no more leave her clothes lying around for someone else to pick up, or abandon wet towels on the bathroom floor than she could fly. But sometimes she felt that Ninetta might have thought better of her if she’d done exactly that.
Or perhaps the girl was just tired of having to run round after yet another of the signore’s mistresses, she thought, with a stifled sigh. Although she could never ask her that, of course. Or whether Ottavia had ever been one of them…
She firmly closed off that line of questioning. She had to learn to live entirely for the present, she told herself. It was pointless concerning herself about the past, or even worrying over the future, because both were out of her hands.
So, it would be one day at a time, and no more, and what was the problem with that when she was so happy?
And no one, she thought, could ever take that away from her.
The boathouse, Flora had soon learned, was not just for show. It contained a speedboat, which Marco used mainly for water-skiing, as well as his windsurfer, and a sailing boat—the Beatrice II.
‘My father built the first one, and named it for my mother,’ he told Flora when he took her sailing the first time, standing behind her, steadying her hands on the wheel. ‘I decided to continue the tradition.’
‘Did she like to sail?’ Flora found she was revelling in this swoop along the coast, her ear already attuned to the slap of water against the bow and the song of the wind in the sails above her.
He shrugged. ‘My father loved to—and she loved to be with him. She even watched him play polo, which terrified her. And she was his first passenger when he got his pilot’s licence.’ There was a taut silence. ‘And, of course, his last.’
Flora was very still. Marco knew every detail of her family background, but up to now had said very little about his own. Perhaps this new candour would drive away the faint mist which seemed to hang between them.
‘There was an accident?’ Tentatively, she broke the brooding quiet.
‘Some kind of mechanical failure.’ His tone was brusque with remembered pain. ‘They were flying down here from Rome for my grandfather’s birthday. I had been allowed home from school for the occasion too, and I remember going with Nonno Giovanni to meet them at the airfield, whining because they were so late and I was getting bored.
‘And then someone came and called my grandfather away into another room. I could watch him through the glass partition, although I could not hear what was being said. But I saw his face—and I knew.’
‘How—how old were you?’ Flora asked, her heart twisting.
‘I was ten. Usually I flew with them too, and I had been angry because they had gone to Rome without me, to collect Nonno Giovanni’s birthday gift.’
He shook his head. ‘To this day I do not know what it was they had bought for him. But it could never have been worth the price they paid for it.’
She said quietly, ‘Marco—I’m so sorry. I—I had no idea, even though you’ve always talked about your grandfather rather than your parents. It must have been terrible for you.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It was a bad time for us all. And I hardly had time to mourn before Nonno Giovanni began to train me as the next head of the family and the future chairman of Altimazza.’
She gasped. ‘But you were just a small child.’
‘The circumstances demanded that I grow up quickly,’ Marco said drily. ‘That I should understand and accept the responsibilities waiting for me.’
She leaned back against him. Her voice was husky. ‘And when you became a man, what if you’d decided that kind of life wasn’t for you?’
‘Ah, mia cara, that was never an option.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Only once was I offered a choice—and then I chose wrongly.’ His voice was suddenly harsh.
She said hesitantly, ‘But
now you’re free—surely?’
His arms tightened around her. She felt his mouth, gentle on the nape of her neck. ‘I want to believe that, mia bella. Dio—how much I want to believe it.’ There was a note almost of anguish in his tone.
He said no more, and she did not like to probe further.
Later they anchored in a small bay and swam, then picnicked on board. Afterwards, Marco made love to her with slow, passionate intensity, his eyes fixed almost painfully on her face, as if asking a question he dared not speak aloud.
What is it, my love? her heart cried out to him. Ask me—please…
When they arrived back at San Silvestro Alfredo was waiting on the landing stage, grave-faced.
‘There has been a telephone call, signore—from the laboratories. They need to speak urgently with you.’
Marco cursed softly, then turned to Flora. ‘Forgive me, carissima. I had better see what they want.’ He set off up the path to the house, with Alfredo behind him, leaving Flora to follow more slowly.
She had showered and put on a slip of a dress, sleeveless and scoop-necked in an ivory silky fabric which showed off her growing tan, by the time Marco came into the room, his face serious and preoccupied.
He said without preamble, ‘Flora, I have to go to Milan straight away. We have been conducting tests on a new drug to help asthma sufferers, which we believe could be a real breakthrough, but there seem to be problems—something which I must deal with immediately.’
‘Oh.’ Flora put down her mascara wand. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘I think you would be too much of a distraction, mia bella.’ His tone was rueful. ‘Stay here and relax, and I will be back in a couple of days.’
‘Then shall I pack for you?’
He shook his head. ‘Alfredo has already done so. The helicopter is coming for me very soon.’
He came across to her and pulled her to her feet. ‘I hate to leave you, carissima.’ His tone thickened. ‘But this is important.’
‘Of course. And I’ll be fine.’ She smiled up at him, resolutely ignoring the ball of ice beginning to form in the pit of her stomach. Because this enforced absence would eat into the diminishing amount of time she had to spend with him. ‘Alfredo will look after me.’
