Loving Venus (Sally-Ann Jones Sexy Romance)

by Sally-Ann Jones

  “Enjoy the music alone, Al,” she said, also marching determinedly away from him.

  Umberto, who was peering through the crowd to watch the little drama unfolding in the middle of the village square, stood up when he saw her coming towards him. He went to her and took her hand in his.

  “Will you dance with me, Bella?” he asked gently, stung by the tears that glittered in her eyes.

  She nodded gratefully and they made their way into the sea of moving bodies, a sea where Alessandro no longer dominated. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen, although Annabella’s eyes raked the square as well the tables and chairs that flanked it. Nor was Claudia there.

  Alessandro stormed up the hill to the cottage, his white dinner jacket flung untidily over his shoulder. His brain was full of images of his young relative. Before tonight, he had known she was beautiful. Had he not already begun painting her as a modern-day Venus? But tonight, in that fabulous dress, she was even lovelier. Naked, as he had seen her in the kitchen, she was a natural, unaffected young woman. But in that gown, she was a seductress, fully aware of her power over men, especially, he was sure, of her power over him. He’d have to guard against letting her get a glimmer of that power ever again.

  As he raged away from Fortezza Rosa, the sounds of laughter and music receding as one foot stamped urgently in front of the other, he was tormented by memories of her as she had been in the village square. Of a shoestring strap sliding off her white shoulder. The rise of her breasts in the beautiful sequined bodice. Of the red banner of her hair flying out behind her as he spun her above the ground. Of her leaning lovingly against the doctor as he led her into the square to dance. He must record all these pictures before they crowded his head and drove him crazy!

  Entering his little domain, he tossed the jacket on the rumpled, unmade bed and rushed into the room he used as his studio. Not bothering to change out of his evening wear, he snatched up a paintbrush and feverishly began to work, despite having only the light from a 40 watt naked globe to illuminate his picture.

  He caressed the canvas with his brush, stroking on the paint as he would stroke the skin and tender, secret places of a lover’s body. Every touch was sensual, charged with feeling. Gradually, a female form did appear beneath his careful, clever fingers. Annabella’s, in all its glory. But the creation of her did nothing to dispel his desire. He could never quite lose himself enough in his work to be able to forget, or even to ignore, his own hard, insistent masculine body. He sweated with the force of his desire, the urgent compulsion to create the illusion that his second cousin was right here, with him, in the lowly cottage where he was now forced to live.

  He lost track of time, of hunger, of thirst, of fatigue.

  But, suddenly he was jerked back to reality.

  “Tu sei la reginella,” he heard. You are the little queen. It was the song his mother always sang. La Bella Campagnina. He tore his eyes away from the vibrant, throbbing colours of the canvas, from the gorgeous creature immortalized there and turned in the direction of the sound, amazed to notice that sunlight was streaming through the window, that, judging from its brightness, it was almost mid-morning. He saw her bending in the field halfway up the hill, perhaps to pull a previously unnoticed weed from the now well-tended vineyard. She wore their great-grandfather’s big straw hat over her unruly curls, the ridiculous square of silk that doubled as a scarf or a top, and very short cut-off jeans. Seeing her surrounded by the vines she had tended so competently they were now boasting glossy bunches of golden grapes, hearing her singing the Italian folksong he knew so well, Alessandro was struck with an unwelcome thought.

  Usurped by her, he had taken strange consolation in the fact that she was an Australian. A common, ordinary Smith. She’d never last in Tuscany, when her roots so obviously drew sustenance elsewhere. She was a gum tree, not a noble cypress. But in fact, he realized, she was as much a de Rocco as he was. She sang the song that had been his mother’s favourite every bit as well as his mother had – without a trace of an Australian accent. Without a doubt, Annabella had made her home here and, judging by the way the whole estate seemed better cared for in just a few days, her heart was here too. Of course! he recalled bitterly, his own heart missing a beat as his exhausted brain remembered the conversation he had overheard in Tomasina’s house. She was to be married to Doctor Esposito. Naturally she planned to stay in Tuscany and have her children here. Little brats who would overrun his beautiful villa and fill it with noise and plastic toys and washing-lines full of nappies and bibs.

  He threw down the wet paintbrush, not noticing the crimson splash that splattered his night’s meticulous work. He couldn’t concentrate now. An emotion he could not have identified caused him to violently draw closed the wooden shutters that hung on either side of the window, barring the sight of his maddening relation although he could still hear her high, sweet voice singing. For a second he considered going to visit Claudia, then thought better of it. A cold shower would have to do.

  Annabella, pulling a few weeds she and Carlo had missed previously, heard the bang of the shutters and looked down the hill to the cottage, hoping to catch sight of Alessandro. She’d persuaded herself that she was keen to look at the their great-grandfather’s records and wanted to ask him if it would be convenient to collect them this morning. But, if she were honest with herself, she was even more keen to see her second cousin. She’d hardly slept all night, thinking of him, of the hurt, stunned look on his face as she deserted him in the square. She and Umberto had enjoyed, as they always did, a pleasant evening, dancing and chatting. They were good friends, after all. But Annabella never found herself dreaming of the doctor. It was always Alessandro she summoned when she slept, and she was ashamed of her hungry, abandoned imaginings. Were all women so lustful, even if only in their fantasies?

  She blushed when she remembered her night-time thoughts and secret actions. But he was so, so devastatingly beautiful. There was no other word for it. The sweep of dark eyelashes against his high cheekbone. The proud, Roman curve of the nose. The determination in that square, dimpled chin. And the soft promise in the full lips, the top one never without its blue-black shadow. She recalled so well the strong imprint of his body against hers that it was as if he were still there, his potency very much in evidence. She ached for him as if her body were a void that cried out to be filled. Never had she felt such a ravenous emptiness. Every cell of her wanted him, much to her chagrin.

  It would be madness to go down to the cottage and ask him for the record-books, she decided. She’d probably inadvertently say or do something acutely embarrassing, something so appalling she’d never be able to look him in the eyes again. And he, with all his experience of women, would be able to read her want in her face. How contemptuous he’d be of her unseemly desire! In one respect, he was certainly right about her. She really was a common little farm girl, with all the appetite and greed of one. The sophisticated women with whom he consorted in Florence or Siena would never stoop as low as she, Annabella Smith. They wouldn’t hunger after a man that way, as if he were water and they at death’s door after crawling across burning sands.

  She tore at the weeds in her hands and shredded them into pieces before turning and heading back to the villa, where Tonia would be cooking lunch for them both.

  So, Bella,” Tonia began, placing two steaming plates of pasta smothered in pine nut and basil pesto on the table under the fig tree. “Did your Alessandro adore you in that frock?”

  “Hm!” snorted Annabella, sitting down and ravenously plunging her fork into the fragrant food. “He hardly noticed me. It was the music he liked. I was just a convenience, someone to dance with. But I wasn’t prepared to be treated like that, so I danced with Umberto instead and Al disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Tonia repeated, aghast. She was now sitting opposite the young heiress and was staring at her agape, her fork aloft.

  “He’s in the cottage, I think. God knows what he gets up to all the time in the
re. I’m sure he must have a girlfriend stashed away somewhere. I hardly see him. While you were away, I gave him a little food, but he must have polished that off by now.”

  Tonia was shaking her head sorrowfully. “I must confess, I found the music at the dance too loud after a little while and took refuge in Tomasina’s house. Carlo’s parents came in too, soon after me, and we played cards and talked until they drove me home a little after eleven.” She clicked her tongue lugubriously. “I was sure he’d come around, after seeing you look so irresistible,” she added.

  The housekeeper twisted her fork in the spaghetti thoughtfully. There are other ways to skin a cat, she told herself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Do you remember your great-grandfather’s Bentley?” Tonia asked her when they’d finished their lunch and were enjoying coffee and figs.

  “Yes,” Annabella said eagerly. “Whatever happened to it?”

  Tonia smiled to herself. Perhaps this is going to work, after all, she silently told the old man.

  “You’re being very coy, Tonia,” the young woman laughed when Tonia didn’t answer straight away. “Are you cooking up some scheme?”

  “Me? Don’t be silly!” the housekeeper answered, smiling. “I just wondered if you’d like to see it again, that’s all.”

  “Of course I would! I didn’t realize it was still around!” Annabella rejoined, jumping up. “Where is it?”

  “Come and I’ll show you.”

  Tonia led the way to the stables, where the geriatric horses snickered eagerly and were rewarded with sugar lumps. She unlocked a heavy wooden door behind which Annabella had always suspected was kept ancient farm machinery. But the young woman was pleasantly surprised. Under a moth-eaten dust-cover was the unmistakable shape of the grand vehicle that had been her great grand-father’s pride and joy.

  “I haven’t come in here since my darling husband passed away,” Tonia whispered sadly. “But now the time has come. Here, let me help you lift that off.”

  Both holding their breath so as not to inhale too much dust, the two women each took a corner of the dust-cover and gradually rolled it back to reveal the low, black, elegant car. Even after all the years, the familiar smell of leather and walnut wood, cigarette smoke and yellow roses emanated from it and Annabella’s eyes filled with tears and she saw, as vividly as if he were still alive, the beloved old man at the wheel, a smile on his lips as he drove his great grand-daughter to Fortezza Rose to show her off to his card-playing cronies.

  There were patches of rust and a few minor dents in the faded black body, but nothing Annabella couldn’t fix with the right equipment. Enthusiastically, she lifted the bonnet and peered underneath to examine the engine. Again, she was sure she was capable of anything that needed doing. After all, she’d lived on a farm all her life, a farm where machinery had to be cared for well into old, old age for there was never enough money for new plant. Her father had taught her the basics of mechanics and panel-work so that, as the only labourer he could afford, she’d be able to help him. Not that she’d ever been anything but more than willing to learn. She revelled in the challenge of repairing something and seeing it last another three or four seasons. She liked to know that she was a self-sufficient woman, able to mend a leaking radiator or change a tyre as well as bake a sponge-cake to die for.

  “Now that I’ve done as much in the vineyards and olive groves as I can, and paid Carlo and the other workers, I think I’ll take on this Bentley as my next project,” Annabella told Tonia, wiping her greasy hands on her shorts. Then her face clouded over as she said less confidently, “Do you think our great-grandfather would have minded if I were to make the car roadworthy again?”

  “Mind!” Tonia laughed. “He’d have been absolutely delighted, cara. Why don’t you take a little siesta now, eh? Then you can begin fresh later this afternoon.”

  “I’m far too excited to sleep!” Annabella enthused. “I think I’ll begin right away. I’m sure if I look around I’ll find all the tools I need.”

  “Well, I’m going to have a siesta,” Tonia said. “You have fun.”

  Annabella’s next fortnight was spent almost exclusively with the Bentley. Like her great grand-father before her, she couldn’t bring herself to think of the automobile as anything but a grand old lady and, when she spoke of the car to Tonia, who was the only person who knew of Annabella’s obsession with the vehicle, Annabella referred to the Bentley as “her”. For the first day or so, she merely walked around and around her, running her fingers lovingly over her once-proud body, silently promising the car, and herself, that she would restore her to her former glory. She took note of everything that needed fixing, down to the tiniest detail, and worked out a plan of action. Then she checked the tools that were lying around the shed and gathered them all together on the workbench, which she dusted down and freed of cobwebs. Watched by the horses, who hung their heads over their stalls and watched her interestedly, and the big white sheepdogs, she set to work methodically.

  Meanwhile, Alessandro was also hard at work, on a project just as secret as his second cousin’s. Their paths hardly crossed, both too occupied with their work to do more than take short breaks for food and sleep. It was Tonia who made sure he ate, although when she carried the wicker basket of delicacies down the hill to the cottage, he accepted it gladly from the front door and never invited her in. Like Annabella, the housekeeper wondered what was occupying him inside the cottage.

  He lost track of time as he painted, living in a world of colour and swirling shapes, of remembered scent wafting from long auburn hair. He could spend every minute of a day merely capturing the exact colour her eyes had been as she danced under the moonlight. A whole week could go by before he was happy with her wistful smile. Gradually, however, first one room of the cottage and then another, and another, and another, were filled with pictures of Annabella. The glorious canvasses were propped against the walls so that the dusty little chambers became alive with her presence.

  He could almost hear her voice as he pored over her. In his imagination, she was always singing the song he’d loved as a boy, La Bella Campagnina. The beautiful country girl. She really was the beautiful country girl. The most beautiful of all the girls. As lovely as Titian’s revered Venus. But she had uprooted him from his ancestral home and, according to Tonia and Tomasina’s overheard conversation, was planning on marrying the dottore. Over and over he reminded himself that undoubtedly, the two of them would fill the beautiful old villa with several snotty-nosed brats. And, to add insult to injury, she had wrested the Palio from him too. Yet she was as close to divine as it was possible for any woman to be.

  Alessandro was startled from his concentration on the enchanting dimple in her elbow by the purr of the old man’s Bentley. He shook his head to rid himself of the memory, tears pricking his eyes. Not a day went by that he didn’t think of his great- grandfather and miss him with a pang that was physical. When he’d first begun painting Annabella, as he’d seen her on the pine kitchen table, looking out of the window into the night, hewas seized with self-doubt. What a fool he was, believing he could paint like Titian! What a delusional, misguided, arrogant clown, he chided himself, tossing down the brush. But, as he had stood glaring with hatred at his work, at the picture of his second cousin, he was sure he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. A hand he’d felt there in reality a thousand times before. It was a hand that had encouraged him to get back on his bicycle when he fell off as an impatient five year-old. A hand that had consoled him on the loss of a kitten. A hand that had willed strength into him when he was given the salamander. Alessandro shrugged off that memory as if it would scorch his brain. But the loving hand remained and he knew it was the old man’s and that Alessandro senior was assuring him he was doing the right thing by trying to be an artist.

  Now he could hear his car, although it was years since he’d been driven in it. Only Tonia’s husband had been able to coax life into the old thing and, since his death, his grea
t-grandfather had contented himself with the one taxi that Fortezza Rosa possessed. What a powerful tool the imagination was, he thought.

  Alessandro turned back to the dimple. Annabella’s arm was round and creamy, the dimple a tiny dot of burnt umber, perhaps, or gold. He experimented with both colours, mixed them, diluted them, dabbed a spot of paint and stepped back to admire the effect.

  There was the purring noise again! It was not his imagination, surely. Or perhaps he was going mad. The sound brought his beloved relation back to him so powerfully that he could almost see him in the passenger seat and hear the imperial horn as it warned the chickens in the yard to scatter.

  “Jump in, my boy!” he heard, as if the old man really were there.

  Then the horn really did blare. He was sure he had actually heard it. Alessandro tossed down the brush, fury making his movements hasty and explosive. Who dared to touch the Bentley? How had she even managed to get it out of the garage?

  These questions crowding his brain, he flung himself out of the cottage and was shocked to the core to see the Bentley as it had been long ago, when he was a child. It gleamed in the sunlight and his expert eye immediately saw it was in perfect condition. It must, he thought with a strange mixture of relief and disappointment, be another car. Exactly the same year and model but one that had been lovingly restored with a collector’s eye for detail. Perhaps it belonged to wealthy tourists who were … Then his eye fell on its driver. Annabella.

  “Al!” she called before he could open his mouth to either protest or praise – he did not know which. “Will you come for a ride? I’ll even let you drive.”

  He knew immediately it was their great-grandfather’s car and, without having to ask, he also realized that his second cousin had been the one who had made her roadworthy again. More than roadworthy in fact. Stunning.