This physical attraction was stupid. It was only her body remembering Hektor, and how he had awakened her young womanhood. She was a little susceptible, perhaps, to his type of dark Latin beauty. But then, she'd been young, innocent and careless. How could any girl, her sexuality budding, have resisted beautiful Hektor? Dark hair, long, lithe limbs, flashing smile. Her young blood stirred when he was near, and when he whispered words of love in her willing ear.
But seriously. She wasn't fifteen anymore. Some self-control, Clio.
Not only did she dislike and mistrust Guillermo's smooth sexy demeanor, she knew better than to surrender to his charm. She didn't buy it. He was superficial. And dangerous for someone like her. Furthermore, she had no business even thinking like this. She had her priorities straight, and completing her thesis took precedence over all distractions now. Even if she were looking for love, this would be the wrong place to begin her search.
Patience Clio. Once you have your Ph.D. and a good job, you can relax and begin to think about your future life. Then you can contemplate the kind of partner you want and need. But not yet. She tried to soothe her inner yearnings, the unfulfilled hunger that ate at her more and more. She mustn't let her deprivation lead her to do anything foolish.
But, my God, he was gorgeous. She stared hard into her coffee cup, taking a long draught.
"Signorina Clio. Buongiorno. I see you are restored to your… usual, virtuous self."
Clio looked up and locked gazes with his. It was not her imagination that he was laughing at her. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and sparkled blue, blue, blue and mocking. No, his face had softened, the corner of his mouth tilting almost imperceptibly. He was… he was admiring her. A flush of hot embarrassment erupted into her face, her pulse quickened, and she dropped her eyes again. It felt as though he were undressing her with his gaze. How could he do that? She shook her head at such nonsense. It was only that he caught her in the midst of her own heated thoughts.
"Good morning. I also understood that you had left."
His head bobbed from side to side. "Well. Yes, clearly I left. But I could not abandon my charge, could I, after all the trouble I went through last night? I must see through this heroic gesture and keep my word to you. I returned a couple of hours ago."
Words and notions flitted through her head. Charge, he'd called her, placing a peculiar emphasis on the word, making her think of all its possible meanings. Responsibility, yes. But also attack. Accusation. Demand. Electricity. Thrill.
Clio tried to calm her too-rapid breathing, concentrating on her breakfast.
"I apologize, Signorina, for my behavior last evening. I was merely shocked by the news, and decided to take a ride to clear my head." With his eyelids drooping, his lower lip protruded thoughtfully, dismissing his passing tempest, though Clio thought it was another pose. I wonder how he really feels today? There were blue smudges of fatigue under his eyes. And an air of melancholy under his charming surface.
Anna brought his coffee and plate, and he tucked into it with gusto. Everyone else resumed eating, and soon the children were squirming.
"Come outside with us, Memmo," begged Gemma. She pulled at his sleeve. "I want to show you something."
"Ha. I've heard that one before, young seductress."
"Leave Memmo to eat, cara," Pia said.
"I'm finished eating," Clio said. "Would you let me come outside with you? I'd love for you to show me around the gardens."
Gemma eyed her shyly. But Gabriel sat up straighter. "I will give you a tour of the estate, signorina," he offered gallantly.
Clio rose, glad to escape those penetrating blue eyes.
Once Clio and the children had excused themselves, Guillermo was able to grill Pia and Paulo for a few more pertinent details about Jacopo's situation. From them he learned that the property was not publicly listed, but that Jacopo was working discretely with a very high-end estate agent, who was personally bringing eligible candidates forward for Jacopo to meet.
He determined to hunt down Jacopo and talk to him the minute he returned to Florence. Even if there was no hope, he felt the need to confront his brother. Maybe there was something he had overlooked.
But for now, there was nothing to be done and no point in dwelling on it. Outside in the garden roamed a beautiful red-headed stranger who needed more than a little of his personal attention.
He rose and excused himself, strolling out the glass doors in search of her.
When he saw her this morning, he was surprised and amused yet again by her appearance. Gone was the feminine, Pre-Raphaelite in flowing garments from last night, with unruly, freshly washed curling hair. In her place, he supposed, was the persona she presented to the world. Buttoned down and restrained and so very serious. Her beautiful wild auburn hair was ruthlessly smoothed and braided to keep it under control. And she was wearing the clean and pressed version of the clothing he'd found her in– a pale pink oxford shirt tucked into ill-fitting ecru chinos that almost succeeded in concealing her long luscious figure.
He laughed to himself as he rounded the side of the farmhouse, imagining how much fun it would be to melt her icy facade. No one with that hair, and those eyes and full, ripe lips could be insensate, or as uptight as she pretended to be. He only needed to find the key to her heart. Well, if not her heart, her libido.
He came upon them on the far side of the rose garden, overlooking the swimming pool terrace, with the vineyards stretching out beyond.
"The farm has been in Paulo's family for many generations," he said as he approached. Clio and the children turned when they heard him. He gave Gabriel the evil eye and head jerk, and the boy, good sport that he was, took the hint, suggesting that his sister go with him to the barn to see a foal.
Guillermo gestured for her to walk with him under a grape arbor that arced along the side of the hill lined with lavender and chamomile shrubs, their scent rising as the morning warmed. "But the family, they have been city dwellers for years, leasing out the land to tenant farmers, and it was in ruin. It is Paulo's wish, and his mission to restore it. He is a talented winemaker, so that is his principal passion."
"I suppose that is what you would like to see happen at your own estate?"
Guillermo paused, closing his eyes for a brief moment, swallowing the bile that rose in his gullet. How had she managed to turn the conversation to his own property? "I am no farmer," was all he said. "That was my brother's responsibility. I am an architect, however, and it pains me to see our lovely villa go into the hands of some stranger who may not value it as we have done." He cleared his throat. "Paulo and Pia have done a wonderful job restoring the farm house."
She smiled. "I agree. The parts I've seen are lovely. I'm very fond of Umbrian limestone."
"Perhaps you would like to see the cantini…?" He noticed then that she wore no shoes, and indicated her bare feet. "Are you alright walking?"
"Oh, yes. I'm fine, and I would. Thank you."
He led her along a path and down to the entrance of the caves. "Tell me about yourself, Clio. What brings you to Italy?"
She seemed to ponder his question for an inordinately long time. He had expected a simple answer.
"My father, I suppose. Although he was Canadian, and Mother American, between the two of them, their careers have taken us abroad more than we have ever been home."
"And home is…?"
"Oh, well. Technically it's Princeton University, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Both my parents teach there, and we have a house. But I was born in a French hospital, and have spent much of my life in Europe. I was often at boarding schools in England and Switzerland. And touring Greece and Italy, especially, because of Father's research and teaching."
What an extraordinary life. It was like she was a high-class nomad. "Which is…?"
"Classical studies."
"I see. And your mother?"
"Linguistics."
They approached the entrance to the caves. The large wooden doors were aja
r, and a dim light shone from within, though no one would be working here on a Sunday. They paused at the threshold.
"Have you never had a home of your own, then?"
She blinked. "Yes. Many. Oh, nothing like yours of course, nothing with such history and significance." Again with the villa, like a virus, she would not let it go. "Usually I am studying somewhere completely different from my parents."
She was not at all like other American girls he had known. "But you are always studying?" He led the way into the darkened interior.
"Hmm. Oh, lovely vaults. So far. I'm very close to completing my Ph.D. I have only to write my thesis, the research is complete. More than complete. I've changed my mind too many times, gone shooting off in too many different directions. I'm totally out of time, actually."
"Thus the urgency. And Dr. Jovi?"
"My advisor, at the Accademia di Belle Arti in Florence. He's also a close friend and colleague of my Father."
They strolled through stacks of crates and wooden barrels. It was too early to offer her a taste of wine, but the space itself was private and peaceful and had a certain rustic architectural charm to it. "What will you do? Afterwards."
"I'll do what my parents do. Get a teaching post somewhere, and continue to do research in my field. I'll publish."
"Is this what you want to do?"
She looked at him, tilting her head in a most charming way, blinking. He noted that her eyelashes, rather than being auburn like her hair, were thick fans of deep chestnut brown that framed those lovely aquamarine eyes of hers. "I don't understand."
He looked back at her, equally nonplussed. What had he asked her again? Oh, right. Career - her key. What was so complicated about his question? "To be an academic. To spend your life teaching and doing research. Is this your passion?"
She rolled her shoulders and her gaze darted around aimlessly. She swallowed. "It's… it's what we Sinclair McBeal's do. We use our brains. That's always been stressed as the pinnacle of achievement."
Hmm. "I notice you also take photographs and sketch."
"Yes, I enjoy the research and record-keeping. As an art history student must do. More than the writing, actually."
"But it is not your passion. The art."
"Oh, I love art. All art. I think I've spent more time in galleries and museums than anywhere else in the world. It makes me very happy. But I also love teaching. Although I suppose…" she trailed off.
"You suppose…?"
She shook her head. "Oh, nothing, really. I just think I'd be better at teaching young children than university students. I'm not very good with…people." A rosy blush flooded her cheeks, and he smiled.
Guillermo saw his opening. He stopped walking and turned to face her. The dim lighting of the cantina cast deep shadows across her face. "Bella, Clio." He lifted a hand to her cheek, stroking his thumb across her exquisitely contoured jaw. She shivered minutely, and he pulled her closer with a gentle hand on her arm, bending his face close to hers. "You are so beautiful. I know simply by looking at you that there is so much more to you than meets the eye. You are a passionate woman. You stir my blood. Already I am devoted to you. I wish to show you–"
"I'll just bet you do!" She shoved roughly against his chest. He stumbled back.
"Eh–?" He touched his chest where the imprint of her hands still tingled.
"Get over yourself." She whirled around and strode toward the entry archway. Stopping and turning back, silhouetted against the bright sunlit day beyond, she let him have it. "How dare you? Do you honestly think you can impress me with those disingenuous, stale lines? I'm very sorry to offend you. I am most grateful to you for rescuing me and to your family for taking me in under duress, but you insult my intelligence if you think you can wrap me around your finger and have your way with me." She paused while he wondered at her shadowed expression, and the red halo that limned her hair. "Pah!" she spat and stormed away.
Guillermo blinked and stared after her. Stale? He frowned and scratched a hand over his jaw. Ho. So that's the way it was going to be.
Chapter 8
Guillermo chose to give Clio a lot of space for the remainder of their stay at Pia and Paulo's. He was polite and friendly, but gave equal attention to his sister, his brother-in-law and their children as he did to the stubborn, uptight redhead that had rejected him so decisively in the cantini.
He told himself he was really not interested in her anyway. He was not in the habit of working for the affections of the females in his life. He told himself that withdrawing his attention would cause her to regret her words, and bring her round of her own will. But that did not in fact occur. She seemed perfectly content when he kept his distance. In fact he was a little put out, and a little confused, and not a little frustrated by her.
From his sister, and from snippets of overheard conversations between them, Guillermo learned that, ironically, the infuriating woman was writing her thesis on the portrayal of religious ecstasy in Renaissance art. Ha. What would an iceberg like that know about ecstasy, religious or otherwise?
When she spoke of it, however, there was no evidence of ice in her veins, but rather fire. Her eyes sparkled and her face flushed with excitement as she described the various paintings and sculptures she had discovered for her research. In his mind's eye, those flashing teal eyes and blushing cheeks were for him, and he could imagine her amazing flaming hair spread out across his bed.
When she explained the way this particular phenomenon in Renaissance art was a manifestation of the Italian Counter Reformation, she came alive. He was utterly persuaded by her thesis that the portrayal of ecstasy in all its exquisite and earthly familiarity was the culmination of a mingling of spiritual and physical passion that epitomized the brilliant, opulent, theatrical and sensual nature of the Italian Baroque period. Caught up in her excitement, his own face felt hot and his loins bothered.
Stronzo. He nearly came in his jeans.
Thankfully he survived the rest of Sunday and Monday's civil drive to Montecchiello, where she confirmed that her car was not salvageable, the frame having been twisted beyond repair. She filled out a few forms at the local police station and then they continued on their way to Florence, where he dropped her off at the Accademia di Belle Arti in via Ricasoli where she assured him her advisor would be working and expecting to see her. So he left without discovering where she lived.
So. Just as well. He was rid of her at last.
After that, he dived back into his everyday existence with a vengeance. He worked hard, and played even harder. He parked his Ducati, pulled out his new Alpha Romeo 4C, and packed his agenda with client meetings, sumptuous dinner parties and hot dates. If Clio's face intruded into his thoughts at all, it was only with a remembered flash of annoyance. And he refused to think at all about Jacopo and the villa. Soon, he would forget these disturbances and settle into the life to which he was accustomed.
He awoke in the mornings sfatto, with an excruciating headache, a mouth that tasted merdoso, another beautiful rumpled blond in his bed whose name he couldn't remember, and a topa that burned like hot coals to remind him what he'd been doing with her. He began to recognize the patterns of his life with contempt. Io sono un fessacchione. A complete idiot. He was filled with self-loathing.
He tried to assuage his feelings of shame and disgust more than once with shopping sprees for new shoes and new shirts and beautiful leather driving gloves, but when he'd been driven to snap viciously at a client for compromising the perfection of his design with frivolous excuses about budget and regulations, he finally admitted that he was a wreck. He had to stop denying his rage and confront Jacopo.
The next day, he gathered enough steam to drive to the center city and find Jacopo at his constituency office, surrounded by his lackeys. Apparently they were still in the thick of putting a fresh new spin on his indiscretions, or as they would have the citizens believe, his tradimento. Betrayal.
When Guillermo saw Jacopo, he was flanked by a smartly
dressed man and woman in the midst of draping him with various shirts and ties, while he scanned papers on his desk and consulted with another aide. He made instant and meaningful eye contact. "Memmo!" He broke away from his assistants to embrace Guillermo, ties falling off of him like confetti.
"Hey! Guillermo, how are you?" came a flutter of greetings from Jacopo's familiar staff, as they pulled him back and surrounded him again. Guillermo's chest tightened and he narrowed his eyes at his brother, taking a slow breath. Stay calm.
"Ciao, Guillermo."
"So what brings you here?"
"Can you get out for a quick espresso? We need to talk." Guillermo raised a brow.
"Sorry, you can't have him."
"Not right now," Jacopo gestured at the bustle around him.
"We've got to get him ready for a press conference at two."
"Angela?"
A moment later, a striking young woman brought Guillermo an espresso, handing it to him with a broad, admiring smile.
"Grazie, Angela." Guillermo flashed a smile and a wink, and she returned his look coyly. Too easy.
"Seriously, Jacopo, we need to talk. Privately."
"I know, I know. But we can talk here. I have no secrets from my people."
It felt wrong to him, this openness with family business. "Maybe you should have a few more secrets, eh? Isn't that your problem?"
Jacopo grunted. "I didn't plan for this to happen."
"Maybe a little more planning, then. You do have people."
"We're dealing with it. What do you need?"
Don't dismiss me. "I had dinner with Pia and Paulo last weekend."
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 5
