One huge tree grew to the side, its wide, generous branches arching overhead, casting a welcome dappled shade over the sun drenched terrace. Oh. What a beautiful al fresco dining room. A place for large family meals. Clio could almost hear the echo of voices and the laughter of children on the breeze, a memento of generations of family celebrations.
It wasn't at all a formal place. To Clio it appeared well lived-in, and well loved.
Guillermo took her hand and tugged her forward, his gaze ahead. A brittle laugh broke from him and, letting her hand slide out of his grasp, he jogged ahead. He ran down the stairs, around the grape arbor, and disappeared over the edge.
Chapter 11
Guillermo ran. He leapt down the second tier of steps, wove his way between the flower borders, and loped at full tilt down the grassy slope to the pool terrace, his heart pounding in his ears.
How humiliating.
How could I turn into such a blubbering emotional mess? In front of a woman I hardly know. He hugged himself, gripping his elbows, trying to settle the tremors that ran through him. A wave of grief had washed over him at the prospect of losing his home.
It was not his role to protect it; Jacopo had made the decision. And yet Guillermo felt it was his duty to save it. Perhaps it was for the best to rid themselves of the burden now, so future generations of d'Aldobrandins would not live under the weight of its yoke, like he had. Like his father had, like Nonno had, twisting their modern lives to accommodate the demands of the distant past. He, for one, was unwilling to sacrifice himself at the altar of the d'Aldobrandin legacy.
A powerful urge to strip off his clothing and dive into the cooling, soothing water of the pool for a vigorous swim ripped through him. But he had a guest. He could not do that. Instead he kept jogging past the pool, cut through a hedge and laced his way back through the kitchen garden.
The old man bent over a row of tomato vines, his broad-brimmed hat shielding him from the sun, and from Guillermo's eyes. He stood up suddenly, his hand over his heart. "Ah!" he gasped. "Signor Memmo! I did not know you were coming."
"I'm sorry, Martino. Last minute," he shouted as he ran past, and climbed another stair, cutting back around behind the place he'd left Clio.
She still stood there, serenely gazing over the edge of the dining terrace. From there, she could just glimpse some of the complex garden rooms below. He slowed, his breathing heavy, and caught his breath. Then he strolled up silently behind her.
"That is the pool to that side," he gestured to where he had just been. "It was added in the late 30's, where there was just a lawn before. My great-grandparents did not wish to disturb any of the older gardens."
She gasped and spun to face him. "My God! Where did you come from?"
"I am sorry. I had restless energy to burn." He grinned, his nostrils flaring with his still labored breathing. "This is one reason I have to escape Firenze frequently. It would seem odd for a prominent architect to be seen racing like a boy through the streets of the city."
She laughed, shaking her head at him, her brow furrowed.
He put his hands on her upper arms and spun her back toward the view. In the distance, the same undulating forests and fields they drove through rolled away to the purple horizon, and the blue silhouette of the Apennine mountains in the distance. He pointed. "And over there, the kitchen gardens, Martino's pride and Marcella's joy. Below them, the fruit trees and over there, the formal gardens. Around the corner, there," he swung her to the left, "the grotto."
"I'm amazed. Astonished. I thought… I don't know. I imagined something much more rustic."
"What would you like to see first? We will only sample today, because now that Marcella knows we are here, I believe we will be required to eat some of her delicious cooking very soon. Tomorrow I will take you around and show you every piece of the grounds."
Clio's face lit up, bright with pleasure and anticipation. Guillermo's pulse pounded as he watched her. This was perfect. This is why we are here. For amore. I don't know what came over me. That cannot happen again. There is no sense becoming sentimental or maudlin about the old place. Que sera, sera.
"So?"
"Perhaps the fruit trees?" She gave a tiny shrug, peering at him with those large, aquamarine eyes, slightly slanted and wide set, like liquid pools, serene, waiting for him to plunge in. She licked her wide pink lips waiting for his response, and a coil of warmth unfurled in his stomach. He wanted to kiss her. But no, it was too soon for this skittish kitten. Why do I find her so fascinating?
He gently pressed her arm and guided the way to the orchard. They skirted the boxwood edge of the kitchen gardens, and he noted how badly they needed trimming. It broke his heart. He knew this would be driving Martino crazy. He loved his gardens, but he could not keep them up without help, and the last of the undergardeners was let go over three years ago. Despite Jacopo's disdain, Guillermo kept track. And of course Marcella would make sure Martino focused on the kitchen garden, for without that they would have little to eat. Marcella took great pride in her table, even if she only had herself and her husband to feed now. I wonder when Jacopo has last bothered to visit?
Maybe a new owner would be able to care for it properly. Someone able to purchase a run-down old Tuscan villa surely would have deep pockets, and a deeper love and respect for the history and beauty of the place. It would be okay. It would. It would begin a new life.
He began to sing to her, leaning closer to tease her with the warmth of his breath on her ear. She jumped, and he was gratified to see how quickly the blood ran in her veins.
Bocelli's lyrics came to him unbidden, and he sang of meeting a woman, who got inside of him and stayed there. Of how he lived for her because she shook his soul. As he sang, he wondered if it was possible to feel such devotion, even as he felt it could be happening to him.
Her eyes widened, frozen in place until he finished, and she blinked. Blinked.
While he sang just under his breath, he touched her hair, and caressed the side of her neck with his fingertips, keeping his eyes locked on hers. Si, Bella. Surrender to me, Bella. Gooseflesh rose up on her delicate skin, and she shivered, one corner of her mouth twitching. Oh, how he wanted to kiss that little twitch, and run his tongue from her earlobe down her neck, where the skin danced to the beat of her pulse just below the surface, to the hollow of her collar bone. He gently pushed at the collar of her shirt to expose her neck, and bent his head, not touching her with his lips, not yet, but allowing his breath to warm her. His nostrils filled with the sun-warmed scent of her, feminine and floral, blending with the aromas of the garden, making his senses whirl. His own blood raced, sending a most urgent, demanding surge to his groin, throbbing. A shudder ran through him with the effort of pulling back. She was going to kill him.
She gave a nervous little laugh, swallowed and turned to walk away.
"You're a fan of Bocelli?"
He groaned. She needed to know what she did to him. If he gave her that power, it would awaken her own desire. At least he prayed fervently that was true. "Through there," he indicated the gap in the hedge. Guillermo gritted his teeth while he adjusted his trousers, and followed her into the frutteto, orchard, where she tilted her head back and took in the array of fruit trees. Fig, apple, quince and lemon.
"Oh, lemon. How wonderful." She strolled over and caressed the small green and bright yellow fruits hanging from its lowest branches. In Guillermo's mind, it was his hands that palmed and stroked her pendent breasts. He felt dizzy.
He sighed, and felt his throat grow thick with desire, his pulse throbbing there, as elsewhere.
"Ecciti i mei sensi, Bella."
"Excite your senses?" Clio turned to him, her voice clipped. "You are the silliest man I have ever met."
"It is my natural cultural disposition." He smiled wryly, coyly referring to her thesis, poking a little fun at her serious ideas.
She pulled back. "I… didn't think you were listening."
He closed his eyes
for a brief moment, breathing in and out. "Oh, I was listening. Shall we go inside? I'm betting you will like the interior even better than the gardens."
She nodded, subdued.
The moment was past. He squared his shoulders and led the way back to the house. Just as he was feeling a little lighter, he heard her voice behind him.
"You simply must do something to save the villa from being sold, Guillermo. It would be a crying shame to let it go after it's been in your family for over four hundred years. It's your duty to at least give it a try."
He groaned. She was going to kill him.
Senior Memmo!" The old man intercepted them as they entered through an arched set of double doors from the terrace into a wide tiled hall. He followed them, talking so rapidly that Clio's Italian almost failed her. "Marcella is very angry with you. You did not say you are coming. You did not come to say hello. You did not say you bring a guest."
"Si, si, Martino. I am a very bad fellow. I know." Guillermo stopped to embrace the old man, and kiss his cheeks.
Martino stood still as a post and glared at Guillermo, his wrinkled eyes darting in her direction.
"Martino, please allow me to introduce my friend, Clio Sinclair McBeal."
Clio smiled and put out her hand.
The old man, Martino, peered at her through squinty eyes, his weathered face serious. Then he nodded and took her hand in his. It felt like rough tree bark, hard and stiff. "Well-a-com-a, Signorina Macca-a-beal-a. Macca-a-beal-a. English, eh?"
"How do you do Martino. Please call me Clio," she said in her fluent Italian, and his face broke into a wide smile.
"Si, si. Clio." He turned away nodding, and mumbled as he left, "Marcella is serving dinner in one hour, in the kitchen." He shot Guillermo a look over his shoulder as though daring him to contradict. "We eat early. Because you no warn us. You best not complain. Marcella make up rooms for you - Le Conte for you, Signora Gemma's for Bibi, and the Stanza Acqua for Signorina Clio. I put the bags in. You show, eh?"
Guillermo bit his lip, seemed to worry over something, then glanced at his watch and nodded. "Okay. Grazie, Martino."
He turned to her. "We'd better be on our best behavior for the first while, or Marcella will poison the soup." He grinned, raising his dark brows with mock fear. "Come, let's freshen up for dinner, then I will show you what we have time for before dinner is served." He led her up a sweeping staircase along one side of the grand, timber-ceilinged hall. A large portrait of a beautiful dark-haired woman hung at the landing.
Before she could ask about it, a voice echoed from below, "Memmo. There you are. Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"
Clio lurched to a stop. A very thin young woman with long straight brown hair stood in the centre of the hall, her hands on her narrow hips. She swung her head and flipped her hair around like a cape.
Guillermo greeted her with a broad smile. "Bibi. You're here."
"Of course I'm here. I'm motivated." She smirked and shook her head up at them, her gaze questioning as she peered at Clio.
That made no sense to Clio, but Guillermo threw his head back and gave a belly laugh that bounded off the walls. "Bibi, Clio, Clio, my baby sister Bianca. Happy? See you at dinner."
"Of course," Bianca replied as she strolled away. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you, Clio."
Clio gave a little shrug and a wave down the stairs at Bianca before Guillermo ushered her along a corridor.
Guillermo led her to a door, stopped abruptly and swept it open with a flourish. "The Stanza Acqua. Meet you here in twenty minutes?"
"Ok," she said, and slipped inside as he carried on down the hall. She quietly closed the door of the chamber and looked around. Unlike Pia's restored farmhouse, this villa bore its years with patient good grace, but had clearly not been modernized or even freshened up in recent decades. It was a lovely room, nonetheless, in all the quintessentially Tuscan ways. Square, with a sloped timber ceiling. The palest blue stucco on the walls was chipped, gouged and faded, though this patina lent it character. She touched its scarred surface, wondering at the stories its centuries old skin held secret. An old fashioned black iron bed with an ornate headboard dominated the simply furnished room. It was draped with a light printed coverlet that fell to the floor and bunched there, as though it were a lady in the midst of a curtsy. There was a small bedside table and an old dresser in dark polished wood.
Wondering why it was called the Water Room, Clio stepped to the tall rectangular casement window, pulled back the formal but faded blue drapery, soft on her fingers, and looked out.
Below, she overlooked what she had not yet seen in the garden, partly obscured by dark green oleander and silvery olive branches, a large rectangular stone pond adjacent to the formal Italian garden, with dark, still green water in the basin but none flowing from the central fountain figure - she could not make it out. From the basin ran a narrow channel that led to another long rectangular pond along the side wall of the single story wing that Guillermo had mentioned, the soft sound of the tricklig water drifting up to her. Along the wall, on a kind of shelf, interspersed with terra cotta pots of greenery, Clio could make out a series of figures in weathered buff stone. She would have to take a closer look at the latter to see how old they were, and of what quality.
Clio rolled her shoulders, reaching back to pinch the tight muscles on the sides of her neck. She was tired. It was a long drive down, and she'd been keyed up all day. She sat on the edge of the bed, drooping a little, and let her eyes close. She was happy to have an opportunity to see the villa, but it was such a strain being with Guillermo. He was relentless with the flirtations, despite his promises. She had to constantly be vigilant to keep her cool around him.
Ridiculous man. Despite half growing up in Italy, she could never understand how they could pour out emotion all day long. And for what? Although they were as inclined to have a genuine temper tantrum over one thing or another, they were just as likely to be putting on a performance - for what reason she still had not perfectly worked out. Something to do with bella figura, she supposed. To look good, whatever that meant in their eyes. To be charming, friendly, warm, enthusiastic - no matter what they were feeling on the inside. It was emotionally exhausting.
Her parents, despite their academic interest in the Classics, always kept the Italians and Greeks at a comfortable impersonal arm's length. They themselves maintained a cooler, more reserved northern demeanor that suited their important lives, their important academic careers, and their important circles of academic colleagues.
I suppose that's why they were so distraught when they caught me making out with Hektor– black haired, golden skinned, dark eyed, like Dionysius, so comfortable in his skin, such a sensualist, and so effulgent with his emotions that he simply swept her off her feet–literally. Oh, how she had been carried away by him.
She imagined if she were to get involved with another Mediterranean man, they would lose it completely. And perhaps she would too, in another sense. Can't let that happen again.
Pity she was so attracted to them. Despite the complete lack of logic in their behavior, she couldn't stop the flustered, hot feeling that shook her whenever a man like Guillermo got too close. When he looked at her with those lively laughing blue eyes, flashed his careless bright white smile, leaned too close so that she felt the heat of him, smelled his stirring male scent, touched her hair or let his hot breath fan over her sensitive skin, she melted into a puddle of pure, mindless sensation. Her brain went completely numb at moments like that. It was such a distraction, she was unable to hold onto a coherent thought, never mind string a sensible sentence together.
She'd deliberately given him more than he'd bargained for in the car, when he'd asked about her thesis. She knew he didn't really care, and was only humoring her. That's the type of man he was. So she'd decided to humor herself at his expense.
He'd surprised her with his sharp intellect. He seemed to share her interest in the arts and history,
and was so knowledgeable. He was clearly more than a pretty face. The combination was hard to resist. Neither was she prepared for the chemistry that surged between them in close proximity. The more she spoke, the hotter his looks became. And the more his bedroom eyes burned into her with desire, the harder it was for her to concentrate on her words. She felt fevered under his gaze, and desperate to escape before she did something uncharacteristic, like throw herself into his arms and suck on those beautiful sensual lips. A tremor shook her, and she opened her eyes. There was her bag on the floor by the wall.
Clio got up to change her clothes and wash her face and hands for dinner.
What a relief to arrive and meet the old man, and the spunky sister, Bianca. She wanted to laugh at the warm playful banter between Guillermo and Bianca. Clio didn't have brothers or sisters with whom she could share that close, familiar kind of relationship, and felt a pang of jealousy. And the affection between Guillermo and the old man, Martino, was touching. Almost like they were family, too.
Clio felt these two could help her, and the formidable Marcella, whom she had yet to meet, but seemed to rule the roost here at the villa, be her allies to keep the randy Guillermo at bay. Otherwise, she'd never survive the weekend intact.
After Clio washed, and changed her clothes, she ventured downstairs. He'd said to meet him on the landing, but it couldn't be that hard to find the kitchen, so she started down alone.
"You're a fool, Memmo. I can't believe you think this is going to work."
Clio froze on the stairs, nerves prickling. Bianca was just below her…
"It's worth a try." Guillermo laughed. "There's no harm in that, surely."
"You're smarter than that. Or you're even more arrogant than I thought."
"I think I know a little bit more about the art of love than you do, little sister."
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 8
