"Hah! Love, what do you know of love? You have stars in your eyes, fratello. I don't know where you found her, but I could see right away she's not your type. In fact it's worse than that. She's vulnerable. It's unconscionable, what you're trying to do."
"Bibi. You insult me. I'm no monster."
"No. You go too far this time, Memmo. It's different with your women in Firenze. They know you by reputation before they begin. Not everyone is amenable to your stupid one-night stands, and this is no way to go about it, anyway. You have to set some limits to these games of yours. Have some integrity."
"Pish. You're one to talk, Bibi, with your musicians and footballers."
Clio stumbled, and caught herself before stepping down silently another step or two. Her breath was locked in her throat, and she swallowed, trying to find more air. She gripped the baluster to steady herself. Her eyes tingled, hot and filled with pressure.
Vulnerable? What am I doing here? I don't belong here.
"You can't continue with this charade, Memmo. I won't– shht!"
"What?"
"I hear something."
Clio forced herself to breathe deeply and calmly through a ribcage that felt as tight as a vise. It's okay. She wasn't out of control, anyway, despite the sensations that his silly flirtations stirred up in her. She wasn't naive. Now she would know better. Now she would be extra vigilant. She wouldn't be put in a vulnerable position this time. She knew what was at stake.
She stepped blithely down the last steps into the hall and turned to face them with a smile.
"Ah. Ciao, Bella," Guillermo said.
"Oh, hi. There you are. Am I late?"
"No. Come on. Marcella will be expecting us." Guillermo extended a hand to guide her.
Clio followed Bianca through a stone archway into a corridor that stepped down immediately to the kitchen, Guillermo bringing up the rear. A wall of warm air met them, like another medium, and Clio wondered whether there was a breathing apparatus she ought to be using.
"Memmo." An older woman, small and wiry, tossed aside a tea towel and lurched toward Guillermo, gripping him tightly in her strong arms, smothering him with kisses. Then she shoved him roughly away. "So this is how you treat Marcella. You come and go as you please, you ignore me. Hmph." She turned back to her work, retrieving her tea towel and grabbing a bowl.
"I'm sorry Marcella, cara," Guillermo said, and bowed his head repentantly. He grinned, and the old woman's sour countenance broke into a reluctant smile. "This is my guest, Clio Sinclair McBeal."
Marcella's face was a wonder to behold. It tensed and pinched and twitched as she thought about…well Clio didn't know what she was thinking about, but it made her wonder if there was something inherently wrong with her name. "Buongiorno, Signorina Seen-clair."
"Buongiorno, Signora Marcella," Clio replied. "I feel terrible that you were not warned of our arrival. I thought the plans had been made days ago. Is there something I can do to help you with dinner? I would like to make up for our bad manners."
"Whose?" Guillermo guffawed.
"He-heh," Bianca laughed.
Marcella peered at Clio, seeming to evaluate the sincerity of her offer, though clearly Clio's proficiency with the language had impressed her and raised her in Marcella's estimation. "Grazie, signiorina, but no. Lucky for this young pup that I have things from my garden. But you will have to be satisfied with a simple country meal."
"I am very happy. That is my favourite kind of meal. Simple and pure country food, lovingly prepared," Clio responded.
Marcella glared at Guillermo. "At least some people's children have been properly raised," she said, returning to her bowl.
Chapter 12
After a delicious, though simple meal of salad, vegetables and pasta, the tension had subsided, and it was clear to Clio that Marcella, recovered from her earlier displeasure, doted on Guillermo, even more than on Bianca. She pampered and spoiled him, patted and tweaked him, brushed lint from his sleeve and wiped sauce from his chin. He took it all in stride, clearly enjoying the attention, showering her with smiles.
Once they were finished eating, Guillermo gave Marcella a big bear hug, not very subtly dismissed Bianca and led Clio back to the hall.
"Which rooms would you like to tour tonight?"
Despite her indignation at being the clear object of Guillermo's predatory games, Clio curiosity about the villa had not diminished. However there were two more days in which to see and enjoy every part of the historic residence.
"Perhaps you could show me a couple of the public rooms down here. Then I think I'd like to get some rest, if you don't mind."
Guillermo's eyes assessed her narrowly. Clio could tell he sensed something off, something had definitely changed in the temperature of their exchanges since their time in the gardens, but he didn't know what. It's just as well. Clio didn't know how she would act if he knew she'd overheard his humiliating conversation with his sister. More effusive compliments, more empty promises. He couldn't be that calculating and selfish. No one could.
"Tutto bene. Come this way," he led her through a double arched doorway to one side of the hall. "In here is the principal salon. It is actually the smaller of two, but on the other side of the villa…" He shook his head sadly, "…allora, it has been neglected. The furniture is very old, and repairs are needed." He swung an arm out and let it flop back down to his side. "We have not used that wing for a long, long time."
For the moment, Clio forgot her irritation with his personal scheming, and felt a wash of empathy for him and his family. How sad to lose a home that meant so much to so many for so long. She stepped through the doors beside him, and her breath stopped in her throat.
In awe, she glided to the fireplace, ran a hand along the carved stone mantle, admiring the metal candelabra and small busts that decorated it. The high ceiling was vaulted and plastered between the exposed stone arches, with painted frescos decorating the vaults.
The color was mainly a creamy white, with cherubs and gold bunting along the crown. The centre of the vault had a series of hexagonal gilt egg-and-dart bordered medallions, each with a figure or two in colorful robes, some with pastoral scenery. It took her breath away.
"Oh, oh my," she sighed. "I had no idea. These are original."
"Yes. From the late sixteenth century."
"What have you done to preserve them?"
"Nothing lately." Guillermo snorted with disgust. "My Nonno was a little better at consulting experts. We are very fortunate that the climate here is very dry, and relatively free of atmospheric pollution. They have come to little harm. We have much greater challenges with the conservation projects I oversee in Firenze."
Clio turned to Guillermo, registering but pushing aside his brusque response. "Your father's father?"
Guillermo's smile was wide, but she sensed tension in the lines of his face. "Si. The last Conte. He's in a nursing home now. It would break his heart to see what is happening here. You can see the gilt is tarnished and the frescos cracked. And there has been a little water damage in areas where the roof has leaked."
"Your grandfather is alive?" She had thought he had no one but his siblings.
His eyes dropped, and he released a deep sigh. "Si. He's been there a very long time."
"Well then, doesn't that mean… isn't he…?" Clio sputtered. "I'm confused."
Guillermo rubbed his hands along his face, and threaded his fingers through his long hair. He released a breath, glaring at her. "Nonno had a massive stroke. He has dementia. He's been… deteriorating… gradually…for over ten years, since before my father died. Jacopo has power of attorney." His voice was thick with emotion. "And Nonno doesn't really know what's going on, most of the time." His shoulders sagged.
He smiled sadly, turned and strolled across the room, dragging a hand lightly over objects as he went. The camel hump back of an upholstered chair. The bust of a horse. A long credenza against the far wall. To Clio, it seemed as though he was memorizing each
object in its place.
Her heart squeezed. "I'm so sorry. Were you very close?"
Guillermo nodded. "We still are. Sometimes he remembers me."
A great weight seemed to have settled on him, and he walked with his chin lowered and his eyes downcast, lost in thought. His bright flame seemed to flicker, his normal fiery energy dimmed, as though a cold wind had blown over him, a menacing presence. He was complex, this man. There was more to him than the smooth, charming carefree adventurer that met the eye.
She moved closer. "Guillermo?"
He circled round and stepped toward her, glancing up, trying to lighten his countenance and succeeding only in pasting on a false facade, restive and brittle.
She reached forward and rested a hand gently on his arm. "I… I'm sorry. I'm sorry about your grandfather, about your parents, about your brother. I really am. I can see how much they mean to you, and how much you have already lost."
Guillermo shrugged and flicked a hand, as if to dismiss the seriousness or heaviness of his emotional burden.
"But, you know…" she hesitated, capturing his gaze as he lifted it to meet to hers. Dark blue. Unreadable. She drew a breath. Plunging in, as into a dark pool of unknown depth, its potential dangers hidden. "You know, you can save the villa. You really must save the villa. I can see how the responsibility rests with you. And…" A sharp groove appeared between his dark brows, and his normally full and shapely mouth flattened into a line. A muscle jumped in his brow, a tic. She smiled weakly to soften her words. "And I can see you really don't want to accept this, but… you have to do something. You just have to."
He spun away, and strode toward the door, his voice booming suddenly. "You mistake the situation, Clio." He stopped in the doorway. "Come, we have time for one more room before we retire."
She quickened her pace to catch up with him. "Guillermo!"
"Tut, tut." He crooned, slipping his hand into hers. He tilted his head nearer and looked into her eyes, his own dark and slightly wicked. The corner of his mouth tilted up suggestively. "I have another surprise. Something you will like very much."
He led her up the stairs, and she caught her breath, her pulse speeding. He couldn't possibly think that, after one personal and strained conversation, he could take liberties– oh, shit. She sounded perfectly Victorian.
Bottom line was, she couldn't trust him. For all she knew, he made up half his troubles and put on his melancholy airs just to draw her sympathy. There was no secret what he wanted, that he'd brought her here with the intention of getting her into his bed. That's who he was, after all.
At the top landing, he turned opposite to the bedroom doors, and led her to the end of the hall. Through a pair of tall narrow green-paneled double doors at the end, he led her out into a space, neither interior nor exterior.
The sun had set, and in the dusky light, she could just make out where he'd brought her. One corner of the piano nobile, the upper floor, was in fact an open portico. Large stone arches, inset with iron grates were open to the night air, though a solid vaulted ceiling covered them overhead. She could see the shape of a hexagonal lantern suspended from above, though it was not lit. A ghostly figure stood against the wall on a plinth, some statue in robes, a classical figure.
"Who is that?"
His voice was distracted, murmuring. "One of the Contes. An earlier Gabriel."
"Who else is a Gabriel?"
"My father, my nephew. It is also my second name."
The night air was cool, pleasant. She walked to the grill, gripped the cool metal bars and pressed her face to the gap between. The night was still, but she heard the faint trickle of water from nearby. A crescent moon dipped low over the dark treetops. She filled her lungs and let it out, feeling the delicious sweet country air glide over her face, over her arms.
Her heart swelled. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, not sure if he was listening.
Warm air competed with the cool, tickling the skin between her shoulder blades. A shudder ran down her neck and back, the hairs standing to attention. Clio sensed Guillermo's heat directly behind her. Then his hands rested lightly against her upper arms, rubbing gently up and down, releasing her perfume, mingling with his own masculine scent. Her pulse quickened, fluttering in her chest, and she trembled again. Oh, stop! No, please, don't stop.
She was about to turn around when his mouth touched down on her neck, his lips brushing ever so lightly on her skin, like feathers. "I miei sensi sono pieni di te." Her senses were filled with him, too. Dangerously so. The pressure of his hands increased, and her knees went weak. She buckled against him, feeling the solid strength of him holding her upright.
"Bella. Mi hai stregata."
She was the one who was bewitched. In his skillful hands, she gave like warm modeling clay surrendering to the artist, as he turned her to face him, holding her firmly against the length of his body. His hardness pressed into her, and his labored breathing left no secrets between them. He moaned softly, words or just sounds, sensations, as his mouth fluttered over her cheek and neck. She no longer knew. She felt herself becoming whatever he wanted her to be. Galatea to his Pygmalion.
His mouth closed over hers. She heard a high pitched groan. Was that her? Her chin lifted of its own volition, begging for more, just at the moment his hot tongue traced the gap between her lips, coaxing them apart. She gave in too willingly, opening to him, allowing his tongue to enter the dark hungry cavity of her mouth, thrusting and stroking in imitation of the most intimate act. Liquid heat slid down her core, stirring a fire in her belly, flaring, demanding satisfaction. She moaned again, and slid her arms around his neck, pressing herself closer, trying to pull him into her, wrap herself around him. She couldn't stop herself. What was happening to her?
Guillermo pulled his mouth away, gasping, and bent his head to plant passionate kisses at her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, leaving a trail of fire on her skin. His hands gripped her hips tightly, moving with a sense of desperation and need, and he found her breasts.
"Cara, Bella. I knew you had the secret fire. I knew you had passion waiting to be freed. I feel it. Dio, Io arerei," he growled.
His delirious words penetrated her fog of lust. Good God! Plow me? That woke her up like a bucket of cold water in her face. She pulled back and shoved him away. "What did you say?"
"What?"
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Uh…" Guillermo swallowed loudly, his expression confused.
She shoved harder, creating more space between them, making it easier to breath, to think. Cool air rushed around her heated body, helping to clear her head. "You promised."
"I…um. Bella, I'm-a…" His voice held a pleading tone.
"Inarticulate, clearly. I can't believe you. I'm going to bed."
"Hmm?
"Without you!" She strode away across the portico toward the hall.
"Con il tempo e posto e io." With you I forget time and place and self.
Again with the sentimental romantic Latin gibberish.
"Oh, stuff it."
Chapter 13
Excellent, Marcella. Grazie. Everything looks perfetto." Guillermo rubbed his hands together. Marcella could always be counted on to set a good table, and when he had asked her to serve a romantic breakfast for two on the portico, she did so enthusiastically, while assessing him with her squinty x-ray eyes and shaking her head.
It might be a bit obvious, to have breakfast in the place they had shared their first kiss, but it was all in the way it was handled.
"Bibi got her breakfast in bed?" he asked, suddenly concerned she would frustrate his plans.
"She will, when she shows some sign of living," Marcella replied, giving the table setting one last polish and tweak.
Thankfully, his little sister was not an early riser. Whether in the city or the country, she always found ways to entertain herself until the wee hours, and could always be counted on to skip a civilized breakfast table, in favor of cioccolato calda e pane in bed f
ollowed by he-knew-not-what kind of elaborate spa ritual that usually took several hours. The perfect chaperone.
He bounced on the balls of his feet, anticipating the morning alone with Clio. He checked his watch again.
He closed his eyes, letting the remembered sensations shimmer through his blood. He was still buzzing with the effect of their hot kiss. Who knew? He thought to tease, to plant the idea of an embrace, a kiss in her mind, with the romantic evening setting, always one of his favorite spots at the villa, and a little strategic intimacy. He had not expected her to melt like honey in the sun.
"You look very handsome today," muttered Marcella. He glanced up, but she looked away.
Guillermo blinked and ran his hands over his torso and hips. "You think so?" He smiled. He knew he looked good, but he wanted to be irresistible to the young scholar, so he'd dressed and groomed with extra care this morning, keeping her background and tastes in mind. He thought with satisfaction that he looked a little like a young professor away for the weekend.
"Eh. You are always easy on the eyes, Memmo. But today you try harder. Why? What's up with this one?"
His chest filled, his heart tripping, and he sighed. He placed an open hand over his chest "Ah, Marcella. I believe I am in love."
"Pah! You are always in love, you young fool. But this one is…" She shook her head, pulled a face and shrugged.
"What?" He frowned at her. What had she seen? How could she not like the straight-laced, ladylike Clio? Was she not forever scolding him about his loose-moralled, glitzy models and actresses?
Another face, indecipherable. Her eyebrows raised, a pursed mouth, another head shake, a tsk, but no words of wisdom. Hmph. He dismissed it. Marcella had good instincts, but she was always worried about him, always giving him unwanted advice. Never mind. He plucked a fresh cut pink rose from the vase Marcella had arranged on the table.
"Well," he said as he stepped out the door, "this one requires a bit more effort, eh?"
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 9
