And on that side, you see the formal Renaissance gardens. My great grandfather built the pool." Guillermo explained, pointing out through the arched opening of the portico at the grounds below.
Clio watched the muscles flexing in his back and shoulder as he raised and lowered his arm. There was tension bunched there. A muscle in his eyebrow twitched as he forced a smile that looked nothing like the charming one she'd seen and dismissed so often as fake. Clearly he was barely holding himself together. He really does care. Her heart ached for him.
The sleeve of his sky blue sweater was pushed back, and her eyes lingered on the smooth golden skin and dark hairs of his exposed forearm. He too wore a gold chain around his wrist, albeit a much smaller and more subtle one than Mad Masta Richie's. He shook his wrist repeatedly, an agitated gesture, and she wondered what he was thinking. Scheming. She could sense the gears turning in his clever head. His veneer of civility covered the powerful emotions he held in check. He was capable of diplomacy, able to observe and analyze, playing it cool, waiting before reacting. He was a mature business man after all, not the loose screw he'd seemed at Pia's place.
A shiver darted up her spine, tingling at the back of her neck, remembering his breath, his touch and their kiss from last night. I have to put it from my mind! All she wanted was to get away from him, from the temptation of his piercing looks and his heat. She found it difficult to follow the conversation. Her head felt too light, as though it would lift off and float away like a hot air balloon. She pressed her fingers against each temple, trying to focus her attention. The day was warming up quickly, and she plucked at her shirt, sticking to the sheen of sweat that had formed on her chest and back. Now they were forced to deal with this unexpected intrusion. She glanced at the cool, glamorous Foxy with her overt sexuality. The heat didn't seem to bother her. Clio's wish to go home had just got bumped down the list of priorities. Way down.
"I respect your person, Mista D," said the big guy, Mad Richie, apparently a successful rap artist and record producer from the States, among other business interests such as shoes, clothing and liquor, which his wife Foxy apparently ran. Clio wouldn't know a famous rap artist if she fell over one. Too bad he wasn't an opera singer.
But he and his entourage smelled of money, loads of money. "I gotta family, too," he was saying. "An' my family, we got needs, see? My opinion is dat this a cool crib but it need a few things to, to modernize. No disrespect to yo gran'fatha, but it gonna need a new pool, wit a pool shack and a bar down there." He pointed, his thick gold chains chinking together. Richie grinned at his wife and kids. "We gotta have some place to be chillin, yeah?"
"That sounds great, Richie, honey. The boys is gonna like that. Ain'tcha boys?"
"Yeah, Ma." The older one's eyes were locked on his smartphone.
"Can we have ATVs?" asked the younger one.
Clio cringed. So far Mad Richie hadn't said much about his intentions, but it did not seem like a good fit. Wasn't he just having a look? Why was he talking like it was a signed deal? Hopefully Guillermo's brother hadn't agreed to anything yet, or signed any papers without talking to this guy. Surely he wouldn't sell the villa to a buyer like this, who was just looking for a luxurious vacation home for his family, and maybe an old-world status symbol. She tugged gently on Guillermo's sleeve, clearing her throat and murmuring, "Guillermo, maybe you should call Jacopo. Do you think he–?
"Here's-a the caffe," Martino came out with a pot in each hand, Marcella having recruited him to help serve the suddenly enlarged crowd. His face was pinched, and his dark eyes darted around the table, as though he expected someone to pull a knife at any moment. Clio imagined he'd encountered few blacks in his rural existence, except those stereotyped in American movies.
Marcella entered directly on his heels, carrying platters. "Please sit down-a and enjoy-a." She set the platters on the table, and went out for more, while Martino circled the table pouring coffee and steamed milk as everyone took their seats.
Guillermo sat at the head of a long table that had been set, their breakfast for two having been swept away by an efficient Marcella, both his hands resting on the table in front of him. He leaned back, his fingers drumming restlessly on the tablecloth with an incessant tattoo: drrrt, drrrt, drrrt. Clio peered sideways at him, noticed his jaw working. He kept his eyes trained on Richie, like a cobra ready to strike. Guillermo was flanked by Mad Richie and his wife Foxy. Clio sat opposite QTip, and the two children, boys about the ages of ten and twelve, sat at the far end, each of them now engrossed by games on their smartphones. Thankfully, the three dogs had been banished to the front terrace.
"Yeah. Now dat's sick coffee. Dat's why I gotta connection wit Italy, yo? Italy is, like, da shit. I had a dream to have dis crib, a crib like dis, to get away. I'm from Chicago, yeah? I love Chicago, it's where I'm from, it's part of who I am, but dis bourgeous thang, we caught dat vibe. Me and my family, we gotta get away from America sometime. Evabody in America intense, yeah? We gotta chillax."
"Boys, put those away and have some manners, here. You's wit Italian royalty, here. Have some respect."
"Erm…" Guillermo grimaced, his neck flooding with color, though apparently no one but Clio noticed.
"Yeah, Ma." They made no change.
Guillermo swallowed, and Clio nodded. She rotated her shoulders, rubbing her arms, trying to ease the hot tingling sensation on her skin. This wouldn't happen. This couldn't happen. Her heart squeezed painfully. What must Guillermo be feeling right now? Couldn't he just ask these people to leave?
Marcella and Martino brought more platters of food, fruit and eggs and bread.
"Grazie, Marcella, Martino. Did Andreas, uh, Signor Fitucci provide you with plans? Do you know about the layout of rooms and such?"
QTip replied, "I seen some of dat, yeah, but Mista DoomZ here he wanned to see it fresh. If dis is gonna happen, den it gotta have the right vibe, yo?"
"It's very old, Richie," said Foxy. "I'm worried about the bathrooms. There's a funny smell. The kids have to have their own bathrooms, baby. And so do the guest rooms."
"Don't worry 'bout dat, sugar. We gonna figure it out. We gonna eat and Mista D. gonna bust out de tour, and den we'll see."
"Your… er, wife is correct," Guillermo said. "It's over four hundred years old, and really it hasn't been modernized much. You might find it doesn't meet your high standards of comfort."
"You bo janglin', Mista D," said Richie, chuckling. " I don't have no ego. I'm cool wit de old-ness of it. It's all in how you interpret it. I'm a artist, yeah. I can look atta old place like dis, and I can see it's got hella possibilities. We gonna change it up a little, dat's all."
Clio spoke before she'd considered her words. "I just want to point out that, of course, whomever buys the villa will be responsible for all the historic artwork. There are paintings and sculpture…" Clio had no idea what else. She hadn't even seen the place yet. But if the library was any indication, she supposed the villa was full of valuable artifacts.
"It's like, you know what? I really appreciate dat, missus. I'm a artist, yo?"
"Um. Mm. There might be some laws protecting some of it. But, perhaps the collection might go to one of the universities?" Clio said. "Or even…or even, the University of Florence Art History department might be interested. They might want to send someone out. It could take awhile to–"
"Never mind the art. What kind of internet connectivity do you get out here?" Foxy asked, turning to Q-Tip. "Do you think you could set up a hot spot that would run the online shop without interruption?"
"What did you have in mind, Richie?" Guillermo asked, his tone flat, infinitely patient, though his fingers continued to drum, and he hadn't touched his food or drink.
"Guillermo, I don't think this is what Jacopo wanted," Clio mumbled. "Maybe it would be better to wait for Mr. Fitucci before getting into specifics."
He smiled at her, but there was hardness behind the smile, as though he'd resigned himself to something brutal,
and was steeled to it. His face was becoming familiar to her. "It's alright, Clio. I know exactly what Jacopo wants. Let's hear what Mr. DoomZ is looking for. Maybe he won't find this villa suitable."
The sober emphasis Guillermo placed on Mad Richie's ridiculous nickname told her exactly what he thought. If the villa fell into this man's hands, it would be ruined beyond recognition, beyond salvation. And he held out little hope.
"Let's make sure that he doesn't," Clio murmured in Italian, drawing an approving snort from Marcella.
"No, man, no. I mean, I think we gonna hop on dis. We check out some otha villas, but yeah, what they be callin' villas is just fugly old farm houses. Dis place got all dat. I can feel a connection already." He took a big bite of Marcella's bread and drowned it with coffee. "So, the reality is, dis place is kickin. I gotta make a few changes, yeah, to fit our lifestyle. Nothin' major. We gotta find a place for a media room and wire dat up. Gotta have a media room. An' a recording studio. Jes' a small one, in case I get the inspiration while I'm here, yo?"
QTip piped up at that thought. "You was gonna invite Brotha Hood Stubbs and Sinista Kool Dawg fo to jam and maybe cut a record togetha, right, Richie?"
"Yeah, yeah. Dat's right, Slim. But I don' wanna work alla time here. Dis crib be fo chillin, nizzle."
Clio addressed Guillermo in quick Italian. "Yes, but… Guillermo, there are only so many large rooms. Where would they fit a media room and a studio? That's–"
His eyes, shadowed by his furrowed brow, caught hers, and with a small head shake, silenced her. She gripped her knife tighter and cut her melon, and the piece flew off her plate while the knife skidded noisily across the china with a screech. She set down her cutlery and gripped her hands together under the table. Her breathing was quick and shallow. This wasn't her home or her business. She sat back, taking a deep breath. Calm down and think strategically. Guillermo was clearly biding his time until the real estate agent showed up, and didn't want to slam any doors shut.
She could see he had a point. It wasn't every day someone showed up at your door with deep enough pockets to buy a historic villa and property and have enough left over to contemplate renovations. And at the same time rescue your brother from humiliation and ruin. Clio had to see it from Guillermo's point of view. She sipped her coffee glumly. Maybe he was right. But…
"Weren't you telling me just the other day," she caught Guillermo's eye, asking his forgiveness for her license. "That the roof was leaking and damaging the frescos in the smaller salon?"
"Hm? Oh, si, si. It leaks in winter. And you'll need expert restorers for the frescos."
One of the dogs yipped, launching all three of them into a ruckus that momentarily distracted everyone.
"Shaddup down there yo stupid mutts! Yeah? Dat's cool. I got the chips. We fix dat up, too."
"Most likely you can fix that for under a million. With the proper experts involved, of course, at additional cost. But I wonder about the plumbing. You see, we are very accustomed to it, having grown up with it, but your wife might–"
"No, no–"
"Yeah, ye-ah. It's the truth, Richie. I gotta have good bathrooms and guest rooms. You know my designers and marketing people are not gonna put up with skanky toilets. Not to mention the Italian buyers I want to wine and dine."
Clio observed Foxy carefully. Whatever business interests she was talking about, clearly she was more than beautiful arm candy. It wasn't what Clio expected from such an overtly sexual and fashionable woman. She radiated power. Clio squirmed, suddenly self-conscious of her childish and prudish shirt and trousers. It put the lie to her mother's warnings.
According to her parents, being perceived as a sexual object was the gravest danger for a woman academic. Even an established one like her mother could suffer a career setback if she was perceived by her colleagues to be frivolous or loose. Clio thought wryly that her career ambitions were very likely the reason she was still only dreaming about finding true love instead of living that dream. Foxy seemed to have it all.
"Don'tcha be worryin, baby. You gonna have yo toilets, too. Dis crib got lotta rooms. You–"
"And wi-fi, Richie. We've got to have good wi-fi."
"Signor! Signor Richie Sling-a DoomZ-a!"
A tall, pink-faced man burst onto the portico, heading straight for Mad Richie. "I've been looking everywhere for-a you!"
"Yeah, well we been right here, yo?" said QTip.
"I'm so sorry. I wait-a for you at the gate." He stopped and scanned the scene, the table, everyone present. "And then there were the dogs-a." He waved a vague arm toward the front of the house and smoothed the front of his suit jacket. His brow furrowed, and his dark eyes glinted. He zeroed in on Guillermo, speaking Italian. "You are very familiar, signor. You are…?"
Guillermo shoved his chair back and stood up, offering his hand. "Guillermo Gabriel d' Aldobrandin. Jacopo's brother. And you, I presume, must be Andreas Fitucci, at last." He placed a pointed emphasis on the last, and Signor Fitucci had the grace to blush. "We have been having breakfast with your client and his family, and discussing his needs."
"Si, si. Grazie for your patience. My deepest apologies, Signor d' Aldobrandin. I arranged to show the villa with your brother Thursday, and with your housekeeper, but they said nothing about any of the family being here this weekend. Scusami. We did not mean to intrude on your privacy, Signor." His eyes darted to the remains of the spread on the table, licking his lips, clearly regretting his tardy arrival.
Guillermo's face stilled, and he rotated his head toward the door, where Marcella hovered. "Is that so?" He narrowed his eyes at her, and she escaped, her face culpable. "Not to worry Signor Fitucci. I was not expected. Well, we've been awaiting you this past hour, but I believe everyone has finished breakfast now, so perhaps we can begin the tour of the property."
"Si, bene, bene, signor. Right away. We give you your privacy." Again his eyes darted longingly to the coffee pot, and he sighed.
At that moment Bianca appeared in the doorway, elegantly put together in shredded jeans and a t-shirt, showing more tanned golden skin than fabric. She tossed her long mane of hair off of her face and squinted at them. "I couldn't find anybody. What's going on out here?"
Chapter 15
We'll join you on the tour, Andreas. I was just about to show my guest around." Guillermo turned to Clio. "This is Signorina Clio Sinclair McBeal, a Doctoral student at the Accademia di Belle Arti in Firenze. She's here to study the artifacts at the villa, and advise the family on the best course of action regarding their handling, under the present circumstances."
He watched her double-take, but she squared her shoulders and shook Andreas' hand, and he felt a smile tug at his mouth.
"Er. You ain't the missus?" QTip asked.
"No. Senior d'Aldobrandin is not…" Fitucci trailed off.
Her smile was tight as she shook her head. She was like a mother bear, fiercely defending her cubs. Her delicate redbrown brow was lowered menacingly, and she peered at the real-estate agent as though she would as easily eat him for breakfast as shake his hand. Without knowing why, he needed to comfort her and reassure her, though he had nothing to offer. He placed a gentle hand to the small of her back, rubbing with his fingertips.
For a moment he reveled in a sensation of perfect harmony, and imagined what it might be like to have someone like Clio always at his side, sharing his battles, his joys and sorrows, belonging to him, and him to her. But that was folly; exactly that kind of romantic notion he made a point of avoiding. A jolt of anxious energy coursed through his veins, pulsing, demanding movement.
Guillermo would like nothing better than to grab this beautiful, surprising woman and run away. Either jump in his Alpha and drive away as fast as he could, or even better, take her hand and run, run, run. Run through the gardens, and run away into the fields and vineyards, losing himself in her arms, in the silent rows of vines, under the blue dome of the Tuscan sky.
But that wouldn't do. His desire for freedom an
d escape warred with his need to stay, to fight, to protect his home and do his duty by the family. Acidic bile, the symptom of this conflict, stung the back of his throat bitterly.
The entourage moved from room to room through the villa, examining each one with a critical eye. The minor modifications Richie mentioned seemed to expand in scope and magnitude as they went along and absorbed the general state of stately decay. Every one of the historic salons and bedchambers seemed to take on a new identity as Mad Richie and Foxy visualized how each would be repurposed and transformed.
Guillermo felt quite sick, his guts churning uncomfortably, despite having eaten no breakfast. He said little, simply listening, thinking, letting Andreas lead the tour, pointing out where they were on the floor plans he'd brought along. Guillermo'd given up trying to persuade Richie that the villa was too dilapidated and out of date to suit his needs, or would cost too much to bring up to his exacting standards. The man was on a mission, and no amount of restoration, or renovation expense daunted him. He was evidently as rich as Croesus.
The tour of the villa moved at a snail's pace, and he thought it would never end. This was not the pleasant experience he'd planned on sharing with Clio. Bianca tagged along for about twenty minutes before uttering a painful muffled mewling noise and excusing herself. He ground his teeth. This had all come up so unexpectedly, there had been no time for any of them to get used to the idea, himself included.
Poor Bibi. For her this would be hardest of all. She was still a teenager when their parents died. Still spending a good deal of time here at the villa. For her it was still and would always be home. And she'd never really settled anywhere else since she'd finished school, running a little wild with no prospects of any kind laid out for her future. None of them were equipped to finish the job of raising her, though she was now twenty-two.
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 11
