The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1)

by M A Clarke Scott

  He led her diagonally through the flowerbeds, past the weathered obelisk at its centre, and beyond toward the framing pine and cypress trees that formed the backdrop to the formal gardens, dividing the estate proper from the farms.

  She talked. She outlined all the possibilities: government grants, corporate sponsorship, space rental to educational institutions, even vacation rentals.

  "You know, the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. I know they have whole satellite campuses for Renaissance studies in Sienna, in Abruzzo, in Perugia. And not only are the major American and British universities eager for these kind of arrangements, but once they are established, there is a need for residencies, and all of the domestic requirements that go along with that. That's additional revenue. And think of the conferences and summer programs! Retreats! Weddings! And once you were set up for that sort of thing, then you could begin to advertise for vacation rentals. There is very good money in that, and I know there are many old families that are making that work, and even maintaining part of the property for their own residence."

  "And who would live here, and manage all of this that you envision?"

  That seemed to give her pause. "You? Yes, I thought you."

  He smiled and gave a small quiet laugh. "I have a career, you know."

  Her brows came down in consternation. "Well. Well, you could think about it. Maybe part time or something." She brushed it away, flicking her hand.

  By this time they had meandered between trim rows of grape vines, their entwined hands bridging over as they walked down parallel paths. She didn't even seem to notice where they were, or that they were holding hands.

  The distraction of his predicament, her absorption in the problem and her myriad angles to the solution caused her color to rise. He felt his own blood race as he gazed at her rosy, flushed cheeks, her bright, sparkling aquamarine eyes, so wide set and large and almond-shaped, they mesmerized him. Sunlight flashed on her bright auburn hair, and as usual, when she was absorbed, she'd brushed it with her hands, knocking strands loose that now flew away, glinting like bright flames.

  Her enthusiasm was rubbing off. He felt his own excitement building, and even a sense of hope. It was enough to make him almost believe her schemes could work.

  From the vineyard they emerged into a meadow with tall grasses and wildflowers. Golden seed heads and a sprinkling of blue flax, red poppies, pink phlox and tiny white daisies danced in the gentle summer breeze, rolling away from them down the slope into the valley below. This was a good spot.

  He set down the wine bottle and glasses and looked at her. Still talking. Though his mother had been dark, like Pia, she had possessed a vivaciousness and vitality that Clio channelled now, and he adored. He sat on the ground, tugging gently on her hand, and she complied, sinking onto her haunches. He tugged more, and she landed with a thud.

  "What? Where are we?"

  He laughed. "Relax a moment. I need to rest. You have worn me out with your ideas, Bella."

  She blinked at him.

  He pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket and opened the wine, pouring a generous amount into each glass, handing her one. She took it, gave him a tentative, charmingly confused smile, and followed his example when he raised his glass, clinking rims.

  "To us. To this beautiful afternoon. Just the two of us alone. A beautiful woman in a beautiful summer meadow." He reached to pull a thin strand of her hair from her mouth, and again was lost in the inviting soft pink cushions of her lips.

  That seemed to bring her back to the moment. She pulled a funny face at him. "You're at it again."

  "Indulge me, Bella. Just for this afternoon, let us relax and enjoy each other's company. Let me look at you and admire you." He took a sip of the Orvieto. It was no longer very cold, but still pleasantly refreshing. She drank as well.

  Guillermo released a breath. There now. At last he'd achieved his aim. The garden, the meadow, the soothing view of the Tuscan countryside. A beautiful woman at his side, a glass of good wine.

  She was watching him closely, curiously, as though wondering what he would do. A drop of wetness lingered on her full lower lip, luring him. His groin tightened in anticipation of their touch.

  He leaned toward her, dipped his head, lightly licked the drop of wine. She shuddered, but didn't pull away. "Mmm. Bella. You drive me mad with your beauty and sensuality. You are a women who is made for love." He pressed his lips to hers, so gently, allowing the jolt of pure pleasure to resonate through his veins, like the echo of church bells across the valley. So soft, her scent making him drunk with desire. But slow Memmo. Remember, go slow.

  He pulled back, gazing into her eyes. They were wide, a little stunned. Like clear shoals in the Ligurian sea, turquoise glass through which he could see white sands, sparkling fishes, lost truths, pieces of himself. His heart thudded in his chest, and he ignored a quiet voice in his head that asked, What is it about this woman that keeps you fascinated? Be careful Memmo. Be careful.

  "Nei tuoi occhi c'è il cielo, cara." Heaven is in your eyes.

  "But Memmo." She swallowed. "Won't you at least try?"

  Guillermo was caught in the web of her passion, and he didn't know why he said the next words that came out of his mouth. "For you, Bella, anything."

  Chapter 17

  The remainder of the evening went by in a blur of sensory pleasure.

  Guillermo shooed Marcella out of the kitchen, donning her apron and forcing her to sit with Martino, Bianca and Clio at the adjacent table with glasses of wine, and bottles to replenish them. Then he proceeded to entertain and amaze them with his considerable culinary and operatic talents, as he repeatedly broke into song while chopping vegetables, seasoning meat, and stirring risotto, serenading them. Marcella kept jumping up to help him find things, or tell him what to do. But he would simply set down his knife, or whatever he had in his hand at that moment, and swoop her up in his arms to swing her around in a few dance steps, laughing and depositing her back in her chair with a kiss. Love and devotion shone in her eyes as she indulged him, like the favored son he was.

  And he returned the affection unselfconsciously.

  Clio couldn't pull her eyes from him. He was like Dionysius, or Bacchus as the Romans called him, the god of wine, merry making, theatre and ecstasy. Clio found herself wondering what it would be like to be loved and treasured by him, as his family clearly was. He created warmth and brought exuberance and delight wherever he went.

  "Buon appetito!" Guillermo lifted his wine glass in a boisterous toast.

  They ate at the kitchen table, like a family, relaxed, laughing, sharing stories of the days when the family were all together, the children growing up and spending summers and holidays at the villa. The pork tenderloin and risotto primavera that Guillermo had expertly prepared were delicious, and carried her senses to a new level of contentment. Clio closed her eyes, reveling in the wonderful flavors and textures of well-prepared food. He and Marcella alternately tasted and complemented the food and engaged in playfully competitive banter about their cooking skills, while he winked at Clio, laughing. The wine flowed freely, and it seemed to her that her glass was never empty.

  Clio couldn't remember being so immersed in a moment, or so relaxed and enjoying the company of another, since, well, since she'd been very young.

  Summers on Mykonos and Crete came to mind, when she was fourteen or fifteen. She was old enough to wander unsupervised while her parents worked, and she made many friends, both local Greeks and other foreign kids on extended vacations, like herself. It had been a dizzy, giddy, sensual time of pure pleasure. They all came of age together in the warm air and sultry light of the Mediterranean summers. All the rules and rigor of their families and the school year faded away in the ecstatic youthful glory of their shared company. And there had been Hektor to share it with. Hektor to tempt her and stir her fledgling senses.

  A surge of burning humiliation flooded her head and chest as she recalled the episode with Hektor on t
he beach on Mykonos. She had been just fifteen and naive as could be, eager to celebrate her newly discovered femininity.

  But she could never imagine a more beautiful and amazing first sexual experience. Her lip began to tremble. But the embarrassment and shame she felt when Father caught them in flagrante delicto on the beach, and Hektor fled to save his own skin, that memory clouded the other out. The lecture she'd been subjected to, the isolation that followed while they all waited to see if she'd foolishly gotten pregnant, had combined to ensure she would trust neither men, nor her own sexuality again. It didn't bear thinking about.

  "Are you alright, Clio?" asked Bianca.

  "Perhaps I've drunk a little too much wine," she replied, a hand to her cheek.

  Her face ached from smiling and laughing so much. Sadly, she realized how little smiling she did these days. Except when she was gazing fondly at sculptures and paintings that she loved, her life had become very dull, very abstract. No wonder she'd said those things by the fountain. It felt like the truth.

  At some point during the evening, she realized Guillermo never had answered her question about what they were supposed to be celebrating. In the back of her foggy mind, it occurred to Clio that this bacchanalian feast, and Guillermo's frenzied mood, were an elaborate ruse to distract them all, and to delude them into forgetting the upsetting events of the day, perhaps Guillermo most of all.

  Dessert was a simple scoop of gelato pulled from the freezer, with a splash of homemade grappa drizzled over it, as though they were not already drunk enough.

  "You have gelato on your cheek, Bella," Guillermo said, leaning toward her to wipe it off with the pad of his thumb, then licking it clean. She smiled at him, the room spinning a little, her eyes unfocused.

  "So do you," she laughed, reaching with her spoon to deposit a splat of melted ice cream on his nose.

  "Hey!"

  She darted forward to lick it clean, and in that split second, he shifted, kissing her on the lips. A dart of dangerous lust shot through her. She pulled back, shocked, laughing, and he followed, darting and parrying until he managed to plant his mouth firmly on hers, dipping his hot and cold tongue between her sticky lips. She swooned, liquid heat funneling down through her core, finding herself leaning toward him, hungry for more pressure, more attention from his hot, sweet mouth.

  A quiet moan emanated from somewhere deep in his chest as he pulled away.

  She covered her mouth with a hand. Oh dear, I must be really drunk. I'm behaving like an idiot.

  Marcella laughed and got up from the table to clean up, while Martino cleared his throat and looked away.

  Guillermo grinned, and in her foggy mind, she felt her face heat with shame. He was playing her like a fiddle, and she was too drunk, or too stupid to resist him.

  But truly, she had never seen such a beautiful man. Her female appreciation of his pure virile maleness, his gorgeous sky blue eyes, flashing white teeth and tousled dark waves was boundless. Better than any Bernini sculpture or Carravaggio painting, because hot red passionate blood ran in his veins, and he was eating her up with his eyes, making her feel more alive than she had a right to.

  His eyes met hers, darkening with desire, glittering with wicked pleasure, daring her to set aside her restraint and swim with him in the sea of sensation in which he was so adroit.

  And she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to.

  Reckless lust swam in her veins, making the room spin, and stealing all caution.

  Guillermo laughed darkly. "I think I'd better help you to bed, principessa. You've had quite a lot of wine, no?"

  "Mem-mo," came Marcella's sharp voice. "You be a good boy."

  "Si, Marcella. I am a very good boy." He hooked an arm under Clio's shoulders and hefted her out of her chair, and she sagged against him like a ragdoll. He tossed her rubbery arms over his shoulders, and she managed to hold onto him as he hauled her upright.

  She hiccuped. "Scusami." A bubble of ridiculous, silly giggles rose up out of her.

  Bibi roused herself, lifting her head from the table. She was just as bleary-eyed as Clio felt, but she managed to add a steely thread to both the look she shot Guillermo, and to her voice when she said, "Remember our conversation, Memmo. I'm watching you."

  She was limp as overcooked linguine. Stronzo! Life was cruel. He helped her up the stairs to her room, and they stumbled inside together. Finally she was relaxed and willing, but too drunk for him to even consider taking advantage of her. Even though he'd had his share of the wine, he knew better. Not that he was a saint. He'd been known to take an inebriated woman to his bed on more than one occasion. A certain kind of woman, who clearly knew what she was getting into. But even if he were thinking about it, he was sure Marcella and Bianca would be listening at the door, ready to pounce on him should he dare to take a wrong turn.

  Not that he didn't want to. The Lord in Heaven knew he was extremely motivated to get this woman into his bed and make deliriously passionate love to her. He did not ordinarily have to wait to satisfy his desire, and had never wanted or needed to control himself and suppress his needs as he had this past couple of weeks. Ever since he saw her at Pia's after the accident, clean, and vivid and so incredibly sexy in her borrowed, feminine clothes, her spectacular Titian hair barely contained after her shower. In that moment, his heart had clenched into a fist of exhilaration, and had not given him a moment's peace since then, rebelliously thumping with joy whenever she was near.

  He didn't need them to tell him that Clio was different. She was no young innocent. But drunk or sober, she held herself back from indulging in the normal physical activities of modern adults. He suspected it had something to do with her high-achieving, overbearing parents. But until that cage was unlocked, he would not be forcing himself on her.

  That didn't mean he was unwilling to enjoy her beauty, her delicious womanly scent, the touch of her soft skin, her silky hair or her incredible fabulously mouthwatering lips. He was already hard, thinking about it, and suspected he would be staying that way.

  She slipped away from him like a silky scarf sliding to the ground, but instead she floated up, swirling around, a soft feminine laugh escaping those lips.

  "Sing to me, Memmo," she said, swaying to some music in her head. "I feel like dancing."

  Huh?

  "I enjoyed your singing tonight. You have such a lovely, sexy voice."

  Guillermo puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. Stronzo. She would kill him.

  "What do you want me to sing, Bella?"

  "Mmm. That one you sang in the garden… what's it?"

  He remembered. Truer words had never been written. "…La prima volta l'ho incontrata…" he sang softly, hoping there were in fact no nosy women hanging about in the corridor. "…Mi è entrata dentro e c'è restata…" She'd got inside him alright, right past his defensive walls, and shaken him somewhere deep and vulnerable and raw. Somewhere he'd never allowed another woman to go. He felt a twisting, tumbling sensation in his chest at the realization. Somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, maledizione.

  While he sang, she danced, swirling her hips, lifting her arms over her head, pulling at her plait until it came unraveled, as though she knew how utterly wild that would drive him. Her eyes glittered at him with such sensual abandon he could only stand and listen to the mad rhythm of his own heart pounding in his ears.

  He felt like a helpless fool standing there.

  Then she spun and spun toward him as though he were drawing her on a cord, until she brushed up against him, draping herself backwards over him, lacing her arms around his neck. Che cazzo! She writhed and wiggled her incredible ass into his already tumescent groin, and the blood rushed from his brain, making him dizzy with desire. He grabbed her hips to still her torture and push her away. But she dropped her hands over his and held them there, and he knew it was a lost cause. "Mm-mmm. Memmo?" Her voice emerged low and throaty and sensual, like thick treacle.

  He cleared his throat, whispering hoarsely in reply. "Si,
Bella."

  In answer, she took one of his hands and slid it across her stomach, soft, flat and still undulating from side to side as she brushed her shoulders against his chest. Oh, Madonna! No! But yes, sure enough she continued to steer his hand, up her ribcage to the full heavy curve at the underside of her breast, where she made sure his stopped and pressed against her, something he'd been fantasizing about since the portico last night. Was it only last night that he'd kissed her? It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  He gritted his teeth. He had to stop this or he wouldn't be responsible for what happened.

  "Cara. I think maybe you've lost your inhibitions in a bottle of Bianco delle Regine, eh?"

  In response, instead of coherent words, she moaned softly, massaging his hand into her breast in delectable circles. Oh, Bella. He couldn't help himself. He kneaded and squeezed her fullness, then drew her taut nipple between his fingers, pinching while her moaning increased to a frenzy pitch.

  Soon she'd directed his other hand over her hipbone and was sliding it downward toward the inviting vee between her legs. Oh, Dio, no! This wasn't happening! Her heat seared his hand, and he needed no help knowing what to do once his fingers felt her hot mound, slipping into the hot groove at her centre, especially with her twisting and squirming in circles against his hand, using him for her wanton pleasure. His erezione pressed against her soft ass. Si! Ah, si. How he wished he could peel off her clothes and let himself go, then he'd show her what he could do, not only with his hands, but with his mouth.

  "Memmo, oh, Memmo, yes!"

  Her moaning increased, joined by gasps of pleasure and little high-pitched squeals as her head fell back against his shoulder and her breathing became fast and labored. He dropped his mouth to her shoulder, breathing through her shirt, burrowing his face into her hair and neck and jaw, kissing, licking and nibbling wherever he came into contact with skin. "Sono ubriaca di te," he murmured. Never mind the wine. I am drunk with you. Lifting his head, he regarded her profile. Her eyes were closed, and her lips parted seductively, plump and red, her tongue lashing and stroking her teeth.