He went to the fridge, got out the milk and rummaged for a small saucepan to warm it.
"You cannot sleep?"
He jerked and spun, dropping the pot with a clatter. "Agh! Oh, Marcella."
"Shush. I startled you. Here, let me." She retrieved the pot and took the milk from his hand.
He sighed and perched on a stool, watching while she lit the stove and nursed the milk to the right temperature, then poured it into a mug.
"What's eating at you?" Marcella said as she handed it to him.
He shrugged. "I feel so powerless."
"You've done everything you can."
"Have I? Clio had the vision. I only helped her," he said, despondent. He blew on the warm milk and took a sip.
"She has a special spirit, that girl. A real passion."
"She does. I could not, would not, have done any of it without her. It's difficult to imagine a positive outcome without her inspiration and determination." He missed her enthusiasm, her support, her devotion. Even the prospect of victory paled without her to share it. The ache in his chest expanded.
Marcella peered at him. "You miss her."
"Mmm. I believed anything was possible when she was with me. Now, I'm not so confident." The ominous knowledge of Richie's withdrawal, the bank's demands, and Guillermo's reluctant reliance on the faint-hearted Jacopo, pressed in on him.
Strangely, this was a gift he wished he could give Clio, even more than his family. He longed to bask in the warmth of her approval. Senza di te non sono niente. Nothing.
How he wanted her back in his arms.
Clio. Senza di te non posso più vivere. How would he live without her? His eyes burned hot.
"Drink your milk, Memmo." Marcella stroked his arm. "She reminds me of Gemma."
"Mama? No."
"Si. When she first came here. She awoke in your papa the same passion. Your Nonno really liked her, too. He told me, she was just what this place needed. Clio is the same."
Maybe. Though he saw Mama as a bright, flighty butterfly, and Clio a little more like a caged colourful bird. If she were free, she would take flight, and shine. Perhaps she needed the villa as much as it needed her.
"Finish. Come," Marcella said and led the way out of the kitchen. He did as he was told and clicked off the light as he followed.
She stood in the hall, her arms across her middle, gazing at the portrait of Mama that hung on the stair landing above them.
He filled his lungs and released a deep sigh. Mama's portrait always gave him comfort and a powerful sense of belonging. Where would it hang if the villa were sold? Nothing would feel right again. In this portrait, made from a favourite photograph taken on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, she wore a beautiful ivory gown that complimented her lovely dark colouring. She was descending this very stair with a broad smile on her face, always elegant and gay. "Remember the sound of her laugh," he said now.
Marcella nodded. "She was such a solace to your serious papa."
And Papa, always working and worrying over finances, over management of the estate, seemed to be perpetually at his desk working. He seldom had time for Guillermo or the girls, drawing Jacopo aside for sober lectures. Only Mama could draw him out. An image flashed in his mind.
"Do you remember that other photo? The one of them together that night?"
"Si, si. It's in the red album. In the library."
"Go back to bed, cara. Grazie for the milk."
"Try to sleep, carino." She stroked his arm and shuffled off toward her rooms.
He went in search of the album, determined to confirm an impression he had of his father that night. The way he looked at Mama, standing in the doorway of the study, looking up at her, admiration, chagrin and love in his eyes. Tonight, their absence affected him profoundly.
He stood in the doorway of the study, looking into the shadowy room. The memory of his father's hunched shoulders bent over papers on the large mahogany desk was burned into his mind. But again the image of his father's face uplifted, love shining in his eyes as he gazed at Mama, pushed itself forward. Where is that photo album?
In the library, he flicked on a desk lamp and searched the shelves until he found the red, leather-bound album Marcella had mentioned. He took it to the study and opened it on Father's desk, sitting and flipping the pages until he found the picture. There. Just as he remembered.
A folded sheet of paper fell out. He lifted it and opened it to see Father's familiar slanted handwriting.
Mia cara, mia innamorata.
Grazie per tutto quello che mi hai dato in questi ultimi venticinque anni. Mia vita non avrebbe alcun significato, nessuna gioia senza di te.
Sei tutto per me. Sei il grande amore della mia vita. Con te voglio invecchiare.
Tuo Gabriel
It was his love note to Mama on the evening of their anniversary. Guillermo caressed the parchment. He had said very similar things to Clio. Strangely, he never thought of his father as the type of man to express such romantic words, but here was the proof.
He realized that for Papa, it was all worth it. He may have been a quiet, dutiful man, uncomfortable with expressions of emotion or affection, but his heart was large and loving. And his love for Mama was so great that he did not mind at all the heavy load he bore.
Guillermo had always admired Nonno more. He was a man of energy and decisiveness, easily relatable for a lively, fiery boy, though ultimately no more successful at saving the family fortunes. On the surface there was more for him to respect and emulate. But now his chest swelled with pride in for his strong and quiet father. He no longer pitied him. What gave him his quiet strength was the love he shared with Mama.
Their love had sustained the family, and held everything together despite the challenges. It had given purpose and poignancy to their lives. Of course he knew nothing of that as a boy. But he knew what love looked like, and he felt a corresponding ache in his heart.
He closed the album, stroking its soft smooth cover.
Everything became clear. He could do anything, carry any burden, climb any mountain, if he could share his life and a love so deep, with a woman like that. If only he could have Clio by his side.
Mio Dio!
From the moment he'd met her, the evening of her crash, she'd stolen his heart. Unlike her namesake, Clio became so animated when she spoke of the arts, she was the antithesis of dull. She was an enigma. So brimming with passion, and so tightly buckled down. So afraid of her essential self, and yet it was that very essence that fired his blood. So bold, beautiful, intelligent. From their first kiss on the portico, when he and Clio had shared a tentative touch, the spark of passion awoke for each other.
The night of Clio's erotic dance of passion as she fell apart in his arms in the Stanza Aqua, he realized what an amazing, passionate woman she was.
No wonder he could not resist her.
He could still see the look in her wide, beautiful turquoise eyes. She wanted him, too. To save her, but also to surrender to her. Fully. His heart hammered violently. That night he stood at a turning point and knew that a kind of annihilation awaited him just around the corner.
"Ah, Clio, Bella" he whispered to the night air. I am dying without you.
It frustrated him now, as it had then. What did she fear? What did she need? And how could he give it to her? Her essential makeup was defined by her family's notion of worth. She could never allow herself to just be. She had to accomplish something. Create something.
Whatever it was that made her so, he got it. Felt it in his gut. If he were truthful, although the circumstances of their upbringing were very different, they had that in common. His essential nature would be crushed by the need to conform to his family's expectations of what he should be. How he should be. Destroyed by it.
Except that he had spent his life rebelling. Rejecting all that they asked of him in order to hold on to his essential self. Whereas she… she had surrendered herself to please her family. Ironic. It sounded so simple
now that he'd thought it through. But what was the answer?
He was compelled to get close to her. They were like mirrors to each other. They were both drawn and repelled by what they saw. Opportunity and risk. He wanted to help her, to heal her, but also to feed from the fiery core of her vibrancy and power.
She'd given herself to him eventually, and what a gift. So sensual, so passionate, as he knew she would be. But there still remained something of that restraint in her. As though she felt there would be some dire consequence of total surrender.
He stood and went into the library, where they had worked side by side for long hours, a dedicated team with a common purpose. His gaze fell on the polished wood tables, the book-lined shelves, and on the worn carpet at his feet. He remembered his surprise at Clio's playful seduction, her sudden transformation to a willing wanton woman. This was where they had first, at last, become lovers, right there on the floor. His body tightened with remembered desire, and his heart hammered rapidly as his blood responded to the sensations.
He was truly, deeply, madly in love with Clio. But, how can I keep her without her respect and admiration? He had shied away from accepting his responsibilities, but he couldn't do that anymore. It was his destiny. And he would do anything to keep Clio. Anything!
All of a sudden, he knew what to do. In order to win her respect, he must earn it, and for this he must respect himself. Even if it killed him. But then he remembered something she'd said. Something like, he was more alive when he was accepting challenges? It was clear, he was no more likely to die young running the villa than racing fast in his car. If he were meant to burn bright and die young, then so be it. He had been running away from his true self. If only he could convince her to stay with him, to be by his side, he could do all that he needed to do, and die a happy man.
He returned to his desk and opened his briefcase, withdrawing the folder of papers and forms Clio had left with him weeks before. He leafed through the pile until he found the form outlining the position of director of the foundation, which she'd already, bless her, filled in with his name and particulars. He picked up his pen, poised it over the signature line, then set down his name in ink.
Chapter 31
Clio hadn't left her apartment in several days, ever since she'd packed up all her belongings from her office at the university under Jonathan's dumbfounded stare.
"You've got to be bloody joking," was all he said.
She was running out of things to eat, but couldn't bear the thought of going out for something as mundane as shopping. Cash was short anyway, and rent would come due shortly. Determined to finish writing her thesis in the shortest time possible, nothing was going to get in her way, not even hunger.
Instead, she made pot after pot of caffe, nibbling on whatever scraps she found in her cupboards, rolled up her sleeves, and hunkered down to work. Completing her thesis, and finding someone who would sponsor her defense at a new university was her only hope.
At first Clio thought she could find some interim teaching position, or some other job to tide her over. But after browsing online, it was clear her best chances of employment depended on getting her degree. She was so close. If she could conquer it and write the thing to her own satisfaction, she could shop it around. There were people she knew at Perugia, Abruzzo or even Roma University who would gladly accept her and allow her to defend. It was good quality, original research anyone would be happy to have.
She worked around the clock, stopping only for a shower once a day. The harder she worked, the more she immersed herself in the material, the more sense it began to make. Little flashes of insight she'd had over the years, as she was collecting data, came back to her when she reviewed her photos, sketches and notes. Yet she was still missing something. A spark. When she reread her words, they were wooden and uninspired.
But time was short. She had to persevere.
With an aching back, a pinched neck, and eyes filled with sand, she sat at her computer hour after hour, through day and night. When her vision became bleary, she would get up and pace, make more coffee, splash cold water on her face. She didn't dare take a break, and she couldn't sleep. Through profound fatigue, her mind buzzed with worry and analysis. If she stopped, she'd lose momentum, and the critical thinking she had done would lose its shape and slip away. Then she'd have to begin again.
No. It was far better to keep going.
There was no one to see or care that she had fallen into a frenzy of work. Certainly her parents and Dr. Jovi would not be calling. They might never speak to her again. Even Jonathan, with whom she'd shared an office for three years, hadn't called to find out what she was doing, or if she was alright. No, no one.
There was no point in feeling sorry for herself. Everyone had their own agenda. Everyone was doing what they needed for themselves, and so must she. Even though terribly alone, unable to clearly see her future, she needed to take care of herself and begin to build an independent life of her own. She was finished tying herself in knots avoiding the displeasure of her parents, and trying to buy their love by jumping through hoops. Why did she need to please her parents and comply with their wishes at all? I'm an adult. This is my life. How had she become so malleable, so unwilling to assert her own will?
A huge yawn stretched her jaw, sending a shudder through her body. She rose from her desk and drifted to the window, gazing out onto the quiet night street. She knew the answer well enough.
Though she'd begun life feeling loved and valued by her parents, she believed there was something wrong with her. As she grew up, it became increasingly obvious that they were narcissistic and self-centered people. They were so absorbed in their own academic careers, their heads buried in the clouds, she wondered if they ever meant to have children, or thought about what that might require.
She shivered violently and pulled a blanket off of the back of her sofa, wrapping it over her shoulders like a shawl.
In any case, once she'd become a teenager, it was clear that her presence was more of an inconvenience than a pleasure. Mother was simply absent, both physically and emotionally, most of the time. Father, she supposed, did his best, forcing her into the mold he thought would be best, or at least something he could control. But he was inflexible, and he didn't seem to understand that she was a person with her own likes, potential and needs. There never was any room to expand into her own skin. The only time she had dared to explore, and found a group of carefree friends that summer in Greece, learned about both her own desires and discovered the possibility of love, well he'd shut her down and humiliated her. Rendering her that much easier to control. So effectively, she'd never recovered from it.
Not until Guillermo…
Another deep sigh escaped from her heavy, tight chest. Despite herself, Guillermo had broken through the barriers of her self-defense. From that first night, she'd not been the same. It wasn't only that he reminded her of Hektor, with his dark beauty and wild abandon. That alone was enough to unlock her desire. That was only the beginning. But also the way he looked at her. As though she were the most amazing, beautiful, sexy thing he'd ever seen. His admiration and desire elevated her.
"Nei tuoi occhi c'è il cielo, cara."
She shivered at the memory of his words.
Guillermo had sensed the qualities in her that she had hidden because they were not acceptable to Father. Her natural energy and curiosity, her dreaminess and creativity, and her sensuality. Goosebumps rose on her skin, remembering how Guillermo's eyes, and his touch, and his murmurings of admiration, had awakened her. Unlocked her passion."Ecciti i mei sensi, Bella."
He made her feel alive.
She touched her fingertips to her lips, gently stroking, remembering his kisses, and the divine molten state of her blood racing, her skin tingling, under his attentions. She blinked, loosening the tears that clung to her lashes.
The room swooped dangerously around her, darkening at the edges of her vision, her head as light as though full of spun glass. She clos
ed her eyes, trying to steady her escalating heartbeat, and slow her rapid breathing.
"Guillermo."
Her heart leapt with a jolt of joy just saying his name. His absence haunted her like a fever, her breath catching in her throat, her head hot and her body chilled.
"Bella." She heard his voice, soft and seductive, like a caress, and gave into the flood of memories that swamped her like a drug.
"Ti desidero, Bella, Bella, Clio."
"Guillermo."
She laughed softly. As romances go, it was almost backwards. From his first approaches, tinged with arrogance and a bold, bright masculinity, and then more tentative, patient, watchful, and finally soft, vulnerable, childlike in his innocence and sincerity. His passion always there, but so much more tender and precious when tempered by his genuine emotions.
"Bella, cara. Il mio cuore è solo tua. Ti voglio, ti voglio."
He had awoken her sleeping body, one caress and kiss at at time, stirring her blood and flaming her desire. By the time they had made love, she could no longer hold back, not just her need for the heat and power of his body, but her hunger to be closer to him, to mingle her breath and her heartbeat with his, to possess and be possessed by him.
She had felt truly loved and treasured.
She thought he felt the same way.
"Clio?"
She turned, confused. "Guillermo?"
He stood across the room, smiling, his eyes shining. Warmth flooded her body, driving her heart rate up, drumming in her chest. She was suddenly wide awake and energized. Hot tears inscribed a path across her tight skin. Guillermo! Caro.
She couldn't believe it. He was here! His image blurred until there were two of him, and she squeezed her eyes tight, opening them again, trying to focus. But he was gone.
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 31
