Catarina’s account of the legend of Befana—a witch riding on a broomstick, the Italian equivalent of Santa Claus—enchanted Ruby and Isla. Informed by the Magi about the expected happening in Bethlehem, Befana rejected the invitation to join them on their journey.
“And now,” said Catarina sternly, her eyes resting thoughtfully on Tamsin and Luca in stitches at a joke Fabio had cracked, “for eternity she’s doomed to search forever for the Christ child, leaving gifts for the children who’ve been well behaved during the year and lumps of coal for the naughty.”
At the traditional Christmas lunch, the elaborately decorated dining table dazzled with the best antique tablecloth, Staffordshire bone chinaware, crystal glassware and sterling silver cutlery, seating twenty-five close friends, relatives and children. Antipasto comprised cuts of cured meat, fish and seafood garnished with cheese and plump olives. The first course of Lasagne Verdi alla Bolognese was cooked exactly to the secret family recipe of the Leopoldos, passed down the generations. A variety of succulent roast meat—veal, chicken and beef—thick-sliced with fresh vegetables followed, served on large platters, and there was more, in the way of ten different kinds of cheese, and wine–marinated, dried and fresh fruit. Grappa, whiskey and champagne flowed like a tap. Torrone, a cake of honey, egg whites and nuts and the most traditional of Christmas desserts, originating in Cremona in 1441, appeared to a loud round of applause, as did a light Milanese form of panettone stuffed with raisins and succulent crystallized fruit while they couldn’t have enough of Veronese pandoro, frustum shaped golden yeast bread rising to an eight pointed star, dusted with vanilla icing sugar to resemble the snowy peaks of the Italian Alps.
Personal gifts, glamorously wrapped, were exchanged. Catarina’s to Tamsin was a pair of antique pearl earrings and Luca’s light and expensively soft amber cashmere shawl that she suspected his secretary had chosen. Wearing an electric-blue satin, one-shoulder dress with a high street statement necklace, sassy nails and punchy lip gloss, Tamsin drew interested looks while she handed round her gifts, handmade, extravagantly beribboned, richly bound notebooks, the recipients’ names finely embossed in a wealth of original imagery in gold and silver on the front cover.
The old year was ushered out and the new year toasted in with Luca’s specially commissioned firework display that pierced the navy-blue night sky with radiant orbs and surreal sounds while yet more champagne warmed them in the icy air as the fragrance of the lake drifted across.
After Epiphany that traditionally marked the end of the festive season, Ruby and Isla reluctantly boarded a flight home. Luca, with meetings scheduled in New York where he’d catch up with his sisters and their families, planned to proceed to Beijing and Amsterdam and expected to be absent for the rest of the month.
* * * *
One cold, gray afternoon, a few days after Luca’s departure, Catarina suffered a sudden hemorrhagic stroke. Stroking her forehead, Tamsin accompanied her to hospital in the hastily summoned ambulance, having called Luca and her daughters who chartered a jet and were at her bedside within hours. She was never to recover, and died two days later, her gaunt, spotted hand resting in Luca’s. His grief was profound. The person who’d given him unconditional love for the past twenty five years was no more.
Oh hell. I do not want this now. Tamsin felt a sense of chill, a sharp finger of uncertainty across her heart. Felt, unreasonably, that Catarina had let things happen, had given up so fast. She expected Luca to terminate her employment, and that the generous pay and conditions she’d enjoyed would end. Finding a job in England and accommodation back home would be no easier than before. Could she persuade him to continue her occupation of the casa to enable her to grow her business? The local paper had featured her some weeks ago and this, together with word of mouth and her own website, had resulted in some serious commissions that she could build on. She felt very close to tears and decided to leave it until Luca initiated matters.
On a rain-darkened day, after a spectacular Requiem that would have done justice to a Pope, at which Salvatore’s last surviving friend stepped up and spoke, at length, and often brokenly, about his enduring friendship with the noble couple, how special Catarina was to them, how much she’d be missed and how important the distinguished Leopoldos were to Italy and the community, Catarina was finally reunited with Salvatore in the Carrera marble mausoleum.
Walking back to the car behind the family closing in on each other, surrounding a taut, ashen-faced Luca, struggling with his emotions, Tamsin was reminded poignantly of Patrick and Eve, filed away for so many months, and something like fear plucked at her.
* * * *
“Screw this. Was she thinking straight?” Luca, pacing, stopped dead in the centre of the room and violently slapped Catarina’s will down on the table.
Vincenzo, short, solid, jerked if he’d suffered an electric shock, but managed to say evenly, “Very much so. I checked with her attorney and he assured me she gave clear and lucid instructions.” He fingered his moustache. “Indeed, he described her as a focused and sane testatrix with full testamentary capacity.”
Battling to control himself, Luca turned and went to the window. Outside, a light mist veiled the morning. For several days after Catarina’s death, he had existed in a stiff, searing state of grief. He lay open-eyed throughout the night and avoided the office.
And now this. He couldn’t conceive how she could ever have dreamed up this…audacity. The will was a classic of brevity. Generous legacies and bequests to family members, friends and staff. No problem. Then it slanted off piste. Catarina designated Luca as sole beneficiary of her private fortune on condition he married within three months and stayed married for five years, twenty per cent of the entitlement being released to him annually after each wedding anniversary. In default, her assets would devolve on an animal charity.
“Can’t I contest it?”
“You may but, as you know, litigation’s a costly, protracted process and a successful outcome’s far from guaranteed. Anyway, what’s your problem? Marriage is a blessing.” Vincenzo, with his childhood sweetheart of a wife and two lively toddlers, relished the rough and tumble of family life.
“I’ve no intention of getting hitched, yet. I’m a time pauper.” Luca did not want to go through the rigmarole of marriage and children and unmanageable scenes and emotions.
“Love makes the world go round. Listen, it’s like this, my friend. Don’t you want to inherit what Catarina obviously intends that you should? That way you’re in the driving seat. You can then deal with it as you choose—give it away, invest it carefully, or squander it on gambling and loose living.” He poured out two glasses of neat Scotch, added ice cubes and tried to rally him. “She’s obviously concerned about you and has your best interests at heart when she says here,” he flipped to the next page, “I want my precious Luca to live happily and to live well.” Catarina obviously wanted Luca to move beyond PTSD to get to normal.
Luca drained his glass. “God, I needed that.” He pressed his hands against his eyes and could almost smell Catarina’s signature perfume. God, why was she forcing this duty on him? “OK, she’s matchmaking from the grave. Fine. Find me a bride.”
“Oh man,” Vincenzo laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.
Leaving Vincenzo’s sleek Milan office, Luca delegated his in-tray and headed back to the villa. He felt it all a bit full on that day as if he’d been rung dry. Did he really want the inheritance under those conditions? He possessed more than enough already, was firmly on the wealth treadmill, but then one could never be too rich. And…there was always that dark demon riding his back. He’d never completely cast off the ghost of destitution and homeliness he’d experienced as a refugee which, when he least expected, could still rise up and ambush him.
The glamorous Filipino he was dating aspired to run for political office when she returned to her homeland in the summer. The many delightful Italians who’d preceded her had soon realized he wasn’t the marrying ki
nd and had moved on to target men who were. The Texan beauty queen suffered from homesickness for the entire duration of her secondment to the bank’s Milan branch and couldn’t wait for it to end. The German had reconciled with her erring husband. A thought came into his head and he clicked his fingers. How stupid of me. Luca metaphorically shredded the list and in a cold-blooded, uninvolved sort of way called a high-end Milan jeweler and rattled off instructions.
* * * *
“I wonder,” Tamsin began awkwardly as she stirred two teaspoons of brown sugar into the Americano that Mirella served in the sitting room after Luca’s unexpected dinner invitation during which they’d exchanged platitudes as he shot her glances, she couldn’t comprehend, from under his eyelashes, “if…”
He crossed over and sitting down beside her on the sofa placed her cup on a side table. “Will you marry me, cara?”
Tamsin’s heart knocked violently and she half closed her eyes, momentarily dumbstruck.
“Will this make any difference to your answer?” He lowered his mouth to hers and, kissing her hard and deep, slid a hand up her T-shirt.
“Yes. No.”
“So, yes to the first and no to the second?”
She nodded, as a pang of unreasonable happiness flooded her.
“Luca…” and then she wanted to ask what had triggered the proposal.
“Hush, darling I know what’s going through your head.” He brushed aside the wisps of hair tumbling across her face. “I know exactly what I’m doing and it’s not the impulse of a moment or a reactive crisis to the loss of Catarina.” He added. “I really want you in my life. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” All of a half day, you bloody liar. It had struck him as he planned his takeover of Tamsin that the more indebted she was to him, the more compliant she’d be. And to be honest he could have chosen worse. She was well-educated, perhaps rather Rubenesque—nothing a strict diet and rigorous workouts with Milan’s finest couldn’t shed—but otherwise pretty, sexually able and willing to experiment. That she had a prick of a brother wasn’t her fault, and she was fair-minded, conscientious, good-natured and, even better, long-suffering. And they respected each other. He reckoned that, with Tamsin, he could make the marriage work and easily collect. Fulfilling the mandatory five-year term will be a breeze.
“I’ve loved you so very much Luca, for so very long. Always wanted to be with you.” An incredulous grin stole across her face.
He knew she’d always carried a torch for him. “I love you, too sweetheart.” Sure it was scripted, but what is love, he asked himself? It means different things to different people. He acknowledged to himself that he was being expedient, pragmatic, and even base, but he’d known successful marriages built on flimsier foundations. Justly proud of his plan, he wasn’t going to beat himself up over this overused word. “And here’s proof.” He burrowed into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small red and gold velvet-covered box secreted there for several hours.
“Oh…” Tamsin flipped open the lid and stared wide-eyed at the gold-drenched solitaire diamond ring, the size of a huge and extravagant Morello cherry, that winked pure blue light. She held out her left hand.
“I hope it’s the right size.” He slid it on to her finger. “It is.” The jeweler with his impeccable taste had made an inspired choice, and had couriered it over to the villa that afternoon.
“It’s gorgeous,” she whispered, feeling as though she’d won the lottery. What had she done to deserve this? Only in her wildest fantasies had Luca featured as an arch romantic. Everything was happening so fast.
“I want us to wed here as soon as we can.”
Businessman that he was, first and foremost, she half expected him to mention the proverbial. Tamsin blinked and made a direct appeal. “We’re not opting for a pre-nup, are we? I want us to stay together forever like Salvatore and Catarina. If, God forbid, we do part, I know you’ll do right by me. I’m not the sort of person to take anyone to the cleaners.”
He was confident she wasn’t. “It’s happy ever after, darling.” He felt a prickle of guilt and ran a finger hand round the back of his neck.
“Although it’s Ruby I’m still worried about.”
There was a pause. Then Luca kissed her hand. “Of course you are. I want to assure you I’m assuming full responsibility for all Ruby’s maintenance and med school fees. You can relax.”
Tamsin sighed and snuggled up to him.
“Let’s seal our engagement in the time-honored fashion,” he murmured, carrying her up to his room.
“I’ve always wanted to have your—our—baby. Soon.”
Sharpness like that of a bayonet spike pierced him. This would require careful handling. “Interesting notion.” He was oddly non-committal and something she couldn’t quite put her finger on rang like a faint fire alarm at the door of her thoughts.
We ought to talk about this. Tamsin hesitated, then fell silent.
“Darling, I don’t want to sound hardhearted, but you see, I really want some ‘us’ time first.” He lowered his dark head to kiss her breasts and felt her flutter.
“You’re working your magic again. You know how to keep me happy.” But as she lay in his arms, she knew that soon they would have to talk about children, the children she longed for.
“Luca?”
“Thinking about you.” His palm drifted to her belly.
“And I’m thinking we ought to make an immediate start on knocking together this room and the adjoining one to create one massive love nest with his-and-hers bathrooms,” she lied after a deliciously slow and intimate surrender to rapture.
He was almost weak with relief. That was one rocky reef ably navigated. “Permission granted.” He smiled and switched off the bedside lamp, resuming his hungry exploration of her, growling with pleasure at her rain of moisture, witnessing her open and eager for him.
* * * *
Shrieking with pleasure at the prospect that she and Isla were to be bridesmaids, Ruby couldn’t wait to fly over to help Tamsin choose a wedding dress, Luca having indicated that price was no object, well aware that Tamsin wasn’t the sort of girl who’d abuse his wallet.
Two weeks later, Tamsin, bundled up against the chill of February, the sky streaky with gray clouds, was making her way to the workshop to finish a commission when she beheld a beribboned silver car bearing an envelope on its bonnet. She tore it open and smiled. My very own wheels! On the driver’s seat lay the keys and a note in Luca’s handwriting. Happy motoring. On the front passenger seat laid an intriguing, sublimely wrapped large box finished off with a big red bow. Inside were two smaller boxes—one held a string of purple anal beads with a gift tag in Luca’s handwriting that read: bliss and in the other rested two silver Kegel balls tagged: with love from me to you.
On a windy day in early March, the most important day of her life, a day of fresh new beginnings and optimism, Tamsin, fetching in cream lace and silk and carrying a heavy, delicately scented spray of spring flowers, walked slowly up the aisle on Gareth’s arm to the glorious chords of Handel. Close behind her drifted a cloud of bridesmaids in gauzy Madonna blue—the sisterhood with Ruby and Isla. Never had Luca looked more handsome, a white rose in the buttonhole of his impeccably cut suit, waiting for her at the altar flanked by his best man Vincenzo. Then he slowly turned his head and her heart stopped. This is really happening to me and it’s perfect.
A beaming Fabio pronounced them man and wife and they exchanged gold rings as the honey-toned bells of St. Mary Maggiore pealed joyously. Luca took her hand as she whispered silver balls, hear them ring ting a ling and they emerged, in a hailstorm of rice and confetti, from the glow of the church to a sparkling, sharply fragranced morning under a pinky-blue sky.
The reception at the villa was a glitzy affair, the four-tiered, hand-crafted, exquisitely designed, stunningly rich and tasty wedding cake was acclaimed sensational.
“Who hasn’t been invited?” Gareth muttered to Ruby, casting a gaze round the groome
d and wealthy throng, all with several homes too many, as his nervy fiancée in a lamé jumpsuit clung to him. Tamsin has landed on her feet, he told himself bitterly, then cheered up at the thought that she wasn’t the sort to refuse him a loan.
“How’d she impress him and pull this off?” Gareth’s fiancée said rather loudly. “Is she pregnant?”
Ruby sprang to her sister’s defense. “She’s the love of his life and simply the best and if she is, it’s none of your damned business.”
They honeymooned in Paris, a city neither had visited since they were teenagers, and she bombarded them with her charms. The bridal suite in calm, harmonious colors with contemporary damask wallpaper boasted a statement bed and a huge bathroom with a cornucopia of potions and lotions. The adjoining sitting room, a symphony of creams and blues, created a sense of unity between the sleeping and dining areas, its deep French windows opening onto a wide balcony that brought the outside garden indoors.
“God, I’ve been longing to fuck you all day,” Luca said, throwing his jacket onto a chair, “but kept getting side tracked by those guests who were determined to tell me how lucky I am.”
Tamsin blinked. “Make love,” she chided gently. Love came to her as desire knotting her stomach. She wanted his dick now.
“Of course, tesoro, sorry. Come here.” He reminded himself to use the appropriate terminology now they were husband and wife. Quickly they ripped off each other’s nightwear until they were both naked.
As he reached for a condom, Tamsin said quietly, “Is protection really necessary now we’re married? Let’s make a honeymoon baby.”
He said quietly. “Very soon, cara mia, but I’m not quite ready. Let’s get used to each other first.” Something like iron shifted in him.
Alchemy (Siren Publishing Allure) Page 8
