Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection)

by Jennifer Blake

  He looked at her, his gaze suspicious. “What are you driving at?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all.”

  She should have known better. Things didn’t work like that, reincarnated lovers born again to be together. It was just entertainment for people with overactive imaginations, nonsense that was not at all helpful in dealing with the present problem. Eyewash, as Mimi would have said.

  “Who killed Allain?” Rone asked.

  She lifted a brow. “How do you know he was killed?”

  “People’s cholesterol counts must have been sky-high in those days, but he didn’t seem the kind to keel over with a heart attack. Besides, somebody had tried to do him in at the train station.”

  “Well, apparently it was the same people, but I don’t know that; Violet doesn’t say and I’m not sure she ever knew. I think Gilbert was skulking around, myself — somebody was seen watching the villa. I wouldn’t put it past him to have hired men to do the job. He wasn’t rational.”

  “Old Gilbert didn’t seem to know much about women; he brought a lot of his problems on himself. But he did have a thing or two to try his temper.”

  “You’re defending him?” she said in disbelief.

  “I’m just saying it’s the dull, uptight men who are sometimes the most jealous. And a jealous reaction to a wife’s straying was not only to be expected back then, but excused a lot in the way of mayhem.”

  “So Gilbert seemed to believe.”

  “I’ll grant you he went about getting his wife back the wrong way.”

  “But he got her back. That’s what I find so hard to believe.”

  “Yes and no,” Rone said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He didn’t exactly get her back, I’d say, since they never really lived together afterward.”

  “Who told you that?” Joletta’s question was as sharp as the frown between her eyes.

  “Natalie’s mother, when she was explaining how Violet got into selling perfume,” he answered without altering his look of concentration. “Anyway, it seems to me that to be married to a woman but not allowed to touch her because of something you did yourself would be a form of torture.”

  The parallel was there, she thought, if she wanted to accept it. Rone was not allowed to touch her because of something he had done also.

  Or was that what he was saying? Maybe she was reading too much into it. She should really stop using her imagination and listen only to the words.

  “You feel sorry for Gilbert?” she said.

  “Don’t you, at least a little? Sure, he was a prude with the personality of a stump, your typical Victorian man. But he went off to Europe with a beautiful young wife and his dreams for a nice town house and a family, and he came back with nothing. A year later he puts a chased-silver dueling pistol to his head and tries to blow his brains out. He makes a mess out of that, too, winding up an invalid.”

  “I always thought he was hurt in some kind of accident.”

  “It was called an accident. According to Estelle, the story was that he was cleaning the pistol. Had to keep the scandal quiet, I suppose.”

  “He lived for years,” Joletta said, her voice low as she reflected on old deaths, old tragedies caused by hasty words and acts undertaken in anger. After a moment she said, “I think I’ll see if I can find Allain’s grave tomorrow.”

  “You know where to look?”

  “A church near the villa, though where exactly, I don’t know. I can call Signora Perrino.”

  “Or drive out and look around,” he said, his tone tentative. “I still have my rental car.”

  It was an offer if she cared to accept it. She couldn’t do it. He was from the enemy camp. Before she could answer yes or no, however, he went on.

  “Are you hungry? If you went out for dinner, I missed it.”

  “I didn’t think about it,” she answered. “I started reading the journal and didn’t want to quit.”

  He shook his head in disapproval. “Not to worry. You want to eat late? Thesse ees Italy, bella signorina. No problem. As for me, I’m starving.”

  “You missed dinner because of me?”

  “The dedicated guard. Don’t you feel sorry for me?”

  “I feel irritated and outdone, but not a shred of pity.”

  “But you’ll eat with me anyway?”

  It was a mistake to allow herself to be cajoled by a show of concern and an appealing smile. She knew it, but could not seem to help herself.

  Regardless, even as she ran a brush through her hair and applied a little lipstick, her brain was busy with ways to keep him from spending the night in her room. She wasn’t sure how she was going to do it, short of creating the kind of scene that made her cringe to contemplate. But she was not going to stay in that room with him. She would get rid of him before bedtime, no matter what it took.

  An opportunity of sorts presented itself before the evening was over.

  The restaurant was small and less than five blocks from the hotel. The food was northern Italian with a French accent, robust but with a refined presentation.

  The place was full in spite of, or possibly because of, the hour. There were a few obvious tourists, but most of the tables were occupied by local residents. Their waiter appeared ready to take it as an insult to both the restaurant and himself personally if they did not order at least five courses. By the time they had worked their way through soup, salad, pasta, an entrée of spit-roasted lamb with baby carrots and aubergines, and dessert of crème caramel — with appropriate wine and a liqueur flavored with almonds — they could begin to guess why the Italians walked everywhere they went. It was necessary to counteract all that food.

  They had set out for the hotel again when they saw Natalie and Timothy coming toward them.

  “The concierge said he had recommended this place to you two,” Natalie said, “but I couldn’t believe you were operating on Italian time.”

  “Another week,” Rone said, “and we’ll be more Italian than the Italians.”

  “You two can stand it, you’re both so slim; I’d have to go straight to a spa. But I wanted to ask Joletta what in the world she said to Caesar? He called me, totally strung out about it. He wasn’t making much sense.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Joletta answered.

  “You must have. He was raving about going back to his hometown, some little place near Venice with an unpronounceable name, to become his own man again. He didn’t like the way you saw him, didn’t like the way he saw himself because of you. At least I think that’s what he said.”

  “Oh,” Joletta said.

  “You do know what it’s all about. Caesar was such a marvelous man. Really, I’m sorry I asked him to be nice to you.”

  “So am I,” Joletta said quietly.

  Natalie looked contrite. “I shouldn’t have said that, I guess, though I don’t know what difference it makes now. It just seemed like a good idea to have somebody move in on you, stay close to find out what you were up to.”

  “Lord, Natalie,” Timothy said in brotherly disparagement.

  Joletta felt the blood rush to her head. She curled her fingers slowly into fists. “It was an underhanded trick. Did you stop to think that maybe Caesar recognized it, and felt guilty?”

  “Caesar?” Natalie arched a brow. “I wouldn’t think he could feel guilty about anything.”

  “I think you underestimate him,” Joletta said seriously.

  “But not you?” Natalie said with a brittle laugh. “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re complaining about; knowing him didn’t hurt you any. I thought you might even enjoy a little attention from a good-looking man, amore Italian-style.”

  “So kind of you. Maybe I should be grateful.” Joletta tried hard to keep the embarrassment, the hurt and anger, from her voice, but was not sure she succeeded.

  Natalie flushed a little and there was still an edge to her tone as she said, “Anyway, I should be the one upset. I had a great thing going with Caes
ar, but he hardly knew I was alive after I threw him at you in Paris. He fell for you, I think, maybe because he thought he saved your life in that ridiculously providential near accident. You made him feel all gallant and worthy or something, I guess.”

  “Sorry,” Joletta said, “I didn’t mean to ruin your romance.”

  Natalie gave her a moody look. “Yes, well, I suppose it was my own fault. But how was I to know that Rone had come up with the same idea, all on his own?”

  Rone’s voice was stringent as he broke in. “Thank you very much, Natalie, but I can make my own confessions.”

  “Yeah,” Timothy said. “I think enough’s been said anyway. Joletta will want to drum us out of the family, and I wouldn’t blame her.”

  “Thanks, dear brother.” Natalie’s sarcasm had a tired sound.

  The younger man ignored the comment as he turned an earnest look on Joletta. “Look, I’m sorry about all this. I’m sorry things didn’t work out, too — Natalie tells me you’ve traced things as far as the journal goes, and found zip. Not to worry. We’ll all get by. But families have to stick together. So if there’s any way we can make this up to you, just say the word.”

  “I think,” Joletta said slowly, “that there just might be.”

  “Hey, great.”

  Joletta met Natalie’s wary gaze. “You’re at our same hotel here, aren’t you? Do you have twin beds in your room?”

  “Joletta, wait, please.” There was urgency in Rone’s touch as he placed his hand on her arm.

  “There’s something wrong with your room?” the other woman asked.

  “Not the room, but the security system.”

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “She means,” Rone said in exasperated tones, “that I’ve been keeping too close an eye on her.”

  “You mean — in the same room? Wasn’t that a little above and beyond—” Natalie stopped as her gaze rested on Rone’s set face. She added hastily, “Oh, never mind.”

  “He seemed to think I was in danger,” Joletta said.

  “You were in danger,” Rone answered shortly.

  “There’s been no problem since we got to Venice.”

  “You mean since I took up night duty.”

  “Good Lord, Joletta,” Natalie said, “I never knew you were such a heart breaker.”

  “I’m not. This has nothing to do with me personally, as you ought to know.”

  “Doesn’t it now?” Rone asked, his voice soft.

  Timothy held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Come on, enough,” he said. “I’m sure Natalie won’t mind you sleeping over with her.”

  “You forget, Tim,” his sister corrected him. “The hotel was short of rooms. Mother is with me.”

  “Oh, right.” He turned back to Joletta. “But, hey, I could come bed down in the other twin, if that would make you feel better.”

  “It won’t be necessary,” Rone said, the words brusque.

  “Now wait a minute,” Natalie said slowly. “Joletta is my cousin, and if she doesn’t want you in her room, I think you had better stay out.”

  “Your concern is touching, but a little late,” Rone said.

  “Just what do you mean by that?” Timothy asked.

  “Your cousin was nearly killed. Where were you then? Joletta is perfectly safe with me — at least from anything I might do — so put your minds at ease on that point. For the rest, I’ve been looking after her, and I’ll keep right on doing it. If you think you can stop me, go ahead.”

  Timothy narrowed his eyes, but after an exchange of glances with Rone, he swallowed and was quiet. Natalie said nothing either, only stood watching Joletta’s protector with quick and rather surprised consideration in her blue-gray eyes.

  Rone did not wait for more, but touched Joletta’s arm in a gesture that suggested they move on. She went with him, partly because there seemed no point in standing there in the middle of the block, and partly because her mind was so busy that she started moving by reflex action.

  When she realized what she was doing, she stopped. She said baldly, “You can’t move in with me tonight.”

  He halted. He ran his fingers through his hair and clasped the back of his neck as he looked toward the night sky as if for inspiration. Finally he said, “Why? What is it you’re so afraid of? What is it about me that makes you prefer to take your chances with the creep who ransacked your room in Lucerne and put you in a ditch near Bologna than have me in the same room with you?”

  “You’re an overbearing, manipulative—”

  “Those are character faults, not reasons.”

  She gazed at the display of fine leather shoes in the store window behind him until the bright, yet soft, clear colors began to blur. “All right,” she said, her voice a little thick from the constriction in her nose and throat. “What is it you want me to say? Do you think I’m afraid of what I might feel for you? Fine, I’m saying that. I don’t like having somebody play with my emotions for the sake of what they can get out of me. I hate starting to feel something for somebody, then finding out I’m being used. I can’t stand the thought of maybe learning to care about someone and waking up to find them gone. You say you’re trying to protect me. That’s great if it makes you feel big. What I’m trying to do is protect me, too. I’m — I’m just trying to keep myself safe, from you.”

  “Joletta,” he said, the word a soft entreaty as he reached to take her hand.

  “Don’t!” She jerked away, stepping back from him. “Don’t say sweet things, don’t bring me flowers, please! And don’t make love to me. I don’t need that. I don’t want it. All I want is to be through with this trip, and then to get as far away from you as possible.”

  His blue gaze was somber with strain as he searched her face. Abruptly, he said, “I didn’t mean to hound you.”

  “People do a lot of things they don’t mean.” She refused to look at him.

  A car went past in the street with the wafted blast of a radio and a shriek of laughter. Neither of them noticed. The atmosphere between them had the heated fragility of a piece of hand-blown glassware just before it was struck from the pipe.

  Rone set his jaw, then deliberately relaxed it. He said, “If you want to get rid of me, you don’t have to wait for the trip to end.”

  She turned her gaze on him then. His face was a little pale in the dimness of the streetlights, but its planes were hard and unreadable and his lashes shielded his eyes.

  “You mean it?” she asked.

  “Beginning now.”

  The words could not have been more firm. Regardless, there was inside her a strange reluctance to test them. It had to be done, however.

  She took a step backward. He made no move.

  She took another step. He put his hands in his pockets.

  “Good-bye, then,” she said.

  He did not answer.

  There was nothing left to do but turn and walk away.

  That was what she did.

  But as she walked she could feel the ache inside her growing. She should have felt better; she was rid of him, wasn’t she? That was what she had wanted. Wasn’t it?

  Rone watched Joletta as she left him, moving with her back straight, shoulders set, and head up. He loved her grace and dignity, the sense of class about her. He even loved the way she had told him to get lost. God, he just loved her.

  He wished he had never heard of the perfume. Better still, he wished his mother had never heard of it. There had been a time when he had thought it could be a huge success. Now he didn’t care if it was ever resurrected. He thought, in fact, that it would be a good thing if it was lost forever. What did it really matter? All good things had to come to an end sometime.

  Maybe his pursuit of Joletta was another one?

  Maybe it was time he moved on, did something else, thought of something else.

  She didn’t want him sticking around, didn’t need him.

  There seemed no way to break through to her, nothing he could say or d
o to convince her that he wanted her for herself, needed her with a deep, slow ache that twisted his insides into knots and made his heart feel as if it had a ten-pound weight hung on it.

  So that was it. Farewell. Good-bye.

  The kiss-off without the kiss.

  At least he still had the carnation.

  24

  THE CEMETARY WAS WALLED WITH golden stone and lined with the somber green of cypress trees. The graves, marked with their slabs of marble and stone, were turned so that each faced the view afforded by the hillside on which they lay. Swallows swooped in the warm, still air, while in the gently waving grass a grasshopper clicked and sang quietly to itself.

  Joletta stood with Signora Perrino beside a marble marker whitened by sun and scoured by wind and years to such a fine brightness that the carvings of trailing flowers and an angel with drooping wings were barely visible. With careful fingers, she traced the sprigs of carved rosemary and petals of the old-fashioned roses exactly like the ones that grew on the wall of the villa garden. She also outlined the name and dates:

  ALLAIN ALEXANDER MASSARI 17 DECEMBER I827 — 9 MARCH I855

  Violet had never mentioned his middle name. It had, Joletta supposed, been unimportant to her.

  “He was very young,” Signora Perrino said from where she stood on the other side of the grave.

  Joletta gave a nod. “They both were, really, he and the woman who was here with him.”

  “Indeed. I must tell you that there are always flowers placed on this grave when the others of my family buried here are honored.”

  “Are there?” Joletta looked up in surprise. “How thoughtful.”

  “We had just begun to speak of this when your cousin arrived the other day. I know nothing of a perfume formula you seek, as I told you then, but the story of how this man and the woman he loved came to Florence has great importance for me and those of my blood who have lived since then. I heard it a thousand times as I was growing up. I tell my children, and they tell theirs.”

  “I don’t think I understand,” Joletta said slowly.

  “Before these two came, we were peasants working as servants to the Franchetti, who owned the villa. Afterward, we were — not wealthy, precisely, but well-off. In the next generation we came to own the villa and its surrounding lands. We still do; the present villa was built by my father and came to me, since I had no brothers. My husband, God preserve his soul, thought it a fine dowry, and lived there because I wished it. The place will go to my sons when I am gone.”