The Sicilian's Proposition

by Rees, Lynette

  “Will you be returning to Sicily, Joanne?” he asked when she stood to leave. She was gazing out of the window at the colorful flowerbeds and ornate fountain.

  She turned. “I’m not sure, Dante.” She longed to sit down and kiss him, swearing her love for him, but it didn’t seem appropriate in the circumstances.

  “But you will keep in touch, si?” He looked so hopeful she would say yes, it almost tore her heart in two, but she had to think of his best interests. She pushed her feelings aside and went with her head and not her heart for once.

  “I’m not sure. It’s unusual to return to people I interview unless we are updating things for readers.”

  His eyes looked sad somehow, doleful.

  She stood and blew him a kiss, and he smiled. Her eyes filled with unshed tears as she walked away from the man she loved. She was going to take the evening flight back to London. Back to home and all it had to offer. Back to her apartment and her pizza for one. Back to life without Dante.

  When she arrived at the hotel, Giovanni gave her a big hug. “I know how difficult this must be for you, Joanne. You know you are always welcome here at my hotel and in my country. I just wish things could have turned out differently for you…”

  “Me too, Giovanni.” She touched his shoulder and planted a kiss on his cheek.

  “I’ll run you to the airport when you are ready to leave.”

  “Thanks. I need to leave about five o’clock to check in for my flight. Meanwhile, I’ll finish off the article I was working on and make a few phone calls.”

  “Have you eaten?” he asked, his eyes full of concern.

  She shook her head. The truth was food had been the farthest thing from her thoughts all day. Her mind had been on nothing but Dante these past few days, hoping and praying that his memory would return, that somehow he’d remember what they’d once had together. Although in a way he had remembered, in his mind he thought the memories were of Carla, not her.

  “I’ll send some food up to your room as a last taste of Sicily. Maybe some pasta c’anciova e muddica. It’s pasta with anchovies and breadcrumbs. You will love it, si?”

  “That would be lovely, Giovanni. Thank you so much.”

  “I’ll send up a nice bottle of white wine from our vineyard also, and you shall have a couple to take home with you to remind you of your stay on this island.”

  “You are too kind.”

  He took her hand and kissed it. “Piacere mio. It’s my pleasure. Tomorrow will be a sad day here for my sister Angelina and the children.”

  “It’s the day of the funeral?” He nodded. “Will you go?”

  “Yes. The funeral would have taken place sooner, but an autopsy was required, which held things up. It is difficult as she is my sister, but also I know of the hurt Dante suffered over that man. In the end, Papa and I, we decided to support Angelina. We go for her.”

  She quite understood that. It wouldn’t surprise her, if Dante was well enough, he’d go also for the sake of his sister and children, but he didn’t seem to know anything about the funeral anymore.

  Giovanni smiled with tears in his eyes. “I shall contact the chef and ask him to make the pasta especially for you…”

  She watched him leave. How kind everyone was to her apart from Carla. That was understandable, though; maybe she still loved Dante too. After all, they had known one another since they were children.

  ***

  Dante watched Joanne leave. For the first time he felt comfortable in her presence. Surely if she had been one of those ruthless sorts of journalists, he wouldn’t feel this way? It was strange because, although she claimed to have danced with him on the balcony of his hotel, which he didn’t doubt for a second, he had no recollection. Certain things were drifting back to him, singular images. They didn’t appear all at once like a movie show; they were like snapshots in time with blurred edges, a little like a delayed slideshow.

  He remembered a boat trip with Carla that didn’t make sense to him. They were sailing to Lipari and the sun was shining. Carla was wearing a red bikini. It must have been new as he’d never seen it on her before. They were swimming by the side of the boat and he had to rescue her, she was going under the water and panicking.

  That couldn’t have been right, though; she was a strong swimmer. Afterward he had helped her on the boat. She was crying in his arms, she seemed so young and vulnerable. When had Carla shown her vulnerability? That was unusual, yet he recalled her crying at his hotel in London for some reason too.

  He tried to recall further memories, but they just wouldn’t come. He drifted off into a fitful sleep and awoke later to find Carla sitting at his bedside.

  “I’ve spoken to the doctor, Dante,” she said, stroking his forehead. “You can go home tomorrow morning. Giovanni has arranged for your bed to be brought downstairs at the villa.”

  “Thank you,” he murmured. “The journalist, Joanne, who was here just now? Did you pass her on the way in?”

  Carla shook her head and bit her lip. “No.”

  He looked at the clock on the wall. No, it wasn’t possible it was ages ago. Had he been asleep for hours? Time had no meaning in here.

  “Sorry. I am getting confused.”

  Carla looked at him, her eyes narrow slits. “Why do you ask about her?” Her voice took on an accusatory tone.

  “I would like to speak to her.”

  Carla let out a long sigh. “She has gone back to the U.K., Dante. Giovanni told me she left tonight.”

  Disappointment filled his every pore, yet he had no idea why he should feel this way. He had the sensation of missing her, yet why should he miss someone he hardly knew? He would have to ask his brother about her.

  Changing the subject, Carla started talking about what they would do together when he got back home. He switched off her voice, turning down the volume in his brain. Her muffled ramblings carried on as he was left with his jumbled thoughts. Somehow things didn’t feel the same between them anymore. She’d left him but couldn’t remember why it was. Yet the pain was still there, somewhere, buried, but he felt it was a pain that had disappeared for a while. Why or how that was he had no idea.

  ***

  “So how were things in Sicily?” Polly asked, sitting on the edge of Joanne’s desk. She handed Joanne a cup of coffee. That was unusual for her editor to bring anyone a cup of coffee.

  She took the cup and placed it on her desk. “Thanks. It didn’t go as well as I expected.”

  “Oh?”

  “Dante didn’t remember me. I mean, I think he vaguely remembers me as a journalist, but not the woman he fell for.”

  Polly frowned. “I know this is difficult for you, Joanne, but you need to treat this as a holiday romance. After all, even if he remembers you, those Mediterranean men have something of a reputation.”

  Maybe Polly had a point; what had seemed so important to her might have only been a fling for him. It was easy to tell someone you loved them, wasn’t it? Yet deep down, those emotions were real. Had she worked herself up into a frenzy? It was often said people who fell in love became a bit crazy, becoming illogical and deluded.

  Love? It was the first time she had admitted to herself that maybe she was in love with the man.

  Polly slapped a sheath of papers onto her desk, grounding her in the present once more. “Anyhow,” she said in a clipped tone. “I have another assignment for you. I want you to find out as much as you can about this man.” It was an article about Kel Mathewson, a reclusive landowner from Yorkshire.

  “Yes?”

  “He died this week. He’s left his entire fortune to a dogs’ charity, and I’d like to find out why. He left the family penniless. You’ll need to interview his staff, villagers, neighbors, et cetera. Is there another side to this man no one ever knew about? That kind of a thing.”

  “So I’ll need to travel again?”

  “I’m afraid so. The magazine will cover your expenses. It will do you good to get away from it all. I’ve a
lready set up some interviews for you for next week. I’ll send a photographer with you.”

  Joanne shuddered. “Which one?”

  Polly smiled. “Don’t worry, not Jackson Byrne. He definitely won’t be working for us again.”

  A sense of relief flooded through her. “Thank heaven for that!”

  “By the way, I heard his wife is filing for divorce. Apparently she was going through his washing and discovered lipstick stains on one of his shirts.”

  Joanne quirked a brow. “Really? I suppose he was bound to get found out at some time or another with the law of averages. How do you know about that?”

  Polly tapped the side of her nose with her index finger. “I have my sources. No seriously, I got it from the horse’s mouth. Lorraine rang the office and asked if I knew what had gone on during the trip to Sicily. I feigned innocence, of course, but she ended up telling me about her suspicions and demanded to know why he wasn’t working for the magazine anymore.”

  “Well I suppose he had it coming to him!”

  “Yes and maybe it was a kind of karma coming back at him after what he did to her, you, and this magazine.” Polly beamed and then turned and walked away.

  Lorraine got hurt in all of this, but now her rose-tinted glasses were off, she could get on with her life and maybe meet someone who valued her more.

  So a new assignment? Yorkshire? That would make a huge change from Sicily. It was two coats colder up north—she’d better ensure she packed her thermals—too cold for bikinis up there right now.

  ***

  Dante watched as Carla stood by his bed, no longer the metal hospital bed, but his own luxurious super king-sized bed with its carved oak headboard and black silk sheets. She stood before him all tanned and lithe in a brown bikini, covered by a gold sarong with her shades perched on her forehead. “I’m just going for a dip in the pool before I go out,” she said, and then smiled. She stooped to kiss his cheek. There had been no intimacies between them as yet. He had neither the inclination nor the energy the way he felt at the moment. Where was she was going later?

  He cleared his throat. “Not wearing your red bikini today?”

  She looked at him and blinked several times. “I don’t own a red bikini, Dante.”

  “Oh. I must be getting confused.” He remembered a red bikini, though. It had stirred certain passions within him. Passions that had risen to the surface. And there was something about a gold belly chain too. “What happened to the gold chain around your stomach?”

  She shook her head and sighed. “I don’t have one of those, either. I think your memory is playing tricks.”

  He grinned. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  She turned and headed through the glass door to the pool. His smile faded. There had been someone in a red bikini with a gold chain on his boat, and it wasn’t Carla. That much he now knew for certain.

  If he was honest with himself, he didn’t know what he felt about Carla anymore, either. She was attentive, but there was no desire on his part anymore. She was like a sister to him, and he didn’t understand why.

  He heard a splash as she dived into the pool. She was occupied for now, so he turned to the phone at the side of his bed and rang Giovanni.

  “It’s good to hear you’re back home,” Giovanni said brightly.

  “Yes. I wanted to ask you something. The journalist woman, who was she to me?”

  “Dante, I don’t know if we should talk about this until you feel better.”

  “Please. I need to know.”

  “Yes, I understand, but I need to go out soon. I will stop by the villa this evening and speak with you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Giovanni sighed. “To a funeral.”

  Dante’s heart hammered. Was this someone who had been on the boat with him and died and that’s why no one had told him? “Please, I need to know whose it is. Is it anyone I know?”

  “Yes. It’s Ponti, he’s getting buried today.”

  “But how? Why? He was young.”

  “Look, I don’t know if I should be telling you this as maybe too many shocks are not good for you until you recover your memory.”

  “Well, if you don’t tell me, I will ask Carla.”

  “No, don’t ask her,” Giovanni said, raising his voice an octave. “Whatever you do, do not ask Carla.”

  What was his brother keeping from him? He needed to know.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dante watched Carla toweling her hair dry, her body now draped in a large towel as rivulets of water pooled on the tiled floor at her feet. “Where are you going?” he asked, gauging her response.

  She looked at him and then glanced toward the open door. He knew she was avoiding the question; she couldn’t look him in the eye. “I have business to attend to. I shall only be a couple of hours. The nurse will see to you.”

  The nurse indeed. She was up to something she didn’t want him knowing about, that much was evident. The trouble was he didn’t have the strength to get out of the bed and follow her without assistance. When she had left the house without returning to his bedside, he called the nurse over.

  “Please, did you see the lady who went out from here?”

  “Yes, Signor Alphonso…”

  “What was she wearing?”

  If the nurse was surprised at his question, she wasn’t showing it, and she tucked in the corners of his bed sheet before answering, “She wore a black hat and dress, signore.”

  He knew it. Come to think of it, she’d been wearing a lot of black of late when for her, pastels were the norm. If she wore black, she would complement the outfit with something bright like a scarf or a wrap, not dress in black from head to toe. So why might she be going to Ponti’s funeral? Giovanni had assured him Angelina and the children were taken care of, so why were people acting so cagey around him? He had to find out. Bruno, his chauffeur, wasn’t around today and following Carla was the best way to find out what was going on.

  “Please nurse, help me get dressed and take me to a funeral. Do you know whose it is?”

  The nurse nodded. Of course she would know; everyone had known Ponti and feared him. He had warned Angelina not to get involved with the man in the first place. “I don’t think the doctor wants you to get out of bed yet, signore.”

  “I am sorry about that, but I am paying you, the doctor isn’t. Now please help me get dressed and take me in your car.”

  The nurse muttered something under her breath but did as she was told. She helped him slip into his black trousers and black short-sleeved shirt. His legs seemed boneless, but he needed to do this to see what all the fuss was about; he sensed it was the key to everything.

  “Now signore, I do not want you to walk to the car, you must get into this chair,” she said, pinning him with a look. He nodded. He was placing her in a compromising situation. She wheeled the chair to the side of the bed and helped him to get in. Then she pushed it outside to the car, and he placed his arm on her shoulder as she helped him inside.

  The streets were lined with people, and armed police were situated on every corner. No doubt there would be undercover policemen, too, due to the links Ponti had with organized crime. Although most people hated the double-dealing of exhortation and racketeering on the island and supported politicians who were against it, the Cosa Nostra had left an indelible mark.

  He watched the funeral procession leave the church and drive the small distance to the graveyard. His heart went out to Angelina and her children, who stood at the head of the grave plot as the white-robed priest stood beside them, swaying an incense burner on a chain over the grave, back and forth. Next to them were Giovanni and their father, heads lowered, hands clasped in front of them. Then he spotted her. Carla was leaning against a wall, almost collapsing with grief, a man taking her by the arm to support her. Why was she so upset about Ponti? He didn’t quite get it. Not unless…

  A flash of memory came back to him. London. A conversation. It had been hard for her to
find the words at first. At the hotel she had told him that she and Ponti had been lovers for years. She had left him for Ponti; their relationship had been a total lie.

  A sharp pain hit him in the gut and he recoiled, repulsed and shocked at the same time.

  Although he felt for his sister and the children, he was sick to the pit of his stomach. “Please take me back home, I don’t feel well,” he implored.

  The nurse shot him a glance as if to say, I told you so.

  Half an hour later he was undressed and back in his bed. Although it might have been wrong to have defied doctor’s orders, he had done the right thing to get to the truth.

  Carla had been in love with Ponti. How could he ever trust her again? And even if she was trying to make amends, he had seen with his own eyes the level of grief she expressed for the man. He would never be able to compete with that.

  ***

  Joanne was right about one thing. Yorkshire was freezing; it chilled her to the bone. She switched the tape recorder off and, thanking the gamekeeper next to her, turned to the female photographer and asked, “Have you snapped enough photographs, Marsha?”

  The woman nodded. “Yes. I’m pleased with these. I got some lovely ones of the estate. Time to get over to the pub for some lunch?”

  “Yes, I could do with something warm inside me.” Her appetite was coming back. Work was the best thing for her right now. Tomorrow she had a few more people to interview and a photo shoot of the village, and then back to London.

  The thing was, although her thoughts were occupied being in a new location, once she got back to London, all the thoughts of Dante would return with a vengeance. There was no running away from things. If she could, she would. Was there a cure for a broken heart?

  ***

  “Dante, you look dreadful.”

  Dante opened his eyes and looked up to see Giovanni’s eyes gazing at him. Blinking, he asked, “What time is it?”

  “It’s a quarter past six.”

  He had been asleep for hours. It was all he seemed to do these days since this head injury. Squinting, he asked, “What are you doing here?”