by Sara Craven
Her own room—his room, she corrected herself tersely—she left until last. She stood outside for a long moment, oddly reluctant to proceed. Then, steeling herself, she pushed open the door.
The room was safely empty, and, apart from the unmade bed, tidier than the others. She felt obscurely glad of that.
The long window was open to the night, and some faint current of air made the drapes billow into the room.
She walked over to the window, intending to close it, and paused, staring up at the star-sprinkled velvet of the sky.
People said that one’s fate was written in the stars, she remembered wryly. But she could see no pattern, no rhyme or reason for what had befallen her over the past twenty-four hours in those chilly, far-off specks of light.
The moon, on the other hand, looked close enough to touch, spilling silver light like a swathe of satin across the distant hillside.
‘Skin like moonlight...’ The words seemed to echo and re-echo in her mind. Her hand lifted slowly, and touched the curve of her breast.
For a moment, she was still, then she wrenched herself back to earth with a faint shiver, aware as never before of the silence of the encircling night. In daylight, the Villa Dante’s quiet isolation had been something to prize. But in darkness it only served as an unwanted reminder of her vulnerability...
Suppressing another shiver, she pulled the window shut and secured the latch. And, as she did so, she saw reflected in the glass a shadow moving in the room behind her.
The cry of alarm choked in her throat as she swung round, the precariously balanced armful of bedding sliding to the floor, spilling sheets and pillowcases at her feet.
‘You’re very nervous.’ Giulio Falcone was totally at ease, even faintly amused as he walked forward from the doorway.
‘Can you wonder?’ Lucy said crossly, her heart thudding as she bent to retrieve the linen. ‘I wish you wouldn’t creep up behind me like that.’
His brows lifted. ‘I came upstairs in the usual manner,’ he pointed out with a certain hauteur. He paused. ‘You seemed lost in thought.’
‘Yes.’ Lucy summoned a strained smile. ‘Well—I have a great deal to think about.’ She tried to sound brisk. ‘And now I really must get on.’ She moved purposefully to the side of the bed and began to strip off the sheets.
He said, ‘You may leave that.’
‘Beds don’t change themselves.’ Oh, God, she thought. I sound like the whimsical housekeeper in some ancient TV series.
‘Then let it stay as it is.’ The faint smile playing about his lips deepened as he saw her straighten slowly and send him a questioning look. ‘Or do you think, mia bella, that I would object to sleeping with the scent of your skin, your hair on my pillow?’ he asked softly. ‘I promise I would not.’
She was angrily aware that she’d been lured into blushing again. She said, with an assumption of calmness, ‘You gave me a job to do, signore. This is part of it.’
‘Then it must wait,’ he dictated. ‘The coffee is ready, and I’ve prepared some food for us as well.’
Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘You can cook?’
He said with a trace of impatience, ‘I am not the effete aristocrat you seem to think. I have learned, over the years, to be reasonably self-sufficient. I can even make my own bed,’ he added drily. ‘So come now and eat.’
‘But we can’t sit down to a meal in the middle of the night,’ Lucy objected.
‘Why not? If an appetite exists, it should be satisfied.’ The amber eyes swept over her. ‘Or don’t you agree?’
Lucy bit her lip. She suspected the question had little to do with food, and that he was being deliberately provocative again, but to challenge him would undoubtedly lead her into deep waters, and probably make her look ridiculous.
So she followed him reluctantly downstairs. As they passed the open door to the dining room, she saw that it had been restored to its former shining splendour.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I meant to do that next.’
‘And now there is no need,’ he returned. ‘All the same, I hope you won’t object if we eat in the kitchen.’
‘I’d prefer it,’ she said coolly. ‘Isn’t that where servants belong?’ And she registered his swift frown with inner satisfaction.
But her jaw dropped when she saw the omelette he’d produced, succulent with fresh herbs, ham, tomatoes, peppers and cheese. Clearly he’d used everything in the fridge. And warmed some bread as well, she noticed weakly as she sat down. Not to mention opened a bottle of wine.
‘I can’t eat all this,’ she protested as he put a plate in front of her. ‘I’ll be awake for the rest of the night...’ Her voice trailed away in embarrassment as his brows lifted in overtly mocking speculation.
‘You think so? Well, eat anyway. Build up your strength.’ His smile touched her like silk. ‘You will need it.’
The words seemed to hang in the air between them, half-threat, half-promise.
Lucy stiffened. ‘May I ask why?’
‘To handle Marco and Emilia, of course.’ He picked up his fork. ‘What else, columbina?’
His smile seemed to mock her, and if Lucy hadn’t been suddenly so ravenous she’d have thrown the plateful of eggs in his face. Instead, she decided it would be infinitely safer to pursue the impersonal topic of her future charges.
‘Are they so bad?’ she asked, savouring her first mouth-watering forkful.
Giulio Falcone reflected for a moment. ‘Not so much bad as over-indulged,’ he decided laconically. ‘Sergio, their father, is the disciplinarian in the family, but his work takes him away a great deal, which unfortunately leaves the children to the tender mercies of Fiammetta.’
He sighed. ‘She is, you must understand, as lazy as she is charming... and altogether too susceptible to outside influences,’ he added with a slight frown.
Lucy’s brows lifted. ‘That’s an odd thing to say about your own sister.’
‘Ah.’ The Count poured some wine into her glass before she could stop him. ‘But then, she is not strictly my sister. She is the daughter of my father’s second wife, now his widow.’
Lucy digested this along with another greedy mouthful of omelette. ‘In other words, your stepsister.’
‘Sì.’ He nodded, lifting his glass. ‘Salute.’
She returned the toast uncertainly, taking only a cautious sip, conscious of the need to keep her wits about her, unfuddled by alcohol, or anything else.
‘So the contessa you mentioned is actually your stepmother?’
‘Yes.’ The word was clipped, the firm mouth suddenly harder.
No love lost there, Lucy silently deduced. Aloud, she said, ‘Will she be coming here too?’
‘No. She lives in Rome for most of the year, and spends the summer mainly in Zurich and the South of France.’ He added unemotionally, ‘She is bored here and visits as little as possible, although I insist she attends the celebrations after the vintage. The workers on the estate expect it.’
‘How could anyone hate it here?’ Lucy said, half to herself. ‘It’s like heaven.’
Giulio Falcone shrugged a shoulder. ‘The two faces of the Villa Dante.’ His smile was thin-lipped. ‘As the poet himself might have said—for you, Paradise, but for Claudia, Purgatory.’
‘Yet the Fiat belongs to her. You said so.’ Lucy frowned slightly. ‘If the contessa comes here so rarely, why does she bother with a car?’
He shrugged again. ‘As an escape route,’ he said. ‘Away from the tedium of the vineyards and country life to visit friends in Florence and Siena. Shopping, gossip and cards are her favourite pastimes.’
Lucy heard the edge of contempt in his voice.
She said slowly, ‘We can’t all like the same places—the same things...’
‘This was my father’s favourite retreat.’ The dark face was brooding. ‘Until, that is, Claudia’s advent into his life, after which his visits were kept to a minimum,’ he added tautly.
Lucy said halting
ly, ‘If your stepmother likes people—company—I can see why this wouldn’t be much of a refuge.’
He looked at her sombrely. ‘At your age, what do you know about needing a refuge?’ he demanded.
‘Perhaps more than you think,’ she muttered, feeling the muscles in her throat tighten uncontrollably.
There was a brief silence, then Giulio Falcone reached across the table, tracing the pale circle on her finger where Philip’s ring had been. His touch was light, but a faint tremor shivered through her nerve-endings just the same.
‘What are you running from, little one? An unhappy marriage?’ he asked quietly.
‘No.’ Lucy shook her head vigorously to disguise her instinctive reaction. ‘We—we hadn’t got that far—fortunately.’
‘Fortunate indeed,’ he murmured. The amber eyes glinted at her. ‘So what went wrong?’
She shrugged. ‘He met someone else.’ She gave a small, painful smile. ‘Someone with more to offer.’
‘He told you that?’
‘Not in so many words. He wasn’t that cruel. But I—I drew my own conclusions.’
‘And you are still sad?’
Am I? she wondered. Suddenly she wasn’t sure. Philip seemed to belong to a different time—another existence. She barely recognised her own emotions any more.
Abruptly, she pulled her hand away. ‘Of course. It was a—whole part of my life.’
‘Non importa,’ he said softly. ‘A few weeks of Tuscan sun, mia bella, and that mark will soon vanish.’
Lucy tucked the offending hand away on her lap, under the edge of the table. Out of harm’s way, she told herself sternly, aware of the swift hammering of her pulses.
It occurred to her that unless she was careful she could leave Tuscany not merely marked but scarred for life—the pain Philip had caused a mere pin-prick by comparison.
A few weeks, she thought, was far too long for safety. She had to get away, and soon.
She took a breath. ‘To get back to the children,’ she said carefully. ‘Won’t there be a language problem? My Italian is practically non-existent...’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ His hand gestured dismissively. ‘They are both bilingual. Much of their childhood has been spent in Britain and the States, and Sergio has insisted that they speak English as much as their mother tongue. On that score at least there will be no difficulty,’ he added, half to himself.
‘I see.’ Marco and Emilia were clearly the children from hell, Lucy thought resignedly as she forked up the last succulent piece of omelette. She decided on another change of subject. ‘Your own English is very good, signore,’ she offered politely.
‘It could improve,’ he said, with a grimace. ‘And it should, as so much of our bank’s business is transacted in your country. Also, I have lived there for varying periods throughout my life. But not recently.’ The amber eyes met hers quizzically. ‘Otherwise we might have met before.’
To look away would be a sign of weakness, Lucy decided breathlessly. ‘I don’t think so.’ She managed to keep her voice sedate. ‘We move in very different worlds, after all.’
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘But sometimes worlds collide, Lucia. Don’t you believe in the force of destiny?’
‘I think I prefer to stick to practicalities.’
‘So tell me about the practical side of your world. You have a job?’
‘Yes. I trained in graphic design and now I work in advertising.’
‘Your company?’
She told him, and his brows lifted in amused respect. ‘Impressive, Lucia. But you don’t think it possible that my bank or one of our associates might come to your organisation to publicise the services we offer.’
She smiled. ‘I think it unlikely, signore. And almost certainly unnecessary.’
Giulio Falcone laughed. ‘You could be right. So let me be practical again. My English has grown a little—rusty—is that the word? Perhaps you could give me some lessons.’
Lucy lifted her chin and met his teasing glance headon. She said composedly, ‘I doubt whether I could teach you a thing, signore. Besides, I shall clearly have my hands full with Marco and Emilia.’ She pushed her chair back and rose to her feet, summoning a bright, meaningless smile. ‘And now I’d better get some rest. Big day tomorrow.’
Giulio Falcone courteously stood up. ‘Sleep well, Lucia. But remember this.’ His voice followed her as she went to the door, almost stumbling in her attempt not to hurry. ‘Destiny has placed you in my world now. And there is nowhere for you to run to.’
Not, Lucy thought as she went up to her room, a thought to induce restful slumber.
She shut the door behind her with some force and leaned back against its panels, sudden tears pricking at her eyes.
She said aloud, her voice ragged, ‘Damn him.’
In spite of her forebodings, Lucy went to sleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.
When she awoke next day, sunlight was pouring like thick warm syrup through a gap in the shutters and pooling onto the shining floor. For a moment, she was totally disorientated, then as memory returned she sat up with a jerk.
Hell, she thought frantically. I must have overslept.
She grabbed her watch from the night table, and saw with horror that it was past ten o’clock.
Hardly the right time for a working day to start, she told herself, swinging her feet to the tiled floor. She could only hope that her autocratic employer might have overslept too.
She showered swiftly, debating what in her limited wardrobe would be considered suitable for a surrogate nanny. In the end, she settled for a brief button-through denim skirt, topped by a white blouse, scoop-necked and sleeveless. She brushed her hair back severely from her face, securing it at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell clip, and pushed her feet into flat leather sandals.
She looked neat, she decided without enthusiasm, and relatively businesslike.
As she passed Giulio Falcone’s room, she saw that the door was open and the bed, though rumpled, was unoccupied. So he’d beaten her to it after all, she thought, with a faint grimace.
She was expecting some sarcastic remark or even a silken reprimand when she arrived downstairs, but, to her surprise, there was no sign of him. The place seemed deserted, although the coffee-machine had been in use, she saw when she entered the kitchen.
She poured herself some fruit juice from the pitcher in the fridge and sipped it slowly, leaning against the frame of the back door, looking out into the courtyard which housed the garages. Giulio Falcone’s car was nowhere to be seen, she realised, although the Fiat waited in its usual place.
Above Lucy’s head, a flowering vine hung motionless, not a leaf or a petal stirred by so much as a passing breath of air. She put up a hand and lifted the hair away from the back of her neck with a small sigh. This, evidently, was going to be a scorchingly hot day.
The kind of day she’d come to Tuscany to enjoy, if only things had been different. If only, she thought with longing, she were a free agent again.
Free. The word shivered through her consciousness, and took hold.
She looked again at the Fiat and drew a breath. Well, why not? she argued inwardly. Her jailer had disappeared and left the prison gates open, so why stay a moment longer than she had to? Why should she carry the can for everything when Nina and co. had escaped? She’d made all the amends that were strictly necessary by getting the bedrooms ready for the new arrivals.
Last night, she’d been almost mesmerised into accepting his terms, she thought defensively. But now it was daylight, and she was wide awake and ready to fight back. To escape. Because there was somewhere to run to after all.
And the noble Count Falcone could simply find someone else to look after his charming stepsister and her spoiled brats, she told herself decisively.
She said aloud, ‘I’m going home—now. While I still can.’
She left her unfinished juice in the kitchen and sped back upstairs to her r
oom, where she piled her belongings haphazardly into her case.
Then, for a long moment, she stood at the top of the stairs, heart hammering oddly, ears stretched for the least indication of his return. But there was only silence, so, resisting an impulse to tiptoe, she went downstairs and out to the car.
To her surprise, it was locked. I don’t remember doing that, she thought, rummaging in her bag for the keys. In view of the villa’s isolation, security hadn’t seemed a major issue.
But the keys didn’t seem to be there. Irritated, Lucy tipped her bag out on the bonnet of the car and sorted through the contents, only to remember with a sinking heart that Nina had driven back yesterday from Montiverno.
Oh, no, she groaned inwardly. Don’t say she’s taken them off with her. She thought back, trying to remember their return to the villa. She’d gone straight to her room—his room—and Nina had been with her. She was almost certain she could recall the other girl tossing the keys down onto the dressing table—the clatter as they skidded across its polished surface.
If that was where they’d been, there was an outside chance that they’d be there still. That Giulio Falcone hadn’t noticed their presence. He’d have been too tired last night, she thought. And this morning, with luck, he’d have had other things on his mind.
At any rate, it was worth a look. She hid her case behind a big stone trough brimming over with flowers and flew back into the house, taking the stairs two at a time.
One glance at the dressing table told her that her optimism was ill-founded. Apart from the mirror on its polished stand, the surface was totally clear.
Lucy could have screamed with frustration.
Calm down, she adjured herself. Maybe they’re still here—in a drawer, perhaps.
Feverishly, she wrenched open the top drawer and scanned the contents: hairbrushes, a leather case containing cuff-links, and a selection of fine linen handkerchieves. In the next drawer down were silk socks. Which, she decided grimly, was as far as she went.