The observation came as a surprise. In fact everything he said and did had knocked her off balance. “It’s probably still damp, too. I’ll get you another one.”
His hand restrained her from moving. “After the places I’ve been, I like it.” The words came out in a slur.
“You can let go of me. I’m not going to reveal your secret.”
“Why not?” came the unexpected question “It’s the kind of thing a woman can’t wait to do.”
If he could still try to rile her, then he wasn’t as close to sleep as she’d supposed. Probably because of his pain. She fought an unwanted rush of sympathy for him. “That kind of assumption comes from knowing too many females on a superficial basis.”
“You’re an authority on my love life now?” he growled.
“Italian men have a certain reputation, signore. As we American women understand it, the Italian male is a jack of all trades, but master of none. I think it’s one of the personal casualties in your particular line of work.”
To his credit he let her baiting go before he said in a raspy voice, “You still haven’t answered my question.”
For the most important of reasons. She happened to know that Lucca’s next furlough wasn’t scheduled until August when he visited with his father in Milan. The big surprise Guilio was planning for him would take place at the largest Amalfi showroom in Italy. From there the cars were manufactured and exported around the world.
Annabelle remembered the look in Guilio’s eyes as he’d talked about wanting to honor Lucca when they met at the end of the summer. She would never spoil that reunion by revealing ahead of time what she knew he had in store for his son.
Exhausted over the stunning events of the last hour, her eyelids closed. “If I haven’t responded, it’s because anyone who has gone to your lengths to sneak back under the radar in the dead of night must have the kind of baggage he wouldn’t want anyone to know about.”
She felt his body stiffen.
“What do you say we both try to get some sleep, signore? I don’t know about you, but I have a big day tomorrow.”
“You’ve got me intrigued about the nature of the work you do for my father. It must be beyond classified, otherwise he wouldn’t be treating you like a princess. Nor would he have installed you in a house that is sacrosanct to me.” His voice suddenly sounded as if it had come from a deep cavern.
The blood started pounding in her ears. “Sacrosanct?” she whispered.
“You mean he didn’t tell you I was born here? Would it surprise you to know my mother died in this house?”
Oh, no.
To think she’d called him the intruder. “Your father only told me your mother willed this farm to you. I didn’t realize about the house.”
“Let’s just say he has kept an eye on it for me.”
CHAPTER TWO
A DULL throbbing ache woke Lucca. It radiated up his thigh to his groin. His medication had worn off. He needed some more quick before the pain flared out of control, as it had done last night.
Last night…
He rubbed a hand over his prickly jaws, groaning in self-disgust.
Sunlight filled the room, forcing him to squint. He checked his watch. Twenty to eleven. He found himself alone, still dressed in the same clothes minus his shoes, which she’d removed. The bed was in total disarray, evidence he’d had one of his nightmares. The quilt and pillows lay on the floor.
Naturally she was long gone. By now the American would have alerted his father, who had her allegiance. Lucca was sure he could expect a visitor shortly.
A spate of Italian invective poured out of him.
He turned slowly to roll off the mattress and gave a start to see his near-empty bottle of pills on the bedside table. It hadn’t been there last night. She’d even supplied a glass of water. On the other side of the lamp lay the cane. He decided the nurses at the hospital had nothing on her. His father required efficiency. She had that trait down pat.
Lucca had planned on total privacy for one night, but he had to admit that being this close to his pills meant he didn’t need to suffer another accident on the way to the kitchen.
After swallowing three, his stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon on the last leg of his flight to Naples. During the long wait for the train to Salerno, sleep had been impossible. The lack of it always increased the pain. By the time he’d hired a car to drive him to Ravello, he’d been ready to collapse.
A quick scan of the room revealed none of her belongings. He heard no noise and imagined the car she’d mentioned had already come for her. Alone at last, he got up from the bed and tested his weight with the cane. Last night’s accident had been an aberration. As long as he didn’t lean on it too heavily, the cane would do fine until he’d recovered.
The trip from the bathroom to the kitchen wasn’t too bad. His duffel bag was still on the floor where he’d left it. It looked untouched.
He opened the fridge and found it stocked. This house had belonged to his mother’s family. She and his father had lived in it until she’d died. In the will, she’d left the house and property to Lucca. At the time he’d joined the military, he and his father weren’t speaking, but he knew Guilio would keep an eye on it.
How strange he’d decided to install his new American employee here. Even though she’d claimed she wanted to stay at a farmhouse, his father wouldn’t have gone to the trouble to open up the house where he’d started out his married life for just any person working for him. This woman had to occupy a unique place in the scheme of things.
That’s why she hadn’t opened up to him last night. She and his father had something private going on. He had to admit she’d recovered fast from her fright last night. His interrogation of her proved she was a quick study.
Naturally Guilio would have sent down one of the maids from the villa to make sure things were ready for her. He reached for a handful of fat grapes from a bowl and popped them in his mouth. Their juice squirted pure sugar.
The microwave was new. His father had set her up with the necessities. A jar of freeze-dried coffee stood next to it. He preferred cappuccino chiaro, but in the military he’d learned to drink it black and made himself a cup.
In his line of vision to the terrace he noticed several branches from one of the lemon trees had grown and formed an overhang. While he leaned against the sink to sip the hot brew, he saw movement beneath them. Beyond the French doors he watched the back of a woman of medium height picking daisies near the half-hidden railing.
Her hair was caught beneath a large, broad-rimmed straw hat. The rest of her was dressed in a sleeveless white top trimmed with a small white eyelet ruffle. Equally immaculate white pants skimmed womanly hips down to the bone-colored sandals on her feet, where he glimpsed frosted pink toenails.
He waited until she turned enough for him to see the classic profile of Signorina Marsh. So she hadn’t gone off early … Last night her bathrobe had covered up her slender curves.
The whiteness of her fresh-looking outfit combined with the profusion of white petals drew his gaze. With that face partially hidden beneath the hat rim and set against a backdrop of blue sky melding into cobalt waters far below, it was like beholding one of those picture-perfect postcards in dazzling Technicolor.
As she came in through the unlocked doors bringing the sunshine with her, her eyes lit on him, but she kept going and put the flowers in a ceramic pitcher on the counter. After filling it with water, she placed it in the center of the rectangular kitchen table, which was inlaid with hand-painted tiles of lemons.
His mother used to bring in fresh flowers in the early morning. He experienced a moment’s resentment to be reminded of happier times that would never come again.
“I’ve always wanted to be able to decorate with flowers from my own garden. These are for me, but enjoy them if you want to. They’re glorious.” Dusting off her hands, she reached for a large straw handbag lying on one of the chair
s and walked over to the side door.
With a parting glance from eyes a rare shade of periwinkle she added, “My ride will be arriving any minute. I’m going to walk out to the drive so you can remain invisible.” She started to open the door, then paused.
“Please wipe that morose expression off your face. You’re probably not that bad-looking when you aren’t carrying the world around on your shoulders like Atlas. Surely you realize I didn’t mean the things I said last night.”
“Only half,” he muttered in an acerbic tone after finishing the rest of his coffee.
“Hmm, maybe three quarters. When you make yourself another cup of coffee, there’s sugar in the cupboard. I’d say you needed a little sweetening. Before I leave, tell me the truth. How recently were you released from the hospital?”
His lips twisted unpleasantly. “What hospital would that be?” He opened the fridge and found a plum to bite into.
“The one where you had surgery on your right thigh. You’re favoring your other leg and can’t get into any one comfortable position for long.”
He munched until there was nothing left but the pit, which he removed and tossed in the wastebasket in the corner. “You’re mistaken, signorina.”
“No.” Annabelle remained firm. “The medication you’re taking tells me otherwise.”
On cue his dark brows furrowed with menace. “What makes you such an authority?”
“I’m a nurse with experience taking care of patients recovering from heart and thoracic surgery, gunshot wounds, broken bones.”
Stillness surrounded him before she saw a look of alarm break out on his face. “What’s wrong with my father?”
She blinked, trying to make sense of his hyperspeed leap from the subject at hand to Guilio. Once the light dawned, she cried, “No, no—I’m not working for your father in that capacity. I’m helping do some advertising for him. As far as I know, he’s fine!” she assured him, noting that his first reaction had been one of a son who loved his father. That cleared up one question haunting her.
His eyes looked disbelieving.
“You’re the person I’m worried about, signore. I’ve a feeling you left the hospital before it was wise. Combined with the fall you had last night, you need to nurse that leg as much as possible. Even if the pain has subsided for now, you’re wiped out.”
“Grazie for your concern.”
She decided the ice between them was thawing a few degrees. His sarcasm didn’t come off sounding quite as bitter as before. “Prego.” It was one of few words she knew in Italian for you’re welcome.
“One more thing, signore. I told Guilio I didn’t want any maids or housekeepers around while I’m here, so you should have no worries in that department. After work I’ll be back to pack and go to a hotel. I don’t know the exact time of my arrival, but rest assured I’ll be alone,” she promised with a pleasant expression.
He watched her disappear out the side door. If she could be believed, then he had little to worry about for the rest of the day. But it caused him to wonder that she’d be willing to keep his secret that long.
Why would she do it? For how long? She wanted something in return, evidently enough to be willing to cooperate.
Breaking in on a defenseless woman in the dead of night should have scared her senseless. Instead, she’d turned the tables on him and had made threatening gestures with the cane. He felt a grudging admiration for her resourcefulness. But he couldn’t help but question what she expected to gain by her compliance with Lucca’s wishes. Did she think getting on his good side would earn her a promotion with his father down the road? More perks?
What was his father playing at? To let his alleged employee have her own way and install her in Lucca’s house meant she’d twisted him around her finger. What kind of advertising was she doing for his father?
It was a little late for him to be having a midlife crisis. Surely his second wife—Maria was enough for him. She’d managed to marry him only six months after Lucca’s mother had been buried. For years Lucca had blamed her for changing his father. Until one day when Lucca grew up and realized no force could make Guilio marry the attractive widow who had two sons of her own if he hadn’t wanted to.
Now this American woman—a nurse, no less—had come into Guilio’s life, so different in every way that Lucca was baffled.
He frowned. Nine months ago when he’d flown to Milan on furlough for a brief visit to see his father, Signorina Marsh hadn’t been on the payroll. That meant she was a fairly recent addition to the company, but because she was in his father’s confidence, she had Lucca at a disadvantage.
He didn’t like the idea that she would know more about him than he wanted anyone to know, yet for the time being he had no choice but to live with it. It didn’t escape him that he bore some responsibility for arriving in the dead of night.
After locking the door, he turned to the fridge. While he rummaged for items to fix himself a sandwich, he heard a car turn into the gravel drive. The voices were too faint for him to make out conversation. Before long it drove off.
In a minute he sank down on one of the hand-carved wooden chairs. He extended his long legs, trying to get into a more comfortable position, which was virtually impossible, just like she’d said. As he bit into some locally grown ham and his favorite provolone dolce cheese, he found himself glowering at the daisies she’d put in the old family pitcher and hardly noticed the taste.
He’d wanted complete solitude and sleep for one night. That way he could appear at his father’s door today looking rested enough that Guilio’s first reaction wouldn’t be one of heartache over his son. There’d been enough of that in the early days.
Soon enough his father would learn about the flashbacks, but they usually happened after he fell asleep.
Starting to get that drugged feeling, he headed for the bedroom. Whether Signorina Marsh exposed him or not, he was no longer alone in his own home and wouldn’t be able to totally relax.
He should phone his father right now, but the pain since his fall last night was more than he could bear right now. Once the pills took effect, he would pass out again for a few hours. When he awakened, he had to pray the throbbing would have died down enough that he could make the call.
Annabelle stepped out of the van where they’d done her hair and makeup. “Perfetto, signorina. That’s the look I want. Like a margheritina!”
“What is that?”
“A flower.” Giovanni, the photographer, put one of his hands on top of the other and made spokes.
“Ah. A wheel. You mean like, he loves me, he loves me not?”
He grinned. “Sì, Sì.”
Annabelle didn’t mind being compared to a daisy. Not at all. The beautiful ones she’d picked earlier that morning had called to her. She’d experienced a euphoric moment until she’d gone back in the kitchen and found the dark Italian owner scrutinizing her with all the intensity of his brooding soul. She wished she still didn’t quake when she thought about it.
Meeting him in the flesh in the middle of the night had, to some extent, altered her vision of the picture his father had portrayed of a strong, powerful man. But obviously that was her fault for endowing his hero son with certain admirable virtues. Maybe his good qualities were there, but they were disguised by pain and his participation in a war where no one ever came home the same as before they left.
She admitted to being worried about his insistence on not letting his father know he was back yet. Though it wasn’t any of her business, as Lucca had said, she did care. More than she should. It made her impatient with herself.
“Annabelle?”
Her head jerked up. “Yes?”
The shorter, overweight man Basilio—one of Guilio’s assistants, who’d driven her this morning—provided the interpretation for the pose he had in mind. “We want you to get in the driver’s seat now and lean to the passenger side, putting your right arm here. Remember you’re out beneath a midafternoon sun, driving for the sh
eer thrill of it. Then you see the water below and you have to pull over to get a better view. React the way you would naturally. Forget the camera.”
Easy for him to say. But this was an adventure she wouldn’t have missed.
Without needing more urging, Annabelle climbed in the black Amalfi convertible. She could almost believe this was Mrs. James Bond’s car. The rich black-leather interior provided the ideal foil for the white outfit she’d put on before leaving the farmhouse. So far she couldn’t fault Marcella’s superb fashion taste.
Annabelle couldn’t decide which sports car she liked better. The other one in Rome parked in front of the fighter jet had been white with light pearl-grey leather. Lucca would look sensational speeding around in either of them, but the thrill probably wouldn’t be the same after the years he’d flown above the clouds at supersonic speeds.
Once she’d gotten into her role, Giovanni put the straw hat back on her head, studying the angle for a minute and doing a rearrangement of her hair before he started taking one picture after another.
The car had been parked next to the wall of the steep highway below Positano. When she looked down, she gasped at the sheer drop to the water, forgetting everything else. Such gorgeous scenery—reputed to be the most fantastic in this part of the world—defied verbal description and became a spiritual experience with nature. This kind of beauty actually hurt.
With the help of the police, hundreds of cars going both ways had to pass single file where the photo shoot was taking place. Though there were a few angry shouts and horn honks, by far more tourists whistled and shouted “squisitas” and “bellissimas”, throwing her kisses as they passed by.
Yet the view was too mesmerizing and she was barely cognizant of anything else going on around her. If the truth be told, her mind was preoccupied with an image of the wounded Italian pilot who’d finally fallen asleep last night, relaxing his hold so she could escape. Talk about a beautiful man…
When Giovanni announced he had all the shots he needed, she hurried back to the van to remove her makeup. She’d brought her own change of clothes in the straw bag and quickly slipped on her jeans and a blouse. Once she was dressed, she left everything else in the van and stepped outside clutching her own purse.
Her Italian Soldier Page 3