The garage was near the stable block. The Porsche was there and Venetia noticed it was cleaned of all the mud that had been splashed over it on the journey through the storm. The key was in the ignition.
‘State attenta, drive slowly, le strade sono molto insidiose, the roads are very treacherous.’ Ernestina said, as Venetia climbed into the front seat.
‘Don’t worry, I’m a good driver.’ She waved at the house-keeper as she pulled away down the gravel track towards the great entrance gates.
The scenery going down the hill towards Cala Picola was quite different from the craggy splendour of Miraggio, but just as dramatic. The little hamlet with its cottages, beaches, vineyards and its little church looked like a miniature village under the blazing sun. It was a brilliant day, a day as different from the bleak greyness of yesterday as could be imagined. Venetia could hardly believe this was the same route she had driven only twenty-four hours ago. The coastline as she approached Porto Santo Stefano afforded a most breathtaking view, though less dramatic than the one coming up to Miraggio. Here, wrought-iron gates led down to private coves and large millionaires’ villas; and beyond them, the coastal road led on to stuccoed houses covered with flowering creepers that perched precariously on the bank, and to quaintly painted cottages whose stone steps were lapped by the blue waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
When she reached the port, Venetia left her car in the main car park. The town was modern with bright, clean shops and charming caffetterias, and with luxury hotels, their terraced walls festooned with climbing roses. There was not much to do in this pretty port but shop, laze in the sun, swim or take a boat on the azure-blue ocean. Venetia stopped to buy some postcards, and glancing at the headlines on a local newspaper read that the airport at Pisa had reopened and scheduled flights were running on time. Though Giovanna would doubtless be expecting an update from her immediately, Venetia felt oddly reluctant to call her godmother – already she’d sent a text message saying that she’d arrived safely and, besides, there was nothing else to report since the client had yet to make an appearance.
The market, its stalls piled high with gaily coloured fruit, sausages and cheeses, and souvenirs appealed to her artist’s eye. She found an outdoor caffetteria with a cheerfully striped awning, and sat under a red umbrella sipping a caffè shakerato that had been poured into a wide-mouth, martini-type glass. It was Fabrizio who had introduced her to this frothy and creamy fresh-brewed espresso drink, shaken with ice and sugar. Venetia found that there was nothing more refreshing on a hot summer’s Italian afternoon. She smiled inwardly at the thought of her colleague. Why couldn’t she have just given Fabrizio a chance? Handsome, with so many excellent qualities, he would make some woman a wonderful partner. Some woman… but not her, oh no! She needed tortured, complicated souls to spark her interest, she thought derisively… a glutton for punishment, her father always said.
Women in the market, mostly wearing sombre black shawls over their shoulders, were clearly the housewives of Porto Santo Stefano. As they shopped, they prodded and poked, chaffered and bargained, in the manner of housewives all over the world, and their dark clothes only served to enhance the effect of bright sunlight and deep shadow, the colour in the fruit, vegetables and flowers. Venetia was so enjoying the scene before her that she wished she had brought her sketchbook. Undeterred, she asked the waiter for a pen and paper and was soon at work.
On the pavement in front of her people of every age and nationality passed by, and Venetia’s ears picked up snatches of at least a dozen languages. But what struck her most was the laughter that rang in the clear atmosphere, the expression of happiness on old faces as well as young. Evidently, tourists from all over the world came to Porto Santo Stefano to enjoy themselves, and did so in a way that was simple, healthy, and joyous; so very different from the hectic holiday schedules in Venice and the world’s other great cities she had visited.
The afternoon flew by. The church clock chimed five o’clock; the sun would be setting soon. The market stalls had long put away their goods. Boats were discharging their last passengers, and the beach was all at once peaceful. The last of the strollers were heading back to their hotels.
It was time to go. Venetia paid the bill and reluctantly started on her way home. After such an enjoyable afternoon, she felt rested and calm, and prepared to confront anything the days ahead might hold. She knew that, whatever happened, when Paolo returned, nothing would be easy.
* * *
The evening was still. Venetia sat on the veranda of the little cottage, La Sirena, sipping a glass of chilled white wine, while trying to concentrate on a book on Buddhist philosophy that she had bought after her session with Ping Lü. She had changed into a sleeveless white shift dress made of thin cotton and had undone her pony tail, leaving her lush, chestnut hair falling casually over her shoulders. She looked up to her left, gazing at the crimson sun that was declining drowsily on the horizon, its burning light making golden patches on the sea, smooth as a lake at this sunset hour. To her right, the distant countryside lying beyond the trees seemed bluer with those powdery white branches of apple blossom, and as the shadows lengthened, it deepened to a celestial Italian blue. The old brick of the outbuildings was empurpled, shining with an intense, yet soft glow. The luminous light was magnificent; the fiery orange, bright pink and patches of serene blue giving way to the swift advance of dusk.
Miraggio spread before her eyes, hugging the coast and folded in safely by hills, utterly remote from civilisation. There was something about this place that made it too beautiful for anyone but lovers; for them alone its wanton loveliness was the right setting. Yes, Venetia could understand why Paolo didn’t bring anyone to his Paradise where he was king and Allegra his queen. Pain jabbed at her lungs, almost making it hard to breathe at the thought – she didn’t belong here.
Venetia took up her book again: ‘and attain a state where craving and feeling cease,’ she read, and laid it down. She smiled ruefully: detachment was a distant thing indeed, if merely the thought of Paolo with another woman could create in her breast and mind such incomprehensible jealousy. Why had he manoeuvred things to get her here? Was he trying to hurt her because she had refused to become another of his conquests? Venetia sighed, her eyes on the garden and the darkening sea. How strange the scenery looked in the empty light. The evening air breathed of cooling earth, the dusk full of little sounds. She felt restless; where was Paolo and why wasn’t he already here? The flight from Pisa to Porto Santo Stefano was only two and half hours. She wanted to see him, even though she knew that if she did, all her confusion would no doubt be intensified rather than resolved. Venetia finished her glass of wine and went down into the garden for a walk. How she hated waiting!
It was the hour of the Evening Star, before the moon repeated the circuit of the sun and flooded the valleys with silver radiance and sharp shadows. A necklace of lights was strung all along the far-off coast. The gardens of Miraggio lay in silent splendour, and Venetia walked to the wooded area she had noticed that afternoon, which sloped down to a balustrade, overlooking the sea. By now, all the birdsong had ended. There was only the croak of a bullfrog from the reeds of a lily pond she passed on her way down, and the odd cricket chip-chipping here and there.
She hadn’t been there long, absorbed in her thoughts, her gaze lost in the scenery, when she was aware of a slight movement in the shadows. Startled, Venetia spun around, rocketed out of her daydreaming. Her heart gave a jerking throb, and yet she stood motionless, feeling her limbs heavy, although pulsing with life. Perhaps it was the effect of having waited for what seemed like ages, even though barely twenty-four hours had passed since she had arrived at Miraggio, but she was acutely aware of Paolo’s presence, more strongly than ever before.
He stepped out of the shadows and stood very still. They looked at each other dumbly in the penumbra, almost as if they had been strangers. For an instant, they were alone in the world, i
solated in this little wood under a starlit sky, their souls exchanging a message that their lips could not utter. Paolo’s eyes found hers and stared into them, his gaze raking questioningly over her face. A strange duel of tension battled between them. Venetia’s heart seemed to have snapped its moorings, and felt as if it was careering about inside her. He was so close that she could hear his breathing and see the almost imperceptible trembling of his mouth.
And then, just as she was thinking that she could not stand another second of this searing tension, Paolo held out his hand to her. He was only a few feet away; all she had to do was accept it. Yet she couldn’t find it in herself to do so: her morning altercation with the beautiful Amazon had left her hurt and humiliated, and she stood in silent mutiny, her amber eyes burning with all the indignation that had been building up since Umberto’s revelations. How dare Paolo bring her to his love nest!
‘La persona che è assente ha la sua scusa con lui.’ Paolo’s eyes held hers, and he dropped his hand. ‘I apologise for not being here to welcome you, cara, but I was in a very difficult position. All the plans and documents of the project we’ll be discussing in the next few weeks were in my luggage on the plane, and in addition to that, I was accompanying an important client whom I couldn’t just drop.’
Venetia assumed a casual air. ‘There is nothing to apologise for. As you say, the person who is absent has his excuse with him, and yours is quite acceptable.’
A smile moved about his dark eyes. ‘Eccellente, so we are still friends?’ He extended his hand again.
Venetia looked at it for a second, but ignored it. ‘If you say so,’ she replied.
‘I thought you’d decided you didn’t want the job. But you are here after all, cara, isn’t that the only thing that counts?’
Venetia looked up at Paolo, anger momentarily banishing her pain. ‘May I remind you that I am just an employee at Bianchi e Lombardi. I’m afraid la Signora Lombardi does not believe in nepotism – I did not have much say in the matter.’
Paolo gave a small regretful sigh. ‘That saddens me, cara. I was under the impression we enjoyed each other’s company, and that you were here because you realised that too. People always think they can ignore their feelings but it’s like ripping out a part of yourself when you try not to care for someone.’
‘Care?’ Venetia gave a slight, derisive laugh. ‘We hardly know each other.’
Paolo moved a little closer and glanced at her, an enigmatic expression crossing his face. ‘Do you have a wooden heart?’
The question startled her. ‘No.’
His blue eyes were still and dark as they met Venetia’s amber stare. They slid slowly over her slim figure clad in the shift dress and it was as if he was running a hand very lightly over every part of her. ‘If I remember rightly, neither do you have an insensitive body, sì?’ His voice was low and husky.
Venetia’s cheeks flamed and she turned away abruptly from him, her gaze desperately searching about her for some avenue of escape, even as her heart palpitated at the overpowering memory of that not so far-off evening they had last shared.
‘Don’t go, carissima mia,’ he murmured.
‘Stop calling me carissima. I’m not your darling,’ she flared.
‘Supposing I really did fall in love with you, what would you do?’
His words disturbed Venetia more than she wanted him to know, and she could not take the intensity of his eyes on her, so she lashed out with the first thing that came into her head. ‘Is that why you brought me to your love nest? Is not one woman enough to warm your bed, signore? Or have you decided to break the usual pattern of l’Amante delle Quattro Stagioni?’
She thought for a moment that she saw a certain look of pain etched into Paolo’s features. ‘So that is the opinion you have of me, Venetia? I see you have been listening to vitriolic tongues. No one gossips about another person’s virtues. People who spread rumours usually have an ulterior motive.’
‘One of my father’s favourite quotes is by Winston Churchill: “There are a terrible lot of lies going around the world, and the worst of it is that half of them are true.” The rumours I’ve heard about you, Paolo, come from more than one source. Can you deny that you’re a notorious womaniser? As far as I can tell, love for you is a game of musical chairs that you play whenever you’re in Venice… a fickle and cruel game of which I want no part.’
Paolo’s mouth tightened into a grim line. ‘That’s not fair, Venetia. You’ve condemned me without knowing all the facts.’
‘I haven’t condemned you. Why should I bother, since I don’t care? I’m here on business and our relationship is, and will remain, strictly a business one.’
Venetia saw Paolo’s jaw muscles clench and something leapt into his eyes, a tiny gleam of challenge that made his irises look like glistening sapphires in the dark. She felt her heart strangely gripped by their intensity, her treacherous senses responding to the flame of desire reflected in his face; and still, somewhere deep inside, she knew there was a kind of tenderness for this man that melted her to the core.
She swayed a little, and he caught at her wrist. She wondered if he could feel her pulse pounding under his touch, as the yearning for him flooded her loins. In a few heartbeats, the passion of anger had turned into something very different, and they could both feel it.
Paolo gently drew her to him, still holding her by the wrist, and Venetia made no attempt to stop him. In the intimate shelter under the trees it was as if he were a god possessing his chosen mortal. Now, she dared not even raise her eyes to his ruggedly masculine face. Everything seemed to be happening in some sort of slow motion, with an inevitability that made her acutely conscious of each detail. He cupped her chin in his strong, wide palm and lifted it towards him, but he didn’t kiss her immediately; instead, his gaze bored into her as though he were searching her soul.
Venetia could feel the strange trembling of her thighs, the ache low down in her body, the desire to part her lips for his mouth, but still he did not move. Though only inches apart, she found herself wanting to be closer still, and arched a fraction towards him. He let go of her wrist and placing that hand in the small of her back, pressed her against the length of his hard, aroused body, making her feel how much he wanted her, and her head instinctively tilted back. Their eyes locked; their breath almost melded and yet still he did not kiss her.
Venetia’s heartbeat was quickening and she knew she could, and should, stop now, but the knowledge of his desire for her acted like a primitive spur, urging her on. The heat coming through the thin material of his shirt was palpable, and her nipples hardened to stiff peaks beneath her dress. Everything other than Paolo ceased to matter now. She edged a little more towards him, lifting her face to him, her eyes pleading for release, every part of her body crying out her need for him and her surrender to his mastery of it. She parted her dry lips, her breath fluttering in and out of them, like the wings of a small caged bird beating to be freed, and yet imprisoned by a longing far stronger than any bars. Very gently, Paolo ran a long index finger along their yielding outline, making her feel faint with the longing to be kissed. Only then did he bend his head and his mouth closed over hers, muffling her weak moan.
Oh, the sweetness of that kiss! Venetia’s heart trembled with emotion. There was something so infinitely tender in his possession of her mouth that any remaining thoughts she might have had of resisting him were drowned beneath a wave of pure sensation. Her hands went up and tightened around his muscled upper arms. The shadowed garden swirled around her and her lips cleaved to his as if she depended on him for her every breath.
And then his tongue was playing a game of tormenting her, tracing little circles around the edge of her lips, one hand pinning her against him while the other slipped into her hair, weaving his fingers through its silk-like mass, and stroking it gently back, flooding her with the warmth of his touch, flames spreading throu
gh her lower limbs arousing her to fever pitch. The back of her head had always been sensitive and so Venetia’s thoughts flew to the only other man she had been with, the only one who had explored her body inch by inch, and who knew each receptive part almost better than herself. It was a memory of pain and dreams that had died in the face of reality – Judd, a distant voice echoed inside her head; Judd, the love of her life, the one man she had lain with and with whom she had discovered the wonderful secrets of her body. Judd, the father of her unborn child.
‘Oh, Judd!’ it was almost a stifled sob that escaped Venetia’s lips.
Paolo thrust her from him. He looked as if she had slapped him. She saw his face strain, drawn of all colour, and his heavy dark brows contract in the uncertain light. He watched her in silence, bitterness etched on his rigid features, his nostrils quivering. The anger that flashed in his eyes drained all the heated urgency out of Venetia’s body in an instant.
‘I am not your Judd, signorina, for whom you tremble with such passion. In case you’ve forgotten, my name is Paolo,’ he growled savagely, his words like the lash of a whip and, pushing past her without another word or a backward glance, he lunged into the dark and strode off, disappearing into the night.
Venetia stood beneath the stars shivering, hugging her trembling body, desire still beating deep inside her like a feverish pulse, her flesh crying out for a satisfaction it had not received, and a longing in her bones that was solidifying into actual pain.
Slowly the world returned, but her mind remained confused and uncertain. Judd… It was always Judd… she had to face the fact that she wasn’t over him, and might never get over him. The echoes of the past would forever be there to haunt her. She walked back to the cottage. Once in her room, she flung herself on the bed and buried her head in her arms.
The Echoes of Love Page 19