He gazed lingeringly at her. ‘How can I compare you to a statue, cara – a fierce enchantress, maybe, but never a statue.’ His voice was low, the look in his eyes dark and deep where anything might lurk for the woman drawn into them. ‘I’ve felt your body tremble in my arms like a storm coming. Whatever you show to me on the outside, I know is not how it is on the inside.’
Paolo took Venetia’s hands in his, and held her fingers tightly until she could have cried out. His eyes had kindled and were searching hers intently. ‘You’ve bewitched me completely. Be mine, Venetia. I want you with all my heart, with every fibre in my body… with every breath. Dio mio, I need you! Be my root, my anchor.’
He sounded hoarse with emotion and she was profoundly moved by the wistful note of longing in his almost desperate words. The expression on his face, as he struggled with something inside him, pleading for her understanding, tugged at her heart as she confessed in silence that she really cared for this man. A tremor surged through her body; she came alive at the mere contact of his hands, and remembering the sensations of how his touch had indeed made her tremble, she wanted to break apart. Whatever the sentiments that possessed him now, they were genuine, strong and profound. Yet she needed more. She sat there, tense and still, as if mesmerised.
‘But how can I be yours when I know nothing about you?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘You tell me. Isn’t there anything I should know? Up until now you’ve always been a blank page.’ She was willing him to confide in her, to confess what she already knew about him.
Paolo’s eyes settled on Venetia’s face steadily. ‘You’re right, cara, there’s plenty you don’t know about me, but trust me when I tell you that it’s of no importance – I want to start my life with you.’
His gaze slid from her eyes to her lips with a fire that made her burn with uncontrollable longing. ‘I’ve had this strange feeling ever since I met you that we’re meant for each other, that we’ve been together in another life. When I hold you in my arms, it’s as though you’ve always been mine.’
Venetia’s lashes flickered; she caught her bottom lip in small white teeth. Paolo’s words echoed her own feelings. Surely this meant something? Somewhere deep inside her she had instinctively recognised him as the man of her life… the only man who could replace Judd in her heart. Her mind and body locked horns; she would be swept away if her body won. She craved his arms about her, craved his kiss, the feel of his heart beating hard against her, his mouth on her breasts and the feel of him shuddering strongly inside her, even just once – but it would never be just once! Still, despite the temptation to give in to this desperate yearning for him, if only once, she stifled the impulse with a supreme effort of will; her pride wouldn’t allow her to surrender to a man who, just now, hadn’t even pronounced the word ‘love’.
Venetia laughed shakily. ‘How many women have you said these beautiful phrases to, Paolo?’
‘I have teased, I’ve flattered and I’ve had sex with many women, that’s true, carina mia… but I’ve never wanted to – and never have – made love to anybody as far as I can remember.’
This was the opportunity Venetia had been waiting for. Was he going to tell her about his amnesia?
‘As far as you can remember…? Do you have such a short memory, Paolo, or have you had so many women that you have lost count?’
She saw him start, saw the quick colour rise under his tanned skin; he winced, as though her question turned a knife in an agonising wound. He had always known how to read her, knew what she was saying. Jerking his head back, he ran fingers through his hair in a nervous characteristic gesture. There was a long silence while Venetia waited for his answer.
Finally, he looked full at her and spoke in a barely audible voice.
‘How long have you known, cara?’
‘Not that long.’
‘Who told you? Not many people know about it.’
‘Your good friend, the Count.’
Paolo’s face whitened, though his eyes were dark. ‘Umberto?’
‘Himself.’
Paolo’s hands clenched. ‘Che stronzo!’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Just let me get my hands on that bastard!’
Mario came back at that moment with a large plate of golden brown rice balls surrounded by finely ground meat, egg and cheese.
‘Eccola,’ he said as he placed the plate in the middle of the table. ‘Arancini are as typical of Sicily as hot dogs and apple pie are of America.’ He seemed not to notice Paolo trying to regain control of himself but instead looked at Venetia with appreciative eyes. ‘I have made these freshly for you, signorina.’
Venetia helped herself to an arancini and was just about to bite into it when Paolo’s now calmer voice cautioned, ‘Sono molto caldi, fai attenzione a non scottarti, be careful not to burn yourself. When they’re piping hot, as these are, it is better if you split them like this,’ he said taking one, breaking it in half and giving it to her.
Venetia nibbled at it gingerly. ‘This is amazing!’ she exclaimed. ‘What is it made of?’
‘The arancini are usually made with creamy risotto, or any other day-old rice mixed with leftovers,’ Mario explained, clearly pleased at her curiosity. ‘In these I have put some olives, tomatoes, ground veal, onions of course and a pinch of saffron, which makes all the difference. But don’t fill up on them, they are only antipasti! The next dish is finochio con sarde, fennel with sardines served with homemade pappardelle pasta.’
As soon as Mario had disappeared back into the kitchen, Paolo’s eyes narrowed.
‘What else did that mascalzone tell you?’
Venetia did not speak; she flushed, feeling both uncomfor-table and vulnerable, not wanting to remember any more of the unsavoury episode than necessary, and certainly not wishing to relay any of it.
Paolo regarded her anxiously. ‘Ah, it’s he who told you that I’m nicknamed l’Amante delle Quattro Stagioni in some circles.’ His lips curled into a bitter smile, and he leaned back in his chair on one elbow, tapping his lighter distractedly on the table. ‘Society is cruel, Venetia, one must not believe everything one hears.’
‘Can you deny that you pursue women only to get them into your bed and that you drop them as soon as you tire of them?’
‘No, Venetia, I cannot deny that, but I can defend myself. These women you talk about, they always know the score from the very beginning – sex without ties. Like any normal man, I have needs. I have no attachments, and since my accident I’ve lived for the moment. There’s been no reason not to… until now.’ He turned his lighter over and over between his fingers and regarded her watchfully.
No attachments? Liar! her heart screamed out as she stared at him silently. And how about the luscious Italian woman in a red satin nightdress who warmed your bed last night, and probably every night when you’re at home?
‘You must believe me, cara, when I tell you that I was a different man before I met you. To live without a dream is a frightening prospect,’ he went on huskily, tracing his lip with his finger and drawing her attention to his mouth again. She wished she could look away. ‘Meeting you has given me a lust for life again. You’re the sunshine that has brightened my sad, dreary days. Thanks to you, I dream, I hope and believe in love, and in all the wonderful things that the world has to offer. We are made by our past, and mine is gone… but when I’m with you I’m not anxious about not having a history any more. All that was yesterday is unimportant, because today and tomorrow belongs to me… to us.’
Still Venetia did not speak. She tried to summon the energy to tell him that it would never be us for them, but all she could manage was a small sigh that contained her stifled longing and frustration. Paolo’s manner of talking to her was making her weak and she could not afford to be so.
He was staring at her, the pupils of his eyes dilating until they filled the blue iris
es. Venetia could read an emotion in them that she couldn’t fathom. He sounded genuine enough… but no, he was an expert at handling women, his desire for her was a fleeting thing… he would soon tire of her and cast her aside as he had other women. She must not let passion cloud her judgement; if she listened to him any longer she would be lost.
Venetia half turned away from him and looked down at her hands. They were kneading one against the other as though they had a life of their own.
Paolo’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you running away from me, cara? There’s something about me that worries you; that puts you on the defensive. I’m not a wolf, and you are definitely not a lamb.’
He had such a picturesque way of putting things and his words were remarkably apt: she might not be a lamb, but yes, she felt on the defensive because when he spoke like this, it was more of herself that she was afraid than of Paolo. Logic told her that the sensible way forward would be to talk this whole situation out; to admit to the attraction between them and untangle this mess. After all, she still had to work with Paolo; if she couldn’t find some reasonable and workable solution to the confusing way things stood with them, how could she carry on being so close to him, day in day out? It should be so simple to confront him about Allegra, yet something deep inside her feared his answer, and she knew that emotionally she simply wasn’t strong enough to do so.
Mario was back with a steaming plate of pasta. He frowned as he noticed that the plate of arancini had gone almost untouched. ‘You’ve hardly eaten any of my arancini! Non sono di vostro gusto? You didn’t like it?’
Paolo grinned at the restaurateur. ‘You must forgive us, Mario. We’re just beginning to get to know each other and we’ve been lost in conversation.’
‘Ah, l’amore, l’amore,’ Mario sighed and shook his head. ‘Persino quando sei innamorato non puoi vivere solo di amore e acqua fresca, even when you’re in love, you cannot live on love and fresh water.’
Venetia felt her face flame. How dare Paolo make such an implication?
‘I hope you will honour this dish.’ Mario winked at Paolo. ‘Sardines, like most oily fish, are well known to be a powerful aphrodisiac – buon appetito!’
‘How could you let Mario believe that there’s any romance going on between us?’ Venetia whispered urgently as soon as the restaurant owner had turned his back.
Paolo gave her a half smile as he sipped his water. ‘Is that not what’s going on between us, carissima?’
‘Certainly not,’ she retorted haughtily – she had to defend herself against the mad feelings that were invading her.
‘Sì, we’re flirting, finding out what makes the other person tick.’ His eyes narrowed almost to slits – Venetia was beginning to know that cat-like look, playful and yet edged with danger – and just to prove to her how wrong she was, he leaned over, lowered his head and took her lips with his in a couple of biting kisses that sent a tremor through her limbs, and her pulse racing.
‘We kiss and arouse all kind of vibrations, light all sorts of fires and we burn, sì?’ he murmured, looking at her mouth, his face still close to her. ‘There is no shame in it. A man and a woman should feel this way when with each other, as though they need nothing else but to be together, alone in a world made up of their dreams.’ He dug his fork into his pasta and began to eat slowly, watching her, his smile subtle, with a mixture of challenging amusement and something far darker.
Venetia had to look away from him, her teeth clenched hard as she fought for control. His words were kindling the glowing embers trembling inside her that threatened to erupt into flames, despite all her attempts to stifle them. She despised herself for what she felt towards Paolo. She didn’t even know what it was, only that he exerted a hypnotic power over her and she had lost all of hers to him. He only needed to look at her for her mind to cloud and her body to wish to surrender completely.
They ate their pasta with finochio con sarde in silence, listening to the sounds of the waves as they carried on their own flirtation with the shore and the breeze gliding across the water and through the palms, causing them to sway back and forth and rustle like smothered footfalls.
They ended their meal with a Sicilian gelato, ice-cream flavoured with grappa. Mario told them that ice-cream probably originated from Sicily, because during the Roman times, relays of runners used to bring snow down from Mount Etna to be flavoured and served to rich patricians. His little anecdotes between each new course lightened the atmosphere and by the time they were having their coffee the tension between them had calmed down.
It was almost sunset when they pulled into the drive at Miraggio. Paolo went round to Venetia’s side and opened the car door for her. ‘Would you like to have a tour of the house, or would you prefer to wait until dinner?’
Venetia climbed out of the car. ‘Now would be perfect. I’m not used to eating so much at lunch. I would prefer to skip dinner if you don’t mind.’
‘Would you like Ernestina to bring you a tray at La Sirena?’
‘No, really, you’re very kind and I have still to finish the wonderful bowl of fruit that was set out for me in the cottage. Thank you.’
Antonio, with Rufus in tow, came over to take the keys and park the car. The dog contented himself to sniff at Venetia, but this time didn’t growl as he had on her arrival.
‘Please tell Ernestina that there will be no dinner tonight, and I will have a panino al prosciutto and a cup of coffee in my study.’ Paolo stood back from the car.
‘But signore, Allegra has…’ the caretaker protested.
Paolo was quick to interrupt him before the man was able to finish his phrase.
‘I have urgent work that needs to be attended to.’ His tone was cutting and allowed for no argument.
Something akin to anger sparked in Antonio’s eyes as he turned to look at Venetia, but it was gone in a flash, and he climbed into the car and drove off in the direction of the garage. The man resented her; she had felt his reticence when she had first arrived and by the looks of it nothing had changed. Like his niece, he probably regarded her as a threat to what must be a very comfortable situation.
Allegra, the dusky beauty that furnished Paolo’s nights, was no doubt waiting impatiently for him, Venetia told herself. Well, at least it seems as though he doesn’t need the young Amazon’s services tonight. And though her scalp had prickled at the sound of Allegra’s name, suddenly her heart felt light and warm.
The imposing arched wooden front door was wide open to let the late afternoon sunshine in, as Paolo led her through the hallway. The house itself, Venetia assessed, was half manor, half fortress and was fascinating. In the morning she’d had a glimpse of the hall; now she saw the spacious interior in all its splendour with its vaulted and cupola ceilings, archways and beautifully etched cornices, and the various levels and areas connected by passages and corridors. The rooms were simple and comfortable with polished old mahogany and glowing bits of silver, glass and china; the subtle nuances of the pale-hued walls made them look unusual in their shape, arresting, and the elegant, tall narrow windows ensured they were full of light. Large vases and bowls of flowers added daubs of bright colour to the more sedate furnishings.
It was a romantic house, far larger than it appeared at first glance, and yet built for a patriarchal life and a self-contained one. It was not unfriendly, but it guarded its secrets; very much like its present owner, Venetia thought, who himself was open and friendly yet gave an impression of reserve, a man whose smile was frank but also grave and serious. Everything glittered with squeaky cleanliness; for someone who never entertained, Paolo’s home was surely well looked after and that fact in itself was as much an enigma to Venetia as the master of the house. Was he so damaged by the loss of his past and the people in it that he now had no desire to build a future, and no impulse for the company of others?
Listening to Paolo recount the background to every piece
of furniture and the story behind each ornament, Venetia was amazed at the difference in him. As at the site that morning, he had thrown aside his armour of coolness and became passionately alive, vibrating with the force of his emotion almost as if he was talking to her about love. The furniture was real to him, the ornaments and paintings were full of colour and the fabrics that he touched were alive. It didn’t surprise her – Paolo had substituted art and its history for his own history; as well as collecting stories to populate his imagination, he had furnished his life with beautiful things to compensate for the lack of beautiful memories. It was understandable and she was full of sympathy for him.
At the door to his study, as they came to the end of their tour, Paolo smiled.
‘It’s six-thirty. Will you join me in a glass of wine? I always have one at this time.’
He opened the door to the room Venetia had sat in that morning. It was now bathed in the incandescent colours of the most dramatic sunset as the great red ball sank below the horizon and an array of magnificent tints painted the sea and flushed the sky. It took her breath away and she was drawn into the room, spellbound by the enchanting glow, dazzled for a brief moment by its luminosity.
Unintentionally, Venetia’s eyes moved up to the painting that dominated the room. It was crowned with a light that was almost unreal. She met the enigmatic gaze and shivered – the beautiful blonde looking down at her seemed very much alive.
‘My wife,’ Paolo announced to her in a matter-of-fact way that took Venetia a little aback. ‘She died in the accident which robbed me of my past. I don’t remember her – for me it’s as if she never existed.’
He took out a couple of glasses from a drawer in his desk and poured Venetia a glass of white wine from a bottle that stood in a bucket of ice on a small table next to it. ‘I don’t grieve for her as much as I grieve for my lost life. We were on our honeymoon. She was driving, so I don’t even have the privilege of feeling guilty – I might as well be dead.’ His voice hardened as he spoke.
The Echoes of Love Page 24