She felt a hand grasp her elbow just before she could enter the elevator. Startled, Chris spun around. It was Alfred, anxiously looking back over his shoulder.
“Christi. Meet me at the galleries at closing time on Friday.”
Friday was three days away. She wondered what his message was, and why he was willing to wait so long before passing it on.
“Friday, Christi.”
“Yes, yes, Alfred. Whatever you wish.”
“I need you, Christi. I need you.”
“Alfred, I…” She wanted to demand to know what made him so nervous. She wanted to clutch his hand, pat it and assure him that everything was all right.
“I can—” He looked around again, lowering his voice. Chris saw that Gina and Sophia had walked out on the brick deck to stare out to the sea. “Christi, I can tell you about your father then. The galleries, right after closing time. I’ll see that the main door is open.”
“I don’t even know where they are yet!”
“You’ll know. Marcus will show you today.”
She did squeeze his hand then. “I’ll be there, Alfred. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
“Bless you, Christi.”
She frowned, then squeezed his hand again. “And I promise you, Alfred,” she said softly but very firmly, “I will help you.”
He smiled. She felt like an angel—for the moment, at least.
Alfred wasn’t at the courtyard table when Chris came down to lunch. Sophia told Chris that he had decided to eat a light lunch upstairs; he intended to spend the afternoon resting. It sounded natural enough; a number of Italians, like Spaniards, liked to rest during the heat of the afternoon and work or stay active in the evening.
But it did leave Chris alone with ‘the gorgons’ for lunch.
Whereas breakfast at the palazzo was small, lunch seemed to be a meal that could fill Chris up for the next two weeks. There were endless antipasti, as well as soup, cannelloni and rigatoni, and a choice of fish or veal for the main course. Chris was sure she’d never get to the main course, but she surprised herself by being almost famished. It had been the swimming, she decided, and determined not to turn into a blimp during her stay.
She was also glad of the food because it gave her something to talk about when she was trying to stay away from uncomfortable subjects.
Halfway through lunch, though, Chris found that she didn’t have to keep the conversation going. Sophia was determined to do so.
“Christina,” she said, pointing to one of the young dark-haired girls who were serving the meal, “this is Liggia; that is her sister, Teresa.” Chris smiled warmly at the girls, who gave her shy tentative smiles in return. But she realized quickly that she wasn’t being given a casual introduction when Sophia spoke next, sighing dramatically.
“Liggia and Teresa are our only live-in help these days. The world…it is not what it was. We have a service to do the floors and furnishings once a week, but otherwise…” She paused and stared pointedly at Chris. “I do hope you understand, Christina. You will help.”
Chris smiled very sweetly. “I love to clean.”
“Sophia!” Gina di Medici gasped. “You mustn’t ask Alfred’s guest—”
“Guest! She’s James Tarleton’s daughter, isn’t she? She is a part of all this. She shouldn’t mind giving—”
“Sophia!” Gina di Medici could put quite a ring of authority into her voice when she chose, very much like her elder son. “I am the Contessa di Medici, and the last I heard, this is still the Palazzo di Medici! You’ll not ask a guest—”
“Please! Please!” Chris interrupted, somewhat stunned by the sudden hostility between the two women. “Gina, I’m quite accustomed to looking after my own things and my own surroundings, which is what I believe Sophia is asking. And I’d rather not be a noncontributing guest. Really, I don’t mind at all!”
Both of them were silent for a moment, staring at her as if they had just remembered that she was there. Sophia sighed first. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken. If Marcus would just hire more help—”
“Marcus can’t afford more help,” Gina interrupted impatiently.
“Can’t afford! Alfred would gladly—”
“Marcus will not accept Alfred’s money for use in his private concerns,” Gina said flatly.
“His reasons make no sense to me!” Sophia said, and then she continued speaking in rapid Italian that left Chris completely out in the cold. She turned her attention to the espresso she had chosen for after lunch and picked at a piece of cheese. Should she admire Marcus for refusing to take Alfred’s money for his ‘private concerns’? No, she thought dryly, why should she? Who else was there to eventually inherit everything—the Swiss accounts and the galleries—except for Marcus and Antonio di Medici?
Chris wondered a little sourly if the whole thing might be a show, put on entirely for her benefit. Perhaps the di Medicis wanted her to think that they were in the midst of financial difficulties. Exactly why, she wasn’t sure. Maybe Marcus wanted her to think he was broke…just so she wouldn’t go hunting for a di Medici husband! It was hard to believe that any of this lot were really facing poverty!
“What a lovely discussion for luncheon…with a guest in attendance!”
The words, drawled in icy English, stopped both Sophia and Gina cold. They—and Chris—stared up in horror at Marcus, who was making a swift entrance across the courtyard.
He ignored them, and their obvious discomfort, as he sat down and smiled at Teresa. “Teresa, espresso, per favore.”
The girl bobbed to him and ran to do as she’d been told. He thanked her warmly, then caught Christina looking at him. She couldn’t read the expression in his eyes; they were simply as sharp as midnight gems as he smiled slowly. “Well, it seems you have had a wonderful introduction to the palazzo. I assure you, we are not customarily so rude.”
He was apologizing to her, and yet she felt that he was angry—also at her. Because he had heard the remarks regarding his finances?
Chris swirled the espresso in her cup, withdrawing her eyes from his. “I am just that, Marcus: a guest. I shouldn’t interfere with the family.”
“Marcus, I—” Gina began to say, but he waved a hand in the air. “Per favore, let’s drop it! Christina, how was your morning.”
“Lovely,” she replied. “The pool is just beautiful.”
Marcus stared down at his own espresso. “It is beautiful,” he murmured. Then he looked at her. “Your father designed it.”
“He did!”
“Yes, he was able to tell the workmen how to create it from an existing fountain and small fishpond.”
Chris heard the sound of a chair being scraped back. She glanced up quickly to see that Gina di Medici was rising. “Marcus, Christina, you’ll excuse me, please. I—I’ve acquired quite a headache.”
Marcus was instantly at his mother’s side, speaking to her softly in Italian. She smiled at him; he kissed her cheek and she left the courtyard.
“I really do not mean to give offense, Christina,” Sophia said, “but it was terribly cruel of Alfred to ask you to this house.”
“Sophia!” Marcus snapped.
Perhaps because Chris had had it with the accusations—unfounded, as far as she could see—being thrown so easily at her father, she was ready to fight her own battles.
She leaned across the table and gave Sophia a straightforward glare. “Perhaps it will prove to be a very good thing for the contessa that I am here. Maybe she has been blaming the wrong man for all these years. At any rate, Sophia, I am here, and I cannot leave until I understand it all—or until Alfred, or the contessa, ask me to!”
Sophia stared at her in return, apparently stunned. Then she emitted a furious oath, which Chris didn’t understand, since it was in Italian. She did, however, get the general meaning.
Marcus said something very sharply. Sophia threw her napkin on the table and stalked back to the house, her high heels clicking loudly on the tiles.
/>
Chris lifted her hands a little helplessly. “I, uh, I’m sorry. I really am causing quite a disturbance.”
He laughed and sat down beside her again, idly drawing a finger over the back of her hand. “Perhaps, as you say, disturbance is good.”
“But your mother…”
“My mother has lived too long with her memories. And I do not think that she blames you. Mother would not find fault with a child.”
Chris was absurdly tempted to wrench her hand from the table because his touch was both lulling and far too evocative. She felt herself tensing, so she forced herself to relax and smile sweetly. She was out to win Marcus to her side, one way or another, and charm had been his brother’s suggestion.
“It would be nice to prove that my father wasn’t to blame, either,” she said softly.
He grunted impatiently and pushed back his chair to rise. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Yes. I just have to get my purse. Shall I meet you at the bridge?”
“No, meet me back here. We’ll walk.”
“Walk?”
“Yes, we’ll go the long way, since the bridge has been closed off for repairs. The galleries are actually on a little peninsula.”
Chris nodded and hurried back through the house. She ran up to her room and grabbed her handbag, then paused briefly at her mirror. She’d chosen a short candy-striped halter dress with a wide band around the waist, hoping that the outfit would emphasize the nice color she had picked up that morning. It was summery, casual and, she added hopefully, smiling at her image, alluring. Her hair was freshly washed, full of sun and the light rose scent of a French shampoo. Unwilling to ponder her seductive powers or possible lack thereof, she quickly hurried out of the room and raced back downstairs.
Marcus was still standing in the courtyard, waiting for her. When she reached him, she was a little breathless. He smiled and took her elbow to lead her down a long set of steps to a slim pedestrian pathway marked, Via di Medici.
“You have your own road?” Chris asked.
“We’ve even got a canal,” he replied lightly.
“Umm. Your mother said that she was a contessa. Does that make you a conte?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t mean anything these days. Except—” he grinned down at her “—that we do get invited to have tea with the Queen when we’re in London.”
Chris laughed. He could be charming when he chose. Frighteningly so.
She walked in silence at his side for several seconds, noting that they passed a small flower stall, a cheese shop, a bakery and a boutique. Then they turned a corner, crossed over a small bridge and were in a square with the inevitable church to their left and the di Medici galleries before them and to the right.
Chris gasped softly. The building was, she thought, even more magnificent than the Doge’s Palace. Eight massive columns decked the porch; row upon row of elegant terraces ringed each floor, evidence of a heavy baroque influence. The length of the roof was lined with colorful flags.
“My God, it’s grand!” Chris murmured.
“Do you think so?” Marcus inquired politely. “We grow rather accustomed to such things here.”
Chris laughed. “In Paris I grew accustomed to Notre Dame. But it’s still grand. And so is this.”
He smiled. Tolerantly, she thought. “Come on, I’ll show you what I can. The left wing holds the pieces that are for sale. The right wing is a museum. The new exhibit is there. I’m sure that will interest you.”
They started with the left wing. Chris wished she had a better education in art than she did. As Marcus pointed out several of the more valuable paintings, lithographs and sketches, the only names she recognized were Picasso and Dalí. Hoping to sound intelligent, she asked Marcus why such works were for sale and not in the museum.
He shrugged. “Because we have to keep the place afloat,” he told her. Then he smiled again. “Our crowning glory here is a very unique Rembrandt. And we have a number of small sculptures made by the students of Michelangelo.”
They walked through another gallery filled with tableware: flatware in both silver and gold, china and crystal. Another room featured love seats, a third bedroom furnishings.
“And this is all for sale?” Chris murmured.
“Of course. We acquire to sell. Only when a piece is extremely unique can we afford the luxury of adding it to the museum. But come, you’ll see our private treasures now.”
After crossing an inner courtyard to the right wing, they were stopped by a rotund jovial man. Marcus greeted him quickly in Italian. When the man turned to Chris, grinning like an old friend, Marcus quickly introduced her in English. “Christina, you probably don’t remember Joe—Giuseppi Conseli. He has been with us since the galleries were opened. Joe, Christina Tarleton, all grown up.”
Joe broke into a quick spate of excited Italian, then apologized profusely. “Chris, little Chris! But of course, you were so little! You cannot remember old Joe, eh?” He took her hand between both of his, then sighed, glancing at Marcus. “Ah, all will be well now, perhaps. The three names are joined again: Contini, di Medici and Tarleton. Christina, it is a pleasure!”
“Thank you,” she told him, wincing a bit at the pressure of his handshake. “It’s a pleasure to see you.” And it was definitely a pleasure to see someone who was pleased to see her.
He smiled at her warmly again. He was almost completely bald and his head gleamed like a dime.
“Marcus, I do not like to disturb you, but can you come?”
“Yes, of course.” He turned to Chris. “Why don’t you go through the history display with the robotronics, Chris? It takes about twenty minutes, and I will be back by then.”
She frowned. “Is there trouble?”
“I need to see the workmen below,” he told her briefly. Then, to her surprise, he kissed the top of her head and hurried away with Joe.
She stood there watching his agile broad-shouldered form walk away. Stood there shivering inwardly, fascinated by his touch.
She forced herself to turn and find the historical exhibit. It was not an auditorium, as she had imagined it would be, but rather a theater-in-the-round. The center stage was alive with light, while all around there was shadow. Chris watched the figures, fascinated. There were Roman soldiers, medieval knights, the doges or duces of the Dark Ages and Renaissance, elegantly dressed ladies, milkmaids and even several of the more notorious courtesans.
The exhibit was marvelous. The figures were incredibly lifelike as they moved on their pedestals and spoke in soft Italian.
When Chris left the exhibit she immediately ran into Marcus again. The rotund Joe was still at his side, as was another taller and swarthier man.
“How did you like it?” Marcus asked her quickly.
“Breathtaking,” she told him.
He turned to the swarthy man with the very lean face and very dark eyes. A man, Chris decided, right out of an Edgar Allan Poe poem.
“Chris, I wanted you to meet Fredo Talio. He and Joe are my most valuable assistants. Fredo, like Joe, has been with us since the galleries opened.”
Chris said hello and discovered that the swarthy man was capable of a decent smile. Even so, he made her uneasy.
She wondered why, then realized that Alfred Contini had told her that both these men had been aboard the sailboat the day that Mario di Medici had gone overboard and died. She was anxious to know them…and also frightened.
They stood for several seconds talking to the two men; then Marcus took her arm again. “Con permesso,” he murmured to the two. “You will excuse us. I wish to show Chris the gem salon before the galleries close for the day.”
Fredo and Joe quickly moved out of the way, murmuring that they had things to do before closing. Marcus led her quickly down a long hallway that opened onto an immense room with only five or six waist-high cases. A massive glass skylight let in what remained of the afternoon sun and caused the jewels in their cases to sparkle with rainbow brilliance.
/> “Dear God!” Chris gasped, and Marcus laughed.
“No, Chris, we do not own all of these. Most are on loan from the Italian government. These are all crown jewels from various principalities and duchies.”
She couldn’t help but ooh and aah as they walked past the various display cases. She didn’t consider herself much of a jewelry fanatic, but these were magnificent. Crowns with every conceivable stone: diamonds galore, rubies, sapphires, emeralds. Opals and pearls, aquamarines and other semiprecious stones. Bracelets, medallions, necklaces—even a set of toe rings that had belonged to a Renaissance Veronese duchess.
Not until they reached the last of the exhibits, the one directly in the center of the room beneath the skylight, did she realize that Marcus was watching her. And then, as she stared at the tiara and medallion in the case, something registered in her mind. The emblem on the medallion, the coat of arms, was familiar. The winged lion was in the center, a thorned rose to the right, and Neptune rising to the left.
“di Medici!” she proclaimed, and Marcus grinned.
“Yes,” he said simply. “We do own those.”
He led her out of the salon and toward the stairs to the courtyard and main entrance. “Would you like to have dinner out?” he asked her casually.
She glanced up at him. “Would I like to have dinner out…or would you prefer not to return to your own palazzo?”
He laughed. “All right, I’d just as soon not go back right now. Do you mind?”
Chris lowered her eyes quickly. “Not at all,” she told him quietly.
“There’s a small…intimate…place right around the next corner,” he told her.
She forced her eyes up and kept smiling. From where they stood, she could see the bridge that led from building to building, from the di Medici Galleries to the Palazzo di Medici. Marcus was holding her arm, and she could feel another onslaught of tremors, hot and cold, thrilling and weakening. She spoke quickly. “Did things work out well?”
“Things?”
“With the workmen?”
“Oh, yes. They believe it’s quite safe. Only minor repairs.”
“What?”
“The tunnel…and the catacombs, of course.”
The Di Medici Bride Page 7