by Noelle Clark
Table of Contents
~ Acclaim for Noelle Clark ~
~ Look for these titles from Noelle Clark ~
Copyright Warning
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
~ About the Author ~
~ Also by Noelle Clark ~
~ More Romance from Etopia Press ~
~ Acclaim for Noelle Clark ~
“Right from the first page I was engrossed in the story. With a mixture of suspense, history, unique scenery and romance, this book is a must read.”
—Author Annette Kendall
“This is the type of story that reminds us that life holds many surprises, some coming at us when least expected. This isn't a fast food version of life, but one told with lyrical sweetness, petal by petal unfolding. There are numerous messages to enjoy such as if we are willing to take a chance, life may be imperfectly perfect and positioned to let us leap.”
—Author Susan D. Taylor
“Take a flight to Cambodia and see the sights of Siem Reap. There's intrigue, mystery and problems that need sorting. The characters remain true to themselves and draw you further into the story. The romance between Abbie and Craig is just divine.”
—Author - Louise Forster
~ Look for these titles from Noelle Clark ~
Now Available
Let Angels Fly
Rosamanti
Noelle Clark
Copyright Warning
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
http://www.etopia-press.net
Rosamanti
Copyright © 2013 by Noelle Clark
ISBN: 978-1-940223-71-1
Edited by Matt Dale
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: November 2013
Dedication
For my daughter and son—for their love, support and friendship.
For my Mum, who has no idea I’m a writer, but would be thrilled if she did.
This book has been possible with the support of my family and friends, and my writing buddies in YON Beyond, in RWA, and especially my fellow online author cheer squad. Thanks to K. D. Frost for his inspiration.
Sincere thanks to all the team at Etopia Press, and my editor, Matt.
Chapter One
Sarah stood on the stern, watching the white foam of the wake thrash about, sending up glistening spray into the brilliant sunshine. She held on tightly to the railing with one hand, the other firmly clamped on her straw hat, the brim bent flat against the back of her neck from the wind. A light mist of spray from the wake wet her jeans and T-shirt and left a film of salt on her sunglasses. Soon she felt the hydrofoil pick up speed as it cleared the little port of Sorrento and spread her feet to steady herself as it steered left, southward, toward the island of Capri.
Villas, hotels and houses in hues of shimmering pink, cream, white and soft yellow in the bright sunlight, clung to the high cliffs rising steeply along the coastline of the Sorrentine Peninsula. She inspected them, marveling at their positions so high up on the cliff, and wondering what sort of view they have. She wondered if she too would have a view like that. She hadn’t even seen a photo of Rosamanti. The owner, Signora Lombardi, said that she didn’t own a camera so Sarah would just have to take her word for it. There was apparently no internet—or phone—another reason she was attracted to Rosamanti. She remembered back to the day when she had seen the small advertisement in the Sydney Morning Herald. Rushing to get to yoga on time, she quickly tore it out of the newspaper and stuffed it into her handbag. It was several days later, when she was looking for something deep in the bag, that she found the scrap of paper.
For lease: Indefinite period. Isolated villa on Capri, Italy. Must love cats. Send references to Signora Lombardi, Rosamanti, via Lo Capo, Capri, Italy. 80073.
Keen to see her new home, Sarah left the aft deck and worked her way through the salon, heading for the front viewing windows. A dark, rugged shape filled the horizon—Capri, looming closer at a rapid speed. Butterflies fluttered in the pit of her stomach, mixed with a strange cocktail of sadness, anticipation, and excitement. Vertical limestone cliffs rose from the sea, looking like a giant fortress. As she got closer, Sarah could see that the cliff tops were dotted with stone fortifications, perched precariously on the edge.
Soon, the hydrofoil tied up at the pontoons of the Marina Grande without fuss. Shouldering her backpack and pulling her trolley case behind her, she joined the line of laughing and chatting passengers, as they filed off and walked along the pier to the shore. She gazed at the stunningly vivid blue sea, the color heightened by the white yachts, cruisers and motorboats tied up to the jetty. A crescent of shingly beach stretched out on her left, covered with brightly colored craft. Seagulls squawked and fought over tidbits of food mid-air. All around her, smiling local tourist operators jostled to make eye contact with the passengers and vacationers as they came ashore, calling out Taxi and Blue Grotto. For a moment, she wished she had someone to meet her. Her knowledge of Italian was very rudimentary, however a phrase book lurked somewhere in the bowels of her shoulder bag should she need it. Just momentary nerves, she thought to herself. This is how she wanted it. No fanfare. She wasn’t here as a tourist. She wanted to fit in here anonymously.
Already her bare arms were turning pink and the fierce, midmorning sun stung her skin. She spotted a row of inviting ristorante with striped canvas awnings throwing shade over small tables set out on the sidewalk, only feet from the sandy beach.
“Ciao, signora. Una tabella?”
Sarah turned to see a woman with snow-white hair smiling at her, using a colorful menu to indicate a vacant table in the shade.
“Ciao, grazie.” Sarah parked her trolley case under the table, slid her thumbs under the straps of her heavy backpack, and set it down on the ground. Pulling the chair farther into the shade, she sat down gratefully. The heat, and the jet lag from the long flight from Australia, were taking their toll.
“Signora, sei Americana? I speak English.”
Sarah removed her hat and smiled at the friendly woman. “I’m Australian actually. Australiano.”
“Si, Australiano. Maybe you would like a cold beer?”
A small bubble of laughter escaped as she shook her head.
“Maybe another time. I think I could really use some iced water to start with please?”
She went inside and soon came out with a carafe of iced water infused with slices of lemon.
“You like some lunch signora?” The woman deposited the menu on the table and hovered close by. Sarah poured some of the water and drank it thirstily, using the napkin to mop the beads of perspiration from her brow. A small zephyr blew in from the water, cooling her down. She took in the million-dollar view. Dozens of little wooden fishing cockles floated in the water in front of the restaurant. Boats of every hue—bright yellows, reds, and gleaming whites—bobbed in the gentle water, while others sat up on wooden racks undergoing a new paint job or repairs. The boats were pointy at both ends, with deep hulls. Looking around her, she studied the hustle and bustle of Marina Grande. The small area of shops, cafes, and the harbor at the base of soaring, rocky cliffs was alive with color and noise. Atop the cliffs lay greenery—bushes and shrubbery. The cliffs were a spectacular backdrop to the bright blue Tyrrhenian Sea. The beauty made her catch her breath. Her shoulders relaxed. She twisted her head around, loosening the muscles in her neck. Serotonin flowed into her blood stream, calming her, de-stressing her. In the short time she’d been here, she could already feel this place doing her good.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the woman from the restaurant shift her weight from one foot to the other. Quickly scanning the menu, she chose the insalata caprese. Without a word, the woman snatched the menu from Sarah’s hands, and disappeared inside the restaurant. Sitting back in the comfortable chair, she realized she was indeed hungry. She didn’t know how well stocked the villa would be. Maybe she would have to visit the shops to stock up on supplies? Either way, she would start her transformation from this very moment, right from her first steps on the soil of Capri. A little smile slid effortlessly onto her lips. There had been a dearth of smiling and laughter in her life for quite a while.
The salad came and she ate it hungrily, relishing the flavor of the rich, red Italian tomatoes, the creamy buffalo mozzarella, and the spicy fresh basil leaves. She ordered a glass of rosé and took stock of things. First, she had to get herself to Lo Capo. She had looked at it on a map on the plane. It seemed to be high on a ridge, up in the mountains behind where she sat. She was slightly nervous about meeting Signora Lombardi, and even more concerned about what type of accommodation she had taken. In a rash moment, she’d signed a twelve month lease, sight unseen. Sarah shrugged. She did what she had to do. No one at home in Sydney knew exactly where she was. All she’d told them was that she was taking a sabbatical in Italy. This was a vague allusion to what she was really doing, and seemed to keep most of them happy.
The woman came back to her table, hovering nearby.
“Could you please tell me the best way to travel to Lo Capo?”
She creased her brow and looked meaningfully at Sarah’s heavy luggage.
“Depends. Taxi can only take you to La Piazzetta. Then you need to walk.”
Sarah inwardly groaned at the prospect of carrying all of her bags in this heat.
“Un momento.” The woman turned and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, she came out with a man dressed in black and white check chef’s trousers, and a dirty white linen jacket. A damp, red neckerchief was knotted around his neck, and a small chef’s cap sat atop a mop of black curly hair. His face sported a dark five o’clock shadow, his smile warm and friendly.
The woman and the chef spoke rapidly in Italian for a few minutes, hands gesticulating and pointing from Sarah’s bags up to the top of the cliffs. He shrugged and looked defeated. The woman turned to Sarah, her face beaming with the smile of a victor.
“Signora, this is Pietro. He is finishing his shift now. He will take you to Lo Capo.” She folded her arms across her ample bosom, looking very pleased with herself. Sarah saw a look of uncertainty cross Pietro’s eyes.
“Are you sure? I can pay you for your trouble.”
She waved her hand in a dismissive way. “Non è necessario.” She placed Sarah’s bill on the table and marched back inside, poor Pietro following meekly behind. Sarah took out some Euros and placed them in the plastic folder with her check, leaving a good tip. As she bent to retrieve her backpack, Pietro appeared and picked up her heavy suitcase as if it was empty.
“Do you speak English, Pietro?” asked Sarah hopefully.
He turned to look at her, his face breaking into a charming smile, showing dazzling white teeth in his handsome brown face.
“Certainly, signora. I studied law at Yale. I think I can make myself understood.” His eyes twinkled.
Sarah sighed. Although he had an accent, his English was very good. She smiled back at him, feeling the unfamiliar sensation spread across her face.
She followed Pietro down an extremely narrow lane to a small, untidy yard behind the restaurant. She wondered how he managed to get his car in here. Then it hit her. Standing propped up against a large industrial bin was a small Vespa scooter with a rip across the vinyl seat and faded powder-blue paintwork. She watched as he put her trolley case on the ground next to the little scooter, swung his leg easily over the seat, and kick-started the motor. It spluttered into life, uttering a backfire which went off like a gunshot, making her jump. His eyes twinkled again with mirth. Cocking his head sideways, he indicated with his eyes the small patch of seat behind him.
Eternally grateful she was wearing jeans, Sarah, with her pack firmly strapped to her back, and clutching her over-filled shoulder bag, swung her leg over the seat. Her breasts pressed against his back as she wriggled her bottom into a position where she hoped she wouldn’t fall off at the first corner.
“What about my suitcase?” Even she could hear the fear in her voice.
He adjusted himself forward on the seat, creating a gap between her chest and his back. Then he bent sideways, picked up the suitcase, and wedged it awkwardly in between the two of them. She didn’t believe this was happening! She had to turn her head sideways, her cheek hard up against the rough fabric of her case.
“Hold on Signora!” With a roar that sounded like a sick lawn mower, they took off down the narrow alley which they had just walked through.
“What do I hold on to?” Sarah nearly screamed.
“My belt.”
She quickly slid one hand around the suitcase, found his belt, and tucked her fingers tightly through it. Feeling his smooth skin on the back of her fingers, she hung on for grim death as they burst out of the alley and onto the crowded promenade of Marina Grande. Prevented from seeing anything other than the side view, she clung tightly to her suitcase with one hand, and his belt with the other. The narrow road climbed steeply and she sensed the little scooter leaning first to one side, then the other. As they rounded what felt like a tight hairpin bend, she saw below her the road they had just traveled, snaking upward at a steep gradient, and the blue of the sea sparkling below.
After about fifteen minutes of hair-raising turns and switchbacks, and the constant tooting of horns blaring from taxis coming dangerously close as they passed, she became aware of the bike turning into a flat area and heard Pietro cut the motor. He swung one leg across the handlebars, and within a split second, stood next to her, smiling.
“There, that wasn’t so bad now was it?”
“You drive like a maniac!” She pushed the suitcase toward him. “I do believe you enjoyed that.”
His laugh was rich and pleasant. “Indeed I did, signora. Benvenuti a Capri! Welcome!” She liked the way his accent made every word seem so—heartfelt, so passionate.
She laughed back, just a small one, but the first she had heard herself emit for a long time. “Well, I certainly didn’t expect to be traveling like this, that’s for sure.”
He placed the suitcase down on the ground, then glanced around, gesturing with his hand. “So, this is Piazza Umberto. We call it la Piazzetta. No cars allowed past here. Now that the worst part of the journey to La Capo is over, tell me where exactly
you are going and I will take you.”
Sarah started to rummage in her shoulder bag for her document wallet. She faltered and lost her balance, nearly falling off the scooter, but two strong hands grabbed her shoulders.
“Here, let me help you off. Sorry, there is not much seat for you to sit on.”
She looked at him, expecting to see amusement dancing in his eyes, but she saw genuine warmth. He took her hand and steadied her as she swung her leg over the back of the bike and gained her balance.
“When I was a teenager I would’ve fitted on here a bit easier.”
“When I was a teenager, signora, I would have put you side-saddle across my lap.”
A rush of heat suffused her face. She withdrew her hand and focused on rifling through her bag until she found the wallet. She pulled out a sheet of paper with the address of the villa and handed it to him.
He studied it for a moment. “Rosamanti? You are going to Rosamanti?”
“Yes. You know it?”
“Si. I know it.” He kept staring at the sheet of paper. “Tell me, signora, when did you make this—arrangement—with Signora Lombardi?” His voice sounded different, strained.
“We finalized it a couple of weeks ago. Is something wrong?” A weight settled in her stomach. “Here, I’ll show you our correspondence.” She pulled out several envelopes bearing Italian postage stamps. Her hands shook as she opened the old-fashioned, hand-written letters and handed them to Pietro.