Seduced by the Italian

by Fraser, Diana

  “What have you based your ideas on?”

  She twisted to face him again. “If you’d like to read through them I think they speak for themselves.”

  “I don’t wish to. I want you to tell me.”

  The silk of her dress tightened across her breasts as she took a deep breath, no doubt trying to contain the anger that simmered, barely hidden, beneath the surface. “I’ve worked with high-profile architects based in Milan on a number of private homes a year or so ago and—”

  “A year or so ago is too long. I don’t want out-of-date ideas.”

  “The concepts are still valid, their interpretation will be up-to-the-minute. If you look at the plans…”

  He took another bite of the pastry and stepped out onto the terrazza. “Later.” Across the valley, with the early-morning sun barely risen from behind them, the mountains were under a shadow of blue haze. He’d forgotten how beautiful this place was. Australia, where he’d made his home, was magical and had been good to him. But for the first time he felt that tug in his gut he’d refused to acknowledge since he’d left. It was, simply, his home. He turned sharply to her.

  “Come, if you really don’t wish to have breakfast, then we may as well go around the castello and you can tell me your plans.”

  “As you wish.”

  What she wished was to do her job as quickly as possible and leave. As they walked down the corridors that now buzzed with people, she mentally crunched the numbers. One month. She could do it in one month with long days and then she’d leave.

  And she needed to be with him as little as possible. Whenever she was with him she struggled to retain her usual focus. She seemed to be preternaturally aware of everything about him, despite her best intentions.

  Even now as he walked beside her—so casual with his tousled hair, finding its own shape after a desultory comb, hands thrust into his pockets, shirt open at the neck—she could feel his power. And in his manner too—in the way he called out greetings to people as he passed by—he had an ease she’d always envied: a wonderful, magnetic ease that drew people to him. And she was no exception. She closed her eyes briefly as he stopped outside the main reception room. She had to remember that he felt nothing for her, that all he wanted was revenge.

  “Shall we start here, Isabella?”

  She nodded, clutching the iPad tight to her chest. “Why not?”

  He smiled—that grin again—and her stomach flipped, an instinctive reaction that she tried to counteract with the tilt of her head and clipped steps through the door that he held open.

  Focus. She just had to focus.

  She noted with satisfaction that Luca’s staff had already cleaned the room from the previous night’s gathering in honor of his grandmother. With the furniture also cleared out, only the room’s bare bones remained. The battered parquet floor was in desperate need of refurbishment; the paintwork on the walls was faded and chipped and the stonework that surrounded the mullioned windows appeared dull and dingy in the morning light.

  Despite her best intentions, she was distracted by Luca as he walked the length of the large room. Her gaze lingered on the muscles of his forearm as he pushed his hair back from his face and looked around appreciatively. Her eyes refused to shift from the length of his throat exposed by the upward tilt of his face as he gazed up at the vaulted ceiling.

  He turned to her suddenly. “What are your plans for this room?”

  She cleared her throat. “No structural change. Simply maintenance work on the floor and walls.”

  “And the furnishings?”

  “It’s a reception room. Flexible pieces that can be used for both intimate groupings and for larger functions.”

  “It’s not a hotel I want. It’s to be a family home, remember.”

  “The room is, as it is. If you wanted a family home perhaps you should have chosen a different property to develop.”

  She walked across to the windows, her footsteps ringing loudly. “We’ll need some rugs—I know where to source the kind I have in mind—and paintings.” She looked at the faded marks where the paintings used to hang, took a deep breath and turned to face him. “Perhaps the family portraits that have always hung there.”

  He snorted. “No. I’m not having your ancestors looking down on me.”

  “Better than your own,” she snapped back.

  He twisted his lips with humor. “I don’t know, I think the place could do with some loosening up. An odd mix of farmers and thieves might just do the trick.”

  “It won’t help you sell the place and that’s what I thought you wanted. Anyway, I thought you said it wasn’t about you; it wasn’t for you?”

  “It’s not. But why would anyone want someone else’s ancestors looking down on them?”

  “History, continuity. They’re a part of this place.”

  “I don’t want a stuffy mausoleum.”

  “You won’t get one. What you’d get is a beautiful room in which to receive visitors; a beautiful room to hold receptions.”

  “You talk of ‘receiving people’, ‘beauty’, where’s the warmth?”

  “If it’s a ‘lounge’ you’re after, you’ve hired the wrong woman.”

  “I’ve hired you. Do the job I’ve hired you for.”

  They stared at each other in a tense impasse. She shook her head, irritated, trying to pull herself back. She needed this job. She needed to communicate her vision to him. “OK. Imagine this.” She closed her eyes in order to pull herself away from his presence, in order to draw on the visions that filled her heart. “You’re a father, your eldest daughter is having a party.”

  “So? Why does she need this space?”

  “No, you haven’t got it yet, have you? Imagine. Twenty years time, you are a father, you’re older, hopefully wiser—”

  “Doubt that—”

  “And your daughter enters the room. She’s young and fresh, eighteen, about to leave home, about to leave you. The years of work and worry melt away when you look at her. You want, everything for her. You want to give her a party for everyone, to honor her, to show her how much you love her.”

  She inhaled sharply and looked around. “The musicians are over there and, over there,” she pointed to the side, “you’ll be watching her as she dances with her friends and neighbors.” She looked up at the curved lines of stone that rose high above them, untouched by the morning light. “The drops of the chandeliers—crystal, I think—will bounce the light across the room, making her jewelry sparkle. And then you’ll catch her eye and know that,” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat, “that, everything will be all right.” She stared, unseeing, across the valley, now alight with the fire of the early sun. Her eyes watered under its brilliance.

  She started at his touch.

  “Did that happen to you?” His voice was soft and close.

  She turned to him and her breath caught in her throat. She shook her head in tight little movements. “No.” She pasted a bright smile on her face. “But it should have done.” She looked around. “Anyway, shall we move on?” He indicated with his arm that she should lead. She didn’t catch his eye and moved swiftly out into the hall. “Let’s look at the less formal rooms next. They are very old of course, but will need little change. I have swatches for fabric and upholstery.” He suddenly gripped her arm, pulling her to an abrupt halt.

  “Isabella, stop.”

  She looked away from him, trying, in vain, to halt the surge of heat that emanated from his hand, which licked across her skin, curling around and playing with her body like a lazy flame unaware of its power.

  “If this is too much for you,” he continued, “tell me. I can find someone else to do the job.”

  His kindness panicked her more than any abruptness could. Kindness would see her lose the commission. Kindness would see her sisters live without. Kindness would not ease the guilt.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m fine. Really. I was just trying to get you to see what I have in mind.” She swept h
er hand down the silky length of her hair, a habit she reverted to whenever she felt a little lost. “I’m fine.” She tried to step away but was awkwardly halted by the grip of his hand over hers.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “I’m sure.” She had to be. “Let’s move on to the other reception rooms.” He sighed heavily, a look of exasperated irritation settling on his narrowed gaze and lips. She shrugged. “Unless you want to go elsewhere?”

  “Si.” His tone was curt as if he’d come to some kind of decision. “I want to begin on the upper floors.” His gaze never left hers. “The turret room.” All thoughts of his kindness fled at those words. It wasn’t comfort he was trying to provide, but punishment for what had happened.

  His words eradicated the lingering heat from his hand, the momentary belief at his kindness, the longing in her heart. She kept her face impassive. “Certainly.”

  She pushed open the door to the turret room without hesitation and flicked her finger across the iPad on which she held all the information.

  “A small library, I thought.”

  “Inspired by the bookshelves?”

  “Not at all. They’ll have to go.”

  He shook his head. “No. In my brief I clearly stated the function of this room.”

  “I decided a library would be most fitting.”

  “You decided? I told you I wanted this to be a nursery. By punching a door back through the wall—you can see where it’s been filled up for some reason—it’ll be close enough to the main bedroom suite. It’s perfect.”

  “It’s inconvenient.”

  “For whom?”

  “The parents of course. They need to be there for their child.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “That's rich coming from someone whose parents—whose father in particular—did his best to keep his distance from you.”

  The irony of his words slammed into her gut, sending a wave of nausea sweeping through her as if she were thirteen years old once more.

  “That’s not true.” Despite the veracity of her statement her voice sounded small.

  He strode across the room. “Keep the shelves. Put the beds there,” he pointed, “and a cot here. And some sort of nursery room stuff in the middle.” His voice grew louder and louder and Isabella felt herself shrinking, hurting.

  “I still think—”

  “Well don’t!”

  “But I—”

  “No!” This time his retort was even stronger than before. But it wasn’t the words that made her stop, it was the look in his eyes. He walked toward her, circling her like an animal eyeing its prey. “Listen to me. Just listen to me, for once in your life.” His eyes were fixed on hers, telling her far more than any words could. What they were talking about bore no relation to the words that were being uttered.

  She swallowed the bubble of panic that rose from within and shook her head. Tentatively she reached out to him, wanting the anger to fade, wanting the aggression to dissipate. She’d spent years stepping around her father’s mood swings, alert to every nuance of his personality, any sign that he would turn into the monster she hated. She knew how to calm; she knew how to evade. “I'm listening, Luca.”

  He stilled then and looked down at her hand, resting gently on his arm. Slowly he drew his eyes back to hers, pulled her hand from his and at that moment she was aware of the depth of his rage.

  “No you’re not. You never have and you never will. Not to me anyway. Your parents? Yes. It’s always been about tradition, hasn’t it, loyalty, doing the right thing at the right time. Well you did, and you have to live with it.”

  The unfairness of his accusation sparked anger. “Don’t come back here and lecture me. I’ve lived with my actions these past seven years and will continue to do so for the rest of my life.” She grabbed his arm as he turned away. “It’s you, Luca, who lives your life free of the past. No pain, no fear, no vulnerabilities, how wonderful that must be.”

  He shook his head, as if in disbelief.

  “Or perhaps you are vulnerable somewhere,” Isabella continued. Luca’s brow contracted fiercely and she suddenly realized how little she really knew of him. “Where, I wonder.”

  He swung around and slammed his hands against the wall, either side of her body. Fear gripped her. She couldn't move; she couldn't speak. But she remembered what to do: breathe. Just breathe and it would pass.

  “I don’t want to hear anything more about what you think. You think you know me, you think you know who I am, you think you can tell me what I should be doing, how I should behave. That is rich, cara, coming from someone as emotionally repressed as yourself.”

  He looked away in exasperation and she took the opportunity to slip from under his arms. Shakily she walked over to the window and opened it wide, breathing deeply of the sweet mountain air, listening to the soothing fall of the river tumbling over rocks to the valley below, just as she'd always done. Luca would never hurt her, she knew that. Only with words. He wasn't her father.

  She forced herself to turn round and face him. She saw the anger had subsided, leaving confusion evident in every turn of his head, in every step he took: steps that stopped once more in front of her. She was relieved to note her panic had also subsided, giving way to the ever-present sensation of his nearness. Her breathing quickened and her gaze dropped to his lips: lips too beautiful to have uttered such harsh words.

  “I'm sorry, Isabella. I'm hasty, impatient. I say things I shouldn't. But you need to know things have changed. You have to do as I wish now. You have no choice. That’s what I’m paying you for and the sooner you realize that, the better.” Confusingly he brushed away a wisp of hair that had escaped the tight French twist.

  She opened her mouth but the words died on her lips as his fingers briefly caressed her neck before his hand dropped to his side. Her eyes fell to his lips once more, betraying her thoughts and feelings with each second that passed. He shook his head and moved his face closer to hers. He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look him in the eye.

  “Better for whom?” Her voice was soft, shattered.

  “For both of us.” His voice was strong, controlled.

  “You can’t speak for me. You’ve no idea what’s best for me.”

  It was as if she hadn’t spoken, his silence asserting his disagreement. She pressed her palms against his chest, needing him to move away from her. But he didn’t.

  “I want a nursery here, Isabella. It’s perfect for a nursery.”

  “No.”

  “Just do it.”

  She couldn’t speak immediately in case her voice betrayed the tremor that ran throughout her body. Then she willed herself to calm. “Why is a nursery so important to you?”

  His face didn’t change, didn’t assume an expression of victory at all. He continued to look at her as if he were trying to work her out.

  “I’m going to sell this place to a family. A family would fit in well with the community and the links to Montepulciano are good. A family, Isabella. And what do families have?”

  “Babies.” No word emerged, just the soft plosive sound of her lips meeting twice before fading into soft sibilance.

  “Babies, cots and… baby stuff. What do you think about colors?”

  It felt like poison was draining through her body, turning her limbs to lead, making her heart ache and her body sick. “Colors?” She shifted, bringing one arm round her body in an awkward movement as she rubbed her opposite shoulder, shaking her head as if unable to choose from the array at her disposal. “Blue for boys and pink for girls.” She repeated the clichéd pairing to buy herself time.

  “Now that I could have gleaned from a child. Colors. I want you to think.” His hands tightened their grip on her arms as he turned her around to face the empty room, the room that once had held so much passion, so many dreams.

  A sob rose from somewhere deep inside, but she held it so tight, so hard, she had to fight for breath. She released it and inhaled deeply.

  “Br
ight colors, I think—the primary shades of a rainbow.” He relaxed his grip on her and his hands trailed slowly down her arms.

  “Sounds more like it.”

  “With beautiful textures for interest. Babies love to curl their hands around tufts of sheepskin, to push the flat of their palms through velvet, to hold, to clench things in their hands…”

  She hadn’t realized she was mimicking a baby’s hand—clenching her fist repeatedly, as if trying to grasp something that proved elusive—until his hands curled around hers and quieted hers, before turning her around to face him.

  “You’re a professional, just do it.”

  “You think this is easy for me? I conceived our baby in this room. One day I left this room with my father. A few days later I returned without my baby. You think this is easy?”

  “It was your choice.” His voice was cold and distant. She began to shake her head, to form the words of denial but the look of cool indifference in his eyes swept her words away. He shrugged. “It’s irrelevant now.” She tried once more to speak but he held his finger to her lips. “I’m no longer interested.”

  She stepped back as if struck, looking around her as if for an answer as to how such love could have ended in such indifference. “I have to go. I’ll do as you wish but I need to go now. I'll look at it later.”

  “This has priority.”

  “Why are you doing this, pushing me like this, Luca?”

  He didn't answer immediately and part of her was glad because instinct told her that it would be an answer she didn't want to hear. Time had passed and he simply didn't care for her any more.

  She walked away and this time he didn’t stop her. As she pulled the door closed behind her it slipped from her grasp as the wind from the open window took it and banged it against the doorjamb. She hesitated briefly, wanting desperately to return and put things right. But she couldn’t. The time had gone for that.