A wide, curved staircase led to the first floor where Tanya's room was situated. The plump-faced housekeeper pushed open a door on the east landing and bade her enter. 'This is the blue room,' she informed Tanya smilingly. 'I think you'll find it comfortable.'
The room was more than comfortable, it was positively luxurious. The bed was vast and covered with a blue silk coverlet of exactly the same shade as the swagged silk curtains hanging at either side of the tall balcony windows. The thick, soft carpet underfoot was also blue and the silk-lined walls were hung with delicate watercolours in pale gilt frames. As she paused to gaze round at the understated opulence of it all, Tanya felt suddenly acutely aware of the crumpled and travel-weary state of her dress. The sooner she got under a shower and changed into something fresh the better, she decided. This was no condition in which to stray into the lion's den.
As though reading her thoughts, the housekeeper pushed open the door that led to the en suite bathroom with its blue-tiled floor and walls and matching ceramic fittings. 'I think you'll find everything you need here,' she told Tanya, indicating the shelves of expensive-looking toiletries behind the bath. 'If not, just let me know.'
Tanya managed a vaguely appreciative smile. 'Thank you. It all looks very comfortable indeed,' she said.
The plump face beamed with open pride—almost as though she were the proprietor of this luxurious domain, it occurred to Tanya, instead of just another of Fausto Cabrini's countless paid servants. 'Now let me explain about the telephones.' She touched Tanya's arm and led her over to one of the bedside tables that flanked the enormous bed. 'The white phone is for external calls. The blue one is the internal one.' She smiled. 'You see, every room in the house is connected through our own private little telephone system. You just press four for the kitchen, for example, or nine for the signor's room. You'll find a list of all the numbers in this drawer here. It is very convenient, don't you think?'
'Oh, very,' Tanya agreed, making a mental note that nine was a number she would never press, not even accidentally. And how very typical of the signor, she added scathingly to herself. Who else but Fausto Cabrini could possibly require two telephones in every room?
'Ecco gli baggagli.' The chauffeur was standing in the doorway with her bags.
'Put them over there, Beppe.' A plump finger indicated a space by the mirror-fronted wardrobe, then the grey-haired woman turned to Tanya, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. 'Surely this isn't all your luggage?' she enquired.
Tanya nodded. The two small cases were indeed all that she had brought with her. Despite what the other woman obviously believed, she fully intended that her stay be brief. 'It's all I'll need,' she acknowledged politely. And mentally reaffirmed her promise to herself that she'd be gone within the week.
'I'll leave you now.' The grey-haired woman smiled again. 'Would you like me to send up some coffee, a cold drink—something to eat, perhaps?'
'No, thank you.' Tanya shook her head.
'Very well, but if there's anything at all you want, don't hesitate to ring. My name's Emma, by the way. The signor has instructed me to take good care of you till he returns. We're expecting him home about seven tonight—and dinner will be served at eight.'
'Thank you, Emma, but I don't need anything right now. I think I'll just shower and unpack.'
'Come down whenever you're ready, my dear, and just make yourself at home. The signor insists that you treat this house as though it were your own.'
How generous of him, Tanya scoffed angrily to herself as the door closed and she was left alone. And how utterly hypocritical! How could she make herself at home when she was virtually a prisoner?
She crossed to the balcony windows and opened them wide. Breathing in deeply, she tried to calm the anger and resentment that were throbbing inside. The view, at least, was spectacular, she consoled herself. Smooth lawns bordered by shrubs and beds of flowering plants swept down to a wooded area near the water's edge. And, beyond that, stretched magnificent Lake Maggiore, sparkling like a jewel in the early summer sun. She could even glimpse in the distance the cloud-capped peaks of the Italian Alps. It was ironical to think that just a few kilometres on the other side, in a hospital bed in Switzerland, lay the man she loved more than any other in the world—and yet who was unwittingly responsible for her current, highly uncomfortable predicament.
She sighed and crossed to the blue-tiled bathroom, kicking off her shoes. Well, at least she had followed Cabrini's ridiculous orders to a tee—picked up her airline ticket at the airport just before the flight and arrived here at the villa several hours ahead of him. He should have no cause for complaint with her this time for a change. With any luck, the unfortunate mix-up about the icon would be sorted out without delay and that would be the end of the whole ghastly charade. She switched on the shower and quickly peeled off her clothes, then stepped with a grateful sigh under the warm, invigorating spray.
It was precisely at that moment that one of the phones in the bedroom began to ring. Cursing silently beneath her breath, Tanya grabbed the nearest fluffy blue towel and, wrapping it quickly round her dripping body, hurried through to answer it. A trail of water marked her path.
She picked up the white phone first—'Hello?'—but there was no one on the other end. She snatched up the blue one. 'Hello?' she said again, barely concealing the irritation in her voice.
'So you made it, signorina,' came Fausto Cabrini's smooth, sarcastic tones. 'You took so long to answer I thought perhaps you were having a nap.'
And no doubt took great pleasure in deliberately waking her. 'I was in the shower, actually,' Tanya responded, taking equal pleasure in disappointing him.
'And I interrupted you. I do apologise.' A note of amusement sounded in his voice. 'I hope you're not dripping soapsuds all over my carpet.'
Tanya glanced down at the soggy puddle at her feet. 'As a matter of fact, I am,' she enlightened him with blatant relish in her voice.
'In that case, I won't detain you any longer. Finish your shower and meet me in the library in half an hour.'
The phone went dead. Tanya glared at it in fury for a moment, then slammed the receiver down. So he had started his bullying tactics already! Muttering rebelliously to herself, she retraced her sopping footprints back to the bathroom.
Cabrini had a shock coming. There was no way she was going to stand for that!
Tanya almost didn't notice him at first. He was standing by the open library window with his back to her, but he wheeled round instantly at the sound of the closing door. 'Ah, there you are, signorina,' he greeted her without moving from the spot. 'I see you managed to find your way.'
She paused in the middle of the room, confronting him. 'If you mean to the library, I asked Emma the way. If you mean to the villa, your very efficient chauffeur took care of that.'
He smiled that amused, superior smile that she remembered from their first meeting. 'How very reassuring to know that my staff are taking such good care of you. But please don't stand there in the middle of the room—be seated.' And he indicated one of the deep-cushioned, soft leather armchairs that stood in a semicircle round a low, brass coffee-table.
She automatically pulled back her shoulders and straightened her spine as she crossed to the armchair and sat down. He was even taller than she remembered. Broader, too. And as she was wearing flat-heeled sandals he towered over her. She made a mental promise to herself that next time she had the misfortune to be summoned to his presence she would make sure that she was wearing six-inch heels.
'Since I got back early and there's a couple of hours before dinner yet, I thought we might discuss your position here over a drink.'
'How very civilised. Not your usual style of doing things at all.' He was still standing over her. She did not look up. Instead, she glanced round quickly at the handsome, book-filled cabinets that lined the walls. The taste displayed in the furnishings elsewhere was equally evident in here. She added crisply, 'Our little discussion, however, should not take lo
ng. The whole thing's a dreadful mistake, you see.'
He crossed to a table behind her and she heard the clink of glasses. 'What will you have?' he enquired over his shoulder, taking no apparent notice of anything she had said.
Damn the man! She pursed her lips impatiently. 'A martini will do.'
He stood in front of her and handed her a tall glass with plenty of ice and a green olive stuck on the end of a cocktail stick. She took a mouthful. It was perfect, just as she liked it. But then, she acknowledged irritably to herself, that was exactly how she had expected it to be. Perfection was Fausto Cabrini's trademark, after all—at least when it came to the superficialities of life. She put her glass down on the table and lifted her eyes to him challengingly. 'Well? Why have you brought me here?'
He had seated himself in the armchair opposite, the ankle of one linen-clad leg hooked casually over the knee of the other, and he was watching her. Though apparently with no intention of responding to her demand. She stared back, registering how the pale colours of the open-necked shirt and lightweight trousers he wore made him seem younger than he had appeared in the dark suits he had worn in Sussex. She guessed that he was barely thirty-five.
'I must apologise for getting you out of the shower.' He took a mouthful of his drink and eyed her provocatively over the rim of his glass. 'That must have been most inconvenient for you.'
'Don't worry,' she retorted coolly. 'The only thing to suffer was your carpet.'
He raised an eyebrow at her and smiled. 'Carpets can easily be replaced—but we wouldn't want our young guest catching cold.' The dark eyes roamed insolently over her body, stripping her bare. 'I hope you took the time to grab a towel.'
She felt her colour deepen. The touch of his eyes was like a wanton caress. She glared at him across the coffee-table. 'I'm not your guest, Signor Cabrini, and I thought the purpose of this meeting was to discuss the futility of my presence here—not my health. As I've already pointed out to you, you've made a terrible mistake.'
He shook his head. 'I'm afraid it is not I, signorina, who have made a mistake. You are here for a very good reason—because your father cheated me.' Then he paused and fixed her with a cruel eye. 'And that, signorina, I promise you, was a very foolish mistake to make.'
'That's nonsense!' Suddenly Tanya was sitting bolt upright in her chair, eyes flashing at him angrily. 'My father never cheated anyone in his life! You're the one who's playing some sort of dirty game, inventing this ridiculous story about the icon being a fake!'
He continued to watch her in silence for a moment— but the black eyes had narrowed and the expression in them was cold and dangerous. He circled the rim of his glass with a sun-browned forefinger, an exercise, she felt instinctively, in self-control. 'Your loyalty to your father is most touching,' he said at last. 'But sadly misplaced, I fear. There is no doubt at all that the icon is a fake.' He reached into the pocket of his shirt and drew out a folded slip of paper, unfolded it carefully and handed it across the table to her. 'I think you have enough Italian to understand what's written here.'
She almost snatched the piece of paper from his hand and anxiously bent to study it. The letterhead bore the name of one of the most reputable auction houses in Milan—her father had dealt with them often in the past—and typed below was an expert appraisal of the icon, signed and dated and officially stamped. As Tanya read it, she felt the blood drain from her face.
'As you can see,' she heard Cabrini say, 'your father's little work of art is just a clever but worthless fake. Not eighteenth century at all, but probably made some time around the turn of the twentieth century. Though it took an expert to uncover the fraud.'
'But it can't be!' Tanya stared numbly at the piece of paper in her hand. That icon formed part of the essential folklore of her life. Since childhood she had listened to the story that old Grandpa Boris used to tell about how it had been sewn into his young wife's petticoats when the pair of them—along with the luckier members of their family—had fled from revolution-torn Russia back in 1917. It had been in the Karansky family for generations, he had always said. A valuable heirloom, as well as a sacred symbol of Devlin and Natasha's love. Slowly she raised her eyes to meet Cabrini's again. 'I don't believe it,' she said.
He gave her a callous look. 'Believe what you wish. The truth remains.' He took the piece of paper from her and tossed it aside. 'And since I would undoubtedly consider your father to be an expert in this field, I can only conclude that he knew the icon was a fake—and that he cheated me deliberately.' He looked down at his glass and seemed to study it for a while. Then glanced up with a cutting smile. 'So you see, signorina, it is not I who have been playing dirty games. If I hadn't taken the icon to be valued—out of simple curiosity—I might never have discovered the little trick your father played on me.'
Tanya dropped her eyes uncomfortably. She somehow doubted very much that Cabrini had sought a valuation out of 'simple curiosity'. He was far too calculating for simple gestures of any kind. But, all the same, she realised that that was really not the point. 'There must be some explanation for all this,' she said. 'I'm sure my father would never have cheated you deliberately.' Then she added with a cautious smile, 'When I get back to England I'll arrange for some replacement paintings to be sent to you.'
Very slowly Fausto Cabrini shook his head. 'That, signorina, was not the solution I had in mind.' He stretched his long legs out in front of him. 'As I explained when I came to visit you in Sussex only the other night, I expect you to take the place of the icon. You will be the living token of your father's pledge.' A faint, humourless smile curled at his lips. 'Perhaps you didn't think that I was serious?'
Well, he couldn't be. Could he? She stared at him uneasily. 'That's ridiculous,' she said. 'I can't stay here. I've made arrangements to spend the summer with my relatives in Austria.'
He seemed to find that amusing. The corded muscles of his neck stood out against the deeply suntanned skin as he threw back his head in a rich, masculine laugh. 'Then you must un-make them, signorina,' he said simply. 'I shall require your presence here.'
'As a kind of hostage, you mean?' Her tone was clipped. 'How very Mediterranean.'
A faintly superior smile lingered around his lips. 'You have a sharp tongue, signorina,' he said, the dark eyes scanning her from head to foot. 'One of your less attractive attributes, I'd say. I shall take pleasure in teaching you some manners while you're here.'
The realisation was gradually dawning on Tanya that he was absolutely serious. He actually was enough of a megalomaniac to believe that he could force her to stay on with him. 'You must be mad!' She laid down her drink and squared her shoulders as she stared defiantly across at him. 'I have no more intention of staying on here than I have of going to the moon. And to prove it I'm going back to England on the first flight available— and from there I shall be going on to Vienna precisely as planned.'
'I'm afraid you won't, signorina.'
'Try to stop me!' She got to her feet.
'You mean like this?' He reached out easily and grabbed her by the wrist, the movement so swift and unexpected that she had no time to snatch her arm away. And he smiled with savage satisfaction as she struggled helplessly. 'You're going nowhere, signorina. Why don't you sit down?'
The lean, brown fingers were fastened round her slim wrist like a vice. In a passion of fury, she tried to pull free. 'How dare you, you bastard! Let me go!'
'Then sit down and listen to what I have to say.'
'Why should I?' She gave her arm a mutinous wrench—which merely forced him to tighten his grip.
'Let me go immediately! You're hurting me! There's nothing you could possibly have to say that I would want to listen to. You can't keep me here! Unless of course you intend to tie me up and keep me as your prisoner!'
'I have a feeling that will not be necessary.' Abruptly Fausto Cabrini rose to his feet and, with a sharp flick of his wrist, he twisted her arm behind her back so that she was virtually immobilised. The knuckle
s of his fist ground sharply into the small of her back as he jerked her towards him like a rag doll and held her there. 'Let me put it this way, signorina,' he gritted, the sudden closeness of their bodies lending an almost sensuous intensity to his words. 'I think I'm in a slightly stronger position than you when it comes to laying down the odds.'
He had her almost jammed up against him, so that she could feel the searing warmth of him, smell in her nostrils his clean, male smell. The dark eyes only inches from her own flamed with some untamed passion as he went on to warn, 'Your father and I have made a deal, a deal which I think you would agree is of considerably more importance to you and him that it is to me. If I should decide to withdraw from our deal—which I will unless you do exactly as I say—I think you might both live to regret the consequences bitterly.' He tightened his fingers sharply around her wrist as though to emphasise his point. 'Now, signorina, will you sit?'
Tanya grimaced and made one final, futile effort to pull away from him. 'You damned bully!' But she knew she was beaten and so did he.
'I asked you a question. Will you sit down and listen to what I have to say?'
She glared at him with every ounce of loathing that she felt. 'I don't really think I have much choice.'
'Good. I was pretty sure it wouldn't take you long to realise which side your bread was buttered on.'
He released her then quite suddenly, so that Tanya half stumbled back into her chair. For a moment she sat furiously rubbing the red mark on her wrist. Then she raised her eyes and spat across at him, 'So you've established that you can make me stay.' Of course she could never take the risk that he might leave her father in the lurch. 'But what I'd really like to know is why you want me here?'
'Certainly not for any pleasure I'm likely to derive from your company.'
So that much was mutual.
He sat down in his seat again and took another mouthful of his drink. 'Spoiled English brats, you see, are really not my cup of tea.'
Reluctant Prisoner Page 3