Tanya took a deep breath and reached out a hand to touch her father's arm. 'He knows about the icon, Father. He knows that it's a fake.'
For a long, uncomfortable moment Devlin didn't speak. Then, very carefully, he brushed a couple of stray crumbs from his lips. 'I knew he was bound to find out eventually,' he said, 'but I would have preferred to tell him myself.'
So it was true. 'Why, Father?' Tanya looked helplessly into the pale blue eyes.
He avoided her question and countered anxiously with one of his own. 'Was he very angry?' he wanted to know.
Tanya smiled a bitter smile, remembering the fury in Cabrini's face that evening he had burst in on her at home and demanded her immediate presence in Italy. But there was no need for Devlin to know that. She nodded. 'He was angry. But why did you do it, Father? Why did you give him the icon when you knew it was a fake? And why for all these years did you pretend to me that it was valuable?' A dull mix of hurt and confusion quivered in her voice.
Her father looked across at her with an expression of heartfelt regret. 'Tanya, please try to understand. When I gave that icon to Fausto Cabrini, deceiving him was the last thing on my mind. I've just told you I know I owe that man my life. When I invited him to choose some work of art as a kind of surety I never thought for one moment that he'd choose that. And when he did, if you remember, I tried to talk him out of it.'
The blue eyes held the tawny ones, urgently begging to be believed. 'But I couldn't bring myself to tell him then that it was a fake. Not because I wanted to deceive him—but because I desperately didn't want to disappoint you.' He sighed. 'You see, I've always known it was a fake. The original eighteenth-century piece that your Grandpa Boris smuggled out of Russia all those years ago was evidently lost or stolen along the way— and replaced by the late nineteenth-century copy that he gave to Natasha and me on our wedding day. Your mother never knew it was a fake. She loved that little icon—as I do, and you do, too, I know—and I wanted her to go on believing it was the original.' His voice broke as he added quietly, 'I wanted you to go on believing it, too. I'm sorry the truth had to come out this way.'
Tanya clasped her father's bony hand in hers. 'I understand,' she said. 'But, really, you didn't have to pretend to me.'
He shifted his eyes upward to look at her again. 'What time did you say Signor Cabrini was coming?' he asked.
She squeezed his hand. 'Some time before twelve.' She glanced down quickly at her watch. 'It's after eleven-thirty now. He could be here at any time.'
Devlin started to rise determinedly to his feet. 'Let's wait for him in the entrance hall,' he said, taking his daughter's arm. 'I don't want him to think I'm hiding in the shadows like a thief.'
Tanya said nothing as they slowly started to traverse the thickly carpeted corridor that led back to the entrance hall. Her thoughts were a jumble, too complicated even to begin to sort out now. And, though her father's story had touched her—and in her eyes largely exonerated him of guilt—she found herself unable to judge what the reaction of the central figure in this little drama was going to be. And, as she was all too painfully aware, it was his reaction that mattered most.
Her thoughts trailed off abruptly as a tall, dark figure, broad-shouldered in a crisp white linen jacket, light grey trousers and soft white shirt appeared unexpectedly at the end of the corridor, moving in strong, brisk strides towards them. And an unidentifiable emotion hit Tanya at the sight of him: part apprehension, resentment and anxiety—but with an undeniable twist of pleasure mingled in. He looked so inordinately handsome, she thought, and it was the first time she had openly acknowledged that to herself. In sudden confusion, she lowered her eyes.
Devlin was the first to speak, deliberately straightening his spine as he addressed his words to the younger man. 'I owe you a few explanations,' he said. 'Let's find a quiet corner and sit down.'
The little group moved to the far end of the entrance hall where a cluster of armchairs was arranged, and sat down facing one another with an air of polite solemnity. Cabrini leaned back in his chair and nodded to Devlin, an indication that he should begin. Tanya held her breath and prayed. Please let him be feeling merciful today.
He listened without saying a word, the dark eyes averted, his lips set in a firm, straight line. The long-fingered hands were laid lightly along the arms of his chair, one leg balanced casually at the ankle across one muscular, grey-clad thigh. It was not a belligerent pose, Tanya tried to reassure herself, though neither was it a particularly compassionate one. Detached and contemplative seemed to be the best description of his current frame of mind—and she had learned over the past two weeks that, from here, his mood could quite easily swing either way.
And she watched anxiously for that subtle tightening in his lower jaw, the impatient flexing of his strong brown hands or the faintest narrowing of the long-lashed lids that would inevitably presage a storm. But as Devlin came to the end of his tale, Cabrini leaned forward slightly in his seat and ran an open palm across his thick black hair—and Tanya felt the knot of tension in her slacken imperceptibly. There seemed to be some hope that her prayers might be answered after all.
'So you see,' Devlin was anxiously assuring him, 'the only reason I withheld the truth was for my daughter's sake. I had no intention whatsoever of deceiving you. I hope you will forgive a foolish and romantic old man.'
'I see.' Cabrini gazed down at the space between the two men as he spoke. 'Of course, it would have been preferable if you had told me right away. You will understand that it came as something of a shock to discover that the pledge I had been given was a fake. And a most unpleasant shock at that.' The dark eyes lifted to scrutinise the worn face of the older man. 'I am not a man who takes kindly to being deceived.' He sat back in his seat and drew in a long and ominous breath—and Tanya felt her knuckles clench, remembering the unforgiving story he had told about his former secretary. Then he let out his breath on a short, almost impatient sigh. 'In the circumstances, however, I am prepared to overlook this small discourtesy. We shall say no more about it. The matter is closed.'
Relief showed plainly on Devlin's face. 'Of course, I shall arrange for the remaining few paintings that I have to be shipped to you immediately. I hope you will accept them as a replacement token of my pledge.'
'That will not be necessary. I shall keep the icon as we originally agreed—and hope to return it to you in due course.' And his eyes flicked momentarily in Tanya's direction as he added with a meaningful smile, 'I think I already have all the guarantees I need.'
Devlin nodded. 'Believe me, there is nothing in the world I would work harder to redeem. That little icon means more to me than any other possession that I own.'
Fausto Cabrini rose abruptly to his feet. 'We have to go now, I'm afraid.' He nodded to Tanya. 'Ready?'
She embraced her father, sharing his relief, and kissed him warmly on the cheek. 'Take care, Father. I'll try to come back and see you again soon.'
Devlin eased himself from his chair and, in an almost formal gesture, offered Cabrini his hand. 'Thank you,' he said simply Then he added with a paternal smile, 'Please look after her for me.'
A moment later, Tanya and Fausto were heading quickly across the entrance hall, through the door and down the steps to the waiting car. Tanya could scarcely believe that it had all been sorted out so amicably, and she felt a warm surge of gratitude towards the tall, dark figure who pulled open the door of the Lamborghini and stood aside to let her climb inside. In a totally automatic response, she paused for the barest of seconds and threw him a genuinely appreciative smile.
The dark eyes locked with hers. 'Don't think you're wriggling out of anything,' he said. 'Our deal still stands. Besides,' as he climbed in next to her and slammed the door shut, 'you heard what your father said. He wants me to look after you.'
Tanya took instant exception to the amused note in his voice. 'That really won't be necessary,' she snapped. 'I don't need anyone to look after me. Least of all you.'
&
nbsp; But Fausto merely smiled an enigmatic smile as he thrust the key into the ignition and the engine of the big car throbbed to instant life. 'We shall see, Tanya,' he murmured, almost to himself. 'We shall see.'
CHAPTER SIX
'Why did you do it?' Tanya asked.
They had stopped for lunch at a trattoria on the banks of Lake Lugano, just a few kilometres outside the city. The day had grown warm and the tables were thronged with hungry, thirsty holiday-makers taking a break from the round of sailing, sunbathing and sightseeing. At a nod from Fausto, the waiter had found them a quiet corner in the little covered courtyard outside and left them to study the menu. He glanced at her over the top of it now. 'Why did I do what?' he asked, though Tanya could read in the dark eyes that he understood perfectly what she had meant.
'Why were you so lenient with my father? I thought you'd want to teach him a lesson, at least.'
His eyes held hers across the red-checked tablecloth. 'Did I disappoint you, Tanya? I must apologise.'
She grimaced. 'On the contrary. But I am surprised. I didn't think you'd fall for such a sentimental little tale— the doting father who risks his honour to protect the foolish fantasies of his spoilt daughter. The whole romantic story that surrounds the little icon, as a matter of fact. To tell the truth, I wouldn't have been in the least surprised if you'd just laughed the whole thing out of court.' She paused and threw him a subtly challenging smile. 'But I was wrong. Perhaps, after all, you have a heart.'
He leaned back a little in his chair and casually hooked one white-clad arm over its slatted wooden back. 'Has it ever occurred to you, Tanya,' he said, 'that the money I lent your father is little more than a drop in the ocean to me? I won't miss it, even if he never pays me back. And as for the icon—I could buy myself a dozen of the genuine article any day of the week. The fact that the one your father gave me is worthless is a matter of no importance when it comes down to it.'
Tanya couldn't resist a teasing smile. 'You don't have to be so defensive,' she said. 'Why don't you just admit that his sad little story struck some chord with you?'
Fausto tossed aside his menu and turned to snap his fingers at the waiter who came scurrying across. 'We'll order now.' The shrewd, dark eyes in the strong, tanned face were inscrutable as he glanced across at her. 'I suggest the spaghetti carbonara followed by fresh trout. Is that OK with you?'
A deliberate evasion. She nodded. 'That's fine.'
'And bring us a bottle of your best Frascati. That will be all.'
As the waiter moved away, she leaned her elbows on the table and stared intently across at him. 'You haven't answered my question,' she said.
An amused smile played around the corners of his lips. 'Why do I get the impression that you're trying to lay bare my soul again? I thought I'd already made it clear to you that it's a waste of time.'
'Of course. I forgot—no soul, no conscience, and now, you'd like me to believe, no heart. You really are a hard man, aren't you?' Her tone was light-hearted, bantering.
'Maybe.' He paused as a sudden graveness filled his eyes, and he watched her, as though wondering whether she would fully understand what he was going on to say. 'You see, I've seen what too much conscience, soul and heart can do. It can destroy a person. I've watched it happen. It's a frightening thing.'
'You're talking about your mother, aren't you?' She had no idea how she had known that, but she did.
He nodded, glancing down at the tablecloth. 'My mother was a woman who allowed herself to be eaten alive by her own virtues. Or weaknesses, if you prefer to call them that. Married to a different type of man, it might have been different for her. But my father abused her goodness—her devotion, her trust. He simply trampled all over them. And she let him. That was the saddest thing.' He shook his head. 'My mother died a long, long time before they buried her.'
A silence fell, then he raised his eyes at last to look at her again. 'So you see why I decided a long time ago that those were three attributes I'd be better off without?'
She wanted to reach out and touch him, but she did not dare. 'I think you're wrong to think like that,' she said. 'It doesn't always have to be that way.'
'No?' Cynicism tugged at his lip. 'Well, let's just say I have no plans to give history the chance to repeat itself.'
She smiled. 'So you're a man in charge of your own destiny?' An effort to tease him from his sudden gloomy mood. 'That must be very reassuring to know.'
He gave her a long look and some message seemed to pass between the two of them that neither was capable, at that moment, of deciphering. It spoke of understanding, trust. He said, 'I'm not the only one who's been giving secrets away today.'
Tanya looked at him in puzzlement.
'Your sketches for the wash-house. I had a look at them.'
Abruptly Tanya's expression grew serious. She had finished the sketches late last night and slipped them under his office door, uncertain whether he was still there or not. Now she waited to find out what he thought of them with a sudden, anxious tightening in her throat.
He touched the tips of his long, tanned fingers together and regarded her over the apex of his hands. 'As I said, they're very revealing—and very good.'
'Do you really like them?' It was suddenly important to her that he should.
'I like them very much. I think they're excellent.'
Then he smiled. 'No need to blush. There are just a couple of points I'd like to make. Perhaps we can go over them together this evening after dinner.'
Tanya couldn't suppress a grin. 'I was a little bit worried that you might be expecting something more modern.'
'Not at all. You've done them exactly as I wanted them.' His lips pursed thoughtfully as he stared across at the pleased, flushed face with its halo of bright gold curls. And his eyes seemed to linger and admire the smooth skin of her neck and shoulders, lightly tanned against the soft white of her dress. 'You're really full of surprises, aren't you?' he added unexpectedly.
It was probably just as well that the waiter chose that moment to arrive with their two plates of spaghetti and bottle of chilled wine. The compliment, so simply and spontaneously spoken, had taken Tanya by surprise. And she sensed that Fausto slightly regretted it. He glanced down quickly at his watch as the waiter moved away again. 'I forgot to mention it,' he said, 'but we have an appointment in Novara at three o'clock.'
They were on the road again in just over an hour, heading back to the Italian border. Tanya was feeling thoroughly pleased with the way the day had gone so far. The messy little business about the icon had been neatly resolved and her father's honour salvaged, if not totally restored. And, equally pleasing, her designs for the wash-house had been approved—and not just approved, praised pretty lavishly! She had every reason to feel satisfied.
Yet, underlying the sense of well-being that the day's progress had brought to her was an unmistakable undercurrent of uneasiness. It had started, she sensed, at that moment when Fausto had so unexpectedly materialised at the end of the clinic corridor—and had peaked with their strangely intimate conversation over lunch. It was an odd sort of uneasiness, bordering on excitement, as though the powerful and disturbing feelings that his presence seemed automatically to arouse in her had somehow grown to be almost pleasurable. And that was alarming in itself. Hadn't she already warned herself that she must be totally immune to him? She would simply have to try a little harder, that was all.
When they reached the old town of Novara, nestling amid the rocky green hills of Piedmont, some fifty kilometres west of Milan, it was just before three. The big white car drew to a silent halt outside one of the fine old palazzos in the quiet, siesta-stilled city centre, and Fausto leaned across her to open the passenger door. 'This is where my client lives,' he informed her. 'Our business shouldn't take too long.'
Involuntarily, Tanya stiffened as his arm brushed momentarily against her breast, and she felt herself flush at the faint smile her reaction brought to his lips. Then she took a deep breath to
compose herself as she stepped out quickly on to the cobbled street, walked behind Fausto to the huge, carved wooden door and waited as he rang the bell. A woman's voice answered almost immediately on the entry-phone. Briefly Fausto announced himself and a second later the door buzzed open to let them in.
The interior of the building seemed cool and dark after the bright sunshine. A lift bore them swiftly and silently to the third floor, then the doors swished open to release them again.
'Fausto caro!' A blonde-haired woman in skin-fitting leather trousers and a brightly coloured loose silk shirt was waiting for them. Tanya gaped in stunned silence as she threw herself into Fausto's arms. She had recognised her instantly, of course. It was the countess; the woman she had seen that evening in the restaurant.
Tanya watched with a thinly tolerant smile as kisses were exchanged, and noted that the woman seemed reluctant to let Fausto go. But she slid away from him at last and turned to her second guest with what, had it not been for the glint of cold steel in her eyes, would have passed for a ravishingly dazzling smile. 'And who is this delightful young person you've brought along with you?' One red-tipped hand was still clasped firmly round Fausto's arm as she spoke.
Tanya glared into the brightly made-up, dark green eyes. The woman had recognised her too, of course, but had evidently decided to feign otherwise. Silly woman, she decided. What was she worried about?
As Fausto made the introductions Tanya sensed that he was perfectly aware of the raw hostility that suddenly sizzled in the air, and perhaps even enjoying it. 'I'd like you to meet my new assistant, Miss Tanya Sinclair. Tanya, my dear friend the Contessa Beatrice Alberto Lombardi Riccangeli. Or Bea for short.'
The countess laughed delightedly, parting perfectly painted, bright red lips to reveal a set of small, white, even teeth. 'Definitely Bea for short. Who could possibly remember that enormous mouthful of silly names?' Her English was perfect. With a clank of gold chains, she offered her free hand for Tanya to shake.
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