Loving Venus (Sally-Ann Jones Sexy Romance)

by Sally-Ann Jones

  And the pair of them had sat with great-grandpapa Alessandro on the lawn under the fig tree, as he told them of his youth, of the wars which had ravaged his beloved country, of his heartbreak when his daughter Elisabetta took herself off to a distant land and married a farmer. The old man’s eyes twinkled as the second-cousins sat at his feet, Annabella’s head in Alessandro’s lap as the young man idly played with her riotous hair.

  “When little Bella is your age, my boy, she will be…” He put his gnarled fingers to his lips and kissed them, in a gesture which even the girl understood. “She will be irresistible, no?”

  “Yes!” Alessandro agreed, his white teeth flashing as he grinned up at their great-grandfather.

  Well, Annabella thought bitterly, her handsome relative had certainly changed his mind on that subject.

  She didn’t want the place, but it was her duty to do what the old man had desired and do her best to look after it. She’d loved him and she wanted to make him proud of her, sure he would be watching from wherever very good people go when they die. She could understand Alessandro’s disappointment, but she wanted to share the estate with him, to shoulder the burden of it together and reap the rewards, if there were to be any.

  She felt a soft hand on her shoulder and her heart sang. Alessandro had forgiven her!

  She lifted her face from where it had been buried in the grass, but it was not his eyes hers met, but the dark, concerned ones of the woman she’d noticed working in the kitchen as she walked through the garden after getting out of the taxi.

  “Cara,” the woman said, using the Italian word for “darling”. “You mustn’t cry any more. Your salty tears will kill the grass, no?”

  Annabella smiled.

  “Come, I’ve prepared a delicious lunch for you under the fig tree. You will try to eat, for Tonia? You remember me? I was here, when you came to see the old man with your mama and papa. Thirteen years have passed since then, eh? And now, at last, you are home.”

  “I do remember you, Tonia,” Annabella smiled, recognition flashing in her eyes. “Though I must admit, I didn’t at first. But I recall that my great-grandpapa was fond of you. He said nobody could cook like Tonia. That God held your hand while you kneaded the pasta dough.”

  Tonia’s black eyes sparkled at the mention of the old man. She dried Annabella’s tear-and-dirt-stained face with a corner of her spotless white, starched apron and the newcomer couldn’t help but be cheered by her ministrations.

  Tonia was about seventy, Annabella guessed, with the serene beauty of a person whose life has been filled with love. Her blue-black hair was streaked with silver and around her fine, long-lashed eyes were fans of wrinkles. But age hadn’t dimmed her loveliness.

  “Come, then, come and eat. You need your strength,” Tonia urged.

  Annabella allowed herself to be led to a cushion-filled cane chair under the sunshine-scented tree. The long table, which could easily have sat a dozen people, was laid with a snowy cloth and a single place-setting had been prepared. There was a bottle of chianti, a bowl of spaghetti with simple tomato sugo and grated pecorino, cheese, another bowl of rocket drizzled with olive oil, a loaf of ciabatta bread and a platter of figs, grapes, peaches and pears.

  “I wish I had someone to eat this with,” Annabella said wistfully. “It looks so delicious and it’s a shame to enjoy it alone. Won’t you have some, too, Tonia?”

  The older woman, who hadn’t yet eaten her midday meal, took pity on the young Australian heiress. Nobody in Italy should have to dine without the seasoning of conversation and laughter.

  “Si,” she assented, “I will eat with you, cara.”

  Annabella poured two glasses of wine and the women laughed delightedly as their glasses clinked together with a resounding clang. Annabella pushed the bowl of spaghetti closer to Tonia, handed her the fork and took the spoon for herself. In this way, both dipping into the spaghetti, they emptied the bowl then proceeded to demolish the rest of the feast.

  “Aaah!” sighed Annabella, leaning back in her chair and grinning contentedly. “That was the best meal I have eaten since I was last here.”

  “Your mama is a good cook, surely?” Tonia asked worriedly. She didn’t like to think of sweet Annabella having had to put up with bad cooking most of her life.

  The younger woman giggled. “Si, my mama can cook, but everything always tastes better here, at Casa dei Fiori. The tomatoes have the flavour of sunshine and the basil is sweeter.”

  “Of course,” Tonia agreed, nodding gravely.

  “Tonia,” Annabella said, suddenly becoming serious. “May I ask you something?”

  “It is about Alessandro, no?”

  “Si. Why does he hate me?”

  “He doesn’t hate you, Bella. Far from it, although he will not admit it, even to himself. He’s very upset with your great-grandfather. The old man was very ill at the end. His mind wandered. He said strange things. At the last moment, as he lay on his deathbed, he ordered Alessandro to run and get the will. And, before the priest and his great-grandson, he changed it. Everything was to belong to your second cousin but, just two minutes before he took his final breath, the old man gave it to you, Annabella. Naturally, Alessandro was shocked. And then angry. And, three weeks later, he is still angry. He’s very sad too because he adored that old man and it was hard for him to watch him slowly, slowly fade away. But, don’t you worry, I believe your great-grandfather knew exactly what he was doing and I know that, in the end, your second-cousin will be glad of what he did.”

  “I wish I could be so sure, Tonia. I remember Casa dei Fiori as it was when I came here as a child with my parents. It was better cared-for, almost prosperous-looking. Now it’s a crumbling old ruin. How am I going to repair it? Where will I find the money? Even the crops of sunflowers look as if they need a good dose of fertiliser. The soil itself is hungry.”

  At that moment, both women caught sight of Alessandro struggling towards the cottage at the bottom of the hill, a massive cardboard carton under one arm, a guitar, easel and bundle of paintbrushes under the other. One of the huge white Maremma sheepdogs, native to Tuscany, which Annabella remembered lived at the stables, came bounding over to greet him, leaping up at his chest. The load he was carrying wobbled precariously then scattered across the grass in a jumble.

  He was already on his knees, retrieving books and socks, when she reached him and she darted about, whisking up papers, letters, bills, receipts, magazines and newspapers before they were flung skywards by the wind.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he snapped, as their hands accidentally brushed when they were throwing everything haphazardly back in the box.

  “Would you rather lose everything?” she bit back.

  “I already have,” he said, his brown eyes holding her green ones.

  She looked away, confused. What had the old man been playing at, when he willed the property to her? Had he had any idea of the pain his decision would have caused Alessandro?

  From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed another piece of paper spiralling towards the clouds and leapt up to catch it. When it was safely in her hand, she looked at it. It was a photograph of herself and her second cousin, aged twelve and seventeen. They had their arms around each other and were smiling into each other’s eyes, oblivious of the camera. She wore a crown of daisies in her hair and she remembered Alessandro had made the garland just a few minutes before their great-grandfather had asked Tonia to fetch his camera for him.

  They were completely, perfectly happy that day, wanting nobody else’s company, two people revelling in an unexpected friendship. Until they met, neither had expected to much like the other, with five whole years separating them. But they’d been pleasantly surprised and Alessandro had purposely re-organised his busy social calendar so he could spend as much time as possible with his little second cousin.

  Just before the photograph was shot, they’d taken a picnic and explored the woods with the dogs, Alessandro telling her the name
s of the trees and the flowers in Italian. Used only to the silvery-grey Australian bush with its shy wildflowers, the imaginative child believed she’d entered a fairytale world, with her second cousin that handsomest prince who ever existed. Hand in hand, they wandered through whispering pine groves along tracks that wound between yellow swathes of narcissi, splashes of paintbox-bright anemones and carpets of carmine-coloured tulips. From the highest point in these pine and ilex woods they had looked down on the village, Fortezza Rosa, whose name meant Pink Fort. A thousand years ago there had indeed been a castle there, but now it was simply a pile of rosy-coloured stone where wildflowers flourished. Then the pair walked back to the villa for a swim and, afterwards, Alessandro had made her the crown and the old man had been so enchanted, he recorded the day forever.

  “Do you remember this, Al?” she asked, handing him the photograph.

  “No,” he said coldly, slamming it face-down into the box without a glance.

  Annabella swallowed hard to keep the tears from spilling and continued to salvage his belongings. “Unless you want to risk dropping all this again, you’ll let me help you carry your stuff to the cottage,” she said.

  He didn’t protest and they walked the short distance in silence, even the dog crestfallen.

  Alessandro, having no free hands, used a foot to shove open the back door of his new residence, a tiny stone house on the boundary of the estate. The dusty road that led to the village ran past its front door and the hill leading up to the villa could be seen from the back door. There was no magnificent view from this humble abode.

  Annabella plonked her load on a not particularly clean pine table in the cramped kitchen, where saucepans, plates, forks and spoons competed for space. Everything seemed grimy and uncared-for and she hated to think of her second cousin choosing to live in such squalor because of her.

  “Al,” she begged, “Won’t you reconsider this? It’s crazy, you coming to live here when we could enjoy the villa together. It what our great-grandfather wanted…”

  “Don’t presume to know him better than I did,” he said, his voice harsh. “He didn’t know what he wanted at the end. He was crazy. This whole thing is madness, you being here. You don’t belong, Annabella. You never will. And the sooner you realise it, the better for us both.”

  “Al!” Her voice startled them both. Something inside her seemed to well up and, like a volcano, to burst to the surface. “I do belong here. I’m as much a part of Casa dei Fiori as you are. We loved each other when we were kids and I know we still do. That sort of love never dies, but it changes, it grows up, just as we have. And when I was in your arms up there on the terrace, I felt how much you love me. It was the love a man has for a woman. I’ve never been with a man before, Alessandro. But I know what I felt. And you’re a liar if you deny it.”

  “Alessandro! Chi e?” The sultry strains of another female voice sullied the atmosphere like a smear of oil on a marble surface. “Who’s this?” she demanded again, this time in English as she strode towards Alessandro on her high stilettos.

  “Claudia. What are you doing here?” Alessandro asked, barely hiding his impatience.

  “I heard that the heiress had arrived so I wanted to be the first to welcome you to your new home, Alessandro, our old love nest,” she purred, giving Annabella a cat-like stare while sidling up to Alessandro and sliding her red-taloned hands up his chest and across his back, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight over his magnificent chest and shoulders.

  Annabella felt a frisson of desire deep inside her belly and knew the pale skin of her face and neck was betraying her by turning a rosy pink. She couldn’t bear to watch this stranger touch her relative with such proprietary familiarity and turned away. But, if anything, what met her eyes next was even worse. She saw, through the open doorway that led from the kitchen into the rest of the cottage, a tousled double bed, silk stockings hanging over the wooden end of it, articles of male and female clothing scattered over the tiled floor. It was obvious this woman and her second cousin had been here before.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us, mio caro?” Claudia simpered to Alessandro, looking Annabella up and down with obvious distaste. Claudia couldn’t have been clad more differently from Annabella. She was in a leopard-print, figure-hugging mini-dress, her tiny, tanned feet encased in shoes that seemed composed of clear plastic strips. Her long black hair bounced on her shoulders in lacquer-stiffened curls. Her lips, painted blood red, were so shiny it seemed as if they were still damp from her latest kill. Her eyelashes were so long, stiff and black they could have been composed of spiders’ legs.

  Her eyes were slightly too close together above a nose that was slightly too big while her chin was slightly too recessive. But for a micro millimeter here and there, she would have been perfect, Annabella judged, proudly drawing herself up to her full height and meeting the challenge in her competitor’s eyes. For there was absolutely no doubt in her mind that Claudia was her competitor, despite the massive rings that glinted malevolently on the fourth finger of her left hand.

  “Claudia, may I present my second cousin, Annabella Smith. Annabella, I would like you to meet Claudia Silvestro. She is an artist who lives in Villa Claudia, next door to me … or rather, you,” Alessandro said, his eyes darkening.

  Alessandro was sure that in other circumstances he would have enjoyed the almost electric animosity between the two women, one of whom was draped across him as if she couldn’t stand unaided while the other stood with boots astride as if she were staring at her opponent on a battle field.

  “Buongiorno, Signorina,” Claudia said, her voice like rancid butter.

  “Buongiorno, Signora,” Annabella replied, equally coldly polite.

  “You must be so delighted to own Casa dei Fiori,” Claudia commented. “And your parents too, must be thrilled at your good fortune. How do you think you will like it here, an Australian in a strange country? I hope you will not be too homesick for the kangaroos and snakes.”

  “I believe there are plenty of snakes in Tuscany, Signora,” Annabella said pointedly, glaring at Claudia.

  Despite her many imperfections, Annabella was thinking, the damn woman was beautiful. She had an amazing tan against which her collection of gold and diamond jewellery gleamed luxuriously. And her figure, probably due to an expensive personal trainer, had been honed to firm muscularity.

  Annabella sucked in the belly that, thanks to Tonia’s delicious lunch, was pushing uncomfortably against the hip-band of her Levis. She knew she had round thighs and a plump bottom, but, until this second, she hadn’t particularly cared. She loved her daily three meals plus morning and afternoon snacks and she hadn’t been prepared to give them up, not for any man. She grimaced. How would she diet here, of all places, where the food tasted like nectar from heaven? She would have to enlist Tonia’s help. She knew for a fact that Tonia was on her side.

  “You must have a thousand things to do, Signorina. Please, don’t let us keep you,” Claudia said, her hand inching closer and closer to Alessandro’s belt.

  “Oh no, I have nothing planned,” Annabella retorted, clenching her own hands so hard the nails dug into the palms.

  “But your clothes. You must tell Tonia where to hang them. And surely you will take a siesta.” She paused to yawn decoratively. “I know it is not an Australian custom, but we certainly rest here in the middle of the day, when it becomes so unbearably hot that bed seems the only option.”

  She said the word “bed” so suggestively it almost sounded obscene, Annabella thought.

  “Oh I have no clothes to see to except another pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts,” Annabella admitted breezily and truthfully.

  “But you must dress as befits your position as the heiress of Casa dei Fiori,” Claudia objected. “You can’t let people think that the family’s standards are slipping.”

  “I intend to work in the fields, Signora, to get this old place profitable again. I won’t be needing anything but what you s
ee me in now, at least for the time being.”

  Alessandro smiled despite himself. He felt a grudging admiration for his second cousin. Not everyone had the guts to stand up to Claudia Silvestro. She had few friends and many enemies. He liked her, of course. They were neighbours, after all. They shared an interest in art and it had always been pleasant to dine with her then fall lazily into bed and wile away the hours. This cottage had witnessed their many hours together, as had her own bedroom in her luxurious home. Her husband, a fabulously wealthy businessman many years older than his wife, lived permanently in Rome, rarely deigning to visit the countryside. Alessandro knew only too well that he and his neighbour had never been in love with each other, but that fact had never got in the way of their enjoyment of each other’s company. Their friendship kept loneliness at bay, anyway.

  “I’ll take myself off for a ride,” Annabella said, realizing she couldn’t stay here in the dirty kitchen forever merely to prevent her second cousin going to bed with Claudia.

  “A ride? What a country girl you are!” Claudia snickered. “I wouldn’t know one end of a horse from the other.”

  “I haven’t ridden for years,” Alessandro commented wistfully. He’d been too consumed with financial worries to even think about it. Yet he still donned his favourite old jodhpurs most days, perhaps subconsciously ever-hopeful of a change of fortune.

  “Why don’t you come, then?” Annabella suggested, her green eyes afire with the challenge.

  “Why not?” he agreed, surprising himself more than anyone. “Claudia, I’ll catch up with you tonight.”

  Leaving Claudia to stare open-mouthed after them, they walked to the stables, the dog bounding along beside them.