“Welcome to Villa Giolitti, Signora Pennington.” She took my hand.
T W E N T Y - S I X
“Your father was giving me a quick tour,” I said. “I’ve never seen a private collection like this.”
She nodded and turned to look down the arcade of doorways, each one topped by a coat of arms or crossed standards. “It’s a big job. Between the paintings and the villa itself, the work is never-ending.” Her words were heavily accented. “We are blessed to have such an important responsibility.”
“I wish I could spend the entire evening looking at it.” I turned to Giancarlo. “Forgive me, that wasn’t very polite, was it? I’m looking forward to whatever the evening holds”
Giancarlo smiled. “Believe me, I agree with you completely. Let’s take a moment and have a drink before we go back to the insanity.” He pressed a small, old-fashioned button on the paneled wall and a manservant, wearing a starched white Jacket emblazoned with the Giolitti crest, appeared out of nowhere. Giancarlo gave him a cocktail order.
We were in a library, no doubt one of many in the villa, and all the books in this room were oversized, some were two or three feet long, and bound in red linen—some were faded, others were crimson.
Giancarlo indicated a cluster of high-backed armchairs that circled a cocktail table heaped with more of the red-bound volumes. I couldn’t help but notice that the fabric on the chairs, while not exactly threadbare, was worn and slightly frayed around the edges.
“That’s a magnificent emerald,” I said to Lucia once we were seated. “It looks just like the one that was stolen in Paris, doesn’t it, Giancarlo?” I smiled at him. “That’s where your father and I met—in that funny little museum.”
Lucia smiled and laughed. Her hand clasped the stone protectively. “It’s not stolen, though. It’s mine. It was a gift.”
“It’s lovely. Large stones have always been my favorite sort of gift.” Our eyes connected. “I’d hold on to whoever gave it to you.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. Lucia nodded—her expression betrayed no emotion. She glanced at her father who seemed to force a smile in return. As a first impression, there appeared to be little warmth between father and daughter. But perhaps it was just their way, a natural reticence in front of strangers.
Or perhaps her father had stolen it and given it to her as a peace offering for some real or imagined wrong.
“What are the books in this room?” I asked.
“These are all journals and workbooks that contain the history of the villa,” Lucia explained. She sat forward, on the edge of her chair, and crossed her long legs. Her posture was divine. “Not the family history, but the history of the building and grounds. These are all notebooks, so the history is continual from the time the villa was built.” She turned one of the large books in my direction—its cover had faded to soft tangerine—and hefted it open. “Let me see. Ah, this volume shows how the kitchen garden developed during the 1600s. You see how the wall was replaced over and over again.” She turned the ancient pages of drawings, some professional, some hastily sketched. “They understood about drainage at that time, but not so much about how to prevent erosion. As you can see, by the end of the century, the problem was solved by digging down and building the stone wall deep into the ground with proper drains. Sections of this wall are still standing, doing their job. Several of the notebooks we use today are the originals, such as this one about the master bedroom. Each room has its own book. Isn’t it wonderful? This one’s my sitting room.”
She opened the journal and flipped through a few pages showing the progression of a large comer room with sets of doors on two walls and a fireplace whose mantel had evolved through a dozen iterations from plain limestone to rococo to today’s white marble.
Speaking of the villa transformed Lucia’s face, replacing the hard planes with energy and light.
“It’s fabulous,” I said.
“Perhaps you’d like to come for a tour tomorrow?” she asked.
“I’d love to.”
“Would you join us for lunch?” Her face brightened further.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Wonderful. Come at one.”
A dinner chime rang far in the distance.
“Ladies,” Giancarlo said. “Shall we?”
I felt more comfortable in the Giolittis’ presence than I had in—how many days had it been since this odyssey began? Two weeks? Was that possible? Giancarlo was relaxed and outgoing. And Lucia’s reserved demeanor made me sympathetic toward her. I felt a connection, as I would to a daughter.
“I will apologize in advance, Priscilla.” Giancarlo had put my arm through his and turned slightly to talk to me. His breath smelled of scotch and peppermint. “I had nothing to do with the meal this evening. The organizers brought in a famous chef from France, if you can imagine, a French chef at Villa Giolitti—I’m so glad my mother never lived to see such a thing! And he selected the wines. So I can make no promises about what will be on your plate. Or in your glass. Tonight, I am a guest in my own house—at the mercy of Melissa Carrington.”
“Melissa Carrington?”
“She’s director of public relations for the International Refugee Foundation and in charge of the whole affair-tonight and the gala. Very talented but a dragon. She reminds me of a schoolteacher—very stubborn and cold.”
“She is not cold, Father,” Lucia said. “She is professional.” She turned to me. “My father still struggles with women in the working world. He’s just too Italian.”
’The evening will be fabulous.” I chose to change subjects. “Besides, no one comes to these parties for the food. It’s the company and conversation and this is definitely a group that won’t run out of things to talk about.”
Just before we entered the grand foyer, we passed a closed door outside of which stood an armed guard. He and Giancarlo nodded to each other.
“What’s in there?” I whispered to Giancarlo.
“Oh. All the shops that are providing jewelry for the ladies to wear to the festivities want to keep it in one place. So the ladies put it on in there when they arrive and then return it before they go home to their hotels or yachts. It’s a new security measure.”
“Good idea,” I said.
He nodded, bored with the subject. “I suppose.”
“Is the Millennium Star here?”
He shook his head. ”Domani.”
“Ah.” Tomorrow.
At the door of the dining room we were greeted by a handsome, blond woman in a chic black Chanel suit, exactly the sort of suit I used to wear to work every day at the auction house. ”Buona sera, Count Giolitti,” she said over her reading glasses. ”Principessa, you look so beautiful.”
“Grazie.”
The woman escorted us into the dining room, which was reminiscent of St. George’s banquet hall at Windsor Castle that can seat more than two hundred people at one table. There were only eighty guests at this particular dinner but even so, you seldom see a single table set for eighty. It was breathtaking. The room’s glazed walls glowed with rich, dense, light. Baroque, Sterling silver, six-candle candelabras were placed the length of the table—it looked as though there were more than a dozen of them—and between each one was a long, low arrangement of orange-red roses. Candlelight from the tapers and dozens of votives scattered around the table flickered off a battery of crystal wineglasses and off the beveled mirror place mats. In the center of each place mat, folded into a cone shape, sat a starched white linen napkin, monogrammed with the Giolitti coat of arms. Each piece of Baroque sterling flatware bore the monogram, as well.
The guests had paid dearly for an inside look at a royal dinner, and they were getting their money’s worth. Every person who entered the dining room, even the most jaded, even those who’d attended the dinner in previous years, made an exclamation of some sort. The impact of the beauty was in its simplicity—nothing was overdone. There weren’t ribbons wrapped through the flowers, or gold
fish swimming in the flower vases, or baskets of favors from the underwriters, or gold lamé draped over the chairs. The beauty was in the fact that every candelabra, place setting, wineglass, piece of linen, and the table and chairs were family-owned, well-used by generations of Giolittis, and classic in their style, shape, and presentation.
“Melissa Carrington,” Giancarlo muttered to me as we followed the woman up the length of the table to the end closest to the unlit fireplace, above which hung a Renaissance-era painting of a bacchanal.
“Here you are.” She smiled easily “At the head of the table, of course. Signora Pennington, we put you two down because the count needs to have Marjorie on one side and the chair of our board on the other. I hope you understand.”
“Of course, I do. This is perfect.”
“Count, please let me know if you need anything at all.”
“Grazie,” Giancarlo said.
“I think she’s very nice,” I said once she was out of earshot. Giancarlo shrugged. “I like women who are women. She is a machine.”
While the rest of the dinner patrons wandered in, I wondered how much Giancarlo charged the Gala di Portofino organizers to use his villa. Tons, I imagined. It must cost a fortune to keep this place going.
T W E N T Y - S E V E N
I was seated between two tycoons who, once they had introduced themselves to me—Where are you from? Outside of London. Oh—spent the entire dinner talking to each other around me, this was fine. That was the way the evening was meant to work. This dinner was about power and access and in that world, a widow from Buckinghamshire just didn’t cut it.
I suddenly felt incredibly homesick for my beautiful farm, my beautiful life, and what I had thought was my beautiful, wonderful husband. I ached with missing him—I just wanted to put my head down on the table and sob my heart out. I wondered if he was sitting on a terrace overlooking the same Mediterranean, just miles around the same coastline, sipping a Scotch and missing me, wondering if I was all right. Or was he simply figuring out the best way to trap me and bring me to justice? Sometimes the whole affair—the happiness, the marriage, the desertion—felt surreal, especially on an evening such as this when the bay danced with lights from the yachts, and the hillsides sparkled with villas and their dinner parties, and brightly lit cruise ships traversed the horizon as though out of a dream. I envied the people on those ships, probably as much as they envied those of us on shore. It was an evening for lovers.
The imported French chef’s dinner menu was designed to catch attention, and it did, more for its bizarre riskiness than for its palatability. It got people talking. The first course was lightly seared foie gras chaud, perfectly prepared and served on a bed of watercress. Liver in any of its incarnations is not especially one of my favorites, although I ate it, washing it down with several healthy sips of a gorgeous 1986 La Tâche. Next came a broth that looked suspiciously as though it had something’s little tiny heart floating in it. Not only was this fellow knocking himself out to get talked about—he’d gone overboard. The main course was sweetbreads three ways—grilled, fricasseed, and baked. Thank God for whoever had selected the wines.
I kept a pleasant expression on my face, in case the conversation between the two men lagged and a lighter touch was required, which it was from time to time. Even a country farm widow can come in handy to help ease those conversational transitions that, without the proper segue, can become unspannable crevasses. Otherwise, I occupied myself by thinking about the two giant cabochon emeralds here this evening—one on Sissy McNally and one on Lucia. What if one of them actually was l’Empresse? I had to assume one of them was—there weren’t that many 255-carat cabochon emeralds around.
I looked down at Sissy. She was the flash point for her section of the table, among good friends, telling Texas tall tales, keeping things bubbling along. Unless she had a completely opposite side to her personality, I couldn’t picture her breaking into anything. She lived her life in a fishbowl—she wouldn’t risk it by stealing jewelry, even on a lark. And if she suffered from kleptomania, it would have been on the front pages of the tabloids ages ago.
Marjorie was seated between Giancarlo and the chairman of the board of a Japanese car manufacturer, one of the evening’s main underwriters. She was earning her dinner—she never took her attention off the industrialist who smiled at her as though he were hypnotized.
On Giancarlo’s other side was the chairwoman of the International Refugee Foundation, a powerful, wealthy woman in her sixties who made no pretense at youthfulness. Her hair was gray, her face had not been tampered with since the day she was born, and she was unfazed by the few extra pounds around her midriff and hips. She was one of the most persuasive, effective fundraisers in the world because she was one of the most generous people in the world—she put her money where her mouth was and gave away millions every year. She was unquestionably the most respected philanthropist in the room.
Lucia was at the opposite end of the table and from a distance seemed to be enjoying herself.
Between sips of the Château Margaux, I worked up scenarios of my plan to steal the biggest perfect diamond in the world. There weren’t very many of us who could do that. Would my nemesis make a move tonight just for the fun of it? There were some very precious stones here. For someone like me, it would be easy to take a necklace or bracelet or two and have them vanish into my deep pockets before the targets were even aware they were missing, even with all the security. No. Nothing would happen here this evening. Other than the emeralds, I hadn’t seen anything that could qualify as a trophy. The burglar had his eye on one thing and one thing only. I knew he was here at this table—I could feel it.
Unless it was Alesandro, of course.
A trio began to play on the terrace.
I looked in Giancarlo’s direction at the same time he looked in mine. Our eyes connected and he gave me a wonderful, intimate smile. ’Do you want to dance?’ he asked silently.
I nodded.
“These affairs are hell,” he said. He was a superb dancer, much better than Thomas. “It will be over soon.”
We glided around in the moonlight without speaking. “Bella,” he said shortly. “I know this is a late invitation, but would you consider letting me escort you to the gala? You would be doing me a great favor.”
I didn’t take a deep breath, but I wanted to. The camel was in the tent. I opened my mouth to reply, but he kept talking.
“I’m embarrassed to invite you in this way, but the truth of the matter is Consuelo’s family is still in a mess and I need someone who can be my hostess. I can’t ask any of these starlets or girls, I need someone with some maturity and elegance who won’t spend the entire evening trying to get a famous director to put her in his next film. I can’t think of anything more delightful than spending another evening with you. And I promise, we’ll sit together at dinner.”
I laughed. “I’d love to, Giancarlo.”
“Bene. Bene. Grazie, Bella.”
Then he kissed me. And it absolutely took my breath away. My mind and body exploded into conflict—I was instantly flooded with desire and at the same time afraid of where that could lead, and would lead, if I let it. One part of me was saying, childishly, “See, Thomas, someone wants me.” While another part reminded me that I did, indeed, want to be kissed, but by Thomas, not a stranger. I felt exhilarated and ashamed. I looked into Giancarlo’s eyes as he began to kiss me again and pushed him away.
“I’m sorry, Giancarlo,” I said. “It’s too soon. I just lost my husband. I’m not ready, even for kisses. I hope you understand.”
He nodded. “Of course, I do. Come, let’s tell our guests good night.”
T W E N T Y - E I G H T
It was early, not even eleven, when I got back to the hotel. Some people, true café society types, were just going into dinner. The bar was quiet. There were a few couples on the terrace sipping Prosecco or liqueurs. One table in particular caught my eye.
Alesandro.
With a woman approximately my age. Beautifully groomed and dressed, and wearing what I considered to be major-league jewelry. Maybe that was my problem in attracting him: In spite of all my tennis diamonds, I wasn’t showy enough. I had too much taste.
This particular woman had on a diamond necklace, ruby cuffs, ten-carat-plus stones on four of her fingers, and a cross shaped ruby and diamond brooch that looked like it came off the top of one of the English royal family’s ceremonial crowns.
She had a kind, soft, sad face that could not conceal her vulnerability. She was a sitting duck. She didn’t deserve to get robbed. What should I do?
I went upstairs and got Bijou and took her for a quick walk and then she and I went into the bar and were seated at a table near Alesandro’s. Bijou jumped up onto the chair next to mine and sat down.
There’s nothing like a dog to break the ice. Especially a precious little white fluffy one like mine.
“Oh,” Alesandro’s lady friend said. “Look at your darling Westie.” She got up and came toward me. Her eyes filled with tears. “May I?” She reached for Bijou. The rubies sparkled from her wrists. “She looks just like my baby. My Sugar. I had to leave her at home and I’m miserable without her.” She sat down and kissed Bijou and buried her face in her fur and began to cry
“I’m so sorry,” I said. I kept my eyes away from Alesandro. I knew there’d be a look of total bewilderment on his face and I didn’t want to let him see I knew I’d rescued a victim from his clutches.
The woman sat up and took a hankie out of her purse and dabbed at her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’m just so homesick. Isn’t it silly?”
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