"You think I'm joking?" Her cross voice was muffled, face down as she was. He felt a surge of angry irritation flame through him. Then he realized she had, in fact, crawled out of the wreck through the ditch after a terrible trauma. Not so passive. In fact he felt a flash of admiration that she was still standing.
He stepped tentatively down the side of the ditch, careful to stand on the solid banks to avoid sinking into the mud. He shrugged off his leather jacket and, wincing, draped it over her shivering shoulders. Hooking one arm under hers and wrapping it around her ribs, he hauled up. She hardly budged.
Stronzo! He slipped further down the slope with a splash, and icy cold swamp water trickled into his boot. He jerked his leg forward, straddling the ditch in a wider stance, bracing himself like an iron bridge.
"Okay, I'm going to grab you from behind and pull." He did just that as he took hold of her torso, his arms nestling around her ribcage. She was both firm and soft, lean around the middle, and quite tall, he realized, once she was pressed up against him. His body responded to the sensation, though his mind reminded him that he couldn't even see her under the covering of mud, in the gathering dusk. Focus!
He tugged against the resistance of her planted feet. And heaved. And hauled, applying steady pressure. He grunted with the effort. Little by little he released her from the grasping mud, until her bare muddy feet flew up and out, and they both tumbled against the side of the embankment, crushing the reeds. "Ungh!" She drove the air from his lungs as she landed on top of his chest. Cold water filled his boots. Cazzo!
"My shoes!" she cried, though her feet were bare.
Chapter 3
Despite her protests, the biker would not leave her, and he wouldn't agree to wait for the emergency vehicle to arrive. Neither would he lend her his cell phone. He seemed tense and jumpy, as though he couldn't stand still for a moment. He was convinced they might not come at all so late on a Saturday night in this remote area, since there were no major injuries.
"Come. Let's get going."
She hesitated. Clio was so very, very cold. Rigid with her shivering.
She needed to get home to Florence for her meeting. And also to download her photos and write up her thoughts about the little statue at the Monastery before the impressions faded. Time was short.
"What time is it? I have an appointment in Firenze."
He ignored her, moving toward his bike. "We must get you clean and warm first."
"But I need…" She looked down. Of course she would have to get cleaned up first.
He rummaged in his pannier and handed her a t-shirt, and she considered changing into it, even in front of a stranger. Instead she used it to wipe her hands and face, and mop her sopping head. He handed her his helmet.
"Wait!" Reality slammed her hard as she remembered her precious things. "I can't leave my car!"
"It will be towed to Montecchiello tomorrow. They will contact me and you can sort it out later."
"But I…"
"There is no point in staying here. You can get cleaned up and I will drive you there, or back to Florence if you prefer."
Oh, thank goodness. Hopefully she would get back in time for her appointment. "But my research..."
"Research?"
"I can't leave my research things. My laptop. Camera. Sketchbook. They're in the trunk. I need them, and I'm not leaving without them. My future literally depends on them."
"Hah. Bene." He went to his bike, opened another compartment and pulled out a tool. A small crowbar of some kind, and marched back into the ditch, straddling it once more, and poised the tool above the inverted trunk hatch. His bike leathers stretching across his very handsome lean legs and taut backside distracted her, until he lifted the tool to her trunk.
"What are you doing? You'll break it!"
He looked at her in such a way that clearly spoke of her poor Fiat's fate. Her heart sank. Her beautiful little car. Ruined. Finished. "Signorina. Relax. All I am doing is tickling her fanny a little." His white teeth flashed in the weak moonlight. "She will open for me in just a moment."
As if to prove him right, one jerk and the hatch popped and swung open like a flower blooming.
"They can't get wet!" she cautioned, lunging forward, hands outstretched.
He deftly caught her bags as they tumbled out.
Once they had stowed her belongings in his saddlebag, he mounted his bike. "Hurry, Signorina…"
"Clio. Clio Sinclair McBeal."
"Clio. I'm Guillermo. Hop on and hold tight." He held his helmet out toward her. A deep rumble ripped the quiet night air as he started it up, and the warm, fuel-tinged air reached her nostrils.
"I...oh. I couldn't get on that."
He sighed. "Clio. You have no choice." He swept a hand in an arc around the empty landscape as evidence.
She rubbed her cold arms, hugging herself. He was right. It wouldn't be safe to stay alone in the dark on the side of the road. Reluctantly, she donned the helmet and flung a leg over the seat behind him. He reached behind and grabbed her cold arms, planting them firmly at his sides.
He grasped the handlebars and gunned the engine, then pulled out. "You are going the wrong way," she shouted over the noise. "Montecchiello is back there!"
"Later, later. I told you first we must go to Pia's."
She had no idea who Pia was, and barely the strength to pound her fist on his leather clad back as they picked up speed. "Firenze!"
She couldn't make out his shouted answer, but his shoulder-length dark hair swept back and forth as he shook his head, no. It was too late to argue so she hung on tight.
Then they were flying through the night air at an alarming speed. If she weren't so miserable, it might have been thrilling. But Clio was so cold and numb, she hardly noticed the ride. She couldn't say how far they rode, but it seemed both an eternity and an instant before they turned into a long gravel drive between stone gateposts and climbed a hill through an allée of pine and cypress trees.
It was full dark. She couldn't see clearly through the helmet's visor. She simply became aware that they were no longer moving, the steady vibration and dull roar between her legs had finally ceased. He sat upright, slid off the bike, hopping on one leg. He stood looking at her, then reached forward and pulled the helmet from her head with a slow, steady tug. She daren't even think about the horror of her muddy hair. His dark curls were a wild tangle from the wind.
"Where are we?" Her teeth chattered.
"Come. You are cold." He turned and led the way toward a dark edifice with a dimly glowing entry portico and warm light streaming from several tall windows onto the courtyard. She hobbled after him, the gravel of the drive biting into the bare soles of her feet.
The moment they approached the door, it flew open, and a flood of golden light, raised voices and barking dogs spilled out into the night.
"Memmo! Memmo! There you are. Why didn't you call?"
They were swept into a large rectangular hall with a high, coffered ceiling. A beautiful, curvaceous dark-haired woman was embracing and kissing the biker– Guillermo– with exclamations of delight and distress. A tall, quiet, neatly groomed man hovered in the background, closing the door against the cool night. Clio stood rigidly. Sconces on the smooth plastered walls flickered, shadows dancing. A large dog, no two, scrambled around them, bumping against her legs.
The tall man spoke a quiet word and the dogs followed him out of the room, leaving behind a somewhat calmer atmosphere.
"Pia, this is Signora… Clio, eh... Mc-a...scuzi, but I have forgotten your name already," said Guillermo, hunching slightly in a deprecating fashion, peering closely at her.
"Oh! Clio. Clio Sinclair McBeal." Clio gathered her wits and her manners, and wiping her hand on her trousers, which did nothing to rid her of dirt, thrust it toward the woman.
"Pia Cittadini. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Signora Sinclair." She shook Clio's hand, ignoring the dirt and damp, smiling. She exuded warmth and comfort, and Clio felt the cold stif
fness of their wet ride draining away.
"I apologize for my... my appearance. I'm afraid–"
"Pia. Pia, cara. I found this lady in a ditch. Her car was upside down. It's a wonder she is alive."
"My dear, how terrible. Are you not hurt at all? It is a blessing. How uncomfortable you must be. Right away we will take care of this." Pia clasped Clio into her motherly embrace and swept her toward a staircase, propelling her upward. "Memo, make yourself at home, caro. We will wait with dinner until you are cleaned up. Tell Paulo. I will help Signora Sinclair. Si?"
"I'm so sorry to intrude. He... um, Guillermo, he said he would give me a ride back to Florence, or Montecchiello, to see about my car."
"Si, si. Of course. But not like this. First you must be clean and warm and fed. Come."
And she was carried away in a gust of warm wind like Il Maestrale.
Chapter 4
Left alone in a beautiful guest suite, Clio finally let go of the tension that had held her together for the last couple of hours. Her body was stiff and achy. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been comfortable, and desperately wanted to be clean and dry. An attentive Pia led her to the ensuite bathroom and helped her strip off wet and filthy clothing, then whisked them away with the promise of prompt laundering.
A hot shower beckoned. She had never been so chilled. They were right of course. She couldn't head back to town in this condition. She prayed Dr. Jovi would understand, though of course she must try to call him right away. He will be waiting for me.
Once under the hot stream of water, she stood, numb, for a long time, allowing the heat to penetrate until her skin tingled, allowing the reality of her situation sink in. Eventually, she thawed both physically and emotionally, and the shock she'd been holding at bay ripped through her in waves. She began to shake, and as heat suffused her cold limbs, the hot tears rose up and escaped. She cried and cried and cried until she was simply standing in the stream of water hiccuping and gasping for breath.
It was nothing. A stupid accident. It had been her misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She knew it was shock. But still. She had nearly died. And her car was totaled. And her parents would be… she didn't know what. Furious, though it could not be her fault that any of this had happened, they would find words to make her feel responsible. She felt guilty already, as though she could hear the disapproval in their voices. See their stern faces.
What a contrast to her warm welcome here. She gathered that the woman, Pia, was Guillermo's sister. The tall quiet man, her husband. Guillermo had been heading here for dinner, she supposed.
How fortunate for her that he had happened by, and so late, when most people likely had arrived at their Saturday evening destinations. Already sitting down to dinner. He seemed a pleasant man, helpful and generous, certainly well-loved, though perhaps a bit domineering and impatient. That was typical, she had observed, of Latin men. Not an especially endearing trait.
A melancholy wave rippled through her. Regret? How did she ever end up in her own family, always feeling like a misfit? How lovely it would be to come home to such a warm welcome. To know that you were loved, and even if you arrived late, wet, and dirty with a stranger in tow, that you would be accepted with warm and loving arms. That your trials would be fretted over and accommodated instead of criticized.
She helped herself to lavender scented shampoo and soap, and gingerly cleaned the mud from her hair and scraped skin. "Ow." She winced as her fingers slid over a huge bump on her forehead.
A familiar hunger ate at her, a desire to feel loved and accepted, to feather a nest and build a loving family of her own. She wondered for the millionth time whether she would ever find her "one great love." She laughed silently at the literary pleonasm. But the years marched on, she was twenty-seven, and still nothing much about her life had changed. She sighed. Perhaps once she'd finally completed her Ph.D. and settled into a secure teaching position somewhere, Father and Mother would be content to let her live her own quiet life. Perhaps then she would meet someone special.
Her nostrils filled with the calming scent of lavender. Eventually, Clio became calm and relaxed and warm through and through, and despite the lovely sensual heat that embraced her tired body, began to feel self-conscious about the amount of hot water that she was consuming. She stepped out of the shower to find a pile of soft, fluffy blue towels awaiting her. She dried off, wringing out her long, tangled hair. The oval beveled mirror over the vanity was fogged, and she wiped a small window in the veil to see how she had faired from her ordeal.
She already knew there were scrapes, bruises and scratches all over her body. Wounds she didn't feel in the aftermath of her accident, either because of shock, or because she was numb from the cold water, had been stinging and aching as she thawed in the hot water.
Even in this, Pia had anticipated her needs, and left some antibiotic ointment and bandages on the vanity. Perhaps she had noticed some of Clio's scratches when she undressed. Clio's forehead had an angry red goose egg over one brow, slightly abraded. Her hands and elbows were scraped and bruised. Her shins were covered with long fine lashes, the result, she presumed, of crawling and wading through the rough reeds in the drainage ditch. What a mess.
She carefully applied ointment and bandages to the worst of her wounds, painstakingly untangled her hair, and then peeked out of the bathroom door. The room was still and quiet, and seemed empty, so she wrapped a towel around her torso and ventured out, her bare feet warm against the cool, smooth floor. It was a beautiful room, with a timber ceiling. She brushed a palm over the lovely silky smooth pale yellow Venetian plaster on the walls. An iron four poster bed with a deep burgundy spread had lovely satin trimmed yellow brocade cushions arranged artfully at the headboard. Ochre-toned shutters covered a pair of tall narrow windows. This room, together with the entry foyer and stair she had seen, gave the impression of stately age, and she inhaled the perfume-scented musk of the ancient building. Clearly this was an older farmhouse, or villa with some pedigree, that had been lovingly restored.
Glancing around, she at last noticed some clothing draped over a floral fabric chair, and a handwritten note sitting nearby on a wooden dresser.
"I hope these fit. I think we are a similar size. Please come downstairs when you're ready. Pia."
Clio looked at Pia's clothes. A long flowing skirt in a subtle green and tan paisley pattern. She touched the soft silk, her fingers tingling. Very pretty. Not the kind of thing she usually allowed herself to wear, but the fabric was deliciously beautiful and feminine. There were undergarments, too, clean and fresh. She tried on the pretty ecru lace bra. A tiny bit large, but flattering just the same. Then she donned a shear chiffon blouse in an exquisite pale sienna color with a floppy layered collar and low neckline, worrying that the layers of sheer lace and chiffon actually could be seen through.
Clio appraised her image in the mirror over the antique dresser. She saw a person she hardly recognized, curvy and womanly. She swallowed, feeling a strange sensation in her stomach that matched the sensual sweep of the delicate fabrics on her clean skin. Rather fancy clothes for a dinner at home, but… well, what choice did she have? Hopefully her own sensible clothes would be clean for the ride home after dinner.
The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall beyond the closed door. Oh, the phone. I must hurry.
She combed her fingers through her thick wet hair, twisting it loosely and tying it with a self-knot. She had no tie, but it would stay, more or less in place, as it dried, because of its thickness and curl. It seemed incongruous, anyway, to braid it tightly when her clothing was so soft and pretty. But if she didn't restrain it, her hateful hair would expand into a giant ugly red cloud.
She stood and reviewed the effect in the dresser mirror. Strangely feminine, a result she habitually tried to avoid. At least she was clean and dry. She smoothed down her uncomfortably girlish clothes and ludicrously tumescent hair and ventured downstairs.
No sooner had G
uillermo entered the salon than his brother-in-law, Paulo, approached him with an indecipherable expression on his face and handed him a glass of vivid garnet-hued wine.
Guillermo lifted the glass to his nose. "Eh? What's up, Paulo?" They had insisted he come for dinner this weekend, and after Bianca's oddly distressed phone call, he was anxious to know what was going on.
Paulo sipped his wine, dipping his long aristocratic nose into his glass, and peering at Guillermo over the rim with a twinkle in his dark eyes. "First tell me what you think. Then tell me what you're up to, fratello."
Guillermo shrugged and sipped. The intense flavors of wild dried cherry, plums, and forest fruit rolled over his tongue. Hints of spice, tobacco and warm earth. He swallowed and took a breath, letting the powerful tannins grab his palate. "Nice. Brunello ?"
"Si. I'm playing with the oak, and the aging. This is just out of oak. It's a little experiment of mine."
Guillermo nodded and took another sip, swishing and letting the bright ripe fruit flavors explode in his mouth. Paulo had real talent. He really would succeed in rebuilding the Cittadini Brunello di Montalcino family winery. Guillermo wished his own elder brother showed some interest in restoring the home farm and vineyard, but his political career precluded all of that.
"Bene. Good work, fratello." This was a little joke between them, brothers by marriage. There had been a little rough patch, at the beginning, when Paulo and Pia first married. They were very different in temperament, Paulo staid and quiet to Guillermo's reckless and adventurous spirit. But now, they understood each other very well. They were two sides of the same coin, and tolerated… no, loved each other. Pia had chosen well. Guillermo was more comfortable with Paulo than with his own elder brother, Jacopo, who was more like Father, and not in a good way. Guillermo moved into the comfortable green salon and chose an arm chair, easing back.
"Well?" said Paulo.
"Well, what?"
"Tell me the truth about this woman you brought. It's a spectacular ruse to bring a friend for the weekend, but you know it's not necessary. Your, eh, inamorata are always welcome, despite Pia's…" Paulo gestured vaguely, and they both understood what this meant. Pia's pinched faces, rolling eyes, earnest lectures about his love life, his choice of women, his future.
The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1) Page 2