The Art of Enchantment (Life is a Journey Book 1)

by M A Clarke Scott

Martino's voice from below. "Ah, ah, ah, I take for you, Signorina Clio. Where you want it?"

  "Grazie, Martino. You can put it by the front door, per favore."

  "You are leaving us? So soon?"

  "An unexpected change of plans, yes. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. As soon as I have a quick coffee, Signor Guillermo will be taking me back to town, or at least to Stazione Montepulchiano."

  "Oh, that's not right," mumbled Martino.

  Guillermo's stomach tightened. He strode out onto the landing. Martino was half way down the stairs with Clio's weekend bag, while she stood on the landing, rummaging in her shoulder bag.

  "Clio? What's going on?"

  She started and looked up. "Oh, Guillermo. I can't stay, I'm sorry to make you drive back so soon. This was a terrible idea."

  "No, no. Martino, stop, bring her bag back, per favore." Guillermo turned to Clio, searching her eyes. "Please stay." He realized his grip on the rose was crushing it. He extended his hand to her.

  She paused, looking down at the rose, not taking it from him.

  Martino paused on the stairs, turned and started up again.

  Her head gave a tiny shake, then reluctantly she took the rose, holding it loosely at her side like a pencil, flicking its stem back and forth. "I can't stay, Guillermo. And you know why. I came here only to see the villa. You gave me your word." Her movements were choppy and she slashed her hand through the air, almost knocking her bag off of her shoulder, fumbling to hang on to the rose. "Martino, please take my bag down."

  The old man stopped, his eyes scanning from her to him, from him to her. His chest heaved, and he started down again.

  Guillermo reached out both hands, palms up. "I'm sorry. Scusami, ho sbagliato. I made a mistake last night, Clio. It was an accident. The night, the air, your eyes, your lips–"

  "Stop. Stop it. That's what I mean. You can't control yourself. And I know why you think I am here, but you are mistaken. I came only out of curiosity and concern for your villa. I wished to see it. You mistake me if you think I am not a serious scholar, Guillermo. I am very passionate about my studies!"

  As if she realized the double-entendre of her word choice, she looked away and her face suffused with color.

  "It won't happen again. I promise."

  "Your promises are worthless. I don't believe you anymore."

  "Bella." Guillermo reached for her hand, hesitated. Then he dropped to his knee, his hand still poised in the air, imploring.

  Clio's eyes widened at his gesture. He could see her reacting, judging, deliberating by the fleeting expression in her eyes. Her face was so readable, so open.

  "Scusami, scusami. I am most sincere this time. I have been a terrible host. At least stay until I have had a chance to show you the villa. Per favore, have a little breakfast, and I will give you a proper tour, an academic tour. I have a great deal knowledge about the villa and garden that I can share with you."

  She hesitated, fiddling with the stem of the rose. His heart surged with hope. Why was he was so motivated to keep this woman near him? He couldn't let her go. Not yet. "Martino, bring the lady's bag back up, please."

  Martino rolled his eyes, hesitated and turned up the stairs again.

  "No, Martino. Please. I will be leaving today."

  "After the tour." Guillermo stood up, nodding encouragement. There was still time to change her mind. The tour could take a while.

  Clio turned to Martino, about to speak. Martino froze.

  Guillermo's chest squeezed, and he jerked forward, patting the air with his hands. "Okay, okay. I will take you back later today if that is what you really want, but first, the tour. A proper thorough tour. We will have a nice breakfast, and then I will show you the study. We have drawings, books, antiques, records–"

  He'd said the magic word. Her eyes lit up. Hooked.

  The last thing Guillermo needed was to revisit and reflect on the beauty and history of his ancestral home detail by detail. It would be like salt in his wounds. She would kill him, this woman. But he had her. He set the hook a little deeper to make sure she was invested in all that he could show her. "In fact, let us quickly go to the study now, and make a plan. Then we can discuss the details over a leisurely breakfast. Marcella has set a table for us on the portico." He gestured to the door.

  Clio slanted a skeptical look in his direction.

  He lightly touched her back, guiding her down the stairs. Martino raised his salt and pepper brows in question. "Just set Signorina Clio's bag there in the hall, Martino. Out of the way. We will be a while yet."

  Marcella came out onto the landing, scowling, hands akimbo. "Where are you going? Breakfast is ready."

  "We'll be right back, Marcella. In un momento."

  "A quick breakfast only. I want to get started so we can head out early," Clio said, back straight as a pike, chin high. "Perhaps I can identify something to help you save the villa. I have some ideas–"

  "Si, si." Guillermo humored her. He'd bought a little time, that was all that mattered. "It's possible."

  Martino shook his head, sighed and preceded them down the stairs with Clio's bag, muttering, "There are no quick meals in this house."

  Clio agreed to a tour only to placate Guillermo and his caretakers. He was winding up to lay his extravagant charm on as thickly and cheaply as Cool Whip on tiramisu, and when he dropped to his knee on the landing, her first reaction–lurching heart, flushing cheeks– had been purely emotional–how romantic! But then her inner critic, far more sensible, had taken over. It was more of his typical Latin melodrama, and she'd had about all she was prepared to take. The sooner she got away from here, and from him, the better. Although she was very curious about the villa, she needed to be back in Firenze working on her thesis outline. And soon.

  And it was a good thing, too. When she awoke, she was all resolve and determination. But when she saw him stride out onto the landing this morning, she'd almost swooned with remembered desire. Damn his eyes.

  He was wearing red leather sneakers with skinny black jeans that hugged his narrow hips so casually, a cashmere v-neck sweater stretched across his contoured chest in a sky blue the color of his eyes, and casually tossed around his neck was an ivory silk knit scarf. He looked like a model in some Italian designer fashion magazine.

  She could have laughed. Even her stuffed-shirt academic father knew how to don khaki and flannel for a country outing. But then Father was a Scot, and Guillermo Italian. Except Guillermo was so achingly beautiful her eyes smarted with unshed tears. His dark hair tousled with waves across his forehead, tucked behind his ears, and she was struck with a wave of remembered passion from his touch the previous evening. Her pulse began to race. The feeling of liquid heat burned through her, unfamiliar and disorienting, making her legs watery and weak.

  She really had to get out of here, and soon.

  Instead, she grabbed her camera bag and followed Guillermo across the hall and through a doorway further back and opposite the salon he'd shown her the night before, in the wing that supposedly was unused and run-down.

  He led her into a modest sized, rectangular study, with a large arched window on the far wall, and a timbered ceiling. Bright morning light streamed in, casting the room in deep shadow. This part was not neglected. The sunlight reflected off of the broad surface of a wooden desk in front of the window. Its surface was bare and highly polished. The room was clean and neat, but it did not look lived in, or much used.

  "I have plans for both the villa and the garden in here somewhere," Guillermo said, striding in, leaving her standing just inside the doorway. He opened a credenza on a side wall and crouched to search its interior. "Stronzo." He stood and came back, flicked on a light and returned to rummage through papers and files. "Hmph." Standing, he crossed to a bookshelf on the opposite wall and scanned its contents, frowning. "I'm sure this is where I left them last time I was here. Jacopo must have returned them to the library."

  It would be good to see the plans, and get he
r bearings. Then she could decide how long it would take to have a quick tour before she left. And also on which areas to focus most of her attention. She wouldn't want to overlook any artworks–

  He turned to her. "Hey, come on. Come this way." He waited for Clio to move toward him and then turned to another door beside a modest marble fireplace in the centre of the sidewall. "I expect you'll like this."

  Clio followed him, curious. The room was tasteful and traditional, but seemed to have been redone in relatively modern times. Or at least parts of it had. A spontaneous trill of giddy laughter escaped her lips.

  "Oh my God! Is this for real?"

  The study was a mere anti-chamber to the room she now faced. It was five or six times larger, as wide as the study was long.

  Guillermo stopped and turned to her, a wide grin slicing across his features. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes sparkling. "I told you."

  "I… I would not have expected… such a room, here. I mean, it's a lovely, lovely villa, but…" It was hard to find breath, and she found herself gasping.

  "Si. The villa is special, worthy of preservation, though not museum quality. But the library has always been a favorite project with my ancestors. It is…" He circled a hand in the air, indicating both the room itself and the substantial collection of antique books and artifacts and even gleaming brass mechanical devices that packed the shelves.

  It defied words. It wasn't as large as the public libraries she'd seen, nor as ornate, especially as those she'd seen at monasteries and universities. But for a modest, and she used that word lightly, family library it was exquisite. It had a certain charming intimacy that those grand libraries often lacked. The proportions of the room, the painted vaulting of the ceiling, the lovely wood bookshelves flanking both long walls, interspersed with more of the long, arched windows– every detail was perfection. Where the study had but one, this room hosted three windows on the long side, and another on the end wall. This would take longer than she had anticipated.

  Clio floated further into the library, her body weightless, gliding around busts and small figures that perched on pedestals in the centre of the room. There were two long marble-topped trestle tables flanked by six chairs each, with a cozy reading area wrapped around another fireplace, opposite the windows.

  "This is where I…where we did our homework. Whenever we were here, that is. We actually attended school in Firenze and abroad." Guillermo's voice was soft, wistful as he gazed up. "But here is where I fell in love with history, with art and architecture. When my maths were too difficult, or Machiavelli's concepts too obscure, I would stare at the walls and ceilings and daydream of a time long ago." Guillermo's voice slurred, as though he were talking to himself.

  "Is the collection catalogued?"

  He did not respond.

  "Guillermo?"

  "Mm? Partly. Some of it is older than others." He shrugged. "Some more valuable."

  "Guillermo! What are you going to do?"

  He blinked at her. "What do you mean?"

  She threw her hands up and slapped them against her thighs. "How can you sell this villa? What will happen to all of this?"

  "It is not I who am selling the villa, if you recall." His lips flattened. "I suppose the new owner will keep it, or if he doesn't want it, it could be sold at auction. There are collectors of such things, I believe." His voice was deliberately flat and emotionless, facile.

  Clio released a theatrical groan. "Don't be obtuse. You. Your family. It is all the same." She shook a finger in his face. "You can't simply dispose of it for money. That's criminal."

  "Hmph." Guillermo moved off, scanning the shelves for whatever it was he could not find in the study. "Criminal is what my brother apparently did with his investments, and with the contracts awarded by his ministerial portfolio. Selling the villa is just a 'crying shame', as you say. An embarrassment. But…what can be done?"

  Clio felt a sense of outrage that eclipsed her immediate need to escape Guillermo's company. At the moment he was more ornery than horny. How could he be so blasé? How could he abdicate all personal responsibility for the villa. If it were her own, she would do anything; she would fight to the death to save it. Through clenched teeth she said, "I'll tell you what can be done. First of all, you can sit down and apply for historic preservation funds. I know there is a lot of competition, but certainly with your expertise, and your connections, and furthermore your family's importance, you could write a few persuasive letters?"

  He reached for a roll of drawings on a shelf. "Here they are."

  "Secondly, you can work to find new streams of revenue." Her voice was becoming shrill, and her face hot. Clio wanted to scream. Calm down. It's not your villa. It's not your problem to solve. She had to let it go, but blood raced through her, making her head hot and her muscles clench. She pinched the bridge of her nose, slowing her breathing, calming her rapid pulse.

  Guillermo carried the drawings to one of the long study tables and unraveled them, leaning over them with one hand on each edge, holding them flat. "Come and see. These are the villa plans–"

  A series of loud bangs echoed from the front hall, reverberating through the open doorways and against the walls of the library.

  Clio yelped.

  Guillermo frowned and stood up, letting the heavy drawings recoil with a swoosh and a thud as the roll closed in on itself.

  The sounds seemed to bounce off the vaults. It was quickly followed by a cacophony of muffled voices, punctuated by shouts and barks, and the scratching of nails on the marble floors.

  "What the hell?" Guillermo tucked the drawings under his arm and stomped toward the door.

  "Signor Memmo. Signor Memmo, come quickly." Marcella's agitated voice preceded her through the doorway from the study. Bursting in, she sighed dramatically when she saw them, and held a hand to her heaving chest. "Come. Che bufalo is here to buy the villa!"

  Chapter 14

  He is here now. Signor d'Aldobrandin is here now," Marcella announced as she led them into the hall, her hands flapping like they did when she shook dishwater from them.

  Stronzo! The hall was filled with flashing color, people and dogs. Dogs barking and scrambling and scratching around everyone's legs, adding to the mayhem.

  "Jiggy Thang! Lil Peppa, come here!"

  "Oochie Bone, settle down, don't chew on that."

  "Shuddup you dogs!"

  "D-Wayne, don't touch that thang!"

  It was too hot, Guillermo's head buzzed, his heart thumped in his chest. Putting his fingers into his mouth, he whistled loudly, the shrill sound reverberating off the walls of the tall, tiled room.

  When the noise died away, even the dogs cowering and whimpering, everyone stared in his direction.

  "Buongiorno. What can I do for you?"

  An enormous muscular black man stepped forward out of the throng, a slender, sexy woman gripping his arm. "Yo. Bon journey. Ah am Mad Masta Richie R a.k.a. Sling DoomZ, and dis be my boo, Foxy Diamond." He gestured with a massive Rolex wreathed hand to the glamorous woman at his side, who waved and cocked a hip. Guillermo squinted. They both wore white. White from head to toe. The man wore a long baggy t-shirt, crushed velvet tuxedo jacket, faux leather pants that scrunched and rumpled all the way down to his gleaming white high-top sneakers with their fat tongues lolling not unlike the menagerie of dogs squatting around his ankles. One of every breed, apparently. I wonder which one is Jiggy Thang? The slender woman wore a mini dress that appeared to be painted on her, and oversized sunglasses.

  A skinny black man, a good six or eight inches shorter than the giant, skirted around him, leapt forward and thrust out his hand. "Hey man, I be Slim QTip, agent and manager for Masta DoomZ, here." The skinny guy wore an oversized graphic muscle shirt printed with a massive, collarbone to crotch-spanning Virgin Mary that made Guillermo inwardly cringe. Mama would roll over in her grave. Twice. Slim QTip's sinewy bare brown arms were riddled with swirling blue graffiti, inscribing large spiky letters that Gui
llermo could make no sense of. His neck was swathed in enough golden bling to break his skinny neck. More scrunched leather pants, in black. On his head, backwards, was a ball cap that appeared to be made of black crocodile skin.

  Guillermo paused, blinked. Who are these people and why are they in my house? He strode forward, fists on his hips, about to grill them when QTip spoke.

  "My boss has come to look ova the villa, like we discussed on the phone, Mista Fitucci. If dis goin' happen, then what we gotta do is have a good look around. See the potentialities. Experience the place, yo?"

  "Hmm." Guillermo, nodded sagely, rubbing his fingers across his brow, at a complete loss for words. What's the best tactic here– stall?

  He attempted a welcoming smile and offered his hand. Slim QTip pounced on the offered hand, shaking it, rotating into a thumb grip, sliding back to hook fingers, and then thumped his fist on top of Guillermo's, which Guillermo clumsily returned, mentally shaking his head. He deemed it best to speak in English.

  "As-a my housekeeper mentioned a moment ago, I am not Signor Fitucci, I am-a Guillermo d'Aldobrandin. This-a is my family home. We were just about to sit down to breakfast in the portico, gentlemen, lady. Would you…" He noticed two boys lurking in the doorway behind the adults. "…and your family care to join us? Then we can-a talk at our leisure while we await-a Signor Fitucci's arrival." Presumably he was on his way. He'd better be.

  They all looked at each other, checking in. Some voiceless consensus was arrived at, then Mr. QTip said, "It's like, whateva, yo? We gonna, like, take yo up on that oppatunity. We gonna eat breakfast witchu, Mista D."

  Guillermo turned, pulled a face at Marcella, Martino and Clio, who stood behind him, frozen with mouths agape. He appealed silently to Clio. What could she be thinking? The subject of her leaving seemed to be moot for the moment. "Let us-a go up." They nodded like marionettes, and he could completely relate to the blank, stunned expressions on their faces.

  He offered his arm to Clio, she took it, and he practically dragged her leaden body back up the stairs and out the green door to the portico, while Marcella scrambled back to the kitchen to fetch more place settings and work some miracle of loaves and fishes to multiply the amount of food provided. She was in her element.