Marco returned the greeting, but had seen Emma’s puzzled look. ‘This is Paola, Maria’s sister. She looks after the farmhouse and me, when I have time to stay here. Let me introduce you.’
Paola seemed pleased that Marco had brought a guest and was reassured that Emma was no fancy fashion-plate signorina, in her normal jeans and jersey. ‘Will you be staying, signor?’
‘Si, we will stay tonight and return to Venice sometime tomorrow.’
‘Then I shall prepare your room.’ Paola hesitated for a moment. ‘One room or two rooms, signor?’
Emma understood enough to say quickly. ‘Due camere, per favore.’ She had learned her numbers.
‘Lunch will be ready in half an hour, signor,’ said Paola, now shooing the children into picking the up the torn paper and ribbons, and clearing the courtyard. Emma saw that the girls were saving bits of ribbon for their hair. They all looked fresh faced, tanned by the sun and well fed. The Veneto air was good for children, unlike the polluted fumes of Venice.
Marco led Emma up the outside staircase to the first floor and opened the door. It led straight into a large room with windows on all four sides. It was filled with comfortable sofas and armchairs, stacked bookcases and valuable antique pieces of furniture. So unlike the salon in the palazzo, which was ultra-modern. A wood fire burned in an open grate, throwing out a good heat.
Marco was smiling at her, watching her reaction. He knew she felt safe here.
Emma went straight to the fire, holding out her hands. ‘Oh, a real fire.’ She turned and twisted in front of the heat.
‘You will be warm here,’ Marco promised.
Emma went from window to window, exclaiming in delight. Every view was of vines in straight rows. ‘It’s like a green carpet,’ she said.
‘And before the harvest it is like a purple carpet. Such a sight. Every vine laden heavy with the grape.’ Marco went to a drinks cabinet and of course, a bottle of Prosecco was waiting there, cooling in ice. He poured out two glasses in crystal-cut flutes, glasses so old it seemed sacrilege to use them. They were from another century and fragile. He handed one to Emma.
‘Welcome to my home, Emma, to you on the feast day of St Nicolo.’
She took the champagne and returned the toast, taking a sip. ‘To your next harvest, Marco,’ she said. ‘The feast day of St Nicolo. I shan’t forget this next year, when I am back in smoky, rainy London.’ Then she added impishly, ‘Do I get a present, too, signor, from St Nicolo?’
Emma regretted her words instantly. Marco was standing far too close. She could smell the freshness of his skin and the good leather of his coat. Any moment now he would put down his glass and crush her in his arms and she would be lost, unable to resist him.
He put down his glass. Emma held her breath. But he did not move towards her.
Instead, he turned and went to his briefcase, which Emma had not noticed before. He opened it and took out a flat rectangular parcel, wrapped in more bright paper and tied with coloured ribbon.
‘Of course I would not forget you. St Nicolo brought this specially for you.’
Emma’s hands were trembling as she took the parcel from him. It was heavier than she had first thought. She did not tear at the paper as the children had, but untied the ribbon carefully and unfolded the paper wrapping.
She could not believe what she held in her hands. It was the watercolour painting of the old woman selling flowers at the foot of a bridge in Venice, the sunlight caught on her flowers, making them alive and vibrant. They were more alive than the old woman, whose face was in the shadows. The painting had been on show at the art gallery.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘I love the painting. But I can’t accept it, of course, Marco. It’s far too valuable to give me as a gift. But thank you, for a wonderful and generous kind thought. Thank you so much. You must hang it in your palazzo. Perhaps in your study, to remind you of that wonderful evening at the art gallery.’
As she looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. No one had ever given her such a gift. She knew it was easy for him to write a cheque, but he had known she liked the small paintings and arranged to give her one.
‘But it is to remind you of that evening,’ he said softly. And she knew what he meant. He was reminding her of that searing kiss when they were dancing in the little café. When every fibre of her body longed for him to crush her even closer. When they had lost all sense of where they were and who they were. When nothing mattered but their closeness.
Would she ever be able to forget this man, this tempting man? A man who could have any woman he wanted. Who had only to click his fingers and a woman would rush to his side, ready to fall into his bed.
No, she would never be able to forget him, even when she was as old as the flower seller. His deep and resonant voice that could make her toes curl. Those hands that could bring her skin alive with the briefest touch. Those dark eyes that could see into her very soul. These things mattered more than his good looks, his tallness and his muscular body. It was his voice, his touch, his eyes.
Marco took the painting from her and propped it on a small side table. Then he linked his arms loosely round her waist. ‘And when do I get my present?’ he asked with a wicked gleam.
Emma did not know what to say. ‘That’s a secret,’ she said.
‘You are making me wait for my present?’
‘Of course.’
‘It will be worth waiting for,’ he said, taking a tendril of her hair and curling it round his finger. ‘I am a patient man.’
eight
Paola shattered the moment by calling up the stairs that their lunch was ready. It was too cold to eat outside so she had laid it in the dining room.
Marco eased himself away from Emma with regret, his fingers trailing over her waist.
‘Damn the lunch,’ he said. ‘Shall we forget it?’
‘That wouldn’t be fair to Paola,’ said Emma. ‘She probably looks forward to when you come home so she can cook for you.’
‘You are right. Always the good English manners.’ He led her to the stairs. ‘The dining room is below, the soul of the house. You see, this is an interesting home. And the heat rises upwards.’
The dining room was on the ground floor, another wooden-floored room with a fire burning and a heavy oak table, big enough for a party. An old sideboard was creaking with lidded dishes and boats of sauce, bowls of fresh vegetables and salad.
‘Paola always cooks for the five thousand,’ he said, cheering up at the good smell. ‘But she can really cook. Her mother used to cook for my grandfather.’
‘Your grandfather? You haven’t told me about him.’
Marco was taking off the lids, steam rising in his face. ‘Three different sorts of pasta. I must teach you all the names. There are over fifty different kinds. I shall take you to the pasta shop in Venice which stocks them all. The English only know spaghetti and macaroni.’
‘We know cannelloni,’ said Emma, defending the entire race.
Marco was looking at the dishes, trying not to feast his eyes on every inch of her. It was not easy when she looked so luscious and tasty.
‘There is cannelloni here,’ he said. ‘Stuffed with our home-grown spinach and cream cheese. This you would like?’ He was serving her before she could answer. He brought the plate over to the table with the salad bowl. ‘You like the salad, yes?’
He chose her clothes, now he was choosing her food. He was impossible. But it was exactly what she wanted to eat.
‘In the summer we always eat outside on the patio. When it is harvest time we eat with the workers in the yard. Maybe twenty or thirty of us at long trestle tables. All cooked by Paola.’
Emma could imagine it. Marco sitting with his sleeves rolled up, the wealthy city entrepreneur forgotten and left behind in Venice. He would enjoy it. Back to his roots.
‘You were going to tell me about your grandfather.’ The cannelloni was delicious but almost too hot to eat. She forked some salad
to cool her mouth.
‘Antonio dell’Orto, my grandfather’s name. He began the vineyard with a smallholding. He worked every day of his life. Never took a day off, not even when his wife, my beloved grandmother, died. He was back working, only hours after her funeral.’
Marco stopped ladling food onto his plate, his Italian temperament showing deep emotion for a moment. He paused, gaining control again.
‘They were good people. They brought me up when both my parents died in a car accident, taking a mountain curve too fast in a poor car. They gave me a good education, taught me how to run the vineyard. Grandfather bought up more acres when neighbours went bankrupt in the recession.’
‘But he is no longer with us?’ Emma found she couldn’t say the death word, not when the man sounded so alive.
‘He died out in the vineyard, among his beloved vines. It was a heart attack, they said. He was still working in his eighties. And he is buried where he died with vines as his headstone. It was his wish.’
Emma could image the fire and the passion of his grandfather, which Marco had inherited. ‘Do you have a photo of him?’ she asked.
‘No, there is no portrait. He would not have a photograph taken. But they say that I look much like him, when he was younger.’
‘He sounds a wonderful man,’ said Emma.
‘Meaning I am not that wonderful?’
Emma didn’t know how to answer. She stumbled over the words. ‘Not the same as your grandfather. You are amazing in that you have built the Prosecco champagne into a global enterprise. This took vision and hard work, I know that. I can see the growth in your records.’
She sounded like a computer. Somehow she had to bring the conversation down to a less emotional level.
‘So I have vision and I work hard, but I am not wonderful?’ He was teasing her again between mouthfuls of Paola’s good cooking. He had another vision but this was not the time to tell Emma. ‘I am wonderful-less?’
He floored her with his quick wit. But Emma rallied her good sense.
‘Wonderful takes a long time to prove,’ she said.
He laughed. It was a good sound. It was the first time she had heard him really laugh for days. He had been shocked by her narrow escape from the water. He needed this respite from Venice, from the disturbing turmoil of the accounts office. If she could give him these few hours of enjoyment, then she had done more than sift through hundreds of pages of figures.
Dessert was fresh peaches, so sweet and ripe the juice ran down between her fingers. He watched her lick her fingers, wanting to taste that sweet taste, wanting to taste every inch of her skin.
‘After lunch we will walk through the vines, unless of course you would prefer a siesta?’
‘A walk would be lovely,’ she said quickly. ‘I want to see your land.’ A siesta would be dangerous. Marco might decide to join her.
A cool wind was blowing off the mountains and Emma was glad of the woollen coat and scarf. Marco took her hand as easily as if they had been going out together for years.
‘The ground is rough,’ he said. ‘You might fall.’
They walked along the straight rows of vines, up and down slopes, stopping occasionally if Marco spotted a late grape and fed it to her lips. They were still sweet and delicious.
‘We are not walking over your grandfather, are we?’ Emma asked anxiously, looking at the trodden ground.
‘No, I would not do that,’ said Marco. ‘One day I will show you where he is buried, but not today. It is marked. Today is for the living. For love and enjoyment.’
Emma was not sure about the love and enjoyment, but it was certainly turning into a wonderful day. She could understand why Marco cared so much about his vines and the ancient farmhouse. But he had to live in Venice, to be near the airport and the railway station. He travelled so much, promoting Prosecco around the world, attending conventions and trade fairs. The sexy champagne would not sell itself even though it was delicious.
But she sensed he was lonely in his palazzo, despite the many available women and whoever had once lived in the bedroom of unworn clothes. She would ask him before she went back to London. But not today. She did not want to spoil today. It was too perfect.
They reached the top of a hill and Marco stopped, his arms held wide. ‘This is all dell’Orto vines, as far as you can see in every direction. One day it will all belong to my son, Marco II. This is his inheritance.’
It was a shock. His son? Did Marco have a son? He had never mentioned a son, but then why should he? This was the first time they had talked about his family. Perhaps he did have a wife, was now divorced, his son away at some expensive boarding school, learning three international languages, being groomed for his inheritance.
Emma shivered, despair quaking through her. She was already dreading the thought of leaving him, but she had to get him out of her thoughts, out of her heart. She had her own life to live in London, her own career, her own pathway. She knew she would never again meet anyone like Marco. A man who made her body yearn for him in every way, whose kisses could beguile her into a surrender she was not prepared to give.
She gave a long, shuddering sigh.
‘You are cold, cara. We will return to the farmhouse, to the fire and some hot coffee. Paola makes the best coffee in Italy, better than all these big expensive coffee shops you have in London.’
The caressing warmth of his hand was telling her something quite different. She could feel the urgency in his body, of his growing need.
‘I would like to make love to you now, here out among the vines,’ he said. ‘It would be perfect, the smell of the grapes, the clear sky above.’
‘Much too cold,’ said Emma briskly. ‘And the ground is much too hard.’
‘I would bring rugs and cushions,’ said Marco as if she had not said a word. ‘I would keep you warm with my body and my kisses. You would not feel the cold. It would be like summer. I will bring you here in the summer and we will make love, feeding you the grapes between kisses, champagne kisses.’
‘I shan’t be here in the summer,’ said Emma. ‘I am going home to London soon.’
‘So? Perhaps I will not let you go.’
His voice suddenly hardened.
This was not the time to have an argument. Emma had no idea of which direction to take. They had walked up and down so many rows of vines. She could not even see the farmhouse tucked away in the curve of the hill.
‘Coffee sounds perfect,’ she said, smiling up at him.
The kiss was sudden and caught her off balance. She fell against him and he swept her into his arms with a ruthless kiss that went on and on. The hot insistence of his mouth fired feelings she never dreamed she possessed. She clung to him as if she was sinking in a vast sea of grapes.
‘This is more perfect,’ he said at last, his voice dark with emotion. ‘But we must get back before the light fades. Even I could get lost in the night. The lines of vines are all alike.’
The lights were on in the farmhouse, warm and comforting, guiding them back to the lane and the cypress trees. Paola was waiting for them with a tray of hot coffee and sweet apple cakes in front of the fire.
‘There have been three phone calls for you, signor,’ she said. ‘But I told them you were busy.’
‘Yes, I was very busy,’ he said.
‘I wrote the names for you.’
‘Thank you, Paola. You are more efficient than any secretary.’
Paola looked pleased and bustled away down the outside stairs. She obviously enjoyed having Marco at home, looking after him. The stairs were now lit with small lights on every step and lamps on the landings.
‘Paola and her husband live in the front part of the house,’ said Marco. ‘It is private for them. I do not go there unless by invitation or necessity.’
‘I’m sure they appreciate your consideration.’
‘You use such long words for a little person,’ said Marco, pouring the coffee into old shallow cups. The aroma rose to her n
ose like perfume.
‘You keep saying I am small or little,’ said Emma. ‘But I am not. I am quite a normal height for a woman.’
‘It is because I am so tall,’ he said. ‘So you look ver’ small to me. And you do not wobble on those stupid high heels like other women, heels that distort the feet.’
Emma thought of the stilettos she had seen in the wardrobe of the unworn-clothes bedroom. She longed to ask him who they belonged to but still did not dare. Nor did she want to spoil the warmth of the evening together. She curled up on the sofa, watching Marco sip his coffee. He looked rested, the tautness gone from his face, the chiselled features outlined by the light from the fire.
This was another evening to remember when she was an old, old lady. She thought of her cold London flat, which never seemed to get warm despite the cranky central heating that ate up her cash.
‘We are burning old vines,’ he said. ‘They burn well. We are never short of wood. It is ver’ cold in Venice in the worst of a winter. Next month is the worst. The palazzo was built to keep cool in the heat, so much marble and stone and high rooms. We put down carpets in the winter for warmth, roll them up in the summer. The summer is so hot, you cannot breathe. The heat hangs like a blanket.’
‘So you come here, to the vineyard, in the summer?’
‘I come whenever I can. And I help with the harvest, as often as I can. But I am always flying everywhere. Soon I am going to Japan to meet customers. Perhaps this week. There is a growing market for champagne as the Japanese become more westernized.’
‘That seems strange, one can’t imagine it.’
‘It is the perfect drink, for any time, any occasion. We shall have some this evening. What would you like Paola to prepare for our supper?’
‘Not a meal,’ said Emma. ‘I couldn’t eat anything more. Lunch was delicious and I am completely full.’
‘Then we shall have delicious snacks on a tray in here, and you will find again your appetite. No one can resist Paola’s small eats.’
Marco disappeared down the stairs to talk to Paola. Emma went to look again at her watercolour picture which was still propped up on the side table. It would look perfect in her sitting room, bringing a dull wall to life, reminding her of Venice, reminding her of Marco. If she could bear to think of him.
The Prosecco Fortune Page 8