by Liz Fielding
Quieten his mind. Make a list...
It began easily enough as he jotted down half a dozen of the most urgent things he had to do in the coming week. He added a note of something to include in his report. Crossed that through. Wrote: vision, passion... He underlined the last two words. What was it Angelica had asked him? ‘What would you show them?’
The life, the music but, above all, the people. Not some slick documentary film but real people talking straight into the camera, telling those who would tear this place down what was so great about it. Why they should think again.
He sent a text to Lisa, wishing them both buon viaggia, buona fortuna, so she’d see it when she woke. He hoped he’d done the right thing. That Lisa and Giovanni’s love would heal the rift between their families. If it did they would have Angelica’s crazy arrival to thank for that.
Angelica—
She had never had a father, had lost her mother at a pitifully early age. She might wear the protective black she’d hidden behind as a child but on the inside her world was richly coloured and filled with wonderful memories. Tragedy, need, had not shattered her family; it had bound it together.
She’d asked him if he saw his mother and he’d implied that she hadn’t had time for him. The truth was that he’d been so angry that she’d found someone else—had looked for someone else when he’d sacrificed his world to stay with her—that he’d walked away. He could hear Angelica telling him that he should be grateful that his mother had been strong enough to look forward, move on. Be grateful for the small half-sisters she and her husband had given him and reach out to make them part of his world.
This evening, when he’d called his father to ask for a favour, they’d spoken as if they were strangers and yet assistance had arrived within minutes. Angelica had assumed guilt, but all he’d heard was the fear of a man with his head buried in the sand.
He looked at the phone lying beside the pad, then picked it up, flicked through the photographs, staring at one he’d downloaded from Celebrità for a long time before he sighed, thumbed in a text to let his father know that they’d found the cat, adding his thanks for his prompt response. There was more, but some things had to be said face to face. He added his initial and pressed send then, with the phone still in his hand, he texted his mother to let her know that he’d call her in the morning.
He tapped the end of the pen on the pad for a moment, added one final item to his list and then went upstairs.
The apartment was quiet. The kittens were curled up together in the shelter of their box. And, hanging from the knob of his bedroom door, was a small linen drawstring bag with a hand-embroidered spray of purple lavender. It contained a little glass phial with a handwritten label—lavender oil and a date—and a note.
Gloria—as in Knickerbocker Gloria of ice cream fame—produces this from her own garden. It’s a bit magic, but then she’s a bit of a witch.
I’ve done with the bathroom so use the tub—a shower will only wake you up.
Dormi bene. Sogui dolci. G.
Sleep well. Sweet dreams.
* * *
The café did not open on Sunday and Geli got up early to the sound of bells ringing across the city, fed the kittens, gathered cleaning stuff from the utility room and, with a sustaining mug of tea, went down to her workroom.
Dante had cleared out everything but her boxes and she set to work cleaning everything thoroughly before setting up her work tables and drawing board, putting together her stool. Her corkboard was hung and was waiting for the scraps of cloth, pictures—anything and everything that would inspire her.
Three hours later, everything was unpacked, her sewing machines tested, her Mac up and running and all the boxes flattened and neatly stacked away in the corner, ready to be reused when she found somewhere of her own. Not that she could hope to find somewhere as perfect as this.
It was a fabulous space, and she took a series of pictures on her phone which she sent to her sisters, attached to an email explaining that there had been a problem with the apartment she’d rented but that she had found temporary accommodation and everything was great. She might even make a snowman later.
Elle replied, asking for a picture of the snowman.
Sorrel wanted to know: what problem? And actually her sister was probably just the person to fight her battle with the bank if things got sticky. She’d chase them up on Monday.
Right now she just itched to sit at her drawing board and begin working on an idea for a design that had been forming in her head ever since she’d seen those black beads in the market. Dusty, hungry; it would have to wait until she’d had a shower and something more substantial than a pastry for breakfast.
She was heading for the bathroom when Dante, dishevelled and wearing only a robe, emerged from his room and her heart jumped as if hit by an electric current.
‘Angel—’ He was sleep-confused, barely awake, giving her a moment to catch her breath. Gather herself. ‘What time is it?’
‘Buongiorno, Dante,’ she said with what, considering the way her heart was banging away, was a pretty good stab at cool amusement. ‘Did you sleep through your alarm?’
He dragged a hand through his hair and his robe gaped to expose a deep V of golden skin from his throat to his waist, the faint spatter of dark hair across his chest. Releasing the knee-weakening scent of warm skin.
‘I don’t have an alarm clock,’ he said, leaning against the door frame as if standing up was still a work in progress, regarding her from beneath heavy lids. ‘I don’t need one.’
‘No?’ She knew what the time was, but raised her wrist and pointedly checked her watch. ‘You intended to sleep until ten o’clock?’
‘Ten? Dio, that lavender stuff is lethal.’
It wasn’t just the lavender that was lethal. Wearing nothing but a carelessly tied robe, Dante Vettori was a danger not just to her heart, her head, but to just about every other part of her anatomy that was clamouring for attention... ‘You had a late night,’ she reminded him.
‘So did you but it doesn’t appear to have slowed you down.’ He reached out and she twitched nervously as he picked a cobweb from her hair. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’
‘Giving the storeroom a good clear-out.’ Forcing herself to break eye contact, she brushed a smear of dust from her shoulder. ‘I wanted to set up my stuff so that I can start work.’ She should move but the message didn’t seem to be getting past the putty in her knees. ‘Give me ten minutes to clean up and I’ll make breakfast.’
‘Ten minutes.’ He retreated, closing the door, and she slumped against the wall. A woman should have some kind of warning before being confronted with so much unfettered male gorgeousness.
Really.
She had just about got some stiffeners in her knees when he opened the door again. ‘I took your advice and made a list,’ he said.
He had? ‘Good for you. Clearly, it helped.’
‘That’s to be seen. One item concerns you.’
‘Oh?’
‘You won’t be moving.’
‘I won’t?’ Her heart racketed around her chest. He wanted her to stay... And then reality kicked in. ‘Did Lisa change her mind about taking Giovanni to the wedding?’ she asked, concerned.
‘No. They should be safely on their way by now.’
‘Well, that’s good. For them,’ she added in case he thought her only worry was about having somewhere to live.
‘Let’s hope so but, in the meantime, you’re going to be here all day, working a shift or on your designs and you can’t keep rushing across town to look after an injured cat and a bunch of kittens.’
‘It’s a kindle,’ she said. ‘The collective noun. It’s a kindle of kittens, a clowder of cats. Would it be necessary to move them? As you said, I’ll be around in the day and you’ll be here in the evening, at night.’
‘Not all the time. I’ve had my head stuck in this damned report when I need to be out there, drumming up support. Making a noi
se. I’ll be going to Rome some time this week. And I’ve decided to supplement the report with a DVD.’
‘A picture says a thousand words?’
‘That’s the idea. I thought I’d put together a short film. There’ll be library footage of people at last summer’s jazz festival, the collective lunches at the giardino condiviso, the “green” construction projects and the creation of the street art.’
‘That’s a start but you’ll need people. Interesting faces, characters.’
‘Two minds with but a single thought... I’ll intersperse the clips with people talking about why they love this place. Not just the old guys who’ve been here for ever, but the young people who are drawn here. You, for instance.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re so excited about it. And, as Lisa said, you’re good for business.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m going to be the hot totty that keeps the old guys watching.’
‘Not just the old guys.’ He straightened. ‘Anyway, that’s for next week. I was talking about the cats and it’s going to be easier if you stay here and I move into Lisa’s flat.’
‘You...?’ According to Lisa, the heating was on a thermostat, a cheap timer switch would turn the lights on and off and, in any case, she was going to have to go and feed the goldfish and check that everything was okay while he was away. ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘Cara...’ He lifted a hand and, although his fingertips barely brushed her cheek, her body’s leaping response was all the answer she needed. Of course it was necessary. She would be here, in his space, all day, all evening, either in the café or working on her designs.
He’d made no attempt to deny the frisson of heat, the desire that simmered whenever they were in the same room, but he’d made it clear in every way that, despite the attraction between them, he was still mourning the woman who’d abandoned him.
He might be mourning for Valentina, but right now he was there, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded and very much awake beneath those slumberous lids as he called her ‘cara’ in that sexy, chocolate-smooth accent.
She’d probably be doing him a favour if she reached out, tugged on the tie that was struggling to hold his robe together, pushing him over the edge so that he could blame her for his ‘fall’.
She wouldn’t have to push very hard. He wanted it as much as she did and she had him at a disadvantage. Once her hands were on his warm satiny skin, his resistance would hit the floor faster than his robe and neither of them would be thinking about anything except getting naked. But afterwards he’d feel guilty, there would be awkwardness and she didn’t just want his body, luscious as it was. She was greedy. She wanted all of Dante Vettori.
‘Are you sure you’ll be able to handle the goldfish?’ she asked, stepping back from the danger zone.
‘Are you mocking me, Signora Amery?’
‘Heaven forbid, Signor Vettori.’
She was mocking herself. She’d come to Isola looking for artistic and emotional freedom. Marco, gorgeously flirtatious, would have been perfect for the kind of sex without strings relationship she had envisaged. Or even the elegant Gennaro. Throwing Dante Vettori in her path on day one was Fate’s cruel little joke.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a litter tray to clean.’
* * *
Dante shut the door and leaned back against it. He’d made his list then soaked in a tub, filled with water that was not too hot, in a bathroom still steamy and scented with something herby that Angelica had used. Sprinkled a few drops of lavender oil on his pillow before lying back and recalling all the good things that had happened that day. He’d implied it would be hard but a dozen moments had crowded in...
The moment he’d walked into the café that morning, seen Angelica and experienced the same heart-stopping response as the night before. Watching her laugh. Avoiding her eyes as every male in the commissariato had paid court to her, knowing that they would be laughing just for him. The weight of her body against his as she’d slept while the vet operated on their stray...
And then he’d thought about all the good things he’d do today so that he’d wake up happy.
He’d have breakfast with Angelica. Bounce ideas off her, about his film. He’d call the vet for an update on the cat because she’d be anxious. Afterwards, they could go into the city for lunch and he’d show her the Duomo, wander through the Quadrilatero so that she could window-shop at the great fashion houses. Finally, supper in front of the fire. And bed. With her? Without her?
He’d have woken very happy if, when he’d opened his eyes, she had been lying beside him, her silky black hair spread across the pillow, her vivid mouth an invitation to kiss her awake...
He tightened his hand in an attempt to obliterate the peachy feel of her skin against his fingertips, the soft flush that warmed her cheeks, darkened her eyes, betraying her, even while she attempted to distance herself with words. They both knew that all he had to do was reach out to her and she would be in his arms.
It had been there from the moment he’d looked around and their eyes had met; in that first irresistible kiss. Romantics called it love at first sight, but it was no more than chemistry bypassing ten thousand years of civilisation, sparking the atavistic drive in all animals to procreate. A recognition that said, This one. This female will bear strong children, protect your genes...
That was how it had been with Valentina. She’d been at the party thrown to welcome him home, welcome him into the Vettori fold. She was there when he’d arrived, standing with his father, a golden, glittering prize, and he’d been felled by the metaphorical Stone Age club.
He was still suffering from the after-effects of the concussion and, whatever Lisa advised, whatever the temptation—and he’d been sorely tempted—he would not use Angelica as therapy.
Before he could weaken, he took a bag from his wardrobe, packed everything he was likely to need in the next week and then took a wake-up shower. An espresso, a quick run-through of the heating system and he’d be gone.
And then he opened his bedroom door and the smell of cooking stopped him in his tracks.
‘An English breakfast,’ he said, dropping his bag in the hall and walking into the kitchen. ‘That takes me back to those first days when my mother rented a house in Wimbledon. Sunday mornings and everyone walking their dogs on the Common.’
‘Pastries for breakfast are all very well,’ Angelica said without turning around, ‘but a long day should start with something more substantial.’
‘I noticed that you’d bought oatmeal.’
‘Oatmeal is for weekdays. Sunday demands il uovo strapazzato, la pancetta e il pane tostado.’
‘You’ve been at that phrasebook again.’
‘I’ve moved on to food and drink. Sadly, I can’t offer you la marmellata. I forgot to buy a jar when I was in the shop.’
‘Eggs, bacon and toast with marmalade? Really? I thought you were looking for new experiences, not clinging to the old.’
‘So you don’t want any of this?’ she asked, looking back over her shoulder as she waved a wooden spoon over the scrambled eggs, crisp thin bacon.
‘Did I say that?’
Her mouth widened in a teasing grin. ‘That’s what I thought. You can make the coffee while I dish up. Then you can tell me all about this ice cream parlour you want me to design.’
She was brisk, businesslike, keeping her distance, which should have made their enforced intimacy easier to handle. It didn’t. ‘You’re eager to start?’ he asked, concentrating on the espresso but intensely aware of her standing a few feet away.
‘I imagine you want it to be open in time for the spring?’ She turned to him, a frown buckling the clear space between her lovely brows. ‘Or was it just something you said to shut me up about paying rent?’
‘No...’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe. I didn’t want an argument, or rent complicating the accounts, but I do have a room that isn’t earning its keep and the more I think about it the more the
idea grows on me. We’ll take a look after breakfast if you’ve got time.’
Breakfast...
On the intimacy level, that word rang every bell.
* * *
‘This is it.’ Dante stood back and Geli stepped into a large square room with French windows that opened out onto a snow-covered courtyard. He’d warned her that the heating wouldn’t be on and she was glad of a long cardigan that fell below her hips and the scarf she’d looped around her neck. ‘What do you think?’
With an injured cat to nurse and three lively kittens to look after, an ice cream parlour to design, an inconvenient lust for a man who was locked in the past and snow, Geli thought that this was so not why she’d come to Italy.
She walked across to the window and looked out. There was the skeleton of a tree and a frosted scramble of bare vines on the walls that promised green shade in the summer. An assortment of tables, chairs and a small staged area in the corner were hidden beneath a thick coating of snow, undisturbed by anything other than a confused bird, floundering in an unexpectedly soft landing.
Dante joined her at the window. ‘It looks bleak on a day like this but in the summer—’
‘I can see,’ she said.
The snow would melt, the vines would flower, the kittens would be found good homes and designing an ice cream parlour would be a small price to pay for a temporary workspace. She’d find somewhere to live and Dante... Maybe her heart would stop jumping every time she saw him, every time he came near.
Meanwhile, there was this very tired room to bring to life.
She drew a rough square on the pad she was carrying and then fed out a tape measure. ‘Will you give me a hand measuring up?’
He took the end and held it while she read off the basic dimensions—length, width, height of the room. She made a note and then added detailed measurements of the positions of doors, windows, lighting and electrical sockets.
‘Have you any thoughts on a colour scheme?’ she asked.
‘Anything but pink?’ he volunteered.
‘Good start,’ she said. ‘I thought we might carry through the dark green from the café. It will tie the two parts together and look cool in the summer. I’ll add splashes of colour that we’ll carry through to the courtyard with pots filled with flowering plants.’