The Temptation of Gracie

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Oh, Rex, that’s such a sweet thing to say.’

  ‘I’m not being sweet. I’m being honest. I just want to bask in your light. Because you have a light, Gracie. I don’t think everyone sees it because you keep it very much to yourself. But I see it and I consider it a privilege.’ Gracie didn’t know what to say. She smiled shyly and brought her cup of mint tea to her lips, even though there was only a drop left in it. ‘I see you’re lost for words,’ he continued, delighted to have moved her. ‘So, I’ll give you time to gather yourself and tell you a story of my own. I was a musician once. I know, hard to imagine now, isn’t it? But a long time ago, when I was a young man, devilishly handsome and charming too, of course, I played the drums in a band. I even played for Aerosmith once, now that was an adventure . . .’

  Madeleine led Anastasia to the other end of the terrace where they could be alone. ‘Anastasia, may I ask you something? Woman to woman?’

  Anastasia’s heart quickened. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Did you see me?’ She hesitated as if unsure how to put her thoughts into words. ‘You know, down by the tennis court. Am I your snake?’

  Anastasia was about to lie, but Madeleine’s expression was so kind, concerned even, and not at all accusatory, that she nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so.’ She laughed. ‘I didn’t think you’d seen a snake the size of a cow.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say so I said the first thing that came to mind. It was silly. Alex is teasing me mercilessly now.’

  ‘And Giovanni has . . . with you too? Am I right? I think I am.’

  Anastasia sighed and to her embarrassment her eyes began to well with tears. ‘I thought he loved me.’

  ‘Oh, darling.’ Madeleine put her hands on Anastasia’s upper arms and her face creased with sympathy. ‘I’m sorry. If I had known I would have given him a slap.’

  ‘It’s okay. I suppose it’s better to find out now rather than later.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Anastasia shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can I tell you what I would do?’ Anastasia nodded. Madeleine bent her head and whispered into her ear. Anastasia listened. Then her eyes lit up and she smiled. The two women laughed together. ‘I’m right, no?’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ Anastasia answered.

  ‘So, we’re friends?’

  ‘Yes,’ Anastasia replied.

  ‘Lovers come and go but friends are for ever,’ said Madeleine. ‘But it is important to punctuate your life with a good lover every now and then. It will keep you looking young.’ It had certainly worked for Madeleine.

  Anastasia found her grandmother at the table, listening to Rex, their faces illuminated in the glow of the dwindling candlelight. Everyone else had moved to the higher terrace to drink coffee and gaze out over the panorama of silhouetted hills and starry skies. When Rex saw Anastasia he knew he could no longer lay claim to Gracie. He departed without a murmur, leaving the two alone in the still, quiet night.

  ‘He likes you, Granny,’ said Anastasia.

  ‘He thinks he does,’ Gracie replied. ‘Italy has a way of enchanting people.’

  ‘I think it enchanted me,’ Anastasia said. Her grandmother frowned. ‘It’s okay. Giovanni is just a typical Italian who will seduce anything that moves.’

  ‘What happened?’ Gracie put her hand on Anastasia’s. Anastasia sandwiched it with her other one.

  ‘I’m not going to talk about me. I want to talk about you. You promised me you’d tell me the end of the story.’

  ‘Very well. Where did we get up to?’

  ‘You were about to go to the Côte d’Azur with Uncle Hans. He wanted to marry you off and the painting you forged had been sent back to Livia and Bruno, leaving Gaetano with the real one.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I remember.’

  ‘So, did you go to the Côte d’Azur?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And what happened?’ Anastasia put her elbow on the table and dropped her head onto her hand. ‘Did Uncle Hans introduce you to all the eligible men there?’

  ‘Of course he did, but I pined for Gaetano,’ she said. ‘However, that didn’t stop Uncle Hans trying. And goodness, didn’t he try!’

  As Anastasia listened she was aware that her mother was watching her from the higher terrace. Nevertheless, she did not allow herself to be distracted. She did not shift her gaze. She looked at her grandmother closely. Tonight she would find out where Gaetano lived and why Gracie had not gone in search of him. She would find out why she had not visited La Colomba. She would remain here, in this chair, until she had all the answers, and then she would report to her mother and decide what to do next.

  Later, she would meet Giovanni, as she had done for the previous four nights. But this time she would give him something special to remember her by.

  Chapter 22

  France, 1964

  Gracie stood on the balcony of Uncle Hans’s magnificent white villa, set high in the hills above Antibes, and gazed down onto the luxurious swimming pool below where guests, bronzed from the hot Mediterranean sun, mingled in their bikinis and swimming trunks, drinking cocktails, smoking languidly and chatting in French, Italian and Spanish, like a flock of exotic birds. The sight was overwhelming and Gracie wished she were back in the safe and familiar environment of La Colomba. But Uncle Hans was in his element. He was circulating in a panama hat, trousers rolled up at the ankles and a white shirt, cigarette in one hand, cocktail glass in the other, his smile broad and dazzling beneath a pair of fashionable sunglasses. Everyone loved Uncle Hans, Gracie noticed. Women fawned over him, men wanted to talk to him, even small children were drawn to him. He had a joke for everyone, a ready laugh and an easy charm that made all who came near him feel attractive, interesting and witty, even when they weren’t. He had a gift and he clearly revelled in it.

  They had been at Villa Charlene now for ten days. Gracie’s skin had turned brown for Uncle Hans had insisted she buy a bikini and lie in the sun with everybody else. ‘You’re not going to find a husband hiding away at La Colomba or loitering in the shadows of Villa Charlene,’ he said, ignoring Gracie’s protestations. ‘And yes, you do need a husband. You owe it to your mother, as do I. She would never forgive me if I allowed you to grow into an old maid.’

  Gracie found the society in Antibes overpowering. It was moneyed, entitled and fickle. The women were beautiful and glamorous, dressed in the latest fashions, their wrists dangling with jewellery, their hair coiffed into big, elaborate styles, their confidence abundant and intimidating. The men were rich, smooth, well-mannered and handsome, and yet Gracie longed for Tancredi’s arms to gather her up and take her away from a place in which she clearly did not belong.

  Among Uncle Hans’s friends was a young blond American called Jonas Blythe. He was not like the others. He did not look over her shoulder when he talked to her. He did not flash his wealth and he did not speak anything other than English, with a slow Boston drawl. He had eyes the colour of faded denim and long, dark lashes that framed them to dazzling effect. His lips curled up at the corners as if always on the brink of a smile or constantly ready to deliver a witticism. He was boyish and cheerful and even when critical his barbed comments were delivered in such a tone as to arouse amusement in those receiving them. Jonas and Uncle Hans had a way of playfully mocking each other that was so acerbic and snide as to be hilariously funny. They were famous for their clever repartee and people flocked around them to hear it, laughing heartily and a little nervously as the two men competed to outwit each other.

  Gracie liked Jonas from their very first meeting. ‘My darling, these people are trash,’ he had told her, blowing smoke out of his nostrils like a benign dragon. ‘They come for the cocktails and the food and because brash and wealthy people like to see other brash and wealthy people. The trick is to find enjoyment in watching them. Imagine you’re at a zoo and you’re observing the habits and tastes of a strange but remarkable species. That is the only way to
tolerate them.’

  It was Jonas who had helped Gracie choose a bikini and Jonas who educated her on social endurance, rescuing her when he noticed her looking lost and uncertain – Uncle Hans was much too busy being sociable. Jonas loved shopping whereas Uncle Hans did not. Gracie soon realised that it was Jonas who had chosen the dresses Uncle Hans had given her. ‘Hansworthy loses his temper in shops,’ Jonas confided as they wandered through the streets of Antibes. ‘He has no patience at all. The only reason he cuts a dash is because I shop for him and I know what suits him.’ Jonas had good taste and flair, and was quick to point out the flaws in Gracie’s figure that needed covering up, and the positives that should be enhanced. ‘You have a small waist, my darling, so flaunt it. You have pretty eyes, so choose blues, greys and greens to bring them out. They are your greatest asset so don’t be shy about them, flutter those lashes and, for God’s sake, don’t be afraid of the mascara wand!’ At that point he had inhaled sharply and scanned her body with his incisive gaze. ‘You are short, so you must always wear a heel, and be careful not to eat too much starch or it will sit on your behind. Curves are one thing, dough is quite another. You will be my little project, but don’t tell Hansworthy or he’ll get frightfully jealous, and jealousy turns him sour.’ He inhaled through his nose and pursed his lips. ‘And I can’t abide sourness in anybody.’

  Now Gracie watched the party below with a new feeling of apprehension because the young man Uncle Hans had picked out for her was making his way round the pool with his eye on the balcony. Pierre de la Croix was wealthy but not brash; even Jonas had given his approval with the words, ‘He does not stop traffic but his wallet more than compensates for his aesthetic deficiencies.’ Considering the criticism he bestowed on others, this might easily have been a compliment. Indeed, Pierre was no beauty, but he wasn’t unpleasant-looking either. Jonas had informed her that although he was below her on the food chain in terms of looks, he was above her in terms of wealth and status, which evened out to a perfect match. ‘You see,’ he had said in the tone he adopted when sharing pearls of wisdom. ‘The food chain is a science that must be considered before choosing a partner. Imagine a list of animals. At the top are lions, panthers, cheetahs and tigers. At the bottom are warthogs, sloths and pigs. The levels in between are occupied by weasels, deer, monkeys and all the other animals on the planet. Now, a panther is not going to deign to date a warthog, unless the panther is a poor panther and the warthog a millionaire. On the whole warthogs find their own level and stick to sloths and pigs, perhaps going up a level if they’re lucky. Panthers consider themselves above deer and horses and rabbits, so they’ll look out for other panthers, lions and tigers. Do you get my drift?’

  Gracie understood perfectly. Pierre, who was now making his way through the French doors, was what she deserved. She wondered what Jonas would make of Tancredi. She could just hear him saying, ‘Darling, he’s a panther and you are a sweet pony. You have nothing that would interest a panther. To be a success in life you have to know your place in the food chain!’ But Gracie didn’t want Pierre, pony or not.

  ‘Hello, Gracie,’ Pierre said, smiling. Had Gracie not been impervious to his charms on account of her infatuation with Tancredi, she might have warmed to his smile. It made his rather ordinary face surprisingly attractive. He was not tall but he was slim and athletic, and he dressed well in the way Frenchmen do. He wore an open-neck shirt, a cravat around his neck, well-cut red shorts and moccasins on his feet. He swept a hand through thick brown hair, looked at her with eyes the colour of molasses and spoke to her in an accent most Englishwomen would swoon over. But Gracie was used to accents, living with Hans and Rutger, and she did not find Pierre’s particularly interesting. But she liked him. There wasn’t anything about him to dislike. (‘Dull, darling,’ Jonas had said, but Gracie did not find him dull.)

  He kissed her, wrapping her in the spicy scent of his cologne. ‘You look radiant, Gracie,’ he said, sweeping his eyes over the blue dress Jonas had made her buy.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied. Jonas had also told her never to dismiss a compliment with a self-deprecating remark. That was ‘so terribly English and gauche’.

  Pierre leaned on the balustrade and gazed down. ‘Hans always gives the best parties,’ he said. ‘Look at him! Working the crowd. Making new contacts for his business. He is a very shrewd man.’

  ‘Art is a people business. It’s all about contacts,’ said Gracie.

  ‘To be sure, and Hans is a people person.’ He turned to her. ‘And what are you, Gracie? You restore paintings but you are not about making contacts, are you?’

  ‘I work in the background while my uncle finds the buyers and sellers.’

  ‘A fine pair.’

  ‘Yes, we work well together.’

  He spotted Jonas who had stripped down to his swimming trunks and was posing on the diving board, waiting for everyone to notice his tanned and toned body before he performed a perfect dive, cocktail glass in hand. ‘Jonas Blythe is a show-off,’ he said and Gracie noticed the jealousy in his voice.

  ‘He’s an entertainer. He loves people.’

  ‘And he loves being loved by them.’

  ‘I think everyone loves Jonas.’

  ‘That is because they are afraid of him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. They know his comments are designed to amuse, not hurt.’

  ‘But often they hurt all the same. He expects people to laugh and condemns them as humourless if they don’t, but really his humour is cheap and nasty.’

  Gracie’s cheeks burned with indignation. ‘I can’t agree with you,’ she replied. Jonas now had the attention of all the guests and did a running jump before leaping into the air and folding into a tidy somersault. He straightened just in time, cutting through the water in a dive and causing only the slightest ripple. When he emerged, cocktail glass still in his hand, the crowd gave a roar of approval, for which he rewarded them with a beaming smile.

  ‘What is he to you?’ Pierre asked Gracie.

  ‘He’s my dear friend,’ Gracie replied without hesitation.

  ‘He is in love with you,’ he said.

  This was news to Gracie. ‘You’re quite wrong,’ she said, shocked.

  ‘Why? He dresses you and advises you on every area of your life. Do you think he would bother if he was not in love with you?’

  ‘He bothers because he’s my friend.’

  Pierre shrugged. ‘Have you not seen the way he looks at you? I bet that dive was especially for you.’

  Gracie laughed. ‘That’s absurd, Pierre.’

  ‘I wish it was.’ He sighed wistfully. ‘Do you love him back?’

  Gracie was astonished by his directness. She would have retorted curtly, ‘What business is it of yours?’ but she knew why he thought it his business and she didn’t want to go there. ‘As a friend, I do,’ she replied tersely.

  ‘Are you sure it is nothing more?’

  Pierre’s probing was now irritating Gracie. If Jonas could hear him he would no longer think him dull, just graceless. ‘I know my heart, Pierre. I know it better than anyone.’

  This seemed to satisfy him. ‘Then I believe you. Just be careful. I don’t trust Jonas Blythe at all.’

  ‘I think I would trust him with my life,’ she retorted.

  ‘Then you are a fool.’

  Gracie did not want to talk to him any more. She shook her head in annoyance and made to go inside. Pierre put a hand on her arm to stop her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a little jealous, that’s all, and I’m suspicious of men who pretend to be a girl’s best friend.’ Gracie shook off his hand. ‘I like you, Gracie. I like you a lot,’ he added.

  Gracie remembered Donato with an inward cringe. Pierre had the same look upon his face. The pleading, sorry look of a man who cannot have what he wants and is yet to accept it. ‘I like you too, Pierre. But not in the way that you want me to like you.’

  ‘You barely know me, Gracie. Let me show you how gallant and entertaining I can
be.’

  ‘Pierre—’ she began, but he cut her off.

  ‘I won’t take no for an answer. I ask for nothing from you, but your time.’

  And that was the one thing Gracie was able to give him. ‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘But I don’t want to hear another word about Jonas.’

  ‘That’s a deal.’ He grinned and put out his arm. ‘Allow me to escort you to the party. It looks to me like the lady needs a drink.’ Gracie needed more than a drink; she needed a oneway ticket to Pisa.

  However, in spite of her reservations, Gracie was grateful for Pierre. Although she did not harbour any romantic feelings for him, she was happy to be escorted to parties, for it meant that she was never left on her own, feeling friendless. He was attentive, cultured and funny, and she discovered, over the following week, that he was good company. Yet, all the while she was with him she was wishing she was with Tancredi. She wondered what he was doing in Rome and wished that he could telephone her, but there was no way he could call her at the villa, and she was unable to telephone him in Rome for the same reasons. Would they ever be free to love each other in public? Would they ever be released from this life lived in secret?

  When they weren’t at the beach or at someone else’s villa, Gracie, Uncle Hans and Jonas lounged by the pool at Villa Charlene, smoking lazily and gossiping about the people they met. Gracie loved those times the best. If she couldn’t be with Tancredi, the next best thing was being with Uncle Hans and Jonas.

  ‘Tell me, Gracie, how is your romance going with Pierre?’ Uncle Hans asked one afternoon when they had returned, slightly tipsy, from a lunch party given by an American film producer.