I reach for my phone and google Count Rocco Rossetti. I noticed last night he wore no wedding ring, so he must at least be in the list of ‘Most Eligible’ bachelors that magazines like to compile. I expect to find a trove of info, but after trying various spellings of his name, I come up with nothing.
Not one single entry, which is really, really odd considering he is titled, rich, and breathtakingly handsome.
Chapter 6
Autumn
Turns out Larry doesn’t know much about the Count either. He has come in a few times and bought some of Larry’s best pieces. The payment is sent from a numbered account in Switzerland, and there is no delivery address because he always gets someone to pick up the paintings.
Thursday comes by and a tall, thin man in a black suit comes to pick up the painting. He waits politely as I bring the securely wrapped painting out from the back. Then he thanks me and exits the shop. I stand at the door and watch curiously as he carefully puts it into the trunk of one of those narrow three wheel vehicles. Larry comes to stand behind me.
“Strange, isn’t it?” he murmurs.
“Yes, very strange,” I reply.
“I think the Count lives up the mountain, don’t you?”
I turn to look at Larry. “Really? Someone lives up there?”
“Well, that’s the rumor I heard when I moved here five years ago. Apparently, there’s a huge sandstone mansion up there.”
“Have you never wanted to check it out?”
“Are you kidding? There are ‘No Trespassing’ signs all over the place, and the road leading up to it is treacherous to say the least. So narrow, I’ve heard of people getting stuck and having to abandon their cars because recovery trucks cannot go up. No way I’m taking my lovely BMW on that dirt path.”
I frown. “If the road is so narrow how did all the building equipment go up… the lorries, the cranes, the sandstones.”
“No idea,” he confesses.
“So… he just lives up there alone?”
“Staff. Lots of them. I’ve seen a few around town shopping, but they are not a friendly lot. I’ve heard they will give you a blank stare and walk away if you try to engage them in any kind of chit chat or conversation.”
“Why do you think he lives up there?”
Larry shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Do you think he might be a fugitive from the law or something?”
Larry smiles. “Don’t be so dramatic, Autumn. I imagine he is just an eccentric European aristocrat, one of those recluses who jealously guard their privacy.”
“He doesn’t have a European accent though,” I note.
“No, he doesn’t. I must admit I’ve never given it much thought. Perhaps he was born in this country. Anyway, I better go do some work. Marion wants me home early today.”
He goes upstairs and spends a bit of time filing away some invoices. Thirty minutes later Larry leaves. At five I put the closed sign on, change out of my work clothes and into my jeans and sweatshirt.
Then, I pull my painting out from the cupboard, put it back on the easel, and study it. It does not have the fire and raw passion of the painting I did last night, but it is haunting. There is something about this painting that feels real. As if there were once real people living in that gray castle until terrible things happened to them and they abandoned it and left it to rot away.
I paint for a couple of hours, but my thoughts keep returning to Rocco Rossetti. My research has revealed that the etymology of the surname Rossetti links back to the word red. It was a name given to people with red hair. Rocco is pure blond though. The kind of blond that shines like spun gold. Extraordinary, really. In fact, everything about him is extraordinary. Living in isolation up on an inaccessible mountain. Offering me all that money for an unfinished painting. His looks. His piercing eyes. Even his unexpected appearance at the shop.
It’s close to eight when I put all my paints and brushes away. Tonight, I’m tired. I cycle home, warm up a can of macaroni and cheese, then curl up on the couch to eat it. It’s not great, but tomorrow I get paid and I will treat myself to a feast, a massive Chinese take-out. The whole works. There will even be leftovers which I will leave for the raccoons.
Once the food is gone, I feel so exhausted I go to bed without even bothering with a shower. But I don’t sleep soundly. I keep dreaming of him. Strange, confusing dreams. In them, I am afraid of something as I keep looking behind me as I run through unending, twisting, dark forests. Something is chasing me, but I do not know what. It feels as if I am running towards him for safety and refuge, but I never get to him.
I wake up suddenly.
It is three in the morning. Feeling restless and ravenous I go to the freezer and take out a tub of ice cream and remove the plastic lid. I put it into the microwave. I grab a spoon from the washing rack and ten seconds later the microwave pings. With one hand clutching my duvet around myself and the other holding the ice cream and spoon, I pull open the door and go outside into the night. There is a half-moon in the sky and it paints the field in front of me silver. A deer walks quietly across the field and I watch the way it picks its delicate legs over the long grasses until it disappears into the dark of the woods.
All the other caravans are in darkness. Only the old gypsy woman’s windows glow with yellow light.
It is so cold my breath mists as I sit on the plastic chair under my window and begin to eat my ice cream. The ice cream tastes and feels incredible as it melts in my hot mouth. With the Count in my heart like a delicious secret, I close my eyes and relish the sensation of the cold liquid sliding down my throat. It’s so great to be alive. So damn great.
Right at that moment I wouldn’t have changed places with anybody else on earth.
Chapter 7
Autumn
Two days pass. Soon it will be time to close, but Rocco Rossetti doesn’t come to the shop. He must know by now that I transferred the deposit he left for my painting to Miranda Taking a Bath.
I know my body is waiting for him, because I jump every time the rusty doorbells ring. My painting of the crumbling castle is nearly finished. It is intricate and detailed. Yesterday, after Larry had gone out of the door I pulled it out and put it on the easel, but Larry had forgotten to turn off the lights in his office upstairs and he came back into the shop. To my surprise he came and stood next to me.
I was nervous to have him look at my painting. Of his verdict. It was my baby so of course I loved it, and Rocco Rossetti had wanted to buy it unfinished, but Larry was a connoisseur. He knew about great art and could recognize a winner at a glance. I could hear my heart beating like a mad thing and I hardly dared to breathe.
Finally, unable to bear the tension anymore I turned and looked at his profile. “Well, what do you think?”
“Hmmm… it’s very good.”
“But…” I prompted softly.
He met my gaze. “It’s not you.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Remember when you told me you used to climb the tallest trees and go higher than any boy in your neighborhood, and how a branch you were standing on gave way and you fell and broke your arm so badly the bone was sticking out of your flesh?”
“Yeah?”
“And how you climbed straight back up that tree while your arm was still in a sling.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember the sensation you felt as you were climbing that tree with one arm in a sling? The crazy exhilaration of knowing how dangerous what you were doing was and the memory of the pain of breaking your bones still fresh in your mind, but conquering and mastering your fears, anyway.”
And suddenly I knew what he was talking about. He was talking about the kind of painting I had done alone in my caravan the night I met Rocco Rossetti. That painting of me and Rocco having dirty, animalistic sex together.
“You’re a daredevil, Autumn,” Larry added passionately. “This kind of painting is pleasing to the eye and is
fine for people who want something pretty to hang in their living room, but you are capable of something far, far greater. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded slowly.
He smiled suddenly at me. “Until you find that spark in you, you won’t be all you can be, but don’t be disheartened. I’m still happy for you to hang this piece in the showroom when it is finished. For sure someone will buy it.”
“It’s not for sale,” I say quickly.
“Okay,” he says easily, and walks away.
Since that illuminating encounter with Larry, I haven’t painted anything. I know he is right. I will only paint again when that same irresistible urge to create that had come upon me that night when I painted in the caravan strikes me again.
I turn to look at the clock. Half-an-hour before closing time. Maybe I should order a large pepperoni pizza and take it home. I can certainly afford it, I found an extra two thousand dollars in my paycheck this month. Larry said it is my commission for selling the painting. I felt bad and told him honestly that I’d done nothing to encourage the sale. In fact, I’d been a bit startled by his appearance and so had been quite rude to him, but Larry waved away my objections with the final words, “If you hadn’t been in the shop in the first place the Count would not have been able to come in and buy the painting.”
Upstairs, I hear Larry start to move around. He is getting ready to leave.
The rusty bells ring and my head whirls around. The air is knocked out of my lungs as my gaze collides with a pair of translucent blue eyes. Wearing all black and looking as impossibly immaculate as he did the other night, he locks his gaze on me… and suddenly I can’t look away. The air becomes thick with lust, mine. What is it about him? The moment I see him I start thinking about climbing him. Impaling myself on him.
It is only when Larry’s footsteps on the wooden stairs penetrate my crazed state that I manage to drag my gaze away. I can feel myself trembling as Larry arrives in the showroom. He sees our customer and immediately his face splits into a beaming smile. He appears genuinely happy to see the Count.
“Ah, Count Rossetti. How wonderful to see you again,” he gushes expansively.
The Count smiles, and I stare at him, mesmerized. His whole face transforms and he appears utterly, indescribably, and unbelievably handsome. I know I sound like a silly teenager with a crush on a pop star, but without warning that wild feeling fills me again. I need to paint his face.
“Autumn,” Larry calls.
I turn my head dazedly towards him.
He raises his eyebrows, and I realize he must have been speaking, but I’ve not heard a word.
Hot color rushes up my throat. “Sorry?” I mumble, totally embarrassed.
He inclines his head so slightly towards the backroom. It would have been imperceptible to anyone else watching, but it finally clicks in my cotton-wool head. What the hell was I doing? I shouldn’t be standing here staring with open-mouthed awe at the Count. I should have scuttled off to the backroom ages ago, and let the two men talk business.
“Please excuse me,” I mutter without meeting the eyes of the Count, and quickly start walking away.
I’ve not even gone two steps, when I hear his voice say, “Don’t go. I’ve come to invite you both to dinner.”
Chapter 8
Autumn
I freeze. I’m not sure if I’ve heard correctly, but when I turn around Larry’s stunned expression is enough to know I have. My knees feel wobbly and my mind is blank. Dinner? Me? Why? My gaze swings past Larry’s comical face towards the Count. He is staring at me with those brilliantly blue eyes.
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
Thank God, Larry fills the strange silence in the room. “We’d love to accept.”
The Count’s eyes never leave me. “Are you free tonight?”
“Of course we are,” Larry answers for me.
“Good. Shall we say eight at the Four Seasons?”
“Great. We’ll meet you there,” Larry accepts without consulting me.
“Until then…” The Count bows his head formally at us, then withdraws. The rusty bells chime in the silence he leaves behind.
I exhale the breath I’m holding and I turn to look at Larry. “What was that all about?” I croak.
“You don’t have anything to do tonight, do you?” Larry asks belatedly.
“I was actually going to paint,” I reply tartly.
“Look, I’m sorry. I should have asked you first, but it would have been churlish to refuse his invitation. He is my best customer,” Larry apologizes.
“I think you should go without me.”
“Please come, Autumn. I’ll pay you overtime,” Larry says persuasively.
“It’s not the money. I just wouldn’t feel comfortable. To start with I don’t know him. What will I do while you guys talk business?”
“Have you had dinner at the Four Seasons before?”
It’s the best restaurant for miles around. A famous New York Chef opened it many years ago. In the beginning people wondered why anyone, let alone such a bigwig in the culinary world, would open such a fine restaurant in such a rural place. Who would come and pay his inflated prices, but it turned out he made a wise decision. People will always come and pay for extraordinary service and food. I’ve even heard that it’s hard to get a table there.
“No,” I admit. “My wages don’t reach to meals that costs hundreds of dollars per head.”
“Well,” Larry says, slipping seamlessly into sales mode, “this is your opportunity to eat there. I should tell you that their rib-eye steak is indescribably wonderful. The best I’ve ever had. They use only grass-fed beef, and it literally melts in your mouth. It is served with a creamy French peppercorn sauce. I have no idea how it is made, but it’s like silk on your tongue.”
My mouth drops with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “Are you trying to bribe me with food, Larry?”
“Is it working?” he asks hopefully.
“Actually, it is… a bit. That creamy sauce did catch my attention.”
Larry sees that he has drawn blood and really goes for it. “Yeah? Well, let me tell you about the dessert. They have this rich chocolate fudge cake, which they serve warm with the most luxurious Cornish ice cream from England you’ve ever tasted. As if that was not enough a waiter actually comes around and pours melted warm gooey chocolate from a tiny jar onto your slice. It’s absolutely to die for.”
I start laughing.
We both know he has won, but he is not finished. Larry likes to be sure of his victories. “And for the starter you have their signature dish. Smoked duck served with the freshest, most delicious pomegranate, walnut and rocket salad you have ever tasted.”
“Stop,” I plead, my empty stomach rumbling.
“Will you come, Autumn? As a favor to me.”
“To be honest I would come just for that chocolate cake and gooey sauce, but I honestly have nothing to wear to a place like that, Larry. My wardrobe consists of t-shirts, sweatshirts and jeans. And all the shops are already shut by now.”
He frowns and is silent for a moment and I can almost hear the gears in his brain working. When he finds the solution to his predicament, his whole face glows like a light bulb. “You are the same size as my wife’s niece, Jenna. I’ll get her to bring a few dresses for you to try on. Would that be all right?”
My eyes widen. Wow! He really, really doesn’t want to let the Count down. I’ve met Jenna once when she dropped something off, and she is the same size as me. What harm can it do to go to dinner with them? It’s not like I’ll ever be alone with the Count. I shrug. “Sure.”
“Great. Thank you for this, Autumn,” he says, relief all over his face, as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “By the way what size shoes do you wear?”
Chapter 9
Autumn
Jenna has smaller feet than me, but Larry calls his wife and finds out she is the same size as me. He gets her to drop off two boxes
of shoes. I gasp when I open the boxes. Two almost new, totally gorgeous pair of Louboutins. One red one black. Twenty minutes later Jenna comes around carrying three dresses and a red coat on hangers. I wonder if Marion and Jenna discussed what they would be bringing over, because the red coat is almost exactly the same color as one of the pairs of shoes.
I go into the backroom and try on the slinky black dress first. It is more sophisticated than anything I’ve ever owned. I put it on and immediately know I don’t have to try the others. It fits beautifully, with slim-fitting three quarter sleeves, a scoop neckline, and a fairly tight skirt that ends just under my knee. There is a slit on the right thigh that turns the dress from elegant to sexy.
Gingerly, I step into the pair of red shoes. It’s been a long while since I wore high heels, but after a few steps around the backroom I realize that the shoes are very comfortable and easy to walk in. I find a tube of lipstick at the bottom of my purse and use it on my lips and cheeks. Then I let my hair down and secure the side with a couple of clips I find inside my drawer. To my surprise, I also find an old tube of mascara in there. The wand is a bit dried up, but I manage to get some onto my eyelashes. I pull on the red coat and I’m ready.
I feel like Cinderella as I walk out of the backroom into the shop. Larry is sitting on the leather sofa. He has opened a bottle of champagne and is sipping from a flute. He looks up when I enter, and whistles.
“Whoa, Autumn. It’s a good thing I’m head over heels in love with my wife, because you look positively edible,” he says with a smile.
I feel myself blush at the compliment.
“Come and have a drink with me before we leave. We still have fifteen minutes to kill.” He fills a glass with champagne and holds it out to me.
I go over and take it from him. I take a sip and deliciously cold bubbles run down my throat and hit my empty stomach. “Why do you think the Count wants to take us to dinner?”
The Other Side Of Midnight Page 3