Return to Tuscany
By
Nora Fountain
Published by Nora Fountain
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © Nora Fountain 2012
Formatted by Bas Fountain
basfountain.co.uk
Licence Notes
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Index
Chapter 1
Verna sipped her iced lemonade, deep in thought. Was she a fool to come back here to this corner of Italy? Beyond the protective shade of the colourful parasol over her table, the late August sun beat down relentlessly, reflecting harshly in the cars parked cheek by jowl a few feet below the terrace where she was sitting, her almost Nordic fairness no match for Italy's heat.
Across the promenade a dazzling melange of colour all but obliterated the golden beach. The sapphire waters of the Mediterranean flirted with the edge of the shore, creaming in lacy scallops. Children played and squabbled, dug and paddled, while parents looked on and grandparents indulged in furtive catnaps.
Young people played ball-games or Frisbee where space allowed, while the more adventurous skied across the bay in the wake of roaring power-boats, or paraglided to the rocky islet midway between the encircling cliffs.
'Va bene, signorina?
The waiter's voice brought her out of her reverie, his brown eyes appreciative of her sun-streaked hair and honey-toned, lightly bronzed skin that made her striking grey eyes paler by contrast.
'Yes, thank you, I'm fine,' she replied absently in the same tongue, then, realising her glass was all but empty, hastily ordered another.
No traffic moved on the promenade to distract from her view of the bay, or drown out the sound of mewing seagulls swooping in ragged formation across the blue expanse of water. It was mid-afternoon, a quiet time of day for locals and tourists alike, when no-one moved in the heat unless compelled to. A latecomer shunted into the single remaining parking place; the small car disgorged its four occupants who, after much loud discussion and collecting of beach paraphernalia, crossed the promenade to merge with the scene opposite.
A movement caught Verna's eye high up on the road that curled its way down the far headland. The metallic glint of a car in a hurry sparkled and flickered and glittered its way round the tortuous bends. My, wasn't he in a hurry? Or she, perhaps. Verna dismissed the thought. There was a decidedly male aggression about the car just coming into view and the way it was being driven.
'Ecco, signorina.' The waiter set down the drink she had ordered.
'Grazie,’ she murmured, barely looking at him, her attention focused on the black Lamborghini now streaking along the promenade, the hood down behind a smoked-glass windscreen.
It was a man driving all right - and what a man!
The car screeched to a halt right in front of her as the pedestrian light outside the cafe changed, giving her a prime view of its occupant. A fine-shaped head crowned with luxuriant black hair rose proudly above a well-muscled torso. Broad shoulders strained beneath a casual white shirt. Bare, sinewy forearms held the wheel with a graceful competence. She had guessed right: only a man would sit with such arrogance or drive at such speed. She was still smiling at her private reflections when his head swung sharply round and their eyes met.
Her smile froze. His eyes were the deep azure of the Mediterranean backcloth but recognition narrowed them to black fury and icy contempt. Another car had pulled out from the lot and was tooting behind him, letting him know the lights had changed to green. With an impatient gesture he slammed into gear and shot off.
What on earth was Luke Bardalini doing here? He was the last person she had expected to see. His profession of architect used to keep him in such far- flung places as Hong Kong, Australia, the States. She summoned the waiter to pay and make her escape. 'Right away,' he told her but continued to serve a large order to a neighbouring table.
Tim, her fiancé, who worked as an accountant in London, had strongly objected to her making the trip at all, but it was something she felt she had to do.
For the past five years she had sent flowers for Gian-Paolo's grave by Interflora, two dozen of the red roses he had adored to mark the anniversary of his death.
That would have to stop, Tim had insisted, after they were married. She had therefore decided to make this trip and pay final homage to her young love, Gianni.
Now was an ideal time: she had just completed her five-year contract in Brussels and had flown directly from there to visit the small village cemetery in the Tuscan hills inland from here. She intended to hire a car for the purpose. She hadn’t bargained on running into Gianni's older half-brother, Luciano, whom he had called Luke and whom she had met at the funeral.
Even now, six years later, the recollection of his hatred had the power to leave her shaking and breathless.
She gathered her things together: she wouldn't feel safe until she’d abandoned this place where he’d spotted her and reached the seclusion of the small hotel where she had booked a room that morning. Not for her the opulence of the Hotel Europa which would have been Gianni's one day and where they had both worked six years ago. He had been learning, if reluctantly, every facet of the business which would have one day been his, while Verna had willingly performed any menial task which presented itself in an attempt to perfect her Italian and gain that coveted post in the EEC.
'How much?' she enquired of the man now standing beside her.
He took the seat next to hers and she looked up, startled, to find not the waiter she had expected but Luke who, even seated, towered menacingly above her. His eyes flickered briefly over her innocuous dress of apricot and cream cotton piped with white, with something approaching disdain.
'What in hell are you doing here?' he demanded without preamble.
Breathe deeply, she ordered herself fiercely. You're not the timid nineteen-year-old you were six years ago.
'I might ask you the same thing,' she replied, pleased that her voice sounded cool and confident. 'I thought your work kept you occupied in the far-flung corners of the globe - you were never around in the old days.'
'Circumstances now require it,' he told her bitterly. 'Gianni's death killed his father - he suffered a heart attack soon afterwards,' he added harshly, not sparing her. 'So Maddalena asked me to take charge of the hotel as well as run the Bardalini estates my own father left me. You're looking at one architect well and truly shackled.'
‘I-I'm sorry,' she murmured, shocked by his disclosures, though not so much for him as for his and Gianni's mother, Maddalena Valentini, the only member of the family who had shown her any kindness, and even she…
'Well?' Before she could formulate a reply he turned from her to the hovering waiter who had been so dilatory in bringing her bill but who was now taking in the exchange with interest. 'Bring me an espresso, Roberto.'
'Certo, Signor Bardalini. Signorina?'
'Make that two,' she told him, suddenly in need of inner warmth, despite the soaring temperatures.
She glanced at the man beside her, noting several pairs of eyes drawn to his rangy form. His white shirt was open almost to the waist, revealing a tanned chest liberally sprinkled with black hair; tailored cream trousers skimmed the muscled contours of his long thighs. His face had the lean, arrogant perfection of a Roman statue: high-bridged nose, high cheek-bones, jutting chin, sensual mouth, now tight and disdainful, and eyes of a shocking blue beneath heavy black brows.
How different Gianni had been with his honey-blond hair and dreamy green eyes, like Maddalena's and expressive of his sweet and sensitive nature. How could two brothers share the same mother yet be so different?
She looked away from the insolent contemplation of his gaze.
'I asked you a question,' he reminded her imperiously.
'I don't have to justify myself to you,' she retorted. 'You must realise I've come to visit Gianni's grave. If you want me to spell it out: I've come to pay my respects for the first and last time since he died.'
'The last?' he asked sharply.
'That's what I said,' she confirmed.
'You mean we are to be spared future visits by little Miss Gold-digger?'
She caught her breath, turning pain-filled eyes on her interrogator. For some reason she didn’t want even this loathsome, contemptuous man to think that of her.
'I loved Gianni, Luke, truly loved him. It was pressure from you and his father that drove him to elopement as the only escape. He wasn’t cut out to be an hotelier. He was an artist, oh, not a clever designer like yourself, but a gifted and sensitive landscape painter all the same. We'd have got by with my salary. We didn't want anything, just the freedom to live our lives as we wished.'
'Don't we all?' he flashed bitterly. 'But there's such a thing as responsibility. Gianni was aware of his.'
'He couldn't take so much then. It wasn't just the hotel. There was…'
Roberto set their cups of coffee before them, and left.
'Yes? There was… you were saying?'
'Franca,' she said. 'Your mother's god-daughter. He was expected to marry her when she reached eighteen. He couldn't do that - he loved me, not her. He had never loved her.'
He made a sound of disgust. 'Love!' he sneered. 'You English are so romantic - supposedly. You had yourself a holiday romance, didn't you? But then you discovered what Gianni's expectations were and that's when you got your greedy little hooks into him, wasn't it?'
'I don't have to stay and listen to this,' she announced, reaching for her purse, but a large brown hand restrained her.
Luke drew some notes from his pocket and threw them on the table, standing up at the same time as Verna. 'Where are you staying?' he asked.
'At the Pensione Inglesa,' she told him - at least if he knew they could avoid each other.
'That back-street hovel! You're moving to the Europa,' he stated, taking her elbow.
'I'm doing no such thing!' she countered, shaking herself free and striding purposefully away in the direction of her hotel.
She passed the parked Lamborghini - long, dark and sleek like its owner. To her surprise she appeared to be alone - Luke had not followed her. After some distance she risked a glance behind her but he was nowhere in sight - he must have returned to the café.
Ten minutes later she walked into the foyer of the Inglesa, which was dark after the glare in the street outside. As her eyes became accustomed to the light she noticed Signor Marcelli returning the telephone receiver to its cradle. His expression when he looked up was shifty, embarrassed.
'I’m terribly sorry, signorina,' he apologised sheepishly, 'but there has been a mistake. I appear to have inadvertently double-booked your room. A thousand pardons, signorina.'
'Don't worry, I'll take another.'
'That's the problem,' he said, cringing obsequiously. 'Unfortunately there is no other.'
'You mean I can't stay here?'
'Exactly! I'm terribly sorry.'
She couldn't believe it - it must have something to do with Luke. He had let her go too easily, though why he should want her staying at the Europa, heaven only knew.
'Will you get me the tourist office on the phone, Signer Marcelli?'
Uncertainty clouded his gaze but he could hardly refuse. He shrugged, dialled the number and handed her the receiver.
'Agenzia di turismo.'
'I'd like a room,' she began, 'preferably with its own bath, or…'
'Before you go any further,' a male voice told her, 'I'd better inform you that carnival week is imminent both here and in several neighbouring towns. It's a great tourist attraction and every establishment is full to capacity for the next ten days at least.'
'I don't believe it,' she said half to herself, adding a few words before putting down the phone.
What now? She would have to hire a car right away and drive to the nearest place where a room was available. As she turned, Signer Marcelli was depositing her cases in the foyer. She picked them up. There was a taxi rank close by: she would take one to a car hire firm.
The doors closed behind her and she looked up to find Luke on the pavement, leaning against his car.
'You arranged this!' she accused him angrily.
He confirmed it with a sardonic smile and an inclination of the head. Why fight him, she thought resignedly, dropping her cases onto the pavement.
'Get in,' he ordered, swinging her luggage into the boot of the car and opening the passenger door for her.
She sank into cushioned leather luxury - after all, it was only for a few days, and the Pensione Inglesa was not exactly the ne plus ultra for cleanliness or service.
'Why, Luke?' she asked, as they swung away from the kerbside and headed for the elegant forecourt of the Europa.
'Let's say I prefer to have you where I can keep an eye on you - in case you entertain ideas of hooking another wealthy, unsuspecting young heir to work your practised charms on.'
'You're really loathsome! It so happens I'm engaged to be married.'
His glance moved swiftly over her before returning to the road.
'Would that make any difference if something better happened along?' She didn’t deign to answer. 'What does he do, this fiancé of yours?'
'Tim's an accountant - and a very good one. And I don't believe you.' A thought occurred to her. 'You want to make me suffer by being in places where Gianni and I were happy, don't you?'
His smile was feral, baring teeth that were strong, white and gleaming.
'If only I could: make you suffer, that is, the way Maddalena and I have suffered. But there is something else.' A bleakness clouded his face. 'You were the last person to be with Gianni in those last precious hours of his life. I want to know what his frame of mind was then.'
Verna glanced at him. For a brief moment she glimpsed an unexpected vulnerability but it was gone in an instant, the harshness returning. Could this arrogant man possibly blame himself just the tiniest bit for his brother's flight and subsequent death?
They glided to a halt at the Europa, where steps led up to an impressive porticoed entrance. A uniformed porter ran smartly down those steps and opened the passenger door, his young face lighting up appreciatively as Verna's long legs touched the pavement and her slender curves uncurled from the low seat. Happy to see a friendly face she rewarded him with a smile.
Luke came round the car, scowling at their interchange and swinging the keys brusquely towards the hapless porter.
'Get the luggage in, Angelo, and garage the car.'
‘Subito, Signor Bardalini.'
'Still like ‘em young,' Luke rasped in her ear. 'Your charms are wasted on a mere porter. Let's get inside.'
Seething with indignation she let him lead her into the cool, marble-floored vestibule, where he deposited her at a gilt, cabriole-legged table while he went over to talk to the receptionist. Her eyes were so transfixed, despite herself, by his tall, elegantly clad figure that it didn’t register when someone stopped beside her.
'Mamma mia, if it isn't Verna Prescott!'
Verna's gaze swung to the twinkling dark eyes of Mario, head porter of the establishment while she had worked there. In his mid-fifties, his dark hair was greyer than she remembered.
'Mario, you're still here! Stay and talk to me for a moment.'
She addressed him in the Italian with which he had helped her so much.
'How are you, little one? Did you get the job in Brussels? We were shattered to learn of the accident. You two were friends, no?'
'Yes, I got the job - and thanks for your sympathy, but I'll never forget Gianni. He was so…'
A figure slid into the seat beside her. 'Rich?' came a harsh whisper in her ear.
'Mario,' he acknowledged the other man.
'Signor Bardalini. Nice to see you again, signorina.'
'And you, Mario,' she replied as he moved away.
Tight-lipped, Luke escorted her across the foyer to the lifts where a bell-boy was holding one for them.
Not a word passed between them as it whisked them smoothly up to the topmost floor. There they stepped out onto thick, luxuriant carpeting in a softly lit corridor. She had never seen this part of the hotel while employed here.
Luke stopped beside an unmarked door and unlocked it, stepping back for her to precede him inside.
She entered a luxuriously furnished sitting-room with black leather settees on a thick cream carpet. Smoked-glass tables held interesting objets d'art while modern prints hung on the walls. There was also a well-stocked drinks table and shelves of books.
'It's my private apartment,' he explained in reply to her querying look.
'I can't stay here!'
'Where else would you stay? Gianni would have expected me to look after the woman who seduced him.'
Ignoring his taunt she demanded: 'Whenever did you care about Gianni's wishes?'
'Of course I cared,' he burst out furiously, seizing her shoulder and swinging her into his line of vision. 'I always cared!' he went on bitterly, taking her other shoulder and giving her a small shake. 'Always!' he reiterated raggedly, then raised his lowered lashes and looked at her as if for the first time.
His palms burned her flesh through the thin cotton of her dress. His body was just brushing hers and she swayed towards him, her grey eyes wide, mesmerised by the expression in his.
'My God, you're beautiful! You wear the innocence of a Madonna but we both know how false that is, don't we, Verna?'
The softly spoken words didn’t at first penetrate the fog clouding her mind so she didn’t resist the hand that cradled her nape, the other arm drawing her to his rock-hard length. His head lowered with slow deliberation.
'No!' It was the cry of a wounded animal as his intent together with the insult impinged on her consciousness.
In vain she pressed her palms to his muscled chest, surprised at the rapid tattoo of his heart.
'I think yes!' he insisted the moment before his lips took hers.
Nothing in her experience had prepared her for Luke Bardalini, neither Tim with his dry, respectful kisses, nor Gianni with his gentle, romantic embraces. Her knees grew weak, her body melted pliantly into his hard contours, then suddenly she was free.
'Don't expect me to apologise,' he said quietly. 'You asked for that.' She would have hit him but feared further retribution. 'Your room is through there. I'll be back to take you to dinner at eight. Call room-service if you need anything.'
Her room where her luggage was waiting was some recompense for his brutish behaviour: all pink and cream with theatrical drapes flowing from a crown surmounting a huge bed. The ensuite bathroom had matching décor. She wondered what Luke's room was like; curiosity had her acting on the thought and taking a peek.
What a contrast! The room was plainly but tastefully furnished in shades of blue with highly polished furniture patterned with fine marquetry. She could just see the edge of a pillow and imagined Luke's dark head against the sky-blue fabric. Goodness, what was she doing, thinking such thoughts of the man who despised her?
She hurried out and went back to enjoy a warm, scented bath. She washed and dried her hair, then belted on a thin cotton robe and re-entered her room.
There she stopped dead for lying on top of her bed was Luke, his eyes drawn to the curves beneath her thin robe.
'What are you doing in here?' she asked nervously.
'Waiting to ask you a similar question. Why should your unique perfume be lingering behind the closed doors of my room?'
His eyes narrowed dangerously. Was that all, she thought with relief. She laughed nervously.
'Curiosity, I have to confess,' she admitted. 'I wondered if it would be as beautifully furnished as this room.'
'Liar!' he accused, sliding with the ease of a jungle cat from the counterpane and coming to tower over her, his thumbs hooked in his belt. 'Weren't you tempted to press a few buttons of the computer on my desk? What were you looking for?'
'N-nothing,' she assured him breathlessly, his nearness doing alarming things to her metabolism. 'I didn't even notice a computer. I was looking at the décor.'
'And hoping to check my bank balance at the same time, no doubt.'
'That's a despicable thing to say.'
'Is it? Weren't you wondering whether it would be worthwhile using your charms to captivate me - as you captivated Gianni?' She gazed at him, dumbfounded with shock. 'Don't pretend your sexy little body felt nothing for me when I kissed you, though your scheming mind fought against surrender - doubtless till you could be certain it would be worth your while.'
'Why do you persist in being so hateful? We both loved Gianni in our own way - let's leave it at that.'
'I can't do that. His death turned my whole life topsy-turvy - to say nothing of Maddalena's. I have to understand why he was prepared to throw in everything, only to die pointlessly in a stupid road accident. So, for your information, I now own this hotel, though my mother holds twenty-five per cent of the shares. The Bardalini estates and vineyards are mine outright - my mother has made her home there and will stay as long as she wishes. I also pick up a tidy sum from architectural commissions which allow me interesting if regrettably short trips to all parts of the world. That makes me rich by anyone's standards. Interested?' He took a step nearer. 'Is that you wanted to know?'