When Vicky made no immediate reply, Carl McKinley’s voice hardened.
“It was you who tried to contact my father, wasn’t it?”
Vicky suddenly felt very unsure of herself, and not a little apprehensive.
“Perhaps it would be better under the circumstances if I went to my hotel first.”
He seemed to soften. Smiling, he took her lower arm with his free hand, and picked up her case.
“My father would never forgive me if I allowed that – you must stay with the family and enjoy our hospitality. Come, the car is waiting outside.”
A saluting porter held open the terminal door as he guided Vicky firmly through. Her legs were trembling as he maintained his firm, but not painful grip upon her. There was just no way she could have got free without making a scene. But the strangest thing was she didn’t want to resist.
The car was a huge American-style Sedan, with dark tinted windows, parked, she noted, in a restricted zone, but two carabineri stood by without interfering. A grey-suited chauffeur held open the rear door.
Carl stood to one side, but she was aware of his look as she bent to get in and sat down, her skirt riding up as she did so. Vicky was pulling at it when he unexpectantly began pushing in after her. Hastily, she moved over to the middle, unable to reach the far side because of a long slim packing case leaning against the seat.
“I’ve been to the gallery in Genoa, this morning,” Carl explained. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
Vicky murmured something in reply, hardly trusting her voice, it seemed so brittle.
They left the airport and eventually turned on to a motorway that led out of the city, passing spectacularly from tunnel to bridge to tunnel as they cut across the fringes of some mountains. Vicky was acutely aware of the man beside her, of his iron-hard leg pressed against hers, his arm stretched out behind her head, passing along the back of the seat.
His body was clean, warm, and with just a touch of the aroma of aftershave or something masculine. But his manner as they drove on was withdrawn. He said very little, only the barest minimum that courtesy demanded.
Was it something to do with her? She was aware that he glanced at her from time to time, and she was annoyed that she felt her cheeks burning. She hoped that he would not detect the slight tremor in her legs.
Why had she allowed this to happen? She needn’t have come in the first instance – just sent a letter. Having done it, and arrived to find that things were not as she had imagined, there would have been nothing wrong, or rude, about insisting on going to the hotel in Genoa, and enjoying a few days holiday, before going home if necessary. Instead, she had left the airport with this man – a total stranger. Not the action of which Aunt Mary would have approved.
Later, as the car progressed along the magnificent coastal highway, she pretended to look at the view out of his side, at the distant glittering sea and the attractive sleepy-looking villages with their red riled roofs that nestled into the steep wooded sides of the mountains.
But in reality she was stealing a glance at the profile of the man beside her.
Surprised, she found that his eyes were closed. Was he really asleep? Nonetheless she took the opportunity, albeit guiltily, to allow her eyes to wander over him again. His whole face looked less aggressive, more vulnerable even. She could see the hard muscles of his arms, and his chest swell and diminish as he breathed evenly, the dark curly hair just showing above his ‘V’ necked shirt.
Vicky’s eyes wandered back up his neck to his chin, with its sharply defined cleft, the skin a faint blue from the closely shaven hair.
She looked at his lips. They were softer now, but even as she watched they steeled, and turned up slightly at one corner. The blood rushed to her cheeks, her heart pounded, as she knew what had happened.
Slowly she raised her eyes to his – they were wide open and staring back at her.
For an instant, she saw something indefinable in them, something deeper, and then a familiar taunting look took over.
“Do you like what you see, Miss Norwood?”
Flustered, Vicky said –
“I’m sorry. It was rude of me. I thought you were asleep.”
Momentarily a bemused smile covered his features – then he was suddenly serious, his voice sharp.
“You are a complete stranger to me, Miss Norwood. I know nothing of you. Yet obviously you know my father.”
Vicky shook her head.
“I've never met your father. Surely he told you that.”
Carl did not reply, merely jutted out his lower lip.
She dropped her eyes to her lap, ran the palms of her hands nervously on the top of her knees. She was aware of Carl still looking at her with those unfathomable eyes. His voice was strangely soft as he said –
“I find this all a great mystery. Messages arriving from a person I’ve never heard of, never met, from an address I've never heard of – in England.”
“Surely your father must have said something,” she countered lamely.
“My father is in New York on business, Miss Norwood and my mother is with him. they are not expected back for a week.”
His mother? It was foolish of her to suppose that he had not married. She knew she was an old fashioned romantic.
“You should have said,” Vicky gasped. “I wouldn’t have come.”
He threw back his head, exposing white even teeth.
“Why ever not? It’s only a few days after all. You shall be our guest. There is a superb beach, a small village, fine churches, and good wine. What more could you ask?”
“I...” she began, but got no further.
His mood changed, his features darkened.
“To have come all the way from England to see my father must mean that it’s important.”
Lamely she could only manage a quiet “Yes.”
They drove on in silence, Vicky feeling very uncomfortable.
What had her impulsive action led her into?
And she felt acutely embarrassed as well.
The car sped along the autostrada as she found it was called, for nearly an hour. They had just passed the signs for Allassio when she realised they were coming off down a slip road.
The car drew up at a toll-pay kiosk.
Carl took out his wallet from the top pocket of his sports shirt, and selected a note as the chauffeur exchanged a voluble tirade with the man behind the perspex grille.
Carl leant over, half across her, as he nudged the driver to take the money, speaking all the while in fluent Italian.
When he settled back, she said –
“I see you’re bilingual.”
“Bilingual?” His voice was mocking. “Italian is my first language.”
“Yes, of course, how silly of me. I keep thinking of you as American.”
“And so I am.” He jutted out his lip again. “I hold dual nationality. As you no doubt are aware, my father is American. But my mother is Italian.”
The car was now entering the small town of Allassio. Vicky found the streets colourful, especially the coffee shops and restaurants that spilled out onto the pavement, with chairs and tables under raffia and brightly coloured awnings.
“Maybe we will take you to one, tonight,” he drawled having noted her interest.
Politely Vicky murmured, “that would be nice,” though she wondered if it really would be.
They came at last to the main promenade. On the beach there were hundreds of deck chairs arranged in rows; and beach huts. The town was a bustling community.
The car continued along the main coast road, and then turned up, out of the town, the road curling around, climbing the hillside in a series of sharp bends.
Now they were passing large villas set in extensive grounds with dark green cedar trees and shrubs contrasting with the tall white walls that surrounded them.
The coast had become very rocky, the sparkling blue Mediterranean foaming white at the bottom of the plunging cliffs.
Some ten kilometres out of the town they took a left turn off the road, down a narrow lane that soon became a dusty track.
They passed two more entrances to villas, so large that Vicky realised they must be estates, until the track ended at a gate set into a high wall, that ran on both sides until it petered out up the mountain side.
As the car came to a halt, a man swung open the gate. They passed through a dense screen of pine trees, and suddenly came out into strong sunlight.
The view was breathtaking. Below was a great wide sweep of bright blue sparking ocean, and a long crescent shape of white sand.
To one side, down at sea level dazzling white in the brilliant sun, was the Villa Sandoretti, perched on a rocky outcrop, one wall dropping sheer into the ocean, with balconies and massed bougainvillea.
At each end of the bay the mountains ended in steep unclimbable cliffs. But Vicky had eyes only for the villa as they drew nearer, the road twisting round, back on itself as they descended.
It was only when they were closer did she notice a small one-storey building set nearly on the edge of the beach. She pointed towards it.
“What a marvellous place. Who lives there?”
“It’s my studio,” Carl acknowledged gruffly. “It’s locked up. Nobody goes in there. Ever. Not without my permission.”
So, thought Vicky he is an artist like his father.
They arrived at the front of the villa, the doorway flanked by two white Grecian columns.
Carl was out of the car almost before it came to a halt, and striding through the open doorway into the cool depths of the villa, without so much as a backward glance.
The chauffeur unloaded Vicky’s luggage, as bewildered, she stood in silence for a second, before deciding to follow her rude unsocial host into the villa.
The cool, dark entrance passage gave out into a spacious well-lit hall, the sunlight flooding in through a glass cupola in the ceiling, the floor made of black and white marble tiles. The silence was broken by the gentle gurgle of water falling from a mossy green statue in the middle of a lily-covered ornamental pool. On the walls were several large paintings, vivid modern works that captured scenes of sea and mountains, village and town, of Italian or Mediterranean origin.
Vicky was staggered. Although she should have expected it – what with the money that had been regularly sent, and the size of the estate outside – the villa was incredibly beautiful and richly furnished.
For a second or two, she looked at the goldfish, big and lazy, as they drifted, with barely a fin moving in the clear water.
“So you’re Vicky Norwood.”
The woman’s voice, echoing off the stone walls, cut through the tranquil atmosphere, making her whirl round. Standing on the curved staircase was a strikingly attractive woman, dark-haired, and about twenty-seven years of age.
She came down the steps and stood in front of Vicky holding out her hand.
“I’m Anna Mioretti - Mr McKinley’s private secretary.” There was no warmth in the eyes that appraised Vicky. “I’ll show you to your room. You must be exhausted after your journey.”
“Thank you.”
She trailed after the elegantly attired woman, feeling scruffy in comparison to the woman’s sophisticated appearance. She was wearing a cool-looking silk dress that seemed to float in the air behind her.
“I’ve asked Maria to prepare a light lunch for you,” Anna Mioretti continued, “in about half an hour. Will that be all right?”
“That’s very kind of you,” Vicky said. “I must confess that I never expected anything like this.”
Anna paused at the entrance to a doorway.
“No? What did you expect?”
But before Vicky could reply, Anna had pushed on in.
“There we are,” she announced briskly, as she crossed to the window and pulled one of the drapes further across, cutting off the sun’s rays. “That’s better. When you’re ready, it’s down the stairs and take the first right turn. It leads out on to the terrazze.”
Bemused, Vicky repeated, “Terrazze? – I take it that’s the same as the terrace?”
A humourless smile passed fleetingly over Anna’s face.
“Forgive me. I sometimes forget which word to use in which language. Yes – it is the terrace.”
“Your English is excellent,” Vicky offered. “It makes me feel very ashamed that I cannot speak Italian.”
“I spent many years in the United States of America. That’s how I came to work for Mr McKinley. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ll see you later.”
Vicky watched her retreating back until the door closed. What was there about this woman that made her sense an undertone of hostility? It seemed odd to say the least.
Shrugging, she turned her attention to the room.
It was light and airy, with a high ceiling and floral wallpaper of fine quality.
The bed was generous, with dark mahogany headboard carved in the Spanish colonial style. In the wall on the far side was a half-open white painted door.
Vicky crossed to it and went through into an en-suite lavishly appointed bathroom, the walls and floor entirely in marble.
Shaking her head in disbelief, she returned to the bedroom. The curtain of the French window lifted gently in the faint breeze. Holding the curtain aside she stepped through onto a small balcony.
Down below was a contoured swimming pool with palm-like trees at one end. Several tables, some with sunshades, were arranged around the shimmering blue water. There was a balustrade at the edge of the terrace, and beyond, the wide blue-green sweep of the ocean.
She was about to turn back into the room when she heard voices coming up from a table beneath the balcony, accompanied by the clinking of cutlery and china. And with these sounds came the low masculine drawl of Carl McKinley, and the higher pitched tone of a woman’s voice.
They appeared to be arguing – in Italian.
Vicky listened intently, and thought she heard the mention of her name from his lips; but then all went quiet. Puzzled and uneasy she stepped back into the room, and surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. She was not dressed appropriately, and felt hot and sweaty from the journey.
Hurriedly, she slipped out of her clothes, and finding a shower cap behind the door, tucked her hair in and stepped into the cubicle.
The coldness of the water took her breath away, but almost immediately she felt better. She let the water cascade in torrents and rivulets down her back, sometimes channelling it with her hands and holding it to her face.
After towelling, she pulled off the cap, shaking her head to let her hair fall free as she padded back into the bedroom. She was rummaging in her case for fresh underwear when she heard a light tap on the outside door.
It opened almost immediately.
With a gasp, she just had time to snatch up the discarded towel and cover her front, to find Carl standing there. She clutched the material to her front, conscious of her nakedness.
“What do you want?”
His face was dark, brooding, and impenetrable – then as he appraised her position, the corner of his mouth lifted sardonically.
“Don’t worry, Miss Norwood, I’m well accustomed to seeing the female form. I am a painter my I remind you, just like my father.”
Vicky struggled to make herself smaller behind the towel and found that her legs were trembling.
“Well, I’m not used to being seen without my clothes on – by anybody – bloody painter or otherwise. Do you always burst into bedrooms uninvited?”
He continued to stare at her.
“I have to go out, so...”
He stopped abruptly, and seemed suddenly to be looking at the open french window behind her.
Unnerved that he might be realizing she could have overheard them even though she didn’t understand Italian, she snapped – “You were saying?”
His eyes left the window, and looked directly at her.
“I merely came to say that, as our guest, you are welcome to anything we can do to make your stay comfortable. But...” He paused. “...you shouldn’t leave the estate without being accompanied by myself or one of the men. The hills around here can be somewhat dangerous and inhospitable.”
With that he abruptly turned on his heel and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Vicky sped to it, turning the lock violently so that he was bound to hear.
The cheek of the man!
She shook her head, feeling her hair swishing on her bare shoulders. She was thankful that she had taken off the frilly shower cap. It would have been a disaster to have been seen wearing it.
As she turned back to face the room she saw something that made the blood rush back into her cheeks, the blush spreading down her beck and beyond, engulfing her in a warmth of humiliation.
Across to the left, by the window, in the general direction in which he’d been gazing was the dressing table, with its three-hinged mirrors.
And from where he had been standing he would have had a clear, uninterrupted view of her naked back – from top to toe.
Vicky slumped against the door for support How could she face him again? Not even Clive had seen what Carl McKinley had so casually examined.