Fumbling, her hands shaking a little, Vicky slipped a loose-fitting cotton dress over her head, her mind all the time trying to concentrate on what Carl had said.
The hills – dangerous? There were no wild animals in Italy, what on earth was he on about?
She brushed her hair vigorously. One frightening thought hit her. Was it, she wondered, another way of telling her that she was a prisoner? He was pretty unfriendly and seemed to be very suspicious of her. Dark and broody as in Heathcliff came to mind.
She stared back at her reflection for a numbing second, and then shrugged.
How absurd, she thought. Her nerves were getting the better of her. It had been a long and tiring day, on top of everything else, and she felt very lonely and vulnerable.
Satisfied with her appearance she went to the door, turned to survey the room one last time to see if she had forgotten anything.
Once more her eyes caught the mirror from his angle, and remembered what he must have seen. How on earth was she going to face him again without feeling embarrassed?
On the way downstairs she recalled he had told her that he was a painter like his father. At least that was reassuring.
She reached the hall, and turned right, as she had been instructed.
The arched passageway was cool and dark, though the sun blazed down as she came out on to the terrace. The nearest table – directly below her balcony – was laid for one. From somewhere, a young man in dark trousers and white jacket, with curly hair and a ready smile, moved to her chair, and held it back for her.
“Buon giorno, Signorina.”
“Good morning.”
He faced her across the table and spoke to her again – in Italian.
Helpless, Vicky shook her head.
“I’m sorry – I don’t speak Italian.”
“Coffee, Signorina?” he asked, grinning.
“That would be fine,” she nodded, relieved.
“Surely a little lasagne, and a cold white wine, would be more appropriate for lunch.”
The woman’s voice had come from behind her.
Vicky turned round in her chair as Anna Mioretti appeared. His smile gone the servant looked suddenly serious.
“That sounds fine,” Vicky said, caught unawares.
Anna nodded, and delivered a voluble torrent of instructions to the young man, who scurried away to attend to the request.
The woman sat down in the chair opposite to her, a faint smile playing on her face.
Suddenly frowning, Anna Mioretti said –
“We were quite surprised to receive your letter.”
“It was sent on the spur of the moment,” Vicky admitted, uncomfortably.
“I see,” Anna nodded, non-committally. “Tell me, what do you expect to achieve by this visit?”
“Achieve?” Vicky was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
Anna lounged back in her chair.
“You’ve probably noticed,” she said, “the walls around the estate. And the elaborate gates. We value our privacy here.”
What was she getting at, Vicky wondered.
The servant came back and set down a carafe of white wine, so chilled that its glass sides were misted. Silently, he left the two women alone again.
“If it was discovered,” Anna Mioretti continued, “that you were not what you seemed, it could prove to be very difficult for you.”
Vicky felt her temper rising. She moved forward, her elbows on the table.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. What has it got to do with you, anyway? My business is with Mr McKinley – not a member of his staff.”
Anna’s right eyebrow lifted – and her hand, as she showed off the ring on the fourth finger.
“Hardly staff, my dear,” she countered coolly. “I’m engaged to Carl. We hope to marry in the Spring.”
It was something that Vicky had not considered. Yet there was no reason why she should have known. She felt foolish, and apologised.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea. But I still do not see what you’re getting at.”
Anna stood up as the servant re-appeared.
“You are either extremely clever at playing the innocent, or you are the mysterious young woman you claim to be.”
Vicky’s mouth fell open.
“Ciao.” Anna smiled. “That’s hello – and goodbye, in Italian.
She smiled again, turned on her heel, to leave only the lingering smell of her perfume and no doubt in Vicky’s mind of the intended double meaning.
It explained one thing to her however. The way that Anna Mioretti had seemed to be assessing her, the woman was under the illusion that Vicky might be a possible rival for Carl. And although he was handsome, and debonair, he was too brooding and domineering for her.
Vicky decided she would try and put Anna at her ease as soon as she was able.
As to the other business – the security and the need for privacy, and hints being made at her not being what she seemed – Vicky was at a complete loss to understand.
When the young servant brought the lasagne, and poured out some of the white wine into her glass it was only then that she realised just how hungry she was.
The meal was delicious.
When she’d finished, she walked over to the balustrade. It was the first time that she’d seen the beach at such close quarters. The sand, she noticed, was fine and clean.
On impulse, she walked down the stone steps onto a path that wound its way down the lawn past flowerbeds to come out on to the sand. She kicked off her shoes, picked them up, and made for the water’s edge.
She felt like a young girl again – a teenager – as the warm waves reached out and flooded caressingly around her bare feet.
Gently splashing, she began to walk along the shore, alternately looking out at the fresh blue sea, and then the circling hills, with their darker pine trees and the Villa Sandoretti gleaming white and set in the centre – like a jewel.
Those hills! Frowning, Vicky recalled the warning that Carl had given her. They looked innocent enough. Was it a way of trying to frighten her to stay within the estate? But for what reason?
She shook her head in exasperation, and kicked at a little wave. She’d give them two or three days, really enjoy herself with the exquisite food and the sun, then if John McKinley hadn’t materialised by then, she’d call the whole thing off – and go back to London.
And she would damned well go for a walk beyond the estate, if she wanted.
Happier now, she ran, laughing as she swished through the water, then pulled up abruptly. There in front of her, set in a little finger of trees that ran down to the sea was the beach house that she’d seen as they’d wound their way down the road – his studio.
She approached it slowly. Close to she could see its windows were shuttered. The doorway was guarded by large stone models of mythical fierce looking beasts – like dragons, green and weathered by the sea air.
It had a mysterious sinister air about it. Despite – or maybe because of his warnings she tried the door, and found it was locked. Vicky pushed through the shrubbery to the nearest window, and tried to peer through the wooden slats. She could see nothing. She angled her head and shaded her eyes with her hand. Still nothing.
Shivering, despite the warmth, she backed away, and went back to the shoreline. But her carefree mood had passed, and she decided to go back to the villa.
The place seemed deserted. In the hall, the fountain gurgled on, the gentle noise adding to the emptiness.
She ran up to her room, and locked the door behind her. All of a sudden, she felt intensely tired - physically and emotionally.
Slipping out of her dress she lay down on the bed and was asleep in minutes.
She woke up in the dark, thoroughly disorientated. Was it evening, middle of the night, or very early morning? She turned on a bedside light, and saw that it was 8.30, whatever that meant. Stumbling to the window she stepped out on to the balcony. Lights were on on the terrace and beneath the water of the swimming pool.
There was a light tap on the door.
Quickly, she found her dressing gown, and wrapped it around herself before unlocking the door.
A maid was standing outside.
“Scuzi, Signorina. Dinner will be served in the dining room in half an hour.”
9 o’clock? They ate very late here.
Feeling quite hungry, Vicky wasted no time in dressing. She applied only light make-up to her eyes, and chose a simple halter-necked dress and glitter belt that added a touch of nighttime sparkle.
She brushed her hair across her forehead, and felt a little more pencil was needed to accentuate the eyebrows.
As she descended the sweeping staircase she found Carl and several other men taking animatedly in the hall. They wore dinner jackets – Carl’s was white with a red rose in the buttonhole. One man was attired in evening dress – with tails!
Becoming aware of her presence, the conversation subsided as they all turned towards her. Perhaps it was the setting, maybe the light was falling on her hair in a special way, but across his dark, lean features that seemed set in a perpetual hardness, there now suffused a softness that emanated from his eyes.
It was fleeting.
But there could be no denying that look.
Vicky instinctively knew that something had passed between them that was timeless, primordial. It both frightened – and in a weird way – excited her at the power she had held over him in that second.
Carl’s look was penetrating – his eyes resting on her lips, and then lifting to her eyes.
“Gentlemen,” he said, breaking the spell, “may I present to you our house guest – Miss Victoria Norwood from London.”
As she walked down to the hall floor for the first time she became fully aware of the other men. They were older, one with snowy-white hair that contrasted with a red sash worn across his chest.
One by one they came forward as Carl made the introductions.
“May I present Signor Bernito Spardicini?”
Unsure of herself, she smiled and nodded as the rather corpulent man took her hand in his, bent a little at the waist, and lowered his lips to her skin.
“Signor Spardicini,” Carl whispered, “is Governor of the Trust Credit Bank of Milan.”
They moved on to the next man, who was tall and handsome, and very latin. His large brown eyes were what her aunt might have described as ‘bedroom eyes’. He too, took her hand, his lips lingering a fraction longer than was necessary.
“His Excellency, the Conte Vittorio Infuari,” Carl introduced.
Conte! Vicky was startled. Wasn’t that a Count? She had never met anyone from the nobility before – not even remotely.
Now Carl was presenting a third man – the man with the red sash and the snowy-white hair.
He bent forward, brushing his lips only very lightly across the back of her hand.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Norwood,” he said in perfect English. “I am the Duc di Vilan. May I welcome you to our beautiful country?”
Her jaw dropped. “I had no idea...” she began, as she turned towards Carl.
His look was questioning, searching.
“Are you saying that you are unaware that my father had married into the Italian aristocracy? That my mother is a Countess in her own right?”
Vicky shook her head. She was speechless. Carl touched her on the arm.
“Come and meet the other ladies.”
He guided her in the direction of the dining room, in which a huge mahogany table dominated. The room had white pebbledash walls, and a low-arched fireplace across one corner.
Several women were gathered by the open French windows. One of them was Anna Mioretti, in a silver lamé full-length evening gown that was split to the middle of her thigh. All the women were older – one strikingly attractive with long black hair that reached the middle of her back.
Anna made the introductions in a mixture of English and Italian. Vicky couldn’t help but notice the huge diamonds and silver and gold jewellery that adorned many of these aristocratic women.
“Would you care for an aperitif before dinner?” Carl said, standing close to her. “Anything you care to name.”
“Thank you. A sherry, please.”
It sounded very English and painfully middle class.
Carl nodded at a waiter who disappeared for a few moments, then returned and proffered a tray on which was a solitary glass of sherry.
She sipped the golden honey-coloured liquid, feeling somewhat out of place as the women around her conversed in their native tongue.
Once, she found two of the women looking directly at her, but they hurriedly turned away when their gaze met hers.
The strikingly attractive woman, with the long black hair, was carrying on a lively conversation with Carl, his eyes positively alive as he applied the end of his lighter to her cigarette in a long holder.
The woman threw back her head, forming her painted lips into a circle as she blew the smoke upwards, and laughed.
One of the men approached Vicky and said something to her.
“I beg your pardon,” she said.
“I asked if you are enjoying your stay at the villa.”
The man’s accent was thick, the words delivered brokenly.
“I only arrived today,” she began.
“Your skin is very fair, Signorina,” he said. “Most attractive.”
Vicky flushed, conscious of that fact already, as the other women – Anna included – were all a bronzed, and golden colour.
“I intend to get some sun within the next few days.”
“Our women are considered more beautiful,” the man frowned, “if their skin is smooth and not coarse. The sun can do this. So be careful.”
The stout banker suddenly, and without warning, placed a large fat-ringed finger on her bare shoulder, and gently drew it down to her elbow, then gripped her as he chuckled and said something to the others.
Vicky didn’t know what was said exactly, but there was no mistaking the meaning of his words. For a frightened, irrational moment, her mind filled with stories of the Mafia and prostitution.
How ridiculous, she chided herself.
None-the-less, she quickly pulled her arm free, but was relieved when the Duke explained what had been said.
“Benito says that you will make a fine wife and mother for someone.”
Vicky felt foolish, thinking like she had, seeing drama in everything, just because her surroundings were so much more exotic, albeit a little mysterious, than the safe mundane world she had left behind in the UK barely twelve hours earlier.
“Thank you,” she smiled.
The Duke translated and a torrent of words passed between them, before he turned to her again.
“Your hair. He says...” He smiled. “...you must have a fiery temper.”
Vicky nodded, pulled a wry face – and agreed.
“I’m afraid he’s right.”
Benito roared with laughter, smacking his raised thigh as he stamped his foot, and said something that the whole room caught – because by now everyone had stopped talking among themselves.
One of the women giggled, and Vicky annoyed, saw a grin spread across Anna’s face.
Fortunately the moment passed, and the assembly turned back to their individual discussions.
Vicky turned to the translator.
“What did he say?”
The man wagged a finger in the air, and grinned.
“He said that he would like to be twenty years younger.”
Convinced in her mind that there had been more to it than that, she smiled, nodded her thanks for the indirect compliment. And that too seemed to produce more raucous merriment, and she was more than grateful when Carl came over to her.
He guided her towards a chair at the table, while Anna organized the other seating arrangements.
“What was just said when he smacked his knee?” Vicky whispered.
A grin spread across his features, his lips parting to expose those white teeth. His voice, as he drawled the answer, was condescending.
“He merely said that he wished he was twenty years younger.”
“There was more to it than that. You can’t fool me entirely.”
His lip lifted into that sardonic manner she found so attractive, yet to irritating, as he appraised her mockingly.
“You’re sure you want to know?”
“Yes,” she said adamantly.
“He said what fun it would be taking you – or words to that effect. It doesn’t translate exactly.”
“The cheek of it.”
Vicky felt awful, felt the heat in her face, sure that everybody must be looking at her.
Carl shrugged.
“Don’t forget,” he said, “that Italy is a country with old traditions, Miss Norwood. Here the male is still the head of the family, supported by both the church and the State.”
Vicky’s chin came up defiantly.
“How quaint,” she said, excessively sweetly.
Carl held the chair back for her to sit down.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he countered. “I think there are a lot of women who would be better off with a strong lead. Many of the problems of today’s society in the Western World are caused by the breakdown of the family. It’s a very strong tradition here.”
As she sat down she was very aware of his presence behind her.
“Still sounds very Victorian and stuffy to me,” she said. “And very unfair.”
His long supple fingers closed on her shoulders for a brief moment, their touch sending a shiver down the length of her spine. There was a steel-like quality to the fingers – and the voice – as he whispered softly, his warm breath playing around her ear.
“Don’t forget. As they say: ‘when in Rome...’ Here, even the Mafia are called The Family.”
Vicky stiffened.
Now why had he chosen to say that?