The Echoes of Love (27 page)

‘The plans show that the palace was built over the ruins of the Franciscan monastery and that most of the mosaic murals of the chapel date from that time.' He scanned the site, squinting against the sun into the distance. ‘I won this place at auction. It was destroyed during the war. No one has ever reclaimed it. My lawyer couldn't find any documents concerning the ownership of the plot, only the old plans remain. After World War Two, the Italian government seized it and put it up for auction. It was brought to my attention by my good friend Umberto, who knows that I'm always on the lookout for this sort of project.'

Venetia coloured.
His good friend Umberto
… She wondered if Paolo would still feel the same if he knew what a snake in the grass the Count had been. She wished she could warn him against Umberto, but how could she, without letting him know that she was aware of his predicament?

They walked around the site. On the ground between age-old vines, banks of wild iris were just beginning to flower, there were also some tiny daisies and forget-me-nots, bluebells, buttercups and the frailest of scarlet poppies – the very carpet of
primavera
to walk on. Despite its untidy look, the area had a kind of enchantment that was captivating.

‘It's such a beautiful place,' Venetia murmured, taking in the wonder of it all. ‘Botticelli must have set eyes on exactly this sort of vivid tapestry of spring. I can understand what attracted you to it. It needs a lot of work and a lot of money spent on it, but I agree, this place could make the most magical resort.'

‘I'm pleased you like it,
cara
. Your opinion is important to me.' He glanced at her, his eyes burning with an emotion that made her mouth go dry. ‘I told you it had been neglected for years and I know it will need much spent on it but after all, what's the use of money if it isn't for creating beautiful things? Unfortunately, I neither paint, nor do I write poetry.' He turned to look out at the scene before them. ‘The only way I know to give back to art is by restoring and reinstating what has been abandoned.'

Venetia thought again of Paolo's compulsion to transform, mesmerised by the rugged outline of his face that stirred so many dark and complicated emotions within her. He then shot her a dazzling smile, making her legs turn to liquid, and nodded questioningly in the direction of the small hill.

‘Shall we?'

‘Yes, I think we should.'

They went up the steps to the terrace that lay in the sunshine. Here, tawny bees hovered and settled on the wild roses and honeysuckle that smothered the balustrades and columns in a tangle, the tranquil air pervaded by their fragrant scent, made stronger by the heat.

A panoramic view met them. Venetia looked around and then over the parapet. Down among the broken rocks were several fragile-looking reptilian skins that could not have been shed earlier than this spring. Venetia thought of the lovely lines from Shakespeare's
A Midsummer Night's Dream
:

And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

The idea of fairies seemed very apt in such a place at such a time. Not a stir, not a sound; she and Paolo might have been alone in the world. She could hear nothing except for the humming of bees resounding loudly in the silence. The whole place left the impression of peace and they stood there for a while, neither of them speaking, absorbing the atmosphere of another epoch.

A deep melodious bell chimed once in the church below. The sound echoed up to them, and suddenly a cloud of pigeons swept out of one of the old stone pines with a whirr of wings, circled in midstream and returned to the tree, vanishing in its dense green foliage. For a moment, Venetia turned, half startled to see that Paolo was staring down at her with unusual intentness; but he looked away and glanced at his wristwatch.

‘That's the toll, “
Il tocco
” in old Tuscan dialect,' he told her. ‘It's one o'clock. Bells chime only once during the day, at this time… a custom in Tuscany to remind people that it's lunchtime. Before we go for lunch, I would like you to have a look at the mosaics in the chapel attached to the villa.'

‘Yes, of course – after all, that's why I'm here.'

‘Is that the only reason?' he said softly, taking her hand to help her down the steps, his concentration on her face.

The sun was warm on Venetia's back; Paolo's hand was warm around hers. The place was one of the most romantic she had come across, and suddenly all she wanted was to be in his arms. She didn't answer his murmured question, instead giving her whole attention to the steps, fearful lest her legs should give way, so conscious was she of his proximity and of the thumb now sensuously caressing her wrist. It was such a light touch and yet it sent her hormones rioting as her heart skipped a beat.

Venetia knew he was watching her, felt him trying to read her mind, compelling her to look at him. Her pulse was racing, and panic quickened in her throat as she desperately tried to bring herself under control. She untangled herself from his hold and in doing so tripped, letting out a small cry.

Paolo sprang forward to stop her from falling, shielding her with his body; but as he caught hold of her waist he tumbled with her, holding on to her as they hit the ground so that Venetia landed on top of him, his strong arms tightly clamping her to him. Her mouth was inches from his, so close, too close, his sparkling blue eyes boring into hers with piercing intensity. For moments they lay still, his head and chest slightly raised from the ground, cradling her against his body. Venetia could smell the faint trace of aftershave lotion that lingered on his skin, and could hear his thick breathing; she could feel the potency of his virility pressing against her. The intimacy of that burning contact was feeding her desire like fuel poured on to a smouldering fire, which would soon erupt into flame.

Heat flooded her loins and her head span. Her heart, her senses were letting her down; she was not proof against this, against those lighted eyes, that look which she knew, the significance of his clasp, the strong beat of his heart. He had to be aware of it because she was trembling. She wanted him to reach down with that mouth and kiss her now, more than she had ever wanted anything. Paolo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened them and there was a look of hesitation, and then steely resolve.

‘You've had a shock,
cara
, you're trembling,' he said in a choked voice as he loosened his embrace before placing his large hands on the side of her shoulders and gently sliding her off him. ‘Have you hurt yourself?' He jumped up and held a hand out to her.

Venetia ignored it, chilled by his rejection of her willing surrender, and leapt to her feet, brushing the dust from her clothes and smoothing her trousers over her hips. ‘No, no, I'm fine, thank you. Are
you
all right?' she asked breezily, trying not to sound too disappointed. ‘You're the one who took the brunt of it.'

A glimmer of a smile lit up his eyes, blue as the Tyrrhenian
Sea. ‘On the contrary, Venetia, I can put my hand on my heart and say that for me it was a pleasure.'

A pleasure? Then why hadn't he taken advantage of the moment? She'd been in his arms, ready and willing. Paolo was an experienced womaniser, and even if he hadn't been, he couldn't have failed to notice the symptoms of her need. Venetia knew that her eyes, her mouth, her whole body had been crying out for him, and he had just ignored it and pushed her away. Was this his revenge for her slip of the tongue the previous night, or was Paolo playing hard to get? Whatever the reason, Venetia felt a little humiliated. The ease with which he had been able to cut himself off hit her with a shock, and her amber eyes darkened with a mixture of desire and confusion.

Paolo stared down at her, something very serious in his gaze. Had he sensed her change of mood? But all he said was, ‘Maybe we should call it a day, and I'll take you to lunch. We can come back some other time.'

‘No, no, really I'm fine. I'd like to get on with visiting the rest of the site, please.' Now awash with humiliation, she wanted to move away from him as quickly as possible.

‘Well then, I'd better hold on to you. Next time we may not be so lucky,
cara
. What would I tell
Signora
Lombardi if you returned with a broken leg?'

And before Venetia had time to protest, he had taken her hand again and was holding it as though he had no intention of letting it escape from his grasp. Compelled against her will, she looked up at him and met the steady gaze that held a dozen different expressions: dominant, possessive, challenging and… tender.

The
old villa
inside was nothing less than she had expected, with generous proportions and elaborate ornamentation. Within the ruined, beetling walls, the place was faintly lit by the diffused glow of daylight, which came through the shuttered windows with their half-open or broken slats, and shafts of sunlight that penetrated here and there through holes in the main structure and ceiling. There was a particular fragrance in the air, for the whole villa and its treasures were redolent with the glories of a past age. The faded curtains and tapestries, though magnificent and irreplaceable, were not only worn and shabby but torn. The place represented the splendour and lavishness, the decadence of earlier years.

Paolo and Venetia walked slowly over the disused floor, alive with vegetation in some places, picking their way through rubble, large portions of broken stone, some of which were still coloured with gold and pastel hues, chunks of solid wood with beautiful carvings, and fractured rods of wrought iron. She was glad of Paolo's grip now. The colour scheme in the main reception room had once been reminiscent of a spring garden on a sunny day, with wooden columns depicting exotic trees climbing from the baseboards up onto the coved ceiling. Today, the walls were stained and peeling and the superstructures rickety, with ivy, maidenhair and acanthus creeping down them, forming fantastic bowers at the entrances to the rooms.

There was a Gothic Room, a Renaissance Room and most extraordinary of all, a Moorish Room, which seemed to have been added at a later date and had a meretricious air, a shoddiness beneath its carved arabesques, a hint of dirt and gloom behind the grilled arches. Hanging on the walls were rusty, curved swords and spears. The atmosphere was secret and mysterious. The utter stillness of the place, broken by the occasional cry of a bird outside, imparted a sinister expectancy to such luxuriant silence, as though some witchery lurked behind it all. Venetia shivered.

‘This is no Elysium,' she murmured, peering through the gloom, ‘but more like a sinister, enchanted dwelling. I wonder who it belonged to.'

‘It looks as if it's had many owners,' Paolo mused as he handled one of the unsheathed weapons, fingering the sharpness of the old worn steel.

Venetia slipped free of his clasp and preceded him through an arched door and into a charming small courtyard, where the sweet, strong, sensual scent of jasmine prevailed. The flowers were strewn on the ground like a white carpet. The arcade, its pillars with climbing wild clusters entwined over the pink marble, gave shade all around the little green space. Two dry fountains, in the form of lion heads, stood at each end. Venetia could just imagine them spouting water out of their gaping mouths. In the middle, pomegranate bushes lifted their creamy and scarlet blossoms to the full torridity of midday. A weight of heat, a brooding stillness, filled the place with a heavy peace.

‘I have a great vision for this part,' Paolo told her as he moved towards one of the white marble columns in the shade of a horseshoe arch. He leaned against it, gazing dreamily out at the peaceful scene. Flicking his lighter, he lit a cigarette and then blew out the flame before inhaling deeply. ‘For me, this is the home of djinns and wizards: the enchanted pavilion of Scheherazade. Have you visited the Alhambra in Granada?'

‘Yes, many times – Granada is one of my favourite holiday destinations. I must have a bunch of this,' she said as she went to pick some of the jasmine. ‘Jasmine and orange blossom were the two scents I loved best in Spain.'

‘Jasmine is an emblem of sorrow,
cara
. You had better choose orange blossom,' he answered, smiling ruefully. ‘I have plenty growing in the garden at Miraggio. I'll pick you some when we get back to the house.'

‘I never knew that jasmine was associated with grief.'

‘Yes, according to an Oriental legend.'

Venetia burst out laughing. ‘Another one of your legends, Paolo! You're incorrigible. How do you remember them all?'

He shrugged and laughed as well, though a tinge of bitterness had crept into his eyes. ‘I read a lot – I guess I'm a storybook person.'

‘Tell me the legend.'

He raked long fingers through his hair. ‘You really want me to tell you the legend? It's rather sad.'

‘Of course! I love the way you always pull these tales out of a hat. Besides, I've always liked stories. I had a Scottish nanny who used to tell me the most incredible fairytales. She would call me her little princess and for a long time I really fancied myself as a fairytale princess – I suppose some of Nanny Horren's romantic notions rubbed off on me.'

He nodded his head. ‘Very well then. Once upon a time, there was a princess who was in love with the Sun, but failed to win his heart, so she committed suicide. From her ashes rose the Jasmine Tree – the type that you see here. And because her love had been unrequited and she could no longer stand the sight of the Sun, she only bloomed at night and shed all her flowers before the Sun rose. That's why this special strain of jasmine is called Night Jasmine.'

‘Indeed, it's a very sad story, but nevertheless very touching.'

Paolo regarded Venetia steadily, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. A muscle jerked in his jaw. ‘That's why I think the rarest, most vital moments are those lived at the highest pitch of being and are of greater worth than a drawn-out fulfillment of another kind.' He paused briefly and then asked, ‘Do you think someone could commit suicide out of love?'