The Echoes of Love (28 page)

His question took her by surprise. ‘How should I know?' she tossed out on the spur of the moment, ‘I've never been there.' She felt the little vein beat in her throat, which was always a telltale sign when she was uncomfortable.

Paolo came towards Venetia and, seizing her chin gently in between his thumb and forefinger, tilted it up to meet his steady gaze. ‘Why do you lie to me,
cara
?'

She swallowed a retort, and tried to keep calm. ‘I'm not lying.'

‘Yes, you are. I can tell by this tiny blue vein that is beating much too quickly at the base of your throat, just there,' he said, reaching down and stroking the pulsing nerve with the same finger, then slowly removing his hand.

Venetia coloured and put her hand to her throat, trying to ignore the dangerous heat shooting down between her legs at his touch. She let out her breath, realising she had been holding it in. ‘You noticed it?'

‘I notice everything about you,
cara
.'

His face was still so close and she looked at him, wide-eyed.

‘Men are not usually aware of little details.'

‘I'm an unusual man – you must have realised that.' Paolo's face was serious, his eyes impenetrable, although perhaps there was a questioning in their depths.

Words deserted Venetia for a few seconds as her gaze locked with his, finding it increasingly difficult to sustain their penetration. He seemed to be stripping away her shallow defences. The warmth of his touch was invading her, making her feel weak and vulnerable, her limbs turning to water. She felt a sudden fear – he was so adept at reading her – what if, looking into her eyes, he was able to see more than she was prepared to divulge? Already she had given him proof of her wantonness once today.

‘Why should I give you details about my life? You have hardly told me anything about yours,' she retorted, pulling away from his grasp.

Paolo's mouth quirked up as if he was trying to suppress a smile. ‘Maybe that's because I think that you already disapprove of me enough.'

‘It's not my business to disapprove of important clients.'

His amusement seemed to deepen. He looked mischievous. ‘
Dio mio, che disastro
,
cara. Vedo che dovrò lavorare sodo per redimermi.
My God, that sounds bad. I see that I'll have to work harder to redeem myself.'

Paolo's lighthearted tone exasperated her. Surely he was mocking her? She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent little gesture. ‘We'd better have a look at the chapel,' she said coolly, hoping to sound dignified and remote.

He grinned and saluted her. ‘At your orders, Captain!' His hand reached out in an attempt to take her arm, but Venetia avoided it. ‘No?' he asked, raising an eyebrow.

She was tempted to respond to the compelling sparkle of fun in his eyes, but instead she shrugged again without answering.

‘What's wrong, Venetia? What have I done this time? Is there no way I can please you?' His tone was still light, but there was a hint of annoyance there.

Suddenly he looked tired and drawn, sadness clouding his deep-blue eyes, and Venetia fought the twinge of compassion that twisted her heart. She didn't want to feel any sympathy for this man, whom she was finding increasingly irresistible. The emotional havoc he was creating was making her act like a spoilt and unbalanced teenager. She didn't like how she sounded and she liked even less the way she felt. Still, she gave him a wan smile.

‘Sorry, I know I sound horribly ungracious,' she said, a little unsteadily. ‘It must be the heat that's making me fractious.'

‘You're tired,
cara
, but you still want to go on?'

‘Yes, please, if we're going to discuss the project on plans later, I need to at least have an idea of the work I'm going to be involved in.'

Paolo winked at her. ‘It's your English upbringing that speaks here – never give in to weakness, eh? What do they call it…
Stiff
?'

‘Stiff upper lip,' she laughed, and the coldness she had been at pains to show him abruptly vanished.

‘So let's go and discover this deteriorating jewel which you will turn into a fabulous treasure. I have not been to see it since the auction.'

Through a somewhat ruined gate at the side of the villa, they entered a walled courtyard. It was a great neglected space, overgrown with lanky weeds, its irregular ground covered with stones and bushes. In front of them was the chapel, which, from close up now, looked much bigger than Venetia had thought. The entrance, locked by a tall and handsome carved door, needed extensive restoration; it had lost its original lustre and there were deep cracks in the wood. Venetia didn't think it was restorable. Pity it had to be replaced – the workmanship was of a class that was difficult to find in this modern age, where machines had taken over man's skilled work.

Paolo produced a large wrought-iron key that was also very fine, and unlocked the door. ‘You'll see that the chapel is still in quite good order in comparison with the rest of the place, probably because it has been kept locked all these years.'

Indeed, the chapel was a jewel. It was almost intact except for the impressive mosaic murals that adorned its walls and the statues of saints placed on pedestals high above Paolo's and Venetia's heads, with painted and lavishly decorated robes that had faded with time.

The sun that shone with broad, warm midday beams through the richly coloured windows tinged the marble colonnades with an effective glow, half illuminating them, drawing lines over the marble floor, and giving grotesque effects of light and shade, and mystery to corners full of soft tones and shifting colours.

‘It's a rare treasure you've found here, Paolo. I'm surprised the Government put it to auction and didn't turn it into some sort of monument open to the public.'

‘In my opinion, it's too bitty and too untidy for it to be of interest as a historic site. Still, it's the exact project I needed. My friend Umberto is the one who heard about it and tipped me off. He, of course, moves in the right circles and is very influential. He's a great networker – I think he pulled a good many strings. I owe him.'

Venetia felt the blood rise to her face. She was so angry she almost blurted out,
he's not your friend but a deceitful and treacherous bastard
, but it was not her place to interfere in Paolo's life. She was here on a job, she reminded herself, and that was all.

‘You look angry,
cara
.' Paolo interrupted her thoughts. ‘Have I said something wrong?'

Venetia placed her hand on his arm, and stared up at him in earnest. She had to say something; she couldn't just leave it at that. ‘“
A man is his own easiest dupe, for what he wishes to be true he generally believes to be true
.” Not my words – Demosthenes.'

‘Why do you say that – you don't like the Count?'

‘No.'

Paolo glanced sideways at her. ‘Yet I know that he's very taken with
you
!'

‘That really doesn't make a difference,' she retorted a little too quickly.

‘He's been discourteous towards you?'

Venetia flushed self-consciously. ‘I'd prefer not to talk about it.'

Paolo laughed. ‘He can be very enterprising with women sometimes, and I have yet to meet a woman who complained about Umberto's boldness.'

‘Well, to take your lead, let's say that I'm an unusual woman.'

‘I've noticed.' The blue eyes held mild amusement. ‘Still, I'm very pleased to hear that you haven't succumbed to Umberto's famous charm. On the whole, people – men and women – find him irresistible.'

Bully for them
, Venetia thought, but refrained from speaking her mind further.

‘One day you will open your heart to me,
cara
?' he asked softly.

‘
Chi lo sa,
who knows!' she said lightly, suddenly feeling frivolous. ‘And now that I've seen the chapel, you can take me to lunch – I'm starving.'

‘Excellent idea,
carrissima. Andiamo!
' Paolo gave a cheerful smile, tucking his arm through hers. Deciding to go along with his mood, Venetia allowed him to do so.

Chapter 8

P
aolo took Venetia to lunch at a small restaurant in a picturesque resort village called Baia Delle Onde Mormoranti, along the coast outside Porto Santo Stefano
.
Notched into the rocks, its curiously shaped houses leaning together stood at the head of a little creek filled with sailing and fishing boats, all of which blended perfectly together with the low rocks, the vineyards, olive groves and the pine trees on the headlands.

La Mezza Luna was a tiny restaurant of whitewashed stone and red tiles set on the pale gold sandy beach, surrounded by palm trees and overlooking water that glittered in the sunshine like wet cobalt paint. A lean-to loggia adjoined the building, with a bamboo matting roof providing shade from the hot afternoon sun. Grape vines were trained from large earthenware pots up each corner post, their green tendrils reaching through the bamboo, and eight tables with green checked tablecloths and bamboo armchairs with round green cushions stood underneath.

The friendly owner, who to Venetia looked as if he had stepped out of a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, greeted Paolo effusively. It was almost three o'clock and most of the customers had gone, but he assured them that there would be no problem conjuring up one of his specialities for the pretty
signorina
and for his friend, Paolo.

‘Just settle yourselves at a table and
pronto
, I will bring you some
antipasti
and a bottle of
vino Ernestinato,
our very special house wine, while you wait for your lunch.'

They sat down at one of the little tables overlooking the bay, its deeply etched coves rimmed by sheer cliffs. Far off, lay the harbour of Porto Santo Stefano bathed in syrupy golden light with hundreds of sailboats dozing in their slips under the luminous blue Tuscan sky.

Venetia wrinkled her nose slightly and smiled. ‘How do you dig out these quaint places?' she asked Paolo once the restaurateur had disappeared into the kitchen at the back of the restaurant.

Paolo grinned. ‘Simple – I like to eat well. Do you cook, Venetia?' He made the question sound somehow intimate in a way she found confusing. Sitting to the side of her, rather than opposite, his nearness was disarming.

‘Yes, but I don't have the opportunity to do much cooking nowadays. I live alone and I usually grab something to eat in town before going home in the evenings, or I go out for dinner with friends.' She always filled her life with work and nearly said so, but now it felt uncomfortable to admit it.

He gave her a quizzical look, as though he was going to ask a question, but the owner of La Mezza Luna was already coming back with a bottle of wine, a bottle of sparkling water, a loaf of
ciabatta
bread and a delicious-looking plate of what he announced to Venetia as
Caponata a la Siciliana
.

‘É completamente diversa da qualsiasi altra caponata servita in Italia,
it is completely different from any other
caponata
served in Italy. It is the king of
caponata
, the original Sicilian recipe which was handed down from my great-grandmother.'

‘Mario is from Sicily – most of the dishes he serves here are Sicilian dishes that you won't find in Northern Italy,' Paolo explained.

Venetia's interest was piqued. ‘I've had
caponata
in Venice and in Florence. How does this one differ from the others?'

‘In addition to the aubergine, the capers, the olives, raisins, tomatoes, onions and pine nuts, my great-grandmother's recipe includes octopus, shrimp and grated tuna roe,' Mario answered, smiling proudly. ‘It is a more,
come si dice
… aristocratic version of the dish.'

Venetia had great difficulty in keeping a straight face. ‘It really sounds very original.'

Mario poured Venetia a glass of wine with a quick flourish. ‘And for you, Paolo, a glass of sparkling water, as usual?'

Paolo flicked a glance at him. ‘Yes, yes, I'm driving.'

As usual.
Venetia noted the two words, and she had the sudden impression that Paolo seemed a little uneasy now. This must be one of his special rendezvous haunts. Who did he bring here – his Venetian girlfriends, Allegra? In her mind's eye she saw the young woman as she had espied her the night before, clad in a bright-red satin nightdress. Painfully aware that she had no right to be jealous, she hadn't the shadow of a doubt that the Italian beauty had been on her way to meet Paolo at the house. However unreasonable it seemed, the thought of him with another woman suddenly made her feel ill. Still, she mustn't dwell on that now, she told herself. She should make the most of this beautiful afternoon.

‘I will go and prepare you the
arancini
. You will not get it in any other restaurant in the North.' Mario placed the bottles neatly in the centre of the table. ‘The Italians consider
arancini
a street food, but it's a national Sicilian emblem,
veramente deliziosi!
I promise that you will not be disappointed.' And with that he swivelled on his heel and hurried back to the kitchen.

‘Mario comes from an old family of Sicilian fishermen.' Paolo broke off a piece of ciabatta. ‘He spends eight months of the year down here, but goes back to Sicily for the winter. His daughter and her husband run a
trattoria
there, which is just as successful as La Mezza Luna and has the same name. You would never think that his daughter is Sicilian – she's as blonde as he is dark, with pale blue eyes. She must have taken the colouring of her Norman ancestors.'

Was Mario's daughter another of Paolo's conquests? Venetia's heart squeezed unreasonably again.
Don't be ridiculous
, she chastised herself: just because Paolo had remarked that the woman was blonde and blue-eyed didn't mean that he had carried on an affair with her.
And even if he has… since when do you stoop to such lowly emotions? Are you so insecure?
She had no right to any personal interest in Paolo, she reminded herself.

Paolo spread some
caponata
on a slice of
ciabatta
and offered it to Venetia. ‘Taste this and take a sip of Mario's very special
vino Ernestinato
. According to Mario, his
rosé
would warm the heart of a statue.'

‘What am I supposed to glean from that remark?' Venetia blurted out the question without thinking and was suddenly aware that she was being too touchy and that Paolo's statement contained nothing personal. She wished she could eat her words but it was too late; she had just invited intimate comments, and Paolo didn't disappoint.

He gazed lingeringly at her. ‘How can I compare you to a statue,
cara
– a fierce enchantress, maybe, but never a statue.' His voice was low, the look in his eyes dark and deep where anything might lurk for the woman drawn into them. ‘I've felt your body tremble in my arms like a storm coming. Whatever you show to me on the outside, I know is not how it is on the inside.'

Paolo took Venetia's hands in his, and held her fingers tightly until she could have cried out. His eyes had kindled and were searching hers intently. ‘You've bewitched me completely. Be mine, Venetia. I want you with all my heart, with every fibre in my body… with every breath.
Dio mio,
I need you! Be my root, my anchor.'

He sounded hoarse with emotion and she was profoundly moved by the wistful note of longing in his almost desperate words. The expression on his face, as he struggled with something inside him, pleading for her understanding, tugged at her heart as she confessed in silence that she really cared for this man. A tremor surged through her body; she came alive at the mere contact of his hands, and remembering the sensations of how his touch had indeed made her tremble, she wanted to break apart. Whatever the sentiments that possessed him now, they were genuine, strong and profound. Yet she needed more. She sat there, tense and still, as if mesmerised.

‘But how can I be yours when I know nothing about you?'

‘What do you want to know?'

‘You tell me. Isn't there anything I should know? Up until now you've always been a blank page.' She was willing him to confide in her, to confess what she already knew about him.

Paolo's eyes settled on Venetia's face steadily. ‘You're right,
cara
, there's plenty you don't know about me, but trust me when I tell you that it's of no importance – I want to start my life with you.'

His gaze slid from her eyes to her lips with a fire that made her burn with uncontrollable longing. ‘I've had this strange feeling ever since I met you that we're meant for each other, that we've been together in another life. When I hold you in my arms, it's as though you've always been mine.'

Venetia's lashes flickered; she caught her bottom lip in small white teeth. Paolo's words echoed her own feelings. Surely this meant something? Somewhere deep inside her she had instinctively recognised him as the man of her life… the only man who could replace Judd in her heart. Her mind and body locked horns; she would be swept away if her body won. She craved his arms about her, craved his kiss, the feel of his heart beating hard against her, his mouth on her breasts and the feel of him shuddering strongly inside her, even just once – but it would never be
just once
! Still, despite the temptation to give in to this desperate yearning for him, if only once, she stifled the impulse with a supreme effort of will; her pride wouldn't allow her to surrender to a man who, just now, hadn't even pronounced the word ‘love'.

Venetia laughed shakily. ‘How many women have you said these beautiful phrases to, Paolo?'

‘I have teased, I've flattered and I've had sex with many women, that's true,
carina mia…
but I've never wanted to – and never have – made love to anybody as far as I can remember.'

This was the opportunity Venetia had been waiting for. Was he going to tell her about his amnesia?

‘As far as you can remember…? Do you have such a short memory, Paolo, or have you had so many women that you have lost count?'

She saw him start, saw the quick colour rise under his tanned skin; he winced, as though her question turned a knife in an agonising wound. He had always known how to read her, knew what she was saying. Jerking his head back, he ran fingers through his hair in a nervous characteristic gesture. There was a long silence while Venetia waited for his answer.

Finally, he looked full at her and spoke in a barely audible voice.

‘How long have you known,
cara
?'

‘Not that long.'

‘Who told you? Not many people know about it.'

‘Your good friend, the Count.'

Paolo's face whitened, though his eyes were dark. ‘
Umberto
?'

‘Himself.'

Paolo's hands clenched. ‘
Che stronzo!
' He gritted his teeth. ‘Just let me get my hands on that bastard!'

Mario came back at that moment with a large plate of golden brown rice balls surrounded by finely ground meat, egg and cheese.

‘
Eccola,
' he said as he placed the plate in the middle of the table. ‘
Arancini
are as typical of Sicily as hot dogs and apple pie are of America.' He seemed not to notice Paolo trying to regain control of himself but instead looked at Venetia with appreciative eyes. ‘I have made these freshly for you,
signorina
.'

Venetia helped herself to an
arancini
and was just about to bite into it when Paolo's now calmer voice cautioned, ‘
Sono molto caldi, fai attenzione a non scottarti,
be careful not to burn yourself
.
When they're piping hot, as these are, it is better if you split them like this,' he said taking one, breaking it in half and giving it to her.

Venetia nibbled at it gingerly. ‘This is amazing!' she exclaimed. ‘What is it made of?'

‘The
arancini
are usually made with creamy risotto, or any other day-old rice mixed with leftovers,' Mario explained, clearly pleased at her curiosity. ‘In these I have put some olives, tomatoes, ground veal, onions of course and a pinch of saffron, which makes all the difference. But don't fill up on them, they are only
antipasti
! The next dish is
finochio con sarde
, fennel with sardines served with homemade
pappardelle
pasta.'

As soon as Mario had disappeared back into the kitchen, Paolo's eyes narrowed.

‘What else did that
mascalzone
tell you?'

Venetia did not speak; she flushed, feeling both uncomfor-table and vulnerable, not wanting to remember any more of the unsavoury episode than necessary, and certainly not wishing to relay any of it.

Paolo regarded her anxiously. ‘Ah, it's he who told you that I'm nicknamed
l'Amante delle Quattro Stagioni
in some circles.' His lips curled into a bitter smile, and he leaned back in his chair on one elbow, tapping his lighter distractedly on the table. ‘Society is cruel, Venetia, one must not believe everything one hears.'

‘Can you deny that you pursue women only to get them into your bed and that you drop them as soon as you tire of them?'

‘No, Venetia, I cannot deny that, but I can defend myself. These women you talk about, they always know the score from the very beginning – sex without ties. Like any normal man, I have needs. I have no attachments, and since my accident I've lived for the moment. There's been no reason not to… until now.' He turned his lighter over and over between his fingers and regarded her watchfully.

No attachments? Liar!
her heart screamed out as she stared at him silently.
And how about the luscious Italian
woman in a red satin nightdress who warmed your bed last night, and probably every night when you're at home?