To Love Again (2 page)

She walked silently toward a pair of double doors at the end of the long hall and pressed down on the highly polished brass handle. She appeared like a vision in front of the secretary's desk.

Signora! The girl looked up, startled. One never quite knew when Isabella would appear, or just what she would have on her mind. But today Isabella only nodded, smiled, and walked immediately toward Amadeo's office. She knew he was in. She had seen the car. And unlike Isabella, he rarely strayed to the other floors. He and Bernardo kept mainly to their upstairs offices. It was Isabella who prowled, who wandered, who appeared suddenly in the mannequins' room, in the corridors outside the private fitting rooms, in the main salon with the long gray silk runway, which had to be constantly replaced. That was a source of constant irritation to Bernardo, ever practical in his directorship of the house. It was on his shoulders that the budget fell. As president and chief of finance, Amadeo designed the budget, but Bernardo had to live with it, seeing that the fabrics and beads and feathers and wondrous little ornaments fell within the limits Amadeo had set for them. And thanks to Bernardo they always existed well within that budget. Thanks to Bernardo the house had been carefully and at times brilliantly run for years. Thanks to Amadeo's investments and financial acumen they had prospered. And thanks to Isabella's genius with design they had gloried as well as flourished. But it was Bernardo who bridged the world of design and finance. It was he who calculated, speculated, weighed, and pondered what would work, what wouldn't, what would cost them the success of the line, or what was worth the gamble. And thus far he had never been wrong. He had a flair and a genius that made Isabella think of a matador, proud, erect, daring, flashing red satin in the face of the bull, and always winning in the end. She loved his style and she loved him. But not in the way that Bernardo loved her. He had always loved her. Always. From the first day he had met her.

Bernardo and Amadeo had been friends for years and they had worked together in the House of San Gregorio before Isabella had appeared on the scene. It had been Bernardo who had discovered her in her tiny atelier in Rome. It had been he who had insisted that Amadeo come to see her work, meet her, talk to her, and perhaps even convince her to come to work for them. She had been remarkable even then, sensationally beautiful and incredibly young. At twenty-two she was already a striking woman, and a genius with design. They had arrived in her little studio that day to find her wearing a red silk shirt and a white linen skirt, little gold sandals and not much else. She looked like a diamond set in a valentine. The heat had been crushing, but even more so moments later when her eyes met Amadeo's for the first time. It had been then that Bernardo realized how much he cared too and that it was already too late. Amadeo and Isabella had fallen instantly in love, and Bernardo had never spoken up. Never. It was too late, and he would never have been treacherous to his friend. Amadeo meant too much to him; for years he had been like a brother, and Amadeo was not the kind of man one betrayed. He was precious to everyone, beloved by all. He was the one person you wanted to be like, not a man you'd want to hurt. So Bernardo didn't. He knew also that it saved him the pain of finding out that she didn't love him. He knew how much she loved Amadeo. It was the governing passion of her life. Amadeo actually meant more to her than her work, which in Isabella's case was indeed remarkable. Bernardo couldn't compete with that. So he kept his pride and his secret and his love and he made the business better; he learned to love her in another way, to love them both with a passion of his own, and a kind of purity that burned like a white fire within him. It created enormous tension between him and Isabella, but it was worth it. The results of their encounters, their rages, and their wars were always splendid: extravagantly beautiful women to parade down their runways ' women who occasionally paraded into Bernardo's arms. But he had a right to that. He had a right to something more than his work and his love for Amadeo and Isabella. He burned with a kind of bright light all his own, and the women who drifted through the house, models or clients, were drawn to him by something they never quite understood, something never fully revealed, something Bernardo himself no longer consciously thought about. It was merely a part of him now, like his infallible sense of style, or his respect for the two people he worked with, who in their own way had become one. He understood perfectly what they were. And he knew that he and Isabella could never have been like that. They would have remained two, always two, always in love, always at war; had she even known his feelings, they would have met like colliding constellations, exploding in a shower of comets across the heavens of their world. But it was not like that with Isabella and Amadeo. It was gentle, tender, strong. They were soldered as one soul. To see Isabella look into Amadeo's eyes was to see her disappear into them, to move into a deeper part of herself, to see her grow and fly, her wings stretched wide. Amadeo and Isabella were as two eagles soaring across their private sky, their wings in perfect harmony, their very beings one, their unison complete. It was something Bernardo no longer even resented. It was impossible to resent a pair like that. They were beautiful to see. And now he had grown comfortable with what was a fiery working relationship with a lady he loved from afar. He had his own life. And he shared something special with them. He always would. They were an indestructible, inseparable threesome. Nothing would ever come between them. The three of them knew that.

As Isabella stood outside Amadeo's office door for a moment, she smiled to herself. She could never see that door without thinking of the first time she had seen it and these halls. They had been different then. Handsome but not as strikingly elegant as they were now. She had made them something more, as Amadeo had made her something more. She grew in his presence. She felt infinitely precious, and totally safe. Safe enough to be what she was, to do what she wanted, to dare, to move in a world with no limits at all. Amadeo made her feel limitless, he had shown her that she was, that she could be everything she wanted to be and do everything she wanted to do, and she did it all with the power of his love.

She knocked softly on the door few people knew about. It led directly into his private office. It was a door only she and Bernardo used. And the answer came quickly. She turned the handle and walked in. For a moment they said nothing, they only looked as the same thrill swept through her soul that she had felt since she had first seen him. He smiled in answer. He felt it too. There was unfettered pleasure in his eyes, a kind of gentle adoration that always drew her to his arms like a magnet. It was the gentleness in him that she loved so much, the kindness, the compassion he always had. His was a different fire from hers. His was a sacred flame that would burn forever, held aloft for the sad and weary, a proud light, a beacon to all. Hers was a torch that danced in the night sky, so bright and beautiful that one almost feared to approach it. But no one feared to approach Amadeo. He was eminently welcoming. Everyone wanted to be close to him, although in truth, only Isabella was. And Bernardo too, of course, but differently.

Allora, Isabellezza. What brings you here today? I thought we settled everything yesterday. He sat back in his chair, one hand held out to her, as she took it.

More or less. But I had a few more ideas. A few' . He laughed at the word. A few with Isabella meant thirty-five, or forty-seven, or a hundred and three. Isabella never had a few of anything, not a few ideas, or a few jewels, or a few clothes. Amadeo smiled broadly as she bent for a moment to kiss his cheek and he reached out and touched her hand.

You look beautiful today. The light in his eyes bathed her in sunshine.

Better than this morning? They both laughed. She had been wearing a new cream on her face, her hair tied up high on her head, a comfortable dressing gown, and his slippers.

But Amadeo only shook his head. No. I think I liked you better this morning. But ' I like this too. Is it one of ours?

Of course. Would I wear anything not ours? For a moment the dark eyes flashed into his green ones.

It looks like one of your grandfather's designs. He studied her carefully, narrowing his eyes. He had a way of seeing and knowing all.

You're very smart. I stole it from his nineteen thirty-five collection. Not totally, of course. Just the flavor. She grinned. And the pleats.

He smiled at her in amusement and bent toward her again for a rapid kiss. The flavor is excellent.

It's a good thing we don't work together full time anymore, we'd never get anything done. Sometimes I wonder how we ever did. She sat back in her seat, admiring him. It was impossible not to. He was the Greek god of a hundred paintings in the Uffizi in Florence, the statue of every Roman boy, long, lean, graceful, elegant; yet there was more. The green eyes were knowing, wicked, wise, amused. They were quick and certain, and despite the golden Florentine beauty of his genes, there was strength there as well, power and command. He was the head of the House of San Gregorio, he had been the heir to a fairly major throne, and now he wore the mantle of his position well. It suited him. He looked like the head of an empire, or perhaps a very large bank. The neatly tailored pin-striped suit accentuated his height and narrow figure, yet the broad shoulders were his own. Everything about Amadeo was his own. There was nothing fake or flawed about him, nothing borrowed, nothing stolen, nothing unreal. The elegance, the aristocratic good looks, the warmth in his eyes, the quick wit, the sharp mind, and the concern he had for those around him. And the passion for his wife.

What are you doing down here all dressed up today by the way? Other than sharing a few' ideas with me, of course. He smiled again as their eyes met, and Isabella broke into a smile.

I'm having lunch with some ladies.

Sounds terrible. Can I lure you to a room at the Excelsior instead?

You might, but I have a date with another man after lunch. She said it smugly, and laughter danced in her eyes, as well as his.

My rival, Bellezza? But he had no cause to worry and he knew it.

Your son.

In that case, no Excelsior. Peccato. A pity.

Next time.

Indeed. He stretched his legs out ahead of him happily, like a long, lazy cat in the sun.

All right. Shut up. We have work to do.

+ecco. The woman I married. Tender, romantic, gentle.

She made one of their son's horrible faces, and they both laughed as she pulled a sheaf of notes out of her handbag. In the sunlight in his office he saw the sparkle of the large emerald-cut diamond ring he had bought her that summer for their tenth anniversary. Ten carats, of course. What else? Ten carats for ten years.

The ring looks nice.

She nodded happily as she looked down at it. It looked good on her long, graceful hands. Isabella wore everything well. Particularly ten-carat diamonds. It does. But you look nicer. I love you by the way. She pretended to be flip, but they both knew she was not.

I love you too. They shared a last smile before plunging into work. It was better now. Better when they weren't together every day. By the end of the afternoon he was always hungry for her and anxious to get home. And there was something special now about their meetings, their evenings, their lunches, their days. She was mysterious to him again. He found himself wondering what she was doing all day, where she was, what she was wearing, as the thought of her perfume filled his mind.

You don't think the American line is too subdued? I wondered about that last night. She squinted at him, not seeing him but the designs she and Gabriela had gone over the day before.

I don't. And Bernardo was ecstatic.

Shit. She returned her eyes to his with genuine concern. Then I'm right. Amadeo laughed at her, but she didn't smile. I'm serious. I want to change four of the fabrics and add one or two of the pieces for France to that line. Then it'll work. She looked certain, as she always did. And she was rarely wrong. That absolute certainty of hers had won them fashion awards for ten years. I want to bring in those purples, and the reds, and the white coat. Then it will be perfect.

Work it out with Bernardo and tell Gabriela.

I already did. Tell Gabriela, I mean. And Bernardo's new soap for the men's line is all wrong. It hung in my nose all afternoon.

That's bad?

Terrible. A woman's perfume should stay with you. The smell of a man should only come to you as you go to him and leave you with only a memory. Not a headache.

Bernardo will be thrilled. For a moment he looked tired. Occasionally Isabella and Bernardo's wars exhausted him. They were essential to the business though, and he knew it. Without the fierce pull of Isabella and the stern anchor of Bernardo the House of San Gregorio would have been very different than it was. But as the axle that kept the two wheels from flying off in separate directions, he felt the strain on him was at times more than he enjoyed. But as a three-some they were a miraculous team, and all three of them knew it. And when all was said and done, somehow they always managed to stay friends. He would never understand it. With Isabella raging and calling Bernardo names that he had never even dreamed she knew, and Bernardo looking as though he might at last commit murder, he would then find them after hours in one of the private fitting rooms, drinking champagne and finishing a plateful of the day's sandwiches like two children at their own tea party after the grown-up guests have gone home. He would never be able to figure it out; he was just grateful that it worked that way. Now, with a sigh, he looked at his watch. Do you want me to call him in? He never had to deliver messages for Isabella. She always delivered them herself. Straight from the hip. To the groin.