To Love Again (22 page)

Are you all right? Corbett turned to her now, opening a compartment and pulling out a brandy decanter and one glass.

How convenient. And then, smiling faintly, Yes. I'm fine.

Does this happen to you often? He handed her the glass, and she took it.

Not in a while.

He looked at Isabella and noticed the hand that trembled as she held her glass. At least she was human, despite the composure. She was no longer even out of breath. Natasha didn't tell me where I should take you. Do you want to go home? Or would it be safer at my place?

No, our place will be fine. And I apologize for for the ugly scene.

Not at all. My life is extremely dull by comparison. He gave the address to the chauffeur. But he was suddenly unnerved by what he had seen of Isabella. Despite the composure, there was a look of despair on her face. I don't mean to make light of it. It must be very unnerving. Is that why you left Italy? Or is this something that only happens to you here? His voice was gentle as he settled back next to her on the seat.

No. This ' it happened at home too. I I'm sorry but I can't explain. It's very awkward. I'm only very sorry to have spoiled your evening. You can just drop me off and go back.

But that was not at all what Corbett Ewing had in mind. There was something rare and strange about this woman that touched his heart Something hidden, something remarkable and oblique. She had regal bearing, beauty, he could see in her eyes that there was humor and wit, but there was also something else, something buried, something more. Pain, sorrow, loneliness, he had seen it now, with her dark, smoldering look. He sat very quietly for a moment, then as they turned into the park he spoke easily again.

How's my friend Alessandro? They exchanged a smile, and Corbett was pleased to note that the mention of the boy seemed to unbend her.

He's very well.

And what about you? Bored yet? He knew that she rarely left the apartment, except for brief walks with Natasha. He didn't understand it, but it seemed to be all she did. But now she shook her head vehemently with a smile.

Oh, no, not bored! I've been so busy!

Have you? He looked intrigued. Doing what?

Working.

Really? Did you bring your work with you? She nodded. In what line?

For an instant she was stumped. But she came up with an answer quickly. With my family. In ' art.

Interesting. I'm afraid I can't claim anything as noble as my line of work.

What do you do? Obviously something very successfully, she thought, as her eyes gently wandered over the wooden-and-leather interior of the new Rolls.

A number of things, but mostly textiles. At least that's what I prefer. The rest I leave to the people I work with. My family began with textiles a long time ago and that's what I've always liked best.

That's interesting. For a moment there was a light in Isabella's eyes. Are you particularly involved in any one kind? She was dying to know if she bought from him but she didn't dare ask. Perhaps she could glean the information from something he said.

Wools, linens, silks, cottons. We have a line of velvets that upholsters most of this country, and of course man-made fibers, synthetics, and some new things we're developing now.

I see, but not dress fabrics then. She looked disappointed. Upholstery wasn't her bag.

Yes, of course. We do garment fabrics too. Garment. She cringed at the hideous word. Garment. Her dresses weren't garments. That was Seventh Avenue. What she did was haute couture. He couldn't decipher the look in her eyes but he was amused just the same. We probably even made the fabric for the dress you have on. He allowed a rare burst of pride to show in his voice, but she looked at him then, haughty, the princess from Rome.

This fabric is French.

In that case I apologize. Amused, he backed down. Which brings to mind something far more important. You never told me your last name.

She hesitated only for an instant. Isabella.

That's all? He smiled at her. Just Isabella, the Italian friend?

That's right, Mister Ewing. That's all. She looked at him long and hard, and he nodded slowly.

I understand. After what he had glimpsed at the theater, he knew she had been through enough. Something very difficult had happened to this woman, and he wasn't going to pry. He didn't want to frighten her away from him.

They pulled up at that moment in front of Natasha's door, and with a small sigh Isabella turned to him and proffered her right hand. Thank you very much. And I'm terribly sorry to have spoiled your evening.

You didn't. I was just as happy to get out of there. I always find benefits a bore.

Do you? She looked at him with interest. Why is that?

Too many people, too much small talk. Everyone is there for the wrong reasons, to see their cronies and not to benefit whatever cause. I prefer seeing my friends in small gatherings where we can hear each other talk.

She nodded. In some ways she agreed with him. But in other ways evenings like that one were in her blood.

May I see you inside, just to make sure no one is lurking in the halls?

She laughed at the suspicion, but gratefully inclined her head.

Thank you. But I'm quite sure I'm safe here.

As she said it something told him that that was why she had come to America. To be safe.

Let's just make sure. He walked her to the elevator and then inside. I'll just take you up.

Isabella said nothing until the elevator stopped, and then suddenly she felt awkward; he had been so incredibly nice.

Would you like to come in for a moment? You know, you could wait for Natasha until she comes home.

Thank you, I'd like that. They closed the door. Why didn't she come back with us, by the way, instead of staying to play Meet the Press? That had puzzled him as he had run with Isabella, thinking of what Natasha had just said.

Isabella sighed as she looked at him. She could at least tell him that much. I think she felt it would be wiser if no one knew I was with her.

That's why you came in late? She nodded, and he said, You lead a very mysterious life, Isabella. He smiled, not asking further questions, as they sat down on the long white couch.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. They chatted about Italy, about textiles, about his home. He had a plantation he had bought in South Carolina, a farm in Virginia, and a house in New York.

Do you keep horses in Virginia?

Yes, I do. Do you ride?

She grinned at him over their brandies. I used to. But it's been a long time.

You and Natasha will have to bring the boys down there sometime. Would you have time for that before you go back?

I might. But as they began to speak of it Natasha marched through the door. She looked wilted and exhausted and she looked Isabella straight in the eye.

I told you you were crazy to try it. Do you have any idea what you've done? Corbett was startled for a moment at the look on her face and the vehemence of her tone. But Isabella did not appear to be ruffled. She motioned to Natasha to sit down.

Don't get so excited. It was nothing. They took some pictures. So what? She tried to conceal her own worry and held out a warm hand.

But Natasha knew better. She turned her back in fury, and then stared at Corbett and then Isabella, as she pulled up the satin tunic and sat down.

Do you have any idea who they were? Women's Wear, Time magazine. The third one was the Associated Press. And I think I might even have caught a glimpse of the society editor from Vogue. But the fact is, you asshole, that it wouldn't have mattered if it was a twelve-year-old boy with a Brownie. Your game is up.

What game? What was happening? Corbett was intrigued. He looked at both women and was quick to speak.

Should I go?

Natasha answered him before Isabella could. It doesn't matter, Corbett. I trust you. And by tomorrow morning the whole world will know.

But Isabella was angry now. She stood up and walked around the room. That's absurd.

Is it, Isabella? You don't think anyone remembers you? You think in two months everyone has forgotten you? Do you really feel that safe? Because if you do, you're a fool.

Corbett said nothing. He only watched Isabella's face. She was frightened, but determined, and she had the look of someone who had taken her chances, lost the first hand, and was not going to give in or quit. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her he'd protect her, to tell Natasha to settle down. His voice was deep and gentle when at last he spoke.

Maybe nothing will come of it.

Natasha only glared at him furiously, as though he had been part of the original plot. You're wrong, Corbett. You don't know how wrong you are. By tomorrow it will be in all of the papers. She looked unhappily at Isabella. I'm right, you know.

Isabella stood very still and spoke very softly. Maybe not.

Corbett Ewing sat in his office, staring at the morning paper in despair. True to Natasha's predictions, it was all in the news. He was reading The New York Times. Isabella di San Gregorio, widow of the kidnapped and subsequently murdered couturier, Amadeo di San Gregorio' . It went on to explain once again every possible detail of the kidnapping and its eventual unhappy outcome. More interestingly it described in intricate detail how she had disappeared and it had been thought that she had taken refuge in a penthouse atop her couture house in Rome. There was a brief line, questioning if she had in fact been in the States all along, or if she had slipped away after the successful opening that week of San Gregorio's spring line. The article went on to mention that it was not known where she was staying and that discreet inquiries of prominent people in the fashion world had turned up nothing. Either they were cooperating in keeping her whereabouts secret or they didn't know. Signore Cattani, the American representative of San Gregorio in New York, said that he had heard from her more frequently than usual in recent months, but that he had no reason to believe that she was in New York and not Rome. There was also a mention of the fact that she had been seen at the film premiere escorted by a tall, white-haired man, that they had made good their escape together in a black chauffeured Rolls. But his identity had been uncertain. The reporters, interest had centered on their shock at seeing Isabella, and although one of the reporters had been under the impression that he was indeed a familiar face, no one had actually thought to check him carefully, and all they had of him in the photographs was his back as they ran.

Corbett sighed, set down the paper, sat back in his chair, and swiveled slowly around. What did she know of him? What had Natasha said? He wished that, of all the women in the world, she were anyone but who she was. He sat, looking dejected, glancing at the paper, and then at his hands. Slowly his thoughts turned from his own worries to hers. Isabella di San Gregorio. It had never dawned on him before.

Natasha's cousin from Milan! He smiled to himself at the story and then smiled more broadly as he put together the rest of the pieces and remembered the whole silly game ' he had told her he was in textiles ' she had told him her family was in art. Yet she knew something about fabrics. And the way she bridled when she had told him that the satin for her outfit was surely not his but had been bought in France! He understood everything better now: the secrecy, their flight from the benefit, and Isabella's eyes filled with fear, as though she had lived that scene only too often, as though she had been haunted by it for much too long. Poor woman. What she must have gone through. He found himself also wondering how she managed to run her business from New York.

One thing was certain: Isabella di San Gregorio was a remarkable woman, a woman with talent and beauty and soul, but he wondered now if he would ever get to know her. If he even had a chance. He realized that there was only one answer, and it had to come from her. That night he would tell her. He couldn't take a chance of her finding out later and having it taint what he felt for her, what he wanted to help her do. If she'd let him. If she'd even speak to him again.

With a long sigh of resignation Corbett Ewing stood up and left his desk. He looked far up Park Avenue to where he knew Isabella hid, in Natasha's apartment, with her child and Natasha's, and then he sat down again and picked up the phone.

Isabella was still talking to Bernardo in Rome. He had first gotten the news at noon. His secretary had brought him the afternoon paper, which he read in horror, his eyes flaming, but without saying a word. He had called Isabella at six in the morning, and at seven, and now again, just after ten.

All right, goddamn it! So what? I did it! There's no changing that now. I'll go back into hiding. No one will know if I'm still here. I can't bear it any longer. I work night and day. I eat with the children. I take short walks after dark. No people, Bernardo. No one to look at and laugh with and talk to. No one intelligent to talk business with. The only excitement in my evenings is provided by Jason's electric train. Her voice pleaded with him, but Bernardo didn't want to hear.

All right, go ahead, make a spectacle of yourself. Expose yourself. But if something happens to you or Alessandro, don't come crying to me, because it'll be your own goddamn fault And then suddenly he took a long breath and slowed down. At the other end he could hear Isabella crying softly into the phone. All right, all right, I'm sorry' . Isabella, please ' but I was so frightened for you. It was such a foolish thing to do. He lit a cigarette and then stubbed it out.