Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) (22 page)

The Italian reached to take her fingers. Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped away the bloodstains as he spoke. “Unfortunately not. There were people running everywhere, you understand? And I only had eyes for you who were in the imbecile’s path. Ah, signorina, believe me, please; I would not for the world have been the one to hurt you.”

“I’m — glad you were around,” she said. “It would have been all right, I think, if the pole hadn’t gotten in the way.”

“Exactly so. But I should introduce myself. I am Caesar Zilanti, at your service, signorina.”

Rone’s gaze was sardonic as it rested on the other man. To Joletta he said, “It might be best to save the introductions until later. Right now I think I should get you to a hospital.”

“Was I out that long?” she asked.

“Only a few minutes, not that the time means anything.”

“It’s just a bump; I’ll be all right in a minute. I don’t think I need—”

“You may have a concussion,” he said, his voice firm. “It won’t hurt to see a doctor to make certain you’re okay.”

“He is right, signorina,” Caesar Zilanti said in tones of caressing persuasion.

“But I don’t want to sit around all night in a hospital waiting room,” she protested.

“It should not take so long.” The Italian’s dark gaze was earnest. “I’ll be happy to drive you; my car is just along the street here.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rone said shortly. “We can find a taxi.”

The other man raised a brow. “At this hour? You must be joking. Allow me to do this much, please, to soothe my conscience.”

There was something in the atmosphere between Rone and Caesar Zilanti that troubled Joletta. They were too polite, the way they looked at each other across her was too wary. She wondered if there had been some kind of confrontation between them while she was out, if maybe they had words over the way the Italian had pushed her.

She could not worry about it just now. The sound of their voices seemed to echo in her head, making it ache. She also felt foolish lying there on the sidewalk while they argued across her.

“All right, all right, I’ll go to the hospital,” she said, struggling to sit upright, “only let’s get it over with.”

“
Benissimo,
in my car?”

“Whatever is fastest,” Joletta answered.

Rone’s expression was grim, but he made no objection.

The hospital visit did not take as long as Joletta had expected. The process was efficient and the female doctor who saw her seemed glad to have an opportunity to use her English. Joletta had a very slight concussion, the woman said, hardly enough to show up on the X-ray film. There should be no need for hospitalization so long as she took reasonable care of herself: no long hikes, fast games of tennis, or anything of that nature. The usual over-the-counter headache remedies should suffice, though they would give her something a little stronger now. She should, of course, contact a doctor at once if the pain grew worse, if she experienced any dizziness or change in her vision. Otherwise, she should enjoy her visit to France; that was the prescription.

“Perhaps you will now allow me to take you both to dinner,” Caesar Zilanti said when they were outside the hospital once more. “I would feel better, if you would. It’s early, yes, but we could go somewhere and relax over a drink until a more suitable hour.”

“I don’t know,” she said, glancing at Rone.

“Sorry, but I can’t,” Rone answered. “I have some calls I need to make.”

She thought he had told her he had his business arranged so he needn’t keep in such close touch. He might, of course, only be using that as an excuse. Regardless, she was not sure she wanted to cope with making conversation with a stranger just now without him. Joletta turned toward Caesar Zilanti with an apologetic smile. “I think it might be better if I have an early night. I appreciate the invitation, really.”

“Perhaps tomorrow night?” The Italian’s dark gaze held appeal.

“It won’t be possible, I’m afraid. We leave in the afternoon for Lucerne.”

“Too bad,” he said, “it would have been a great pleasure. But you will permit me to drive you back to your hotel, yes? Good.” The silver Alfa Romeo he was driving was parked not far away. As they walked toward it he went on. “Many tourists go on from Switzerland to Italy. Do you visit my country by any chance?”

“We’ll be there four or five days,” Joletta said.

Caesar gave her an incredulous look and a shake of his head as they reached the car and he opened the door for her. “Too little, far too little. There is so much I could show you, if I were there.”

To have a guide who knew the small, out-of-the-way places, or who could sort out what was worth seeing from what was not, might have been nice. Joletta’s smile held a shade of regret as she said, “I suppose we’ll have to make do by ourselves.”

Caesar slid into the car. “A shame,” he said, his dark eyes somber with regret as he turned the key in the ignition with only the briefest glance to see if Rone was in the vehicle. “A terrible shame.”

The Italian drove with verve and a total disregard for the dangers of the Le Mans-like Paris traffic. He did slacken his speed somewhat when Joletta reached for a hold on the dash as they rounded a corner. A few minutes later, however, he was racing again, and using his horn to intimidate less aggressive drivers.

He was, she supposed, the kind of man who might be called dangerously handsome, with heavy-lidded eyes, a sensually wide mouth, and thick hair that grew low on his neck. That he was aware of it was obvious, for there was an inner assurance about him and a faintly humorous challenge in the way he looked at her — and at most other women, she suspected. That manner, with his car and clothing that appeared to be on the forward edge of fashion for men, added up to a continental glamor that had an undoubted appeal. It was not the kind of look that attracted Joletta ordinarily; still, it might have been interesting to get to know him a little better.

Or perhaps not. The last thing she needed just now was another complication.

She thanked the Italian for everything again when they reached the hotel. There was such disappointment in his dark eyes as he said good-bye that she might have changed her mind and agreed to dinner from sheer guilt, had Rone not taken her arm to draw her away.

“You’re a softy, aren’t you?” he said with amusement shading his voice as they walked into the hotel.

“Probably,” she agreed, her own smile wry. “I’m also beginning to think I need a keeper. I’ve never had so much bad luck in my life; it’s downright embarrassing.”

“You shouldn’t have been hurt this evening. If I had been more alert, it wouldn’t have happened.”

The self-blame in his voice disturbed her. She said, “You aren’t responsible for me. I was joking about the keeper.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “What if I would like the job?”

“It’s a thankless position, as you should know by now.” There was a tight feeling in her throat, but she ignored it.

“My favorite kind.”

“In that case, you’ve got it,” she quipped, and was self-aware enough to wonder if she was really joking. She refused to consider that he might be serious.

She also refused to think that it might not have been an accident that she had come so close to serious injury this afternoon. The number of people who could have known where she was at that instant was so few, and foremost among them was Rone. Some things were best left unexplored.

There was grandeur and glitter at Versailles, just as Joletta had expected, but there was also something depressing about the huge, chill rooms, the mirrors endlessly reflecting emptiness, and the preserved fragments of lives that had been rudely interrupted, crudely terminated. The stagnant fountains in the unnaturally regimented gardens appeared forlorn, as if waiting for laughter and merriment and wicked, pleasurable decadence that would never come again. She was ready to leave when the bus pulled away for Lucerne.

The drive was long, though the motorway they took to the southeast was excellent. Joletta’s head had begun to ache again, though she had been fine during the morning. She took a couple of aspirins and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes.

After that, the trip became a blur of small villages of cream stone clustered around gray-roofed church steeples, of clipped hawthorne hedges and vineyards with the grapes pruned to knee height, and of bright fields of yellow rape and blue-green rye like giant patchwork quilts. The blue-and-white road signs, the rest areas labeled Aire stop, and the mechanized tollbooths that sped past her window had a surreal quality; they were not what she was used to seeing, and so seemed not quite what they should be.

She woke once to find her head pillowed on Rone’s shoulder. Since he was asleep also, and the muscled firmness felt good under her cheek, she stayed where she was.

Lying there with her eyes closed, she thought of how easily he seemed to have made his decision to join her, and how easily she had accepted it. That he would want to be with her was gratifying, yes, but somehow she was also disturbed by it. He was congenial company, natural, easygoing, entertaining; somehow they found a great deal to talk about. Still, there was something in his attitude toward her that bothered her. He seemed to be attracted to her, yet he seldom touched her beyond the most casual contact. His comments might be mildly amorous, but his basic behavior was more brotherly than loverlike.

It wasn’t that she wanted him to make mad, passionate love to her. She was glad to meet a man who didn’t try to push her straight into his bed. It was a privilege to be with one who had the decency to realize that a woman with a concussion, however slight, would appreciate a kiss on the forehead and a quiet good-night at her bedroom door.

Regardless, when she thought of the way he had kissed her on a dark street in New Orleans, it didn’t seem quite right. It was as if he was deliberately restraining himself, almost as if he was wary of offending her.

Nor did she fully understand her own reactions toward him. His presence, his attentive and protective attitude gave her a secret thrill, yet there was also something inside her that counseled caution. She was used to that in her dealings with men, used to questioning their motives, yet this seemed different.

She thought of her suspicion of him in London. It had not lasted, especially not after she realized her cousin, and possibly her aunt, was also in Europe. She wondered, however, if he might have sensed it. He was a man of such finely honed instincts that it seemed possible. She did not like to think there had been anything in her manner toward him that might have caused it.

She was not going to make too much out of this joint trip. In the first place she didn’t have the time, and in the second it would not be smart. She had not asked him to come. On the other hand, she could not prevent him from joining the group, even if she wanted to. She would enjoy his company and the odd sense of security it gave her, taking the situation as it came. And if nothing much came of it, she would not be disappointed.

It was late when they arrived at Lucerne. The town was dimly lighted and the mountains no more than dark outlines looming beyond the starlit sheen of the lake. Their hotel was located down a side street only a few blocks from the lakefront. The room Joletta was given was small and quaint, with a many-armed art nouveau lamp with glass tulips for shades and walls paneled with alpine scenes in sepia tones. There were no sheets or blanket on the twin beds, only pillows and fluffy duvets. The big casement windows, though covered for privacy by electrically operated blinds, could be opened to the cool, pure mountain air. Breathing its freshness, Joletta fell once more into sleep.

She awoke ravenous and bored with being an invalid, ready for anything and everything. Immediately after breakfast, she and Rone took the cog train with the group to the top of Mt Rigi. It was an exhilarating journey through meadowlands where the chocolate-brown cows of Switzerland grazed near wooden chalets on rich green grass starred with yellow alpine flowers, all against a backdrop of blue, snow-dusted peaks and steep-walled valleys. The day was gloriously clear, so the entire panorama of Alps, the sailboat-studded lake, and Lucerne itself was visible from the mountaintop. Perhaps for that reason, and because it was the weekend, families of Swiss, from grandmothers to the smallest chubby baby, were out in force.

The hang gliders were there, too. Joletta could not bear to watch them launch themselves into space with such terrible élan with only the flimsy support of nylon and aluminum tubing. She could not see how anyone could possibly enjoy such a sport and could not believe that anyone actually did. Rone teased her about her squeamishness, but she noticed that he made an effort to remain always between her and the edge of any precipice, even if it meant blocking her view.

They lunched on bratwurst and rosti potatoes with a dessert of raspberry ice, all while watching a folklore show. Afterward, Joletta and Rone roamed around the town. They window-shopped for Rolex watches and Swiss knives and snapped pictures of the ornate frescoed designs on the walls of the houses. They wandered along to the Lion of Lucerne, monument to the slain Swiss guards of Louis XVI, which, Rone informed her, had been called the most touching memorial in Europe by Mark Twain.

It was at the monument that Joletta discovered she had left her notebook behind at the hotel. There was a certain freedom in not having it; she could enjoy the civic plantings of pansies and tulips and English daisies, also the white lilacs, spireas, and mats of alpine rock-garden plants in the small, neat gardens before the small, neat houses, without feeling that every plant had to be recorded.