Читать книгу Tall, Dark and Italian - Carol Marinelli - Страница 10

SOMEHOW Tess got through the rest of the day. For once, she had several would-be customers in the gallery, and she spent some time talking to a couple from Manchester, England, who were visiting Italy for the first time.

Nevertheless, she was enormously relieved when it was time to close up. She returned to the apartment and another lonely evening feeling as if she were the only person in Porto San Michele who wasn’t having any fun.

The next morning she felt marginally brighter. She’d slept reasonably well and, refusing to consider what would happen if Ashley didn’t turn up, she dressed in pink cotton shorts and a sleeveless top that exposed her belly button. Why should she care what anyone thought of her appearance? she thought, slipping her feet into sandals that strapped around her ankle. This was her holiday and she meant to enjoy it.

With this in mind, she decided to give the car a miss this morning. A walk down to the gallery would enable her to pick up a warm, custard-filled pastry at the bakery, and the exercise would do her good. Italian food was delicious, but it was also very rich.

It was another beautiful morning. Outside the sun was shining, which couldn’t help but make her feel optimistic. Whatever else Ashley had done, she had introduced her to this almost untouched corner of Tuscany, and she had to remember that.

Several people called a greeting as she made her way down the steep slope into town. She didn’t always understand what they said, but she usually managed an adequate response. Her Italian was improving in leaps and bounds, and before all this business with Ashley had erupted she’d been happily planning a return to the country, maybe taking in Florence and Venice next time.

The pastry she’d bought at the small pasticceria was oozing custard onto her fingers as she let herself into the gallery. The alarm started its usual whine and she hurried to deactivate it before opening up the office and setting her backpack down on the desk. Then, before she had time to fill the coffee-pot, the telephone rang again.

Dammit, she thought, she couldn’t get through the door before someone wanted to speak to her. Depositing the sticky pastry onto the notepad beside the phone, she picked up the receiver. ‘Medici Galleria,’ she said, expecting the worst.

‘Miss Daniels?’

Tess swallowed. She would have recognised his distinctive voice anywhere. ‘Signor di Castelli,’ she said politely. ‘What can I do for you?’ Her heart skipped a beat. ‘Have you heard from your son?’

‘Ah, no.’ His sigh was audible. ‘I gather you have not heard from your sister either.’

‘No.’ Tess’s excitement subsided. ‘Nor has her mother.’

‘I see.’ He paused. ‘You have heard from her?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve heard from Andrea.’

Tess couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice and Castelli picked up on it. ‘You sound depressed, cara,’ he murmured sympathetically. ‘Ashley’s mother—she blames you, si?’

‘How did you know?’ said Tess ruefully. ‘Yes, she blames me. I should have asked Ashley where she was going when I spoke to her before I left England.’

‘But you thought she was going to visit with her mama, no?’

‘Andrea doesn’t see it that way. In any case, I couldn’t tell her what Ashley had told me.’

‘Povero Tess,’ he said gently. ‘This has not been easy for you.’

‘No.’ Tess felt a momentary twinge of self-pity. ‘So—’ she tried to be practical ‘—was that the only reason you rang? To ask whether I’d heard from Ashley?’

‘Among other things,’ he said, rather enigmatically. Then, without explaining what he meant, ‘Ci vediamo, cara,’ and he rang off.

Tess replaced the receiver with a feeling of defeat. So much for his sympathy, she thought gloomily. For a moment there, she’d thought he was going to offer some other alternative to her dilemma, but like Andrea he had no easy solutions. And, unlike Andrea, he had more important things to concern him than her situation, even if the two things were linked.

The pastry had oozed all over the notepad and she regarded it resignedly. So much for her breakfast, she thought, pouring water into the coffee maker and switching it on. Pretty soon the sound of the water filtering through the grains filled the small office, and the delicious smell of coffee was a temporary antidote to her depression.

Realising she still hadn’t opened up the gallery, she went through into the studio and unlocked the door. Sunlight streamed into the gallery, causing her to wince at its brilliance, but everything looked brighter in the healing warmth of the sun.

Already the parade outside was quite busy. Cars and tourist buses surged past, looking for parking spaces along the popular esplanade. There were tourists and local fishermen leaning on the seawall across the street, and beyond the beach several yachts could be seen tacking across the bay.

They were heading for the small marina south of town and Tess envied them. There was something so exciting about being able to do whatever you liked on such a lovely day. With worrying about her sister, she’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel carefree, and her plan to loaf on the beach seemed far out of her reach today.

She stood for several minutes at the door of the gallery, watching the activities outside, trying not to feel too letdown. She didn’t want to think of what she’d do if Ashley hadn’t turned up by Friday. The prospect of her stepmother flying out here to join the search didn’t bear thinking about.

There was a windsurfer out on the water. He had seemed fairly competent at first, but now she revised her opinion. He was probably a holiday-maker, she decided, trying his hand at sailing the narrow surfboard across the bay. And when an errant breeze caught the craft, he wobbled violently before overbalancing and tumbling head-first into the water.

To her relief, his head bobbed up almost instantly beside the capsized craft, but he couldn’t seem to pull it upright again. She’d seen the experts do it, vaulting onto the board and pulling up the sail, but this poor man could only drift helplessly towards shallower water.

Tess couldn’t suppress a giggle. Everyone on the beach and leaning on the seawall was enjoying his predicament. It wasn’t kind to laugh, but she couldn’t help herself. It was such a relief after the pressures she’d endured.

‘You seem happier, signorina,’ mused a low voice, and Tess turned her head to find Raphael di Castelli propped against the wall beside the door. His dark-complexioned features seemed absurdly familiar to her and she chided herself for the flicker of awareness that accompanied the thought.

‘Signor di Castelli,’ she said, knowing she sounded stiff and unwelcoming, but she hadn’t expected to see him again so soon. ‘You didn’t say you were coming to the gallery today.’

‘It was a sudden impulse,’ he said, straightening away from the wall, and she was instantly intimidated by his compelling appearance. He was dressed less formally this morning, though his black trousers and matching silk jacket were no less exclusive in design. Still, he wasn’t wearing a tie, she noticed, even if the dark curls of hair nestling in the open neckline of his black shirt provided a disturbing focus. ‘And who told you my name was di Castelli? Have you spoken to Ashley, after all?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Tess was defensive now, backing into the gallery behind her, allowing him to fill the doorway as he followed her inside. Married men shouldn’t be so attractive, she thought, wishing she could be more objective. She didn’t want to prove that she was no better than her sister, wanting something—or someone—she could never have. ‘Besides,’ she added, striving for indifference, ‘that is your name, isn’t it?’ She paused and then went on defiantly, ‘I’m told you’re quite a celebrity around here.’

His eyes narrowed. It was obvious he didn’t like the idea that she had been discussing him with someone else. ‘Is that what your informant told you?’ he asked. ‘I think he is mistaken. Or perhaps you misunderstood.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Tess moved hurriedly to open the blinds, anything to dispel the pull of attraction that being alone in a darkened room with him engendered. She moistened her lips. ‘Did you forget something?’

Castelli arched a mocking brow. It seemed obvious that, unlike her, he had had plenty of experience with the opposite sex. And, just because he was married, he couldn’t help amusing himself at her expense. He must know from her attitude that she didn’t want him there, yet he seemed to get some satisfaction from her unease.

‘As a matter of fact, I was on my way to Viareggio when I saw you standing in the doorway,’ he declared at last, tracking her with his eyes as she moved around the room. ‘You looked—triste.’ Sad.

Tess caught her breath. ‘You don’t need to feel sorry for me, Signor di Castelli,’ she said sharply, resenting his implication. ‘I was just wasting time, actually. While I waited for my coffee to heat.’

Castelli regarded her indulgently. ‘If you say so, cara,’ he said. ‘But I know what I saw in your face.’

Tess stiffened. ‘Actually, I was watching a windsurfer,’ she said. ‘He made me laugh. Perhaps you mistook my expression for your own.’

‘Do not be so defensive, cara. It is natural that you should feel this—excursion—has not been as you planned.’

‘You got that right,’ said Tess, heading towards the office. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

If she’d hoped he would take the hint and go, she was wrong. As she was standing staring down at the unappetising remains of her breakfast a shadow fell across the desk.

‘Come with me,’ he said, startling her more by his words than by his appearance in the office. She looked up to see he had his hands bracing his weight at either side of the door.

His jacket had parted and she noticed his flat stomach and the way his belt was slung low over his hips. Taut muscles caused the buttons of his shirt to gape; tawny eyes, narrowed in sensual appraisal, caused heat to spread unchecked through every pore.

Realising she was gazing at him like some infatuated teenager, Tess dragged her eyes back to the congealing pastry on the desk. ‘I can’t,’ she said, without even giving herself time to consider the invitation. He must have known she’d refuse or he’d never have offered, she assured herself. ‘I’m sorry. But it was kind of you to ask.’

‘Why?’

‘Why—what?’ she countered, prevaricating.

‘Why can you not come with me?’ he explained, enunciating each word as if she were an infant. ‘It is a beautiful day, no?’

‘No. That is, yes—’ Tess knew she must seem stupid, but it wasn’t her fault. He had no right to put her in such a position. ‘It is a beautiful day, but I can’t leave the gallery.’

Castelli’s mouth flattened. ‘Because Ashley asked you to be here?’ he queried sardonically. ‘Si, I can see you would feel it necessary to be loyal to her.’

Tess stiffened. ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic’ She paused. ‘In any case, I have to be here in case she rings.’

Castelli straightened away from the door. ‘You think she will ring?’

Tess shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

‘And maybe not,’ said Castelli flatly. ‘I have the feeling your sister will not get in touch with you until she is ready to return.’

Tess had had the same feeling. She didn’t want to admit it but it would be counter-productive for Ashley to contact her, particularly if she’d taken pains to keep her whereabouts a secret.

‘Whatever,’ she said now, glancing round for the box of tissues Ashley kept on the filing cabinet. Pulling a couple out, she started to tackle the curdling pastry. ‘I promised to look after the gallery. That’s all there is to it.’

Castelli shook his head, and then moving forward he took the sticky tissues from her hand. ‘Let me,’ he said, glancing sideways at her as he gathered the crumbling remains of the pastry together, and her nerves spiked at the automatic association her senses made of his words.

She wanted to protest, to tell him she was perfectly capable of cleaning up her own mess, but she didn’t. Instead, she stood silently by while he tore several damaged pages from the notepad, wiped down the desk and dumped the lot into Ashley’s waste bin.

‘The domestic will empty it,’ he said, when Tess looked at it a little anxiously. Then, indicating his hands, ‘You have a bathroom, si?’

Tess moved aside, pointing to the door that led into the small washroom, and presently she heard the sound of him rinsing his hands. He came back, drying his hands on a paper towel that he also dropped into the waste bin. Then, he propped his hips against the desk, folded his arms and said, ‘Are you not going to offer me a cup of coffee for my trouble?’

Tess had forgotten all about the coffee simmering on the hob, but now she took a spare mug from the top of the filing cabinet and filled it carefully. Her hands weren’t entirely steady, but she managed not to spill any, offering the mug to him as she said tightly, ‘I don’t have any milk or sugar.’

‘Why spoil a good cup of coffee?’ he countered smoothly, though she guessed he regretted his words when he tasted the bitter brew. ‘Mmm.’ He managed a polite smile, but he put his cup down rather quickly, she noticed. ‘It has a—distinctive flavour, no?’

‘It’s stewed,’ said Tess shortly, tempted to remind him that she hadn’t asked him to join her in the first place. ‘I’m sure you’re used to much better.’

Castelli’s mouth twitched. ‘I am sure I am, too,’ he said without modesty. ‘If you will come out with me today I will prove it.’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve told you, I can’t.’

His strange, predator’s eyes flared with impatience. ‘Because you do not trust me, perhaps?’

‘Trust has nothing to do with it,’ she said, though he was right, she did know very little about him. Stepping back from the situation, she could see he might have a point.

‘What, then?’ He moved to the door and glanced into the gallery. ‘You have no customers. I doubt anyone will be too disappointed if you close. It is hardly an active concern. That is why Scottolino is thinking of moving his interest to Firenze—ah, Florence.’

Recognising the name she’d seen on the top of invoices Ashley had typed, Tess realised he was talking about the gallery’s owner. ‘Mr Scottolino is moving out of San Michele?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Does Ashley know that, do you think?’

‘I doubt it.’ Castelli was dismissive. ‘Augustin is not the kind of man to keep his employees appraised of his plans. Particularly when it will mean that your sister will be out of a job.’

Tess’s lips pursed. ‘And your enquiries—as you so politely put it—won’t have flattered her reputation, no?’

Her sarcasm was obvious and Castelli spread his hands, palms upward. ‘You do me an injustice, Tess. I am not your enemy.’

You’re not my friend either, thought Tess dourly, but his use of her name caused another unwanted frisson of excitement to feather her spine. She’d expected him to have forgotten it, she realised. It was Ashley he was interested in, Ashley who was his focus. Yet when he said her name in that low attractive voice that was as smooth and dark as molasses, her brain scrambled helplessly and she could have melted on the floor at his feet.

Fortunately, he didn’t know that, but she did and it annoyed her. In consequence, her tone was sharper than it might have been when she said, ‘You didn’t tell me how your son met Ashley. Considering the opinion you apparently have of the relationship, it seems an unlikely event.’

Castelli was silent for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer her. He doesn’t want to tell me that Marco has ambitions to be a painter, she thought smugly, feeling as if she’d got the upper hand for once.

But she was wrong.

‘They met last September,’ he conceded at last. ‘At the vendemmia, the grape harvest. There is always a celebration when the grapes are ready to press. Someone must have invited your sister to the gathering. For one evening of the year we keep open house.’

Tess frowned. ‘Then you must have met her, too.’

‘As I told you, I am informed I did.’ He shrugged. ‘There were many people. I do not remember.’

Tess absorbed this. ‘I assumed they’d met at the gallery. I understand Marco is interested in art.’

‘Now where did you hear that?’ Castelli’s eyes were once again focussed on her. ‘It seems you, too, have been making the enquiries, cara.’ His lips curled. ‘My son’s—interest in painting came after meeting your sister. It was an excuse to visit the gallery, nothing more.’

‘You sound very sure.’

Castelli shrugged. ‘Marco has never shown any aptitude for art before. He is a science student. He has always been more interested in the reality of life as opposed to the ideal.’

‘Ah, but wasn’t it Jean Cocteau who called art “science in the flesh”,’ Tess pointed out triumphantly. ‘And surely you can’t deny that Leonardo da Vinci was a scientist, as well as being one of the most influential painters of all time?’

Castelli pulled a wry face. ‘You are determined to win this argument, are you not?’ he remarked ruefully. ‘And when it comes to quotations from the classics, you obviously have the advantage. But, please, do not tell me that Marco’s infatuation for your sister is, as Ruskin said, “the expression of one soul talking to another’’, because I do not believe it.’

Tess was taken aback by his knowledge, but not really surprised. Raphael di Castelli struck her as being a very intelligent man and, contrary to his declaration, she doubted she had any advantage over him. But she understood his feelings, understood that it must be a source of frustration to him that Ashley had caused such a rift between him and his son.

‘I can’t imagine what Ashley thinks she’s doing,’ she murmured now, half wistfully. ‘Her mother thinks I should report her disappearance to the police.’

‘La polizia?’ He seemed taken aback. ‘But this is not a criminal matter.’

‘No.’ Tess didn’t know why but suddenly she wanted to reassure him. ‘I’ve managed to persuade her that there’s no need to involve the police at present.’

‘Grazie.’

He was obviously relieved and, taking advantage of his momentary weakness, she said, ‘I gather your investigator hasn’t turned up any clues.’

‘No.’ He was resigned. ‘He is still in Genova, checking the automobile rental agencies, as I believe I told you. So far, he has had no luck in tracing their whereabouts.’

Tess sighed. ‘I’m sorry.’ And she was. As much for him, she realised with some confusion, as for herself.

His expression softened. ‘You are not getting a very favourable picture of my country, are you, Tess? Or perhaps I should say, of my family. Despite his youth I accept Marco is also to blame.’

She managed a smile. ‘Thank you for saying that.’

‘My pleasure.’ His voice stroked her senses. Then, with gentle insistence, ‘You are not at all like your sister, are you, little one?’

Despite his reference to her size, the sudden intimacy of his words couldn’t be ignored and she seized on the first thing she could think of in response. ‘You’re sure they’re in Genoa, signore?’ she asked hurriedly. ‘Is it a big city?’

‘It is a very big city,’ he said drily, ‘and at this point I am not sure of anything.’ A trace of weariness entered his voice. ‘That is why I am going to Viareggio. Marco may have confided his plans to his sister.’

‘To his sister? I didn’t know he had a sister.’

And why should she? she thought foolishly. It wasn’t as if Castelli had confided his family connections to her. But somehow she’d got it into her head that Marco was an only child. Or perhaps, she’d only hoped he was. If Castelli had more children, he was even further out of reach.

He was regarding her with mild speculation now and she wondered what was going on behind his polite façade. What was he thinking? That she’d been presumptuous to say what she had? Or that she had no right to question his private affairs?

‘My daughter married at the end of last year,’ he replied at last, apparently deciding she deserved an answer. ‘Maria—that is her name—she and Carlo, her husband, own a small albergo in a village not far from the city.’ He paused. ‘If you come with me, you can meet her for yourself.’

Tess sucked in a breath. She hadn’t expected him to repeat his invitation and now that he had she was unsettled again. She knew she should still say no. Closing the gallery would be irresponsible and reckless. How would his daughter feel if her father turned up with a strange woman? Pretty peeved, Tess was sure.

No, she couldn’t do it. Even if the idea of taking off for the day was almost irresistible, she had to keep her head.

Italian men had a reputation for liking women and Castelli was a married man besides. She’d be mad to put herself into his hands.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last, feeling real regret as she voiced the words. ‘I don’t think your wife would approve.’

‘My wife?’ He gazed at her strangely. ‘What does my wife have to do with my asking you to accompany me on this trip?’

‘Well…’ Tess’s face felt as if it were burning. Put like that it did sound as if she was attributing motives to him he clearly didn’t have. ‘I just thought—that is, I’m sure the rest of your family will think it odd if you turn up with—with a strange woman.’

His mouth flattened. ‘Ah, a beautiful woman, cost intendi?’ he remarked softly, and Tess felt as if she couldn’t get enough air. A faint smile lightened his expression. ‘You think my wife and my daughter would not approve of my friendship with the attractive sister of my son’s innamorata, no?’

Tess had never felt more embarrassed in her life. ‘We’re hardly—friends, signore. I just meant—’

‘I know what you meant, Tess,’ he assured her smugly, and she felt as if she wanted to scream with frustration. ‘Relax, cara. There is no conflict of interest. There is only my daughter. My wife and I live separate lives.’

Tess wasn’t convinced. ‘But she still lives in your house, yes?’

‘She lives in my house, no,’ he teased her mockingly. ‘Sono divorziato, Tess. We are divorced. Gina makes her home in New York.’