Читать книгу The Costanzo Baby Secret - Catherine Spencer - Страница 8

HE REMAINED so still and watched her so warily that she almost lost her nerve and scuttled back to the safety of her suite. Decorated in shades of celadon and cream, nice soothing colors designed not to agitate the amnesiac mistress of the house, it was more luxurious than anything she could have imagined. The gorgeous bathroom had a steam shower and a tub deep enough to drown in. Adjacent to the bedroom was a sitting room, and outside in the private garden overlooking the sea, a swimming pool.

An oasis of tranquility, she’d have thought, yet she’d found neither answers nor rest there. From the minute she stepped over the threshold into the house, an air of utter desolation had engulfed her. She felt hollow inside. Bereft beyond anything words could describe.

Something bad had happened here. Something that went beyond a less than perfect marriage, and try though she might to dismiss it, the weight of unspeakable tragedy, of an event or events too horrific to contemplate, continued to haunt her. This spectacular seaside villa held a dark and dreadful secret, one she was determined to unearth. And whether or not he wanted to, her tight-lipped husband was the man who’d reveal it to her.

“Are you going to offer me a drink?” she asked boldly, even though her pulse ran so fast that she could hardly breathe. Nothing new there, though. She’d lived with subdued panic most of her life, and had long ago learned to disguise it behind a facade of manufactured poise.

“If you’re asking for alcohol, I’m not sure that I should,” Dario said.

“Why not? Am I a raging dipsomaniac?”

He actually laughed at that, a lovely rich ripple of sound that played over her nerve endings like the bass keys of a finely tuned piano. “Hardly.”

“That’s a relief. For a moment, I was afraid I might be a good-time girl who danced on the table after one beer.”

“I’ve never known you to drink beer. You prefer good champagne, and never more than a glass or two at that. Nor have I ever seen you dance on a table.”

“Then why the reluctance to humor me now?”

“Medication and alcohol aren’t a good mix.”

“I’m not taking any medication. Haven’t for more than two weeks.”

“I see,” he said and ran a hand over his jaw. “In that case, I’ll make you a deal. Join me for dinner and I’ll crack open a bottle of your favorite vintage. It was always your favorite.”

Not wanting to appear too eager, she pretended to give the matter some thought. “All right. Now that you mention it, I am rather hungry.”

“Eccellente. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll let the cook know there’ll be two of us dining tonight.”

“Of course.” She waited until he’d disappeared then, weak at the knees from his departing smile, she tottered to a pair of sun lounges upholstered in blue-and-whitestriped cotton, and practically fell onto the one nearest.

The view spread out in front of her was breathtaking. A big oval infinity pool, strategically placed for maximum dramatic effect, appeared to cling to the very rim of the cliff. An illusion, of course, brought about by the sort of complicated engineering feat only the very rich and famous could afford. But the profusion of bougainvillea framing the picture was nature’s handiwork alone.

Dario returned in a matter of minutes with two slender tulip-shaped flutes and a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne. He poured the wine, sat down beside her and touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Salute!”

“Salute! And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything you’ve done since I’ve been ill. They told me at the hospital that you’re the one who sent me flowers every day and who took care of all my expenses.”

“What else would you have had me do, Maeve? I’m your husband.”

“Yes, well…about that…”

“Relax, cara,” he advised her gently. “I didn’t mention our relationship as a prelude to demanding my conjugal rights.”

“Oh,” she said, swallowing a wave of disappointment along with a sip of champagne. Not that she was raring to make love to a man she didn’t know, but that he presumably knew her very well indeed, yet was so willing to keep his distance, wasn’t exactly flattering. On the other hand, what else did she expect? “Under the circumstances, it never occurred to me that you were.”

He turned his head sharply and fixed her in a probing stare. “What do you mean by that?”

“I might not remember marrying you, Dario, but I’ve still got twenty-twenty vision. I know I look more like a scarecrow than a woman.”

“You’re still recovering from an accident that almost cost you your life. You can’t expect to look the same as you did before.”

“Even so, my hair…” She tugged self-consciously at the pathetic remains of what had once been her crowning glory, as if doing so might persuade it to sprout another few inches.

Reaching across the space separating them, he stilled her hand and brought it down to rest beneath his. It was the kind of thing a parent might do to stop a child picking at a scab, but however he might have intended it, his touch electrified her in places not referred to in polite society. Involuntarily she clamped her knees together as primly as a virgin defending her innocence.

Fortunately, he couldn’t read her mind. Or if he could, he didn’t like the direction it had taken, because he let go of her hand as quickly as he’d grasped it. “You have beautiful hair,” he said. “It reminds me of sunshine on satin.”

“It’s too short.”

“I like it short. It shows more of your face, which, like the rest of you, is also quite beautiful, regardless of how you might view it.”

Even though he delivered it as matter-of-factly as a Kennel Club judge might appraise a freshly trimmed poodle, his compliment was more than she’d hoped for or deserved. After her bath, she’d done her best to find something flattering to wear among the clothes she’d discovered in the small dressing room connecting her bedroom to the bathroom, and heaven knew there was quite a bit to choose from.

Layers of lingerie in glass-fronted drawers filled one side, with a shelf of shoes below, and another holding several big floppy sun hats above. Opposite was a row of loose-fitting day dresses, skirts and tops, with two or three more elegant dinner outfits on padded hangers arranged at one end. Nothing too formal, though. Judging by the plethora of beach and patio wear, and the pairs of straw sandals and flip-flops encrusted with crystals, Pantelleria was not the social center of the world.

The quality of the clothes, however, was unmistakable. She’d fingered the expensive fabrics, admiring the cut and color of the various garments. Fashion was in her blood and whatever else might have slipped her mind, her eye for style had not. That most items appeared at least two sizes too large might have proved something of a challenge to a person of lesser experience, but she was on familiar territory when it came to making a woman look her best. Bypassing silky lace-trimmed bras and panties, she’d chosen cotton knit underwear that forgave her diminished curves, and topped it with a loose-flowing caftan in vibrant purple that whispered over her body like a breeze and softened the sharp jut of her hip bones.

Regarding her efforts in the full-length mirror, she’d felt a woman a little more in charge of herself again. But although it had given her the courage to seek out Dario and try to worm more information out of him, now that he was inspecting her so thoroughly, she almost cowered.

“You’re embarrassing me,” she protested.

“Why?” he countered mildly. “You’re lovely, and I can’t possibly be the first man to tell you so.”

“No. My father used to say the same thing, but he was prejudiced. In truth, I was an ugly duckling, especially as a teenager.”

“I quite believe it.”

Her jaw dropped. “You do?”

“Certainly. How else could you have turned into such an elegant swan?”

He was laughing at her, and suddenly she was laughing, too.

It had been so long since she’d done that, and the result was startling, as if she’d opened an inner door and set free a hard, dark knot of misery. For the first time in weeks, she felt light and could breathe again. “Thank you for saying that. You’re very kind.”

“And you’re your own worst critic.” He touched her again, stroking the back of her hand, his fingers warm and strong. “What happened to make you that way, Maeve?”

“I’d have thought I told you that already, seeing that we’re married.”

“Perhaps you did,” he said, “but since we’re starting out all over again, tell me a second time.”

“Well, I was always shy, but never more than when I entered my teens. I’d become paralyzed with self-consciousness in a crowd, and had a miserable adolescence as a result.”

“Didn’t most of us at that age, at one time or another?”

“I suppose, but mine was made worse because, when I turned thirteen, my parents sent me to a very prestigious girls-only private academy, light-years removed from the kind of school I was used to and the few friends I had. Not that I came from the wrong side of the tracks or anything, but the day I walked into that elite establishment sitting across town on its high-priced five acres of prime real estate, I entered a different world, one in which I was a definite outsider.”

“You made no new friends?”

“Not really. Teenage girls can be very cruel, even if they don’t always mean to be. At best I was tolerated. At worst, ignored. I wasn’t entirely blameless, either. I compensated by withdrawing and trying to make myself invisible, which isn’t easy when you’re taller than everyone else, and painfully awkward to boot. I suppose that’s when I became fixated on long hair. I used to hide behind it all the time.”

She took another sip of champagne and stared at the empty sea, for the second time in one day harking back to that awful, unhappy era. “I wanted to be different. Be braver, more outgoing, more interesting and lively. More like those other girls who were so sure of themselves and so at ease in their environment. But I was me. Ordinary, dull. Academically acceptable, but socially and athletically inept.”

“When did all that change?”

“How do you know it did?”

“Because the person you describe isn’t the woman I know.”

Not on the outside, perhaps, and usually not on the inside either. Until someone poked too cruelly at those hidden insecurities and made them bleed. Then she was exactly that girl all over again. Not good enough. A nobody masquerading as somebody.

“Maeve,” he said, watching her closely, “what happened to make you see yourself in a different light?’

She remembered as if it had occurred just last week. “The day in my senior year that the headmistress called me up on stage during morning assembly and ordered the entire student body to look at Maeve Montgomery and take notice. Believing I was about to be castigated for having broken some unwritten rule of decorum, and to hide the fact that I was shaking inside, I stood very erect and stared out at that sea of faces without blinking.”

“And?”

“And what she said was, ‘When members of the general public meet girls from this academy walking down the street or waiting at the bus stop, this is what I expect them to see. Someone who doesn’t feel the need to raise her voice to draw attention to herself, but who behaves with quiet dignity. Someone proud to wear our uniform, with her blouse tucked in at the waist, her shoes polished and her hair neatly arranged.’”

Maeve paused and shot Dario a wry glance. “In case you’re wondering, by then I’d progressed to the point that I wore my hair in a French braid, instead of letting it hang in my face.”

“I see. So the girl who thought she was an outsider turned out to fit in very well, after all.”

“I suppose I did, in a way. I’m not sure if I was really the paragon of virtue the headmistress made me out to be, or if she understood that I needed a morale boost and that was her way of giving it to me, but after that morning the other seniors regarded me with a sort of surprised respect, and those in the lower grades with something approaching awe.”

“What matters, cara, is how did you see yourself?”

“Differently,” she admitted. That night she’d looked in the mirror, something she normally avoided, and discovered not a flat-chested, gangly teenager forever tripping over her own feet, but a long-legged stranger with soft curves, straight teeth and clear blue eyes.

Not that she said as much to Dario, of course. She’d have sounded too conceited. Instead she explained, “I realized it was time to get over myself. I vowed I’d never again be ashamed of who I was, but would face the world with courage, and honor the ideals my parents had instilled in me. In other words, to value honesty and loyalty and decency.”

“People don’t necessarily abide by their promises though, do they?”

Taken aback by the sudden and inexplicably bitter note underlying his remark, she said, “I can’t speak for other people, Dario, but I can tell you that I’ve always tried hard to stick to mine.”

He stared her at her for a second or two, his beautiful face so immobile it might have been carved from granite. When he spoke, his voice was as distant as the cold stars littering the sky. “If you say so, my dear. It’s such a fine night that I ordered dinner served out here. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she answered, “but I do mind your changing the subject so abruptly.”

He turned away with a shrug, as if to say, And I should care because? But she was having none of that. She’d been stonewalled long enough by doctors and nurses and therapists. She’d be damned if she’d put up with the same treatment from a man claiming to be her husband.

Grasping his arm, she stopped him before he could put more distance between them. “Don’t ignore me, Dario. You implied that I’m lying, and I want to know why. What have I done to make you not believe me?”

Before he could answer, the housekeeper came to announce that dinner was ready. Obviously relieved at the interruption, he took Maeve by the elbow and steered her the length of the terrace, to a table and chairs set under a section of roof that extended from the house. Long white curtains hung to the floor on the open three sides, no doubt to provide protection from the sun and wind during the day, but they were tied back now and gave an unobstructed view of the moon casting a glittering path across the sea.

It was, she thought, as he seated her and took his place opposite, like a scene out of the Arabian Nights. Candles glowed in crystal bowls and sent flickering shadows over a marble-topped table dressed with crisp linen napkins and heavy sterling cutlery. Music with a distinctly Middle-Eastern flavor filtered softly from hidden speakers. Some night-blooming flower filled the air with fragrance. Yet the harmony was tainted by the tension still simmering between her and Dario.

Antonia reappeared from inside the house and proceeded to serve from a sideboard positioned next to the wall. The meal began with a salad of tomatoes, olives, onions and capers dressed in oil flavored with basil, followed by grilled swordfish on a bed of linguine. And since Antonia remained at her post well within earshot as they ate, the opportunity to pursue the cause of Dario’s sudden change of mood had to go on hold in favor of inconsequential chitchat.

At length, however, the meal was over, the dishes removed and they were alone again. Pushing aside her water goblet, Maeve interrupted him as he waxed eloquent about the therapeutic benefits of the many hot springs on the island, and said, “Okay, Dario, it’s just you and me now, so please forget being a tour guide and answer the question I put to you before your housekeeper interrupted us. And don’t even think about telling me to forget it, because I’ve had about as much as I can stand of people not being straight with me.”

“I spoke out of turn,” he said carefully, seeming to find the contents of his wineglass more riveting than her face. “I’ve met more than a few business acquaintances whose idea of a gentleman’s agreement turned out to be as meaningless as their handshake. Sad to say, it’s left me somewhat jaded as a result.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, finally meeting her gaze. “I apologize if I insulted you, Maeve. It was not my intention, and I quite understand if you feel compelled to kick me under the table for being such a brute.”

His smile was back, dazzling as ever. Basking in its warmth, she said, “I’ll forgive you on one condition. So far tonight I’ve done most of the talking, when what I’d really like is to learn more about you.”

“All right.”

“And I wouldn’t mind going for a walk while I quiz you.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it? This is your first day out of hospital, after all.”

“But I haven’t been bedridden for a few weeks now. As long as I don’t have to rappel down a cliff or run a marathon, I’m quite sure I’ll be fine.”

“Then we’ll take a stroll through the grounds.”

He led her along a crushed stone path that meandered around to the landward side of the villa and through a series of small gardens.

“Why is each one enclosed like this?” she wanted to know, finding the high stone walls almost claustrophobic.

“To protect them from the winds. These lemon trees here, for instance, would never survive if they were exposed to the sirocco.”

She supposed she once knew that, along with the thousand other trivial details that made up daily life on this tiny island, but rediscovering them could wait. For now, sketching in the major figures that shaped her particular situation had to take precedence. “I can see I have a lot to relearn, so let’s get started.”

“D’accordo. Where shall I begin?”

“With your family, since they’re also now my family by marriage. Do they live here some of the time, as well?”

“Yes.”

“Are they here now?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t seen any sign of them.”

“They don’t actually live in my dammuso.”

“You’re what?”

“Dammuso,” he repeated, his grin gleaming in the dark. “Plural, dammusi. It’s an Arabic word loosely translated as house although more accurately meaning vaulted structure. The style and method of construction is the same for all residences on Pantelleria.”

Not quite, she thought. They might all be shaped like sugar cubes with arched openings and domed roofs, but most were a far cry from the elegant luxury that defined his and the others perched on this remote headland. “Then where do they live?”

“Here, we’re close neighbors. My sister lives next door, and my parents next door to her.”

“And when you’re not on the island?”

“Our home base is Milan where our corporate headquarters are located. But we’re not on top of each other there the way we are here. In the city, you and I have a penthouse, my parents also, but not in the same building, and my sister and her husband have a villa in the suburbs.”

“You have no brothers? Just the one sister?”

“That’s right.”

“Does she have children?”

“Yes, but it’s probably not a good idea to confuse you with too many names and numbers just yet.”

“Okay, then tell me about these corporate headquarters, which sound imposingly grand. Exactly what sort of corporation is it?”

“A family business going back over ninety years. Costanzo Industrie del Ricorso Internazionali. You might have heard of it.”

She frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“My great-grandfather started it in the early 1920s. After hearing about and reading of the misery and destruction during World War I, particularly of children left orphaned and homeless, he vowed he’d dedicate himself to creating a better, more beautiful world for those who’d been born into poverty. He began small here in Italy, buying abandoned land and creating parks in areas of our cities where before, rat-infested alleys were the only playgrounds.”

“Then you do know of at least one man who kept his word.”

“Sì.” He acknowledged her gentle dig with another smile. “Eventually, he expanded his idea to include holiday camps in the country for needy children, some of whom had never seen the sea or a lake. To subsidize their operation and make it possible for cash-strapped families to send their sons and daughters away for a few weeks every summer, he turned his entrepreneurial skills in a more lucrative direction, developing ski, golf and beach resorts, at first on his home turf, then in neighboring countries. A portion of the profits went toward setting up endowment funds for his charity work.”

“I wish I’d known him. He sounds like a very fine gentleman.”

“From all accounts, he was. When he died in the mid-1960s, CIR Internazionali was a household name in Italy. Today, it’s recognized worldwide and supports a variety of nonprofit organizations for underprivileged children.”

“And where do you fit in the corporate structure?”

“I’m senior vice-president to my father, the chairman and CEO. Specifically, I oversee our European and North American operations.”

“So I married an executive giant.”

“I suppose you did.” By then they’d come to a flight of stone steps that brought them back to the seaward side of the property. “Be careful. These are a little uneven in places,” he warned, taking her hand.

This time he didn’t release it at the first opportunity, but tucked it more firmly in his. Except for the glow of lamps inside the house and the lights illuminating the infinity pool, the scene was locked in dark blue moon shadows, creating a sense of such isolation that she instinctively tightened her fingers around his. “We might be the only two people left in the world,” she murmured.

He caught her other hand and drew her closer. So close that even though their bodies weren’t quite touching, such an electrifying awareness sprang up that she wouldn’t have been surprised to see blue sparks arcing between them. “Would it trouble you if, in fact, we were?”

“No,” she said, lifting her face to his. “I can think of no one else I’d rather be alone with.”

He did then what she’d been wanting him to do from the moment she set eyes on him that afternoon. He lowered his head and kissed her. Not on the cheek, as he had before, but on the mouth. Not coolly, as one person greeting another, but like a man possessed of a hunger he could barely keep in check.

She swayed under the impact. Closed her eyes, dazzled by sudden splendor. Felt his arms go around her and pin her hard against him.

His tongue slid between her lips and she tasted desire. His, hers, theirs, more intoxicating than champagne. And for as long as the kiss lasted, the emptiness that had gripped her from the moment of her arrival at the villa eased just a little.

Then it all slipped away. Lifting his head, he put her at arm’s length, his breathing as ragged as hers. “I think you’ve learned enough for one day,” he muttered.

“Not quite,” she whispered, the desolation he left behind striking through her heart like a darning needle. “I have one more question begging to be answered.”

“What is it?”

“If we can kiss like that, Dario, how is it we weren’t happily married?”