Читать книгу The Italian's Baby - Lucy Gordon - Страница 7

THE words stood out starkly, black against the white paper.

A boy. Born yesterday. 8lbs 6oz.

A simple message that might have been the bringer of joy. But to Luca Montese it meant that his wife had given a son to another man, and none to him. It meant that the world would know of his humiliation, and that made him curse until there was nobody left to curse, except himself, for being a blind fool. His face was not pleasant at that moment. It was cruel and frightening.

Fear of that face had made Drusilla leave him as soon as she knew she was pregnant, six months ago. He had arrived home to find her gone, leaving him a note. It had said that there was another man. She was pregnant. It was no use trying to find her. That was all.

She had taken everything he had ever given her, down to the last diamond, the last stitch of couture clothing. He’d pursued her like an avenging fury, not in person but through a battery of expensive lawyers, nailing her down to a divorce settlement that left her nothing beyond what she had already taken.

It galled him that the man was so poor and insignificant as to be virtually beyond the reach of his revenge. If he had been a rich entrepreneur, like himself, it would have been a pleasure to ruin him. But a hairdresser! That was the final insult.

Now they had a big, lusty son. And Luca Montese was childless. The world would know that it was his fault that his marriage had been barren, and the world would laugh. The thought almost drove him to madness.

Three floors below him was the heart of Rome’s financial district, a world he had made his own by shrewdness, cunning and sheer brute muscle. His employees were in awe of him, his rivals were afraid of him. That was how he liked it. But now they would laugh.

He turned the paper between his fingers. His hands were heavy and strong, the hands of a workman, not an international financier.

His face was the same; blunt-featured, with a heaviness about it that had little to do with the shape of features, and more to do with a glowering intensity in his eyes. That, and his tall, broad-shouldered body, attracted the kind of woman—and there were plenty of them—who gravitated towards power. Physical power. Financial power. All kinds. Since the break-up of his marriage he hadn’t lacked company.

He treated them well, according to his lights, was generous with gifts but not with words or feelings, and broke with them abruptly when he realised they did not have what he was seeking.

He could not have said what that was. He only knew that he’d found it once, long ago, with a girl who had shining eyes and a great heart.

He barely remembered the boy he’d been then, full of impractical ideas about love lasting forever. Not cynical, not grasping, believing that love and life were both good: a foolishness that had been cruelly cured.

He brought himself firmly back to the present. Dwelling on lost happiness was a weakness, and he always cut out weakness as ruthlessly as he did everything else. He strode out of the office and down to the underground parking lot, where his Rolls-Royce—this year’s model—was waiting.

He had a chauffeur but he loved driving it himself. It was his personal trophy, the proof of how far he’d come since the days when he’d had to make do with an old jalopy that would have collapsed if he hadn’t repaired it himself.

Even with his best efforts it was liable to break down at odd moments, and then she would laugh and chatter as she handed him spanners. Sometimes she would get under the car with him, and they would kiss and laugh like mad things.

And perhaps it was a kind of madness, he thought as he headed the Rolls out of Rome to his villa in the country. Mad, because that heart-stopping joy could never last. And it hadn’t.

He’d brushed the thought of her aside once, but now she seemed to be there beside him as he drove on in the darkness, tormenting him with memories of how enchanting she had been, with her sweet gentleness, her tenderness, her endless giving. He had been twenty, and she seventeen, and they’d thought it would last forever.

Perhaps it might have done if—

He shut off that thought too. Strong man though he was, the ‘what if?’ was unbearable.

But her ghost wouldn’t be banished. It whispered sadly that their brief love had been perfect, even though it had ended in heartbreak. She reminded him of other things too, how she’d lain in his arms, whispering words of love and passion.

‘I’m yours, always—always—I shall never love any other man—’

‘I have nothing to offer you—’

‘If you give me your love, that’s all I ask.’

‘But I’m a poor man.’

How she had laughed at that, ripples of young, confident laughter that had filled his soul. ‘We’re not poor—as long as we have each other…’

And then it was over, and they no longer had each other.

Suddenly there was a squeal of tyres and the wheel spun in his hand. He didn’t know what had happened, except that the car had stopped and he was shaking.

He got out to clear his head, looking up and down the country road. It was empty in both directions.

Like his life, he thought. Coming out of the empty darkness and leading ahead into empty darkness.

It had been that way for fifteen years.

The Allingham was the newest, most luxurious hotel to have gone up in London’s exclusive Mayfair. Its service was the best, its prices the highest.

Rebecca Hanley had been appointed its first PR consultant partly because, as the chairman of the board had said, ‘She looks as if she grew up with money to burn, and didn’t give a damn. And that’s useful when you’re trying to get people to burn money without giving a damn.’

Which was astute of him, because Rebecca’s father had been a very rich man indeed. And these days she didn’t give a damn about anything.

She lived in the Allingham, because it was simpler than having a home of her own. She used the hotel’s beauty salon and gymnasium, and the result was a figure that wasn’t an ounce overweight, and a face that was a mask of perfection.

Tonight she was putting the final touches to her appearance when the phone rang. It was Danvers Jordan, the banker who was her current escort.

They were to attend the engagement party of his younger brother, held in the Allingham. As Danvers’ companion and a representative of the hotel, she would be ‘on duty’ in two ways, and must look right, down to every detail.

As she checked herself in three angled mirrors Rebecca knew that nobody could fault her looks. She had the slim, elegant body that could wear the tight black dress, and the endless legs demanded by the short skirt. The neckline was low-cut, but within relatively modest limits. Around her neck she wore one large diamond.

Her hair had started life as light brown, but now it was a soft honey-blonde that struck a strange, distinctive note with her green eyes. Small diamonds in her ears added the final touch.

On exactly the stroke of eight the knock came on her door and she sauntered gracefully across to let Danvers in.

‘You look glorious,’ he said, as he always did. ‘I shall be the proudest man there.’

Proudest. Not happiest.

The party was in a banqueting room, hung with drapes of white silk interspersed with masses of white roses. The engaged couple were little more than children, Rory twenty-four, Elspeth eighteen. Elspeth’s father was the president of the merchant bank for which Danvers worked, and which was part of the consortium that had financed the Allingham.

She was like a kitten, Rebecca thought, sweet, innocent and intense about everything, especially being in love.

‘I didn’t think people talked about “forever and ever” any more,’ she said to Danvers when the evening was half over.

‘I suppose if you’re young enough and stupid enough it seems to make sense,’ he said wryly.

‘Do you really have to be young and stupid?’

‘Come on, darling! Grown-ups know that things happen, life goes wrong.’

‘That’s true,’ she said quietly.

Elspeth came flying up to them, throwing her arms around Rebecca.

‘Oh, I’m so happy. And what about you two? It’s time you tied the knot. Why don’t we make the announcement now?’

‘No,’ Rebecca said quickly. Then, fearing that she had been too emphatic, she hastened to add, ‘This is your night. If I hijacked it I’d be in trouble with my boss.’

‘All right, but on my wedding day I’m going to toss you my bouquet.’

She danced away and Rebecca heaved a secret sigh of relief.

‘Why did she call you Becky?’ Danvers asked.

‘It’s short for Rebecca.’

‘I’ve never heard anyone use it with you, and I’m glad. Rebecca’s more natural to you, gracious and sophisticated. You’re not a Becky sort of person.’

‘And what is “a Becky sort of person” Danvers?’

‘Well, a bit coltish and awkward. Somebody who’s just a kid and doesn’t know much about the world.’

She put her glass down suddenly because her hand was shaking. But she knew he wouldn’t notice.

‘I haven’t always been gracious and sophisticated,’ she said.

‘That’s how I like to see you, though.’

And, of course, Danvers wouldn’t be interested in any other version of her than the one that suited himself. She would probably marry him in the end, not for love, but for lack of any strong opposing force. She was thirty-two and the aimless drift that was her life couldn’t go on indefinitely.

She rejected his suggestion of dinner, claiming tiredness. He saw her to her suite and made one last attempt to prolong the evening, drawing her close for a practiced kiss, but she stiffened.

‘I really am very tired. Goodnight, Danvers.’

‘All right. You get your beauty sleep and be perfect for tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘We’re having dinner with the chairman of the bank. You can’t have forgotten.’

‘Of course not. I’ll be there, at my best. Goodnight.’

If he didn’t go soon she would scream.

At last she had the blessed relief of solitude. She turned out the lights and went to stand in the window, looking out at the lights of London. They winked and glittered against the darkness, and in her morbid mood it seemed as if she was looking at her whole life from now on: an endless vista of shiny occasions—dinner with the chairman, a box at the opera, lunch in fashionable restaurants, entertaining in a luxurious house, the perfect wife and hostess.

It had seemed enough before, but something about tonight had unsettled her. That young couple with their passionate belief in love had reminded her of too many things she no longer believed.

‘Becky’ had believed them, but Becky was dead. She had died in a confusion of pain, misery and disillusion.

Yet tonight her ghost had walked through the costly feast, turning reproachful eyes on Rebecca, reminding her that once she had had a heart, and had given that heart freely to a wild-eyed young man who had adored her.

‘A kid, who doesn’t know much about the world,’ had been Danvers’ verdict on ‘Becky’, and he was more right than he knew. They had both been kids, herself and the twenty-year-old, Luca, thinking that their love was the final answer to all problems.

Becky Solway had fallen in love with Italy at first sight, and especially the land around Tuscany, where her father had inherited the estate of Belleto from his Italian mother.

‘Dad, it’s heavenly!’ she said when she first saw it. ‘I want to stay here forever and ever.’

He laughed. ‘All right, pet. Whatever you say.’

He was like that, always willing to indulge her without actually considering what she was saying, much less what she was thinking or feeling.

At fourteen all she saw was the indulgence. It had been just the two of them since her mother had died two years before. Frank Solway, successful manufacturer of electronic products, and his bright, pretty daughter.

He had factories all over Europe, continually moving the work to wherever the labour was cheapest. During her school vacation they travelled together, visiting the outposts of his business empire, or stayed at Belleto. The rest of the time she finished her schooling in England. When she was sixteen she announced that she was finished with school.

‘I just want to live at Belleto from now on, Dad.’

And, as always, he said, ‘All right, pet. Whatever you like.’

He bought her a horse, and she spent happy days exploring the vineyards and olive groves that formed part of Belleto’s riches.

She had a quick ear, and had learned not only Italian from her grandmother but also the local Tuscan dialect. Her father spoke languages badly and the servants who ran his house found him hard to understand, so he soon left the domestic affairs to her. After a while she was helping with the estate as well.

All she knew of Frank was that he was a successful businessman. She never suspected a darker side, until one day it was forced on her.

He had closed his last factory in England, opened another in Italy, then taken off for Spain, inspecting new premises. During his absence Becky went for a ride and found herself confronted by three grim-faced men.

‘You’re Solway’s daughter,’ said one of the men in English. ‘Frank Solway is your dad. Admit it.’

‘Why should I deny it? I’m not ashamed of my father.’

‘Well, you damned well should be,’ another man shouted. ‘We needed our jobs and he shut down the English factory overnight because it’s cheaper over here. No compensation, no redundancy. He just vanished. Where is he?’

‘My father’s abroad at the moment. Please let me pass.’

One of the men grabbed the bridle. ‘Tell us where he is,’ he snapped. ‘We didn’t come all this way to be fobbed off.’

She was growing nervous, sensing that they would soon be out of control.

‘He’ll be next week,’ she said desperately. ‘I’ll tell him you called; I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you—’

This brought a roar of ribald laughter.

‘We’re the last people he wants to speak to—he’s been hiding from us…won’t answer letters.’

‘But what can I do?’ she cried.

‘You can stay with us until he comes for you,’ the most unpleasant-looking man snapped, still holding the bridle.

‘I think not,’ said a hard voice.

It came from a young man that nobody had noticed. He had appeared from between the trees and stood still for a moment to make sure they had registered his presence. It was an impressive presence, not so much for his height and breadth of shoulder as for the sheer ferocity on his face.

‘Stand back,’ he said, starting to move forward.

‘Get out of here,’ said the man holding the bridle.

The stranger wasted no further words. Turning almost casually, he made a movement too fast to see, and the next moment the man was on the ground.

‘’Ere…’ said one of the others.

But his words died unspoken as the stranger scowled at him.

‘Leave here, all of you,’ he said sternly. ‘Do not come back.’

The other two hastened to help their companion to his feet. He was trying to staunch the blood from his nose and although the look he cast his assailant was furious he was too wise to take the matter further. He let himself be led away, but he turned at the last moment to glare back at Becky in a way that made the young man start forward. Then they all scuttled away.

‘Thank you,’ said Becky fervently.

‘Are you all right?’ he demanded abruptly.

‘Yes, thanks to you.’

She dismounted, and immediately realised just how tall he was. Now his grim face and dark, intense eyes were looking down at her, the traces of cold rage still visible.

The angry little crowd had been alarming because there were three of them. But this man was dangerous on his own account, and suddenly she wondered if she was any safer than before.

‘They’ve gone now,’ he said. ‘They won’t come back.’

It was a simple statement of fact. He knew nobody would choose to face him twice.

‘Thank you,’ she said, speaking English, as he had done, but slowly. ‘I’ve never been so glad to see anyone. I thought there was nobody to help me.’

‘You don’t have to speak slowly,’ he said proudly. ‘I know English.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Where did you appear from?’

‘I live just past those trees. You had better come with me, and I will make you some tea.’

‘Thank you.’

As they walked he said, ‘I know everybody around here, but I’ve never seen them before.’

‘They come from England. They were looking for my father, but he’s away and that made them angry.’

‘Perhaps you should not have ridden alone.’

‘I didn’t know they were there, and why shouldn’t I ride where I like on my father’s land?’

‘Ah, yes, your father is the Englishman everyone is talking of. But this is not his land. It belongs to me. Just a narrow strip, but it contains my home, which I will not sell.’

‘But Dad told me…’ She checked herself.

‘He told you that he’d bought all the land round here. He must have overlooked this little piece. It’s very easily done.’

‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ she said involuntarily.

They had turned a corner and come across a small stone cottage. It nestled against the lee of a hill in the shadow of pine trees, and her first thought was that it looked cosy and welcoming.

‘It is my home,’ he said simply. ‘I warn you, it is not so picturesque inside.’

He spoke the truth. The inside was shabby and basic, with flagstones on the floor and a huge old-fashioned range. He was evidently working hard at improving it, for there were tools lying about, and planks of wood.

‘Sit down,’ he said, indicating a wooden chair that looked hard but turned out to be surprisingly comfortable.

There was a kettle on the range, and he made tea efficiently.

‘I don’t know your name,’ she said.

‘I am Luca Montese.’

‘I’m Rebecca Solway. Becky.’

He looked down at the small, elegant hand she held out to him. For the first time he seemed to become uncertain. Then he thrust out his own hand. It was coarse and powerful, bruised and battered by heavy work. It engulfed hers out of sight.

His whole appearance was rough. His dark hair needed cutting and hung shaggily about his thickly muscled neck. He wore worn black jeans and a black sleeveless vest, and he was well over six feet, built on impressive lines.

Hercules, she thought.

The frightening rage in his face had disappeared entirely now, and the look he turned on her was gentle, although unsmiling. ‘Rebecca,’ he repeated.

‘No, Becky to my friends. You are my friend, aren’t you? You must be, after you saved me.’

For the whole of her short life, her charm and beauty had won people over. It was unusual for anyone not to warm to her easily, but she could sense this young man’s hesitation.

‘Yes,’ he said awkwardly at last. ‘I am your friend.’

‘Then you’ll call me Becky?’

‘Becky.’

‘Do you live here alone, or with a family?’

‘I have no family. This was my mother’s and father’s house, and now it belongs to me.’

The firm tone in which he said the last words prompted her to say, ‘Hey, I’m not arguing about that. It’s yours, it’s yours.’

‘I wish your father felt the same way. Where is he now?’

‘In Spain. He’ll be home next week.’

‘Until then I think it’s better if you don’t ride alone.’

She had been thinking the same thing, but this easy assumption of authority riled her.

‘I beg your pardon?’

He frowned. ‘There is no need to beg my pardon.’

‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ she said, realising that his English was not as good as he’d claimed. “‘I beg your pardon” is an expression that means “Who the heck do you think you are to give me orders?”.’

He frowned again. ‘Then why not just say so?’

‘Because…’ But the task of explaining was too much. She abandoned English in favour of Tuscan dialect.

‘Don’t give me orders. I’ll ride as I please.’

‘And what happens next time, when I may not be there to come to your aid?’ he asked in the same language.

‘They’ll have gone by now.’

‘And if you’re wrong?’

‘That’s—that’s got nothing to do with it,’ she floundered, unable to counter the argument.

A faint smile appeared on his face. ‘I think it has.’

‘Oh, stop being so reasonable!’ she said crossly.

The smile became a grin. ‘Very well. Whatever pleases you.’

She smiled back ruefully. ‘You might be right.’

He refilled her cup and she sipped it appreciatively. ‘You make very good tea. I’m impressed.’

‘And I am impressed that you speak my dialect so well.’

‘My grandmother taught me. She came from here. She used to own the house where we live now.’

‘Emilia Talese?’

‘That was her maiden name, yes.’

‘My family have always been carpenters. They used to do jobs for her family.’

That was their first meeting. He walked home with her, coming into the house, instructing the servants to take good care of her, as if he’d been commanding people all his life.

‘Will you be all right?’ she asked, thinking of him walking back alone in the gathering dusk. ‘Suppose they’re waiting for you?’

His grin was answer enough. It said that such fears were for other men. Then he walked out, leaving behind only the memory of his brilliant self-confidence. It was as strong as sunlight, and he seemed both to carry it with him, and leave it behind wherever he had been.