Читать книгу Rags To Riches Collection - Джанис Мейнард, Rebecca Winters - Страница 34

THE road twisted up the mountainside like a sinuous black snake, its wet surface gleaming in the glow from the car headlamps. The rain seemed to fall harder the higher they climbed. They had left Oliena some fifteen minutes ago, and as the car rounded another bend Beth watched the lights from the town disappear from view.

She leaned forward in her seat to speak to the taxi driver. ‘How much farther?’

She had already discovered that he spoke little English and sighed when he shrugged. But perhaps he had understood her, because a few moments later he glanced over his shoulder.

‘Soon you see Castello del Falco…er…Castle of the Falcon, I think is how you say,’ he explained in a heavy accent.

Beth frowned. ‘You mean Mr Piras actually lives in a real castle?’ She had assumed that the owner of the Piras-Cossu Bank’s private residence in Sardinia would be a luxurious villa, and that ‘castle’ was simply an extravagant title he had given to his home.

The taxi driver did not reply, but as the car crested another ridge of the Gennargentu Mountains, Beth caught her breath at the sight of a great grey fortress looming out of the darkness. Peering through the rain, she saw that the road stretched ahead until it disappeared through a cavernous black gateway. The outer walls of the castle were illuminated by lamps which revealed the sheer vastness of the structure, and grotesque gargoyles leered out of the shadows like portents of doom.

For heaven’s sake! She gave herself a mental shake, angry that she had allowed her imagination to run away with her. But as the taxi drew nearer to the castle entrance she could not dismiss an inexplicable feeling of apprehension, and she was tempted to ask the driver to turn around and take her back to the town. Maybe she was being over-imaginative, but she sensed that her life would change for ever if she crossed the threshold of the Castello del Falco.

She had come to Sardinia for Sophie’s sake, she reminded herself, glancing at the baby-carrier affixed to the seat beside her. She could not turn back now. Nevertheless, her heart lurched as the car sped between the black gates, and she cast a last look behind her, feeling as though she had passed from a safe and familiar world into the unknown.

* * *

The party was in full swing. From his vantage point on the balcony overlooking the ballroom Cesario Piras watched the guests dancing and drinking champagne, and through a doorway leading to the banqueting hall he could see more people crowded around tables laden with food.

He was glad they were enjoying themselves. His staff worked hard, and deserved his thanks with this lavish reception in recognition of their services to the Piras-Cossu Bank. The guests were not to know that their host was counting the hours until he could be alone again. He regretted now that he had not instructed his PA to rearrange the date she had picked for the party. Donata had only worked for him for a few months, and was unaware that the third of March was a date that would forever be branded on Cesario’s soul.

Unconsciously he traced his fingers over the deep scar that began at the corner of his left eye and sliced down his cheek to his mouth. Today was the fourth anniversary of his son’s death. Time had moved on inexorably, and the savage grief he’d felt in the first months and years after the tragedy had slowly turned to dull acceptance. But anniversaries were always difficult. He had sanctioned the party date hoping that his duties as host would distract his thoughts. But all evening images of Nicolo had filled his mind, and the memories had evoked a pain inside him that felt like a knife through his heart.

A faint noise from behind him alerted Cesario to the fact that he was no longer alone. He swung round, his frown clearing when he saw his butler.

‘What is it, Teodoro?’

‘A young woman has arrived at the castle and has asked to see you, signor.’

Cesario glanced at his watch. ‘A guest has arrived this late?’

‘She is not a party guest. But she is most insistent that she must speak with you.’ Teodoro could not hide his disapproval as he recalled the bedraggled-looking woman shrouded in an enormous grey coat whom he had reluctantly admitted to the castle. She had been soaking wet from the storm raging outside, and was no doubt dripping water onto the silk carpet in the drawing room where he had instructed her to wait.

Cesario cursed beneath his breath. The only person he could think of who would dare to turn up at the Castello del Falco uninvited was the journalist who had been hounding him recently and wanted to interview him about the accident which had claimed the lives of his wife and child. His jaw hardened. Perhaps it was to be expected that the press were fascinated by the reclusive billionaire owner of one of Italy’s largest banks, but he resented any intrusion on his privacy and never spoke to journalists.

‘The signorina introduced herself as Beth Granger.’

Teodoro’s voice broke into Cesario’s thoughts. It was not the name the journalist had given when she’d somehow managed to get hold of his private mobile phone number. But the name Beth Granger was familiar. He recalled that his PA had said an Englishwoman had phoned his office in Rome several times the previous week, asking to speak to him. ‘She said she needs to talk to you about something important, but refused to give any more details,’ Donata had informed him.

So maybe the journalist who had been badgering him was using a pseudonym? Or maybe Beth Granger was another member of the gutter press hoping to persuade him to drag up the past? Cesario was in no mood to find out.

‘Inform this Ms Granger that I never see uninvited visitors at my private residence. Suggest that she contact Piras-Cossu’s head office and explain her business to my secretary,’ he instructed Teodoro. ‘And then escort her from the castle.’

The butler hesitated. ‘Ms Granger arrived by taxi, which subsequently left,’ he explained, ‘and it is raining.’

Cesario gave an impatient shrug. He had experienced the underhand tactics used by certain journalists too often to feel any sympathy. ‘Then call another taxi. I want her off the premises immediately.’

With a stiff nod Teodoro turned and made his way back down the sweeping staircase. Cesario glanced over the balcony at the guests milling about the ballroom. He wished the evening was over, but he had yet to make a speech, after which he would present a retirement gift to one of his executives and give an award to the Employee of the Year.

Duty took precedence over his personal feelings, he reminded himself. It was a lesson ingrained in him by his father and reinforced by his position as master of the Castello del Falco. The castle had been built by his ancestors in the thirteenth century; its history ran deep in his bones and the ancient greystone fortress was his bastion away from the scrutiny of the rest of the world. Duty drove Cesario to push thoughts of his son to the innermost recesses of his mind, and he squared his shoulders before striding down the stairs to rejoin his guests.

* * *

Beth was glad to be inside the castle out of the torrential rain. Her wool coat was soaked through to the lining, and she wondered if she could take it off without disturbing Sophie. It would be impossible, she realised, without first laying the baby down on the sofa and thereby risking waking her. She carefully shifted Sophie into the crook of one arm and tried to unfasten the top button, so that she could at least push the coat’s hood back from her face. But after fumbling unsuccessfully for several minutes she gave up.

Surely Cesario Piras would not be much longer, she thought, feeling a flutter of trepidation at the prospect of meeting him. She glanced around the room to which the butler had escorted her before he had gone to inform the master of the Castello del Falco of her arrival. The plush jade-coloured carpet complemented the brocade curtains that were drawn across the windows. Two ornate lamps illuminated an exquisite tapestry hanging above the fireplace. But despite these decorations the room, with its bare stone walls, seemed as sombre and forbidding as the castle had looked from the outside when her taxi had pulled up in the courtyard.

Once again Beth cursed her fanciful imagination and tried to dismiss her unease. But as she stared down at the baby in her arms she prayed that Cesario Piras would be more welcoming than his home.

The door opened and she quickly looked up, her heart thudding with nervous expectation. But it was only the butler who walked back into the room.

Teodoro halted, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face when he saw that the visitor was holding a small baby. He had not noticed the child when he had admitted the woman into the castle. He was unaware that when Beth had climbed out of the taxi and hurried up the castle steps she had pulled her coat around Sophie to shield her from the rain.

Teodoro hesitated, and his gaze rested on the sleeping infant for a few seconds before he returned his attention to Beth. ‘I am afraid the master is busy and cannot see you, signorina. Signor Piras suggests that you telephone his office in Rome and speak to his personal assistant, who oversees his business diary.’

‘I have phoned his office—several times.’

Beth’s heart plummeted. She had been doubtful about bringing Sophie to Sardinia, but Cesario Piras had refused to take her calls, and in desperation she had decided that the only option left to her was to travel to his home and hope he would agree to see her. It appeared that she had wasted her time—not to mention the cost of a flight from England that she could ill afford.

‘I wish to talk to him about a personal matter,’ she explained. ‘Please…will you tell Mr Piras that I must see him urgently?’

The butler’s impassive features did not alter. ‘I am sorry, but the master has refused to see you.’

The pleading look in the young woman’s eyes evoked a degree of sympathy in Teodoro, but he knew better than to disturb Cesario for a second time. Ms Granger’s face was pale and tense beneath the hood of her coat. But he could not help her. The master of the Castello del Falco guarded his privacy as fiercely as his ancestors had guarded their mountain fortress, and Teodoro had no wish to incur Cesario’s anger by disobeying an order.

‘I will arrange for a taxi to come and collect you,’ he told her. ‘Please remain here until it arrives.’

‘Wait…’ Beth stared after the butler as he departed from the room, feeling a sense of helpless despair that her attempt to see Cesario Piras had failed. She had brought Sophie all this way for nothing. She bit her lip. Soon the baby would wake and need to be fed, but the journey back down to the hotel where she was staying in Oliena would take at least half an hour. She would have to give Sophie a bottle of milk in the taxi, Beth thought heavily, unless she could persuade the butler to allow her to feed her here at the castle.

She hurried out of the room after him, but found the entrance hall empty. As she stood wondering what to do a set of double doors at the far end of the hall suddenly swung open and a maid appeared, carrying a tray of empty glasses. Beth took a step forward, but before she could speak the maid had disappeared through another door.

The double doors remained open, and beyond them Beth saw a crowd of people: men in dinner suits and women wearing ballgowns in rainbow hues of silk and satin. Waiters in white jackets, bearing trays of drinks and canapés, wove skilfully among the throng of guests, and the sound of music and voices mingled to form a discordant melody.

A party! Beth felt a spurt of anger. Cesario Piras had refused to see her because he was busy enjoying himself at a party. He hadn’t even given her a chance to explain the reason for her visit. She looked down at Sophie’s tiny face and her heart turned over at the sight of the baby’s long, dark eyelashes resting on her pink cheeks. Fierce determination swept through her. She had promised Mel she would find Cesario Piras, and now that she was here at his castle she was not going to leave without speaking to him.

Without waiting to reconsider her decision, she walked swiftly across the entrance hall. But her nerve faltered and she hesitated in the doorway of the vast room where the party was taking place. The walls here were not bare stone but dark wood panels that gleamed softly in the light cast from the huge chandeliers above. Elegant pillars lined either side of the room, soaring up to support an arched ceiling decorated with exquisite murals.

Beth wished the room was empty, so that she could appreciate its architecture and soak up its history. She possessed a vivid imagination and pictured knights in armour and an age of chivalry that had long since passed. But the room was full of people, and as she moved forward she was conscious of heads turning and curious glances cast in her direction from many of the party guests.

The buzz of chatter faded as people stepped back to allow her to continue. The music had stopped. Ahead of her a figure strode onto a raised platform at the far end of the room. It seemed that he intended to address the guests, but he halted when he caught sight of Beth and even from a distance she could sense his surprise.

How long was this room? Beth wondered frantically. The black-and-white chequered marble floor seemed to go on for ever, and she wondered if she would ever reach the end of it. The silence and the stares made her feel agonisingly self-conscious. Her heart was thudding beneath her ribs but she could not turn back now. Something about the arrogant stance and the air of authority of the man on the dais made her certain that he was the man Mel had asked her to find.

* * *

Santa Madre! Cesario stared in disbelief at the woman walking towards him. At least he assumed it was a woman. It was difficult to tell the identity of the figure beneath the huge grey coat with its hood that half concealed the wearer’s face. But this could only be the visitor whom Teodoro had explained had arrived at the castle a short while ago and demanded to see him.

What Teodoro had failed to mention was that Beth Granger was not alone. The baby in her arms could not be more than a couple of months old, Cesario estimated. The infant was wrapped in a shawl, but a tuft of silky dark hair was visible. He inhaled sharply, struck by poignant memories of his son when he had been newborn.

He did not know who the woman was, but he wanted her to leave, he thought grimly. Tonight he was impatient for everyone to be gone so that he could be alone with his memories.

Teodoro burst into the ballroom, looking uncharacteristically harassed as he hurried towards the dais. ‘Signor Piras, I apologise. I was arranging transport for the signorina…’

‘It’s all right, Teodoro.’ Cesario held up a hand to silence the butler. ‘I will deal with our unexpected visitor.’

The woman had faltered for a moment when Teodoro had spoken, but now she quickened her pace. Cesario jumped down from the dais and in two strides stood in front of her.

‘I hope you have an excellent reason for gatecrashing my party, Ms Granger,’ he said coldly. ‘You have thirty seconds to explain why you are here before I order my staff to escort you from my home.’

Forced to an abrupt halt, Beth opened her mouth to speak. But her brain seemed to have stopped functioning and she was bereft of words. She had never appreciated the meaning of the word dumbstruck until now, she acknowledged dazedly. She had been relieved when the butler had confirmed that the man standing in front of her was indeed Cesario Piras. But she was unprepared for her reaction to him.

He towered over her, so that she was forced to tilt her head to study his face. Her eyes were drawn to the jagged scar which slashed across his left cheek. She could not deny that it marred his otherwise perfect features, causing his eyelid to droop fractionally and zig-zagging over his smooth olive skin to the corner of his mouth. But the disfigurement did not lessen the impact of his raw sexual magnetism; rather, it gave him the look of a pirate, or a knight from ancient times.

He was nothing like Beth had imagined a banker would be. His hair was jet-black and fell in a tousled mane almost to his shoulders. The dark stubble shading his jaw was dangerously sexy, and his razor-sharp cheekbones and aquiline nose gave him an autocratic appearance. But it was his eyes that trapped her gaze. Slate-grey, and as hard as granite, they regarded her intently from beneath heavy brows and gave Beth the unnerving feeling that he could see into her very soul.

He was waiting for her reply. She sensed that everyone in the room was waiting, and the silence pressed on her eardrums. She licked her suddenly dry lips. ‘I’m sorry for my intrusion, but I need to speak with you, Mr Piras.’ Conscious of the curious stares of the party guests she added, ‘Alone.’

His frown deepened, his expression so forbidding that Beth instinctively tightened her arms around Sophie.

‘How dare you come here uninvited and disturb my privacy?’

He spoke in perfect English but with a strong accent. His voice was deep and husky, and caused tiny pinpricks of sensation to dart across Beth’s skin.

In the lengthening silence Cesario studied the woman. If she had been alone he would have had no compunction in ordering his staff to remove her from the castle. Certainly if Beth Granger was a journalist he had every right to throw her out. But he could not deny he was curious about why she had brought a baby out on such a wet and wild night.

His eyes were drawn to the child in her arms and his gut clenched. Once he had held his son and marvelled at the perfection of his tiny features. Once he had cradled Nicolo against his heart and promised to protect him. His failure to keep his promise would haunt him for the rest of his life.

A discreet cough broke into his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. He glanced around the crowded ballroom. Three hundred of Piras-Cossu’s senior staff had been invited to the party and all of them, it seemed, were riveted by the scene unfolding in front of them.

‘Come with me,’ he ordered the woman abruptly. ‘Teodoro, tell the band to continue playing.’

Beth hurried after Cesario Piras as he strode across the room and disappeared through an arched doorway. She followed him into what seemed to be a small storeroom, where bottles of wine and champagne were stored on shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The thud of the door closing made her spin round and she eyed him warily, even more conscious of his height and imposing presence in the confined space.

He did not bother to conceal his impatience. ‘State your business, Ms Granger. Why have you come here? I hope for your sake you are not a member of the press,’ he added harshly.

Startled, Beth quickly shook her head. No…I’m not…I…’ Her voice trailed away. She had rehearsed this moment over and over in her mind, but now that it was here for real she was beset with doubts. It did not help that Cesario Piras was so formidable. Maybe she should say nothing and take Sophie back to England, she thought, unconsciously gnawing on her bottom lip as she struggled to make a decision. But she had given her word to Mel.

She lifted her eyes to meet his hard grey gaze and felt her heart slam against her ribcage. A medieval castle suited him perfectly, she thought ruefully. He exuded an air of power and authority, and she sensed that he was as strong and uncompromising as the granite walls of his castle.

Perhaps he was a sorcerer who had trapped her in his spell? She could not look away from him, and in that moment something happened—something unexpected and impossible to explain. She felt a sharp pain beneath her ribs, as if an arrow had pierced her heart. Don’t be ridiculous, she silently berated herself. How could she feel a connection to a complete stranger? Especially a stranger who was staring at her with grim impatience etched onto his scarred face.

She looked down at Sophie and took a deep breath. ‘I have come, because the child I am holding is yours, Mr Piras,’ she said quietly.