Читать книгу Sara Craven Tribute Collection - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 21

ROME walked into his suite and slammed the door behind him.

For a moment he leaned back against its solid panels, eyes closed, while he silently called himself every bad name he knew in English, before switching to Italian and starting again.

But the word that cropped up most often was ‘fool’.

The whisky he’d ordered earlier had been sent up, he noted with grim pleasure. He crossed to the side table, pouring a generous measure into a cut-glass tumbler and adding a splash of spring water.

He opened the big sliding doors and moved out on to the narrow terrace, staring with unseeing eyes over the city as he swallowed some of the excellent single malt in his glass. He put up a hand to his throat, impatiently tugging his black tie loose, ignoring the dank autumnal chill in the air.

He said quietly, almost conversationally, ‘I should never have come here.’

But then what choice did he have, when the Italian banks, once so helpful, had shrugged regretful shoulders and declined to loan him the money he needed to revitalise his vines and restore the crumbling house that overlooked them?

And for that, he thought bitterly, he had Graziella to thank. She’d sworn she’d make him sorry, and she’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams.

He’d intended his trip to London to be a flying visit, and totally private. He’d planned to stay just long enough to negotiate the loan he needed, then leave immediately, without advertising his presence.

But he’d underestimated his grandfather, and the effectiveness of his information network, he realised, his mouth twisting wryly.

He’d barely checked in to his hotel before the summons had come. And couched in terms he hadn’t been able to refuse.

But he couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned. His mother had been quite explicit.

‘Sooner or later he’ll want to meet you, and you should go to him because you’re his only grandchild. But don’t accept any favours from him, caro, because there’s always a payback. Always.’

Yet he still hadn’t seen the trap that had been baited for him.

He’d been caught off guard, of course. Because Matthew Sansom had come to him first. Had simply appeared one day at Montedoro right out of the blue.

Rome had been shaken to find himself staring at an older version of himself. The mane of hair was white, and the blue eyes were faded, but the likeness was undeniable, and not lost on Matt Sansom either.

The shaggy brows had drawn together in a swift glare of disbelief, then he’d recovered. ‘So—you’re Sarah’s bastard.’

Rome inclined his head. ‘And you’re the man who tried to stop me being born,’ he countered.

There was a smouldering silence, then a short bark of laughter. ‘Yes,’ said Matt Sansom. ‘But perhaps that was a mistake.’

He swung round and looked down over the terraces of vines. ‘So this is where my daughter spent her last years.’ He sounded angry, almost contemptuous, but there was a note of something like regret there, too.

He stayed two nights at Montedoro, touring the vigneto and asking shrewd questions about its operation, and paying a visit to the local churchyard where Sarah was buried beside her husband, Steve d’Angelo.

‘You have his name,’ Matt said abruptly as they drove back to the villa. ‘Was he your father?’

‘No, he adopted me.’

The pale eyes glittered at Rome. ‘Card-sharp, wasn’t he?’

‘He was a professional gambler.’ Rome was becoming accustomed to his grandfather’s abrasive style of questioning. ‘He was also a brilliant, instinctive card player, who competed for high stakes and usually won.’

‘And you followed in his footsteps for a while?’

Rome shrugged. ‘I’d watched him since I was a boy. He taught me a lot. But my heart was never in it, as his was.’

‘But you won?’

‘Yes.’

Matt peered through the window of the limousine with a critical air. ‘Your stepfather didn’t invest much of his own winnings in the family estate.’

‘It came to Steve on the death of his cousin. He’d never expected to inherit, and it was already run down.’

‘And now you’ve taken it on.’ That bark of laughter again. ‘Maybe you’re more of a gambler than you think, boy.’ He paused. ‘Did your mother ever speak about your real father?’

‘No,’ Rome said levelly. ‘Never. I got the impression it wasn’t important to her.’

‘Not important?’ The growl was like distant thunder. ‘She brings disgrace on herself and her family, and it doesn’t matter?’

Just for a moment Rome caught a glimpse of the harsh, unforgiving tyrant his mother had run away from.

‘She was young,’ he said, his own voice steely. ‘She made a mistake. She didn’t have to do penance for the rest of her life.’

Matt grunted, and relapsed into a brooding silence.

That was the only real conversation they’d had on personal subjects, Rome recalled. They’d seemed to tacitly agree there were too many no-go areas.

His grandfather had sampled the wine from Rome’s first few vintages with the appreciation of a connoisseur, drawing him out on the subject, getting him to talk about his plans for the vigneto, his need to buy new vats for the cantina and replace the elderly oaken casks with stainless steel.

Looking back, Rome could see how much he’d given away, in his own enthusiasm. Understood how Matt Sansom had deliberately relaxed the tension between them, revealing an interested, even sympathetic side to his nature.

The offer of a low-cost loan to finance these improvements had been made almost casually. And the fact that it wasn’t a gift—that it was a serious deal, one businessman to another, with a realistic repayment programme—had lured Rome into the trap.

It had only been later, after the deal had been agreed and his grandfather had departed, that he’d begun to have doubts.

But it was finance he needed, and repayments he could afford, he’d thought. And it would be a definite one-off. Once the last instalment had been paid, he would look for future loans from more conventional sources.

He remembered a night in Paris when both Steve and himself had emerged heavy winners from a private poker game which had been scheduled to last a week. The other players had been quietly spoken and beautifully dressed, and the air of power round the table had been almost tangible, and definitely menacing.

‘Are we going back?’ he’d asked eagerly, but Steve had shaken his head.

‘Never return to a pool where tigers come to drink,’ he’d told him, and they’d caught the next plane back to Italy.

It was a piece of advice that had lingered. But Rome had told himself that his grandfather’s loan was a justifiable risk. The first and last visit to the tigers’ pool.

Over the past two years communication between them had been brief, and usually by letter.

Rome had assumed that it would remain that way.

So the curt demand for his presence had been an unwelcome surprise.

Matt Sansom lived just outside London, in a house hidden behind a high stone wall and masked by clustering trees.

‘Disney meets Frankenstein’ had been Sarah d’Angelo’s description of her childhood home, and, recovering from his first glimpse of the greystone, creeper-hung mansion, its bulk increased by the crenellated turrets at each end, Rome had found the description apt.

A quiet grey-haired woman in an anonymous navy dress had answered the door to him.

‘Rome,’ she said, a warm, sweet smile lighting her tired eyes. ‘Sarah’s son. How wonderful. I didn’t believe we’d ever meet.’ She reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘I’m your aunt Kit.’

Rome returned her embrace, guiltily aware he’d assume she was the housekeeper.

He said, ‘I didn’t believe I’d ever be invited here either. I thought my existence was too much of a blot on the family honour.’

He was waiting for her to tell him that his grandfather’s bark was worse than his bite, but the expected reassurance didn’t come.

Instead, she said, ‘He’s waiting for you. I’ll take you up to him.

‘He’s resting,’ she added over her shoulder, as she led the way up the wide Turkey-carpeted staircase and turned left on to a galleried landing. ‘He’s been unwell. I was afraid it was his heart, but the doctor’s diagnosed stress.’

If the house looked like a film set, then Matt Sansom’s bedroom emphasised the impression. It was stiflingly hot and airless. The carpet was crimson, and so were the drapes, while the vast bed was built on a raised dais. And in the centre of it, propped up by pillows, was Matt himself.

Like some damned levee at eighteenth-century Versailles, Rome thought, amused, then met the full force of his grandfather’s glare and realised this was no laughing matter.

He said, ‘Good evening, Grandfather. I hope you’re feeling better.’

Matt grunted and looked past him. ‘Go downstairs, Kit,’ he directed abruptly. ‘You’re not needed here.’

Rome swung around. ‘Aunt Kit,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I hope you can make time for a talk before I leave.’

She nodded, darting an apprehensive glance at her father, then slipped from the room.

‘You can bring us some coffee in half an hour,’ Matt called after her as she closed the door.

Rome’s brows lifted. ‘Is that my aunt’s job?’

‘It is tonight. I’ve given the staff the evening off.’ Matt gave him a measuring look. ‘And you’re very quick to claim family relationships.’

‘Are you saying we’re not related?’ Rome asked levelly.

‘No. I’ve decided to acknowledge your existence. But in my own time, and in my own way.’

‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’

‘No,’ said Matt. ‘You’re expected to do as you’re told.’ He gestured at the carafe and glass on his night table. ‘Pour me some water, boy.’

‘As we’re dispensing with common courtesy, may I tell you to go to hell, before I walk out?’ Rome, tight-lipped, filled the glass and handed it to the old man.

‘No,’ Matt said. ‘Because you can’t afford to.’ He allowed Rome to assimilate that, then nodded. ‘Now, pull up that chair and listen to what I have to say.’ He drank some water, pulling a peevish face. ‘What do you know of Arnold Grant?’

Rome paused. ‘I know that you’ve been lifelong business rivals and personal enemies,’ he said quietly. ‘My mother said that the feuding between you had poisoned life in this house for years. That’s one of the reasons she—left.’

‘Then she was a fool. She should have stayed—helped me fight him instead of disgracing herself.’ He reached under his pillows and pulled out a folder. He extracted a magazine clipping and thrust it at Rome. ‘Here he is.’

Rome gave the photograph an expressionless look. He saw a tall thin man with iron-grey hair, flanked by two prominent politicians.

He said, ‘What of it?’

‘I’ll tell you precisely what.’ Matt thumped the bed with his fist. ‘He came at me again recently. I was negotiating for some land for a shopping development. I’d had plans drawn up, paid for test drilling and consultancy fees—and he did a secret deal—stole it from under my nose. Cost me hundreds of thousands of pounds, and not for the first time either. But, by God, it will be the last. Because I’m going for him, and this time it’s personal.’

Rome was alarmed at the passion vibrating in the older man’s voice. At the veins standing out on his forehead.

He said quietly, ‘Someone once said the best revenge was to live well. Have you thought of that?’

‘I intend to live well.’ Matt’s eyes glittered. ‘After I’ve dealt Arnold Grant a blow he’ll never recover from. And this is where you come in.’ He paused. ‘He has two weak spots—and one of them’s in that photo. See the girl standing on the end?’

Rome gave the cutting a frowning glance. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s his only granddaughter. She’s not much in the way of looks but he thinks the sun shines out of her, and it’s through her that I’m going to bring him down.’ He paused. ‘With your help.’

Rome put the cutting down, and rose. He said, grimly, ‘Let’s hold it right there. I don’t know what you’re contemplating, and I don’t want to.’

‘Always supposing you have a choice.’ Matt leaned back against his pillows. ‘Now, stay where you are and listen. You’re going to meet this girl, and you’re going to persuade her to marry you. I don’t care how.’

For a moment Rome stared at him, then he said quietly and coldly, ‘I’m not sure if this is a serious proposition, or a sick joke. If it’s the first, the answer’s no, and if the second, I’m not even marginally amused.’

‘Oh, I mean it,’ Matt said. ‘And you’ll do it. If you know what’s good for you. Now sit down.’

The threat was unequivocal, and Rome felt tension grating across every nerve.

He thought, This is crazy. I have to reason with him…

Resuming his seat, he looked back steadily at his grandfather. ‘I make wine. I don’t take part in feuds. And I’m not interested in involvement with some unknown girl. There are plenty of tame studs for hire out there who’ll fulfil your requirements. They might even enjoy it. I wouldn’t.’

‘You make wine,’ Matt Sansom said softly, ‘only while you still have a vineyard. If I called in my loan, you’d have to sell up. And believe that I’ll do exactly what I need to.’

‘But you can’t.’ Rome stared at him, horrified. ‘I’ve made every payment…’

‘But I’m having a cash-flow problem—I’ve just lost out on a big deal and have to recoup my losses.’ Matt allowed himself a thin smile of satisfaction. ‘And think of the consequences,’ he added. ‘Your workers will be out of jobs, your house will crumble into ruins, and you’ll be picking a living from the casinos again. Is that what you want?’

Rome said, between his teeth, ‘No.’

‘Then be sensible. You’ll have no problem with the Grant girl. There’s no regular man in her life. She’ll fall into your hand like a ripe apple from a tree.’ He laughed hoarsely. ‘She was engaged at one point, but threw her unfortunate fiancé, over a fortnight before the wedding. Nearly broke him up, I gather. You’ll understand that, I dare say,’ he added, darting Rome a lightning glance.

Rome was suddenly rigid. He said icily, ‘You have done your homework.’

‘Knowledge is power. And Arnie Grant doesn’t know I have a grandson—which is his second weakness.’

Rome shook his head in disbelief. He said, ‘You actually expect me to marry this girl—whatever her name is?’

‘She’s called Cory,’ Matt said. Something flickered in his eyes, then vanished. ‘It’s a family name. But she’s known as the Ice Maiden, because she freezes men off. And you won’t marry her,’ he added with a wheezing laugh. ‘Because when Arnie Grant discovers your real identity—that you’re my grandson and illegitimate at that—he’ll move heaven and earth to stop it. To get rid of you from her life.

‘That’s why a hired stud won’t do. It has to be you. Because Arnie Grant will want you to go away—to disappear before the truth comes out and turns him into a laughing stock, together with his precious child. And he’ll pay you to do just that.

‘But he’ll know that I know,’ he added gloatingly. ‘That I set him up—and he’ll have to live with that humiliation for the rest of his life. It will finish him.’

He nodded. ‘You’ll be able to name your own price, and whatever he offers you, I’ll match. And you can consider the loan paid off, too.’

‘I could do that anyway,’ Rome flashed. ‘I came over here looking for finance. I can repay you from my new borrowing. I don’t need your dirty bargain.’

‘Ah,’ Matt said softly. ‘But you may find that money’s not as readily available to you as you thought. That you’re not considered a good risk. In fact, I’d offer generous odds that your luck—and your credit—have run out.’

Rome rose and walked out to the window. Afternoon was fading into evening, and a breeze was stirring the rain-soaked shrubs in the garden below.

He thought of the thick autumn sunlight falling on Montedoro, the rich gleam of the earth and the pungent scents of the cantina, and felt a bleakness invade his very soul.

The vineyard had become his life. Its workers were his people. He was not prepared to let them go to the wall.

He said without looking around, ‘So, you’ve poisoned the wells for me. Did you do the same in Italy?’

‘I didn’t have to. A man called Paolo Cresti did it for me. He thinks you’re having an affair with his wife.’

Rome swung back to face him. ‘That’s a lie,’ he said coldly. ‘I haven’t set eyes on her since her marriage.’

Matt’s smile was thin. ‘That’s not what she’s let her husband believe. You should have remembered the old saying—hell have no fury like a woman scorned.’

Rome stared at him bitterly. ‘I should have remembered much more than that,’ he said. He walked back to the bed and picked up the cutting. ‘Has it occurred to you that this girl may not find me attractive?’

‘Plenty of women have, by all accounts. Why should she be an exception?’

‘And I may not fancy her,’ Rome reminded him levelly.

‘But you’ll fancy the money you’ll get from old Grant.’ Matt leered at him. ‘Just keep thinking of that. And keep your eyes shut, if you have to.’

Rome’s mouth twisted in disgust. He looked down at the photograph. ‘This tells me nothing. I need to see her properly before I decide.’

‘I can’t argue with that.’ Matt handed him an elaborately embossed card from the folder. ‘A ticket in your name for a charity ball at the Park Royal Hotel tomorrow night. She’ll be there. He won’t. You can look her over at your leisure.’

There was a tap at the bedroom door, and Kit Sansom appeared with a tray of coffee.

‘We shan’t need that,’ her father said. ‘Because Rome is leaving. He’s got some serious thinking to do.’ His smile was almost malicious. ‘Haven’t you—boy?’

Rome hadn’t spent all the intervening time thinking, however. He’d attempted to make contact with some of the financial contacts on his list, but without success, no one wanted to know him, he realised bitterly. Matt Sansom had done his work well.

And now, for Montedoro’s sake, he was committed to the next phase of this war of attrition between two megalomaniac old men.

He groaned, and tossed down the rest of his whisky. If ever he’d needed to get roaring, blazing drunk, it was tonight.

As he walked back inside to refill his glass, someone knocked at the door of his suite. A porter faced him.

‘Package for you, sir. Brought round by special messenger.’ He accepted Rome’s tip, and vanished.

Frowning, Rome slit open the bulky envelope. He realised immediately that he was looking at a complete dossier on Cory Grant—where she lived, how she spent her spare time, where she shopped, her favourite restaurants. Even the scent she used.

No detail too trivial to be excluded, he acknowledged sardonically.

But it was chillingly thorough. Matt must have been planning this for a long time, he thought. And the screwed-up land deal was just an excuse.

He poured himself another whisky, stretched out on the bed and began to read.

‘You made me look a complete idiot,’ said Philip. ‘Walking out like that.’

Indignation added a squeak to his voice, Cory thought dispassionately. And who needed a man who squeaked?

She kept her tone matter-of-fact. ‘I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.’

‘Oh, come off it, Cory. I told you—I ran into some old friends—lost track of time rather. And I’m sorry if you felt neglected.’ He paused. ‘But I’ll make it up to you.’ His voice became chummy, almost intimate. ‘Why don’t we have dinner? I promise I’ll give you my undivided attention.’

Cory gave her cordless phone receiver a look of blank disbelief.

She said politely, ‘I don’t think so, thanks. We don’t have enough in common.’ Except, she thought, that your father is one of Gramps’s main sub-contractors, and you realise you may have rocked the boat.

‘Look, Cory.’ He sounded hectoring again. ‘I’ve apologised. I don’t know what else you want me to say.’

‘Goodbye would do quite well.’

‘Oh, very amusing. Know something, Cory? It’s time you got off that high horse of yours and came down to earth, or you’re going to end up a sad old maid. Because I don’t know what you want from a man. And I suspect you don’t know either.’

She said, ‘It’s quite simple, Philip. I want kindness. And you just don’t qualify.’

She replaced her receiver, cutting off his spluttering reply.

She should have let her answering machine take the call, she thought. She simply wasn’t up to dealing with Philip’s efforts at self-justification after her disturbed night.

And she wasn’t up to dealing with the reasons for the disturbed night either.

With a sigh, she went into her tiny kitchen, poured orange juice, set coffee to percolate and slotted bread into the toaster.

Gramps would be next, she thought, eager to know how the evening had gone, and she’d make up a kindly fib to satisfy him.

Only it wasn’t her grandfather who rang almost at once, but Shelley.

‘Cory—are you there? Pick the phone up. I have news.’

Cory hesitated, frowning slightly.

Her ‘hello’ was guarded, but Shelley didn’t notice.

‘I’ve found your mysterious stranger,’ she reported happily. ‘I did a quick check, and he bought one of the last tickets. His name’s Rome d’Angelo. So, the ball’s in your court now.’

‘I don’t see how.’

Shelley made an impatient noise. ‘Come on, babe. You won’t find many men with that name to the square acre. I’d start with directory enquiries.’

‘Perhaps—if I wanted to find him,’ Cory agreed, her lips twitching in spite of herself.

‘I thought he’d made a big impression.’

‘But not one I necessarily wish to repeat.’ God, Cory thought, I sound positively Victorian. She hurried into speech again. ‘Thanks for trying, Shelley, but I’ve made a major decision. If I get involved again, I want someone kind and caring, not sex on legs.’

‘You could have both. Isn’t this guy worth a second look?’

‘I doubt if he was worth the first one,’ Cory said drily. ‘I’m sorry, love. I’m a hopeless case.’

‘No,’ Shelley said. ‘You just think you are. So, if you’re not going man-hunting, what do you plan for your day?’

‘I’m doing the domestic thing.’ Cory narrowed her eyes to stare at a ray of watery sun filtering through the window. ‘And I may go over to the health club for a swim later.’

‘Well, take care,’ Shelley advised caustically. ‘Too much excitement can be bad for you. I’ll call you next week.’ And she rang off.

As Cory replaced her own handset, it occurred to her that the unknown Rome d’Angelo was almost certainly that kind of excitement. Bad for you.

And best forgotten, she told herself dismissively.

The health club was rarely very busy on Saturday mornings, and today was no exception. Cory found she had the pool virtually to herself. She had always loved swimming, finding her own grace and co-ordination when she was in the water, and she could feel the tensions floating out of her as she cut through the water.

Afterwards she relaxed on one of the comfortable padded benches set back around the pool, and read some of the book she’d brought with her, but to her annoyance she found her concentration fragmenting.

In spite of herself, she kept thinking of the previous evening, and that brief, disturbing glimpse she’d had of Rome d’Angelo.

She found herself trying the name over in her mind, silently cursing Shelley as she did so.

I really didn’t need to know his identity, she thought. He was easier to keep at bay when he was an anonymous stranger.

Although she’d been aware of a connection between them, as powerful as an electric current.

Suddenly, shockingly, she felt her body stir with excitement, as if she’d been touched. As if her mouth had been kissed, and her breast stroked gently to pleasure. Beneath the cling of her Lycra swimsuit her nipples were hardening to a piercing intensity, her body moistening in longing.

Cory sat up, pushing her hair back from her face.

It’s time I took a shower, she thought, her mouth twisting. And maybe I should make it a cold one.

The changing rooms on the floor above were reached by lift. The women’s section was beautifully equipped, with mounds of fluffy towels, gels and body lotions and other toiletries, hairdriers, and a selection of all the popular fragrances in tester bottles for the clients to try.

Cory didn’t linger today as she usually did. She showered swiftly, then dressed in her usual weekend uniform of jeans and a plain white tee shirt.

She’d have some lunch at the salad bar on the ground floor before it got busy, she decided, as she shrugged on her leather jacket and picked up her tote bag. She was on her way out when she swung round, went back to the vanity unit, and sprayed her throat and wrists with some of her favourite ‘Dune’.

And why not? she demanded silently as she made for the wide central stairway.

She was two thirds of the way down, head bent, moving fast, when she suddenly felt her warning antennae switch to full alert, and glanced up, startled.

She saw him at once, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her.

Recognition was instant, sending her pulses into over-drive.

She felt her lips frame his name, then stiffened in sudden, almost violent negation. Because he couldn’t be here—he couldn’t be…

Her foot caught the moulded edge of the step, and she stumbled. As she fell, she grabbed at the rail and managed to check her headlong descent, but she couldn’t prevent herself sliding down the last half-dozen steps on her hip, and landing in an untidy huddle at his feet.

She lay for a moment, winded, hearing a buzz of comment, aware of shocked faces looking down at her. Of one face in particular, dark and coolly attractive, with vivid blue eyes fringed by long lashes, a high-bridged nose, and a mouth redeemed from harshness by the sensuous curve of its lower lip.

She realized too that he was kneeling beside her, and she was lying across his knees, his arm supporting her.

His voice was low and resonant with a faint accent she could not place.

‘Don’t try to move. Are you hurt?’

‘No.’ The denial was swift, almost fierce, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position. ‘I’m fine—really. It was just a stupid accident.’

She was going to have the mother of all bruises on her hip, but she’d deal with that tomorrow. At the moment, her main concern was getting out of the club with what little remained of her dignity.

But his hand was on her shoulder, forcing her to stay where she was.

‘Maybe I should take you to the nearest casualty room—get you checked over.’

‘There’s no need for that. No damage has been done.’ She hunched away from him. She felt dazed, her body tingling, but instinct told her that had more to do with his hand on her shoulder than the tumble she’d just taken.

‘Then perhaps you’d take me instead.’ His face was dead-pan, but there was a glint in those amazing eyes. ‘I’m not used to having girls fall at my feet, and shock can be dangerous.’

‘Oh, really?’ Cory glared at him as she hauled herself painfully upright. ‘Now, I’d say you’d spent your adult life stepping over recumbent women.’

Oh, God, she thought, appalled. What am I doing? I can’t believe I just said that.

His brows lifted. ‘Appearances,’ he said softly, ‘can be deceptive. Something I also need to remember,’ he added quietly as he, too, got to his feet.

Cory was almost glad to see one of the physiotherapists hurrying towards them. She answered his concerned questions, declined having her ankle examined, and agreed to fill out an accident report.

‘But later.’ Rome d’Angelo took her arm, and apparent control of the situation. ‘Now the lady needs something to drink.’

Cory hung back, trying not to wince. She was altogether more shaken than she’d realised, but the fall was only partly responsible.

Now she needed to get away before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

She said, controlling the quiver in her voice, ‘I’m really all right. There’s no need for you to concern yourself any more.’

‘But I am concerned,’ he said softly, as the crowd began to melt away. ‘You threw yourself, and I caught you. And I’m not prepared to put you down yet. So, are you going to walk to the coffee shop with me—or do I have to carry you?’

Cory heard herself say, ‘I’ll walk.’ And hardly recognised her own voice.