To Love Again (4 page)
Authors: Danielle Steel
I'd love to go to Greece again. Bernardo's words of warning were already forgotten.
When? He smiled again. He wanted to go too. It had been one of the most beautiful times of his life.
In the spring? She looked up at him, and he found her unbearably sexy.
Shall we make another baby? It was something he'd been thinking about for a while. This seemed a good time. They had only wanted one before Alessandro. But he was such a joy that lately Amadeo had been thinking of broaching the subject with Isabella again.
In Greece? Her dark eyes opened very wide, and her mouth seemed rich and full as he bent to kiss her again. After he did, she smiled at him. We don't have to wait until Greece, you know. People make babies in Rome all the time.
Do they? He whispered it into her neck. You'll have to show me how.
+ecco, tes+|ro. And then suddenly she laughed at him and looked at her watch. But not until after lunch. I'm late.
How awful. Perhaps you'd best not go at all. We could go home to the villa and
Doppo. ' Later. And then she kissed him once more and walked slowly to the door, turning for an instant with her head cocked to one side as her hand touched the handle. She looked back over her shoulder at him with a question. Did you mean it?
About your not going to lunch? He smiled, amused.
But she shook her head and laughed at him. No, you lecherous beast. I meant about the baby. She said the last very gently, as though the idea meant something to her too.
But he was nodding his head as he looked at her. Yes, I did. What do you think, Bellezza?
But she smiled at him mysteriously from the door. I think we should keep it in mind. And then with a kiss she was gone as he stood watching the door. He wanted to tell her just once more that he loved her. But it would have to wait until tonight. He was surprised too at what he had just said about wanting another baby. He had thought about it but not yet put it into words. Now suddenly he knew that he meant it. And it didn't have to interfere with her career. Alessandro didn't, and they both had a great deal to give the child. In fact the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He went back to his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers with a smile.
It was almost one o'clock when Amadeo finally stood up and stretched. He was pleased with the figures he had been pursuing. The American deals they had made that autumn were going to bring in a tidy price. Very salutary indeed. He was about to take himself for a solitary lunch of congratulation when he heard a soft knock on the door.
S+1/4? He looked surprised. His secretary usually buzzed him, but she was probably already out to lunch. He turned toward the door and saw one of the under secretaries peeking timidly around the door.
Scusi, signore, mi dispiace ' I'm sorry but' . She smiled at him. He was so unbearbly handsome that she never quite knew what to say. She hardly ever got to talk to him anyway.
Yes? He smiled back. Is there something I can do?
There are two men here to see you, sir. Her voice trailed off as she blushed.
Now? He dropped his eyes to the appointment book, open on his desk. There was nothing penned in until three. Who?
They ' it's about your car. The the Ferrari.
My car? He looked surprised and confused. What about it?
They they said there was ' an accident. She waited for an explosion but none came. He looked disturbed but not angry.
Was anyone hurt?
I don't think so. But they're here ' just outside' in Miss Alzini's office, sir. He nodded gently and walked past her through the outer office to find two men looking awkward and embarrassed. They were wearing neat but simple clothes, their hands were large and brown, their faces red; he was not yet sure if it was from mortification or the sun. And it was very clear that they were in no way used to such surroundings. The shorter of the two seemed afraid to even stand upon the carpet, and the taller clearly wished that he might disappear instantly through the floor. A butcher perhaps, maybe a baker, working men, laborers perhaps. And when they spoke, their voices were coarse but awed and respectful. They were aghast at what had happened. They were beside themselves to learn that the car was his.
What happened? He continued to look confused but his voice was gentle and his eyes were kind, and if he felt any dismay about his car, he betrayed it not at all.
We were driving; it was very crowded, your honor. You know, lunch. Amadeo nodded patiently as he listened to the tale. A woman and a little girl were running across the street; we swerved so as not to hit them, and' . The shorter man grew redder still.' we hit your car instead. Not too bad, but it hurt the car a little. We can fix it. My brother has a shop, he does good work. You'll be pleased. And we pay. Everything. We pay everything.
Of course not. We'll work it out between our insurance companies. Is there a great deal of damage? He tried not to show the unhappiness he felt.
Ma. ' We are so sorry. Not for all the world would we have hit your honor's car. A Fiat, a foreign car, anything, but not so fine a car as yours. The taller man wrung his hands, and at last Amadeo even smiled. They were so absurd, standing there in his secretary's office, probably more demolished than his car. He found himself having to suppress a burst of nervous laughter and was suddenly glad that Isabella was not around to look mischievously at him with her mock-serious gaze.
Never mind. Come, well go and look. He led them to the tiny private elevator, inserted his key, and stood with them as they descended toward the first floor, the two men with heads bowed in humiliation and Amadeo attempting to engage them in some ordinary banter.
Even Ciano had gone to lunch when Amadeo stepped outside and looked up the street toward the car. He could see their car still double-parked beside it. It was a large, awkward, antiquated-looking car and might in fact have been heavy enough to inflict some serious damage. With a look of masked concern he strode up the street, the two men walking nervously behind him, clearly terrified by what he'd see. As he reached his car, walking along the sidewalk, he noticed that a third companion was still waiting in the ancient Fiat, looking unhappy as he saw Amadeo approach. He inclined his head in brief salutation, and Amadeo stepped around his car into the street to inspect its injured left side. Slowly his eyes swept along the side as he stooped over slightly, the better to see the damage they had done. But as he hovered there, bending over, his eyes suddenly narrowed in confusion; there was no damage, no dent, no injury to the beloved car. But it was too late to ask them further questions. As his eyes widened in surprise an object of immeasurable weight swept down brutally on the back of his neck, and sagging instantly, he was pushed and then pulled unceremoniously into the back of the waiting car. The entire matter took less than an instant and was neatly handled by Amadeo's two innocent-looking morning callers. The men slid calmly into the Fiat beside their friend, and it pulled sedately away from the curb. Within two blocks of the House of San Gregorio, Amadeo was neatly bound and trussed, a gag and blindfold secured, and his motionless form lay silently, barely breathing, on the floor of the car as his kidnappers drove him away.
TWO
The sun had just set with a bright flow of orange and mauve as Isabella stood resplendent in green satin in her living room. Delicate brass and crystal wall sconces cast a soft light around the room. She glanced at the deep blue Faberg+! clock on the mantelpiece. She and Amadeo had bought it years before in New York. It was a collector's item, a priceless piece, almost as priceless as the emerald-and-diamond necklace carefully clasped around her neck. It had been her grandmother's and was said to have once belonged to Josephine Bonaparte. It held her long white neck in its delicate grasp as she spun slowly on one heel and began pacing the room. It was five minutes to eight, and they were going to be very late for the Principessa di Sant'Angelo's dinner. Damn Amadeo. Why tonight, of all nights, couldn't he be on time? The princess was one of the few people who actually unnerved Isabella. She was eighty-three years old with a heart of Carrara marble and eyes of steel, a long-ago crony of Amadeo's grandmother, and a woman Isabella frankly abhorred. She gave regular command performances, cocktails at eight, dinner precisely at nine. And they still had to drive halfway across Rome and then out into the countryside to the Palazzo Sant'Angelo, where the principessa held court in ancient yet startlingly beautiful ball gowns, brandishing her gold-handled ebony cane.
On edge, Isabella caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror over a delicately ornate French table and wondered if she should have done something different with her hair. She studied her reflection with dismay. Too simple, too severe. She had swept her hair high on her head in a perfectly plain knot so as not to detract from the necklace and the matching earrings Amadeo had had made. The emeralds were exquisite, and her dress was precisely the same shade of green. It was from her own collection of that year, a perfect shaft of green satin which seemed to fall straight from her shoulders to the floor. Over it she would wear the white satin coat she had designed for it, with the narrow, tightly fitting collar and broad cuffs lined in an extraordinary fuchsia silk. But perhaps it was too striking, or maybe her hair looked too plain, or ' dammit where the hell was Amadeo? And why was he late? She glanced at the clock again and began to purse her lips as she heard a breathless, soft whisper from the door. Surprised, she turned and found herself staring into the wide brown eyes of Alessandro, in sleepers, hiding behind the living room door.
Sh ' Mamma ' vieni qui. ' Come here.
Ma cosa fai? What are you doing? She was instantly drawn into the conspiratorial whisper, a broad grin spreading across her face.
I escaped her! The eyes were afire with the same flame as hers.
Who?
Mamma Teresa! Maria Teresa, of course. The nurse.
Why aren't you sleeping? She was already beside her son, kneeling carefully on her high heels. It's very late.
I know! A giggle of pure five-year-old glee. But I wanted to see you. Look what I got from Luisa! He held out a handful of cookies lovingly bestowed by the cook, the crumbs already squeezing through the chubby fingers, the chocolate chips nothing more than a brown blur in his hand. Want one? He shoved one rapidly into his mouth before proffering the hand.
You should be in bed! She was still whispering, restraining her laughter.
Okay, okay. Alessandro gobbled another cookie before his mother had a chance to decline. Will you take me? He looked at her with eyes that melted her soul, and she nodded happily. This was why she no longer worked eleven hours a day at the office, no matter how much she sometimes regretted not spending every waking moment at Amadeo's side. This was worth it. For that look, that shining mischievous smile.
Where's Papa?
On his way home, I hope. Come on. Alessandro slipped his clean hand carefully into hers, and they made their way down a long dimly lit parqueted hall. Here and there were portraits of Amadeo's ancestors and a few paintings they had bought together in France. The house looked more like a palazzo than a villa, and occasionally when they held very grand parties, couples waltzed slowly down the long mirrored hall to the strains of an orchestra.
What'll we do if Mamma Teresa finds us here? Alessandro looked up at his mother again with those melting brown eyes.
I'm not sure. Do you think it would help if we cry? He nodded sagely, then giggled, hiding his mouth with his still crumb-covered hand.
You're smart.
So are you. How did you get out of your room?
Through the door to the garden. Luisa said she'd make cookies tonight.
Alessandro's room was done in bright blues and filled with books and games and toys. Unlike the rest of the house it was neither elegant nor grand, it was simply his. Isabella let out a long elaborate sigh as she marched him toward the bed and grinned at the boy again. We made it.
But it was more than Alessandro could stand. He collapsed on his bed with a small whoop of glee, pulling the rest of the cookies out of a pocket he had only carried the excess in his hand. He set about gobbling them as Isabella urged him under the covers.
And don't make a big mess. But it was a useless caution, and she didn't really care. That's what little boys were about cookie crumbs and broken wheels, headless soldiers and smudges on walls. She liked it that way. The rest of her life was silken enough. She liked the nubs and crumbs and textures of her times with her son. Will you promise to go to sleep as soon as you finish?
I promise! He looked at her solemnly with admiring eyes. Tu sei bella.
Thank you. So are you. Buona notte, tes+?ro. Sleep tight. She kissed him on the cheek and then on his neck. He giggled.
I love you, Mamma.
I love you too.
As she stepped back into the hall she felt tears fill her eyes and felt foolish. To hell with the Principessa di Sant'Angelo. She was suddenly glad Amadeo had been late. But good Lord, what time must it be now? Her heels clicked rapidly as she hurried back to the living room for another look at the clock. It was eight twenty-five. How was that possible? What was going on? But she knew all too well what was probably going on. A last-minute problem, an urgent call from Paris or Hong Kong or the States. A fabric that couldn't be delivered, a textile mill on strike. She knew all too well how easily one could be delayed. Crises like that had kept her from Alessandro every night for far, far too long. Now she decided that it was probably wise to give Amadeo a call, meet him at the office, with his dinner jacket over her arm.
