The Echoes of Love (17 page)

The first years were hard. Paolo had set himself a heavy task, but he had been lucky. In the 1980s, the economy had enjoyed a period of growth, but in the early 1990s, Italy was going through another economic slump. Unemployment was still rife, especially among the under twenty-fives, and high inflation and escalating public debt meant that the whole country was feeling the pinch. Work became increasingly hard to find. Ever the idealist and businessman, Paolo saw the chance to boost local employment in the rebuilding of Miraggio. Young men and women came forward to help, happy to be given a job even if the remuneration was low. Eighteen months on, the house had been rebuilt and the grounds planted with mature olive trees, cypresses, vines, and a profusion of other trees and plants. A year after that, Paolo had added a small olive-oil factory to his domain and his estate began to grow. Whenever he had the opportunity, he bought land and property – residential and commercial. In the following years, his wealth grew exponentially and today he was considered a very rich man. As Italy was swept into the new millennium and the Eurozone, he had calmly ridden the wave, and now his shrewd business sense had built him a fortune, a reputation, and a new sanctuary.

* * *

It was almost dawn when Paolo finally came to a winding road through dense vineyards, and the sleek car began climbing the kilometre-long slope that led to Miraggio
.
He had broken his record of four hours, forty-five minutes, and had made the journey in just under four and a half hours.
The tall, iron gates at the entrance to the estate were usually closed, especially at night, but he had rung Antonio, the caretaker, from the hotel before leaving Venice and so they had been left open.

As he drove up the avenue of lime trees, he could see, glimmering through the leaves, the lighted, beautifully proportioned house and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had reached his resting place, his haven, and that was all that counted for the moment. In the morning he would sort out his confused mind; now he must get some sleep – though he knew that with sleep came his demons, and they would call to him as they had done ever since he could remember.

Chapter 5

I
n the quiet luxury of her dimly lit bedroom, Venetia undressed for bed, her head and her heart in bitter conflict. Her thoughts were flitting in all directions. The evening had been a golden moment that she could neither forget nor wish undone. Had she been right to rebuff Paolo so adamantly? She kept remembering that lost and wounded look in his eyes when she had told him she couldn't give him what he wanted. Past and present collided in her mind, making it impossible, more than ever, for her to make any plans about the future, whether or not they included Paolo.

She went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, sluiced her face with cold water and brushed her hair vigorously, a habit Nanny Horren had inculcated in her since childhood. Coming back into the bedroom, she put on a silk nightdress and slid between the freshly laundered sheets, wondering unhappily if her experience with Judd would always tarnish everything. Venetia had thought that she would forget the loss of her first love with time, but the shock and the pain of it still lingered in her heart; strangely enough, meeting Paolo had brought all those bittersweet memories to the surface.

She told herself that Paolo's Italian imagination had been at work fabricating a great romance between them to which she had been curiously sensitive; but how could she deny the way she had felt in his arms or the knowledge that all she really wanted was to be back in his embrace? It only reinforced the fact that she was emotionally vulnerable, dangerously so.

Was it just her sex-starved body that had reacted so passionately to his touch, or had Paolo moved something deeper within her, which could blossom into a new love? What gave him the power to sway her so utterly? At times he seemed stamped with an air of mastery, which couldn't fail to stir Venetia's blood; but every now and then he gave the impression of someone half dreaming of other things, making him equally fascinating. His mercurial nature surrounded him with an atmosphere of doom that appealed to her in the same way a moth is compelled towards fire. Always, wherever they met, there came a sense of crisis, as though everything was intensified and had suddenly become dramatic. Somehow the inessential faded out when they were together, and another reality, sharper, perhaps harder, yet more visceral and more poetic, rose up instead. What was behind Paolo's ambiguous half smile? What vague suggestion lay in his voice? Why did his words always seem to beckon away beyond themselves, alluding to hidden emotions in him she didn't understand? Trying to rationalise her feelings towards him was an impossible task. One thing Venetia recognised was that even though she was a different person from that innocent young girl who had hurled headlong into a passionate romance, behind the confident façade she had built up against the world she was still inexperienced and vulnerable. If she were to drop her guard and let someone in, any unscrupulous man could still make mincemeat of her; and after what she had already been through, she wouldn't survive another trauma.

Not for the first time, despite herself, Venetia found that she was comparing Judd and Paolo – the two men who had made her heart beat so wildly. They were uncannily alike in so many ways and perhaps that was partly why, subconsciously, she had been attracted to Paolo in the first place. Both were dark and charismatic, and from the back they had much the same build, with a similar shape of head. Even the way Paolo's thick, black hair curled around the back of his neck reminded Venetia of her ex-fiancé. Paolo seemed to have a caring disposition, a trait that had also drawn her to Judd, but being Italian, he was domineering and rather more chauvinistic than Judd in his approach to women. Thinking about it, she didn't always understand his reactions, but then she could hardly expect to on such short acquaintance, she supposed. Still, he intrigued her, but a warning bell rang in Venetia's head – she had the distinct impression that somewhere inside that man, something had gone wrong.

And now, as she lay in the big bed, a small, desolate figure, Venetia had a dreadful sensation of loss. Suddenly she felt horribly alone in the world. It was not that she felt lonely – she had always liked her own company, and as an only child she had often spent time in happy isolation – it was more a sentiment that, out of cowardice, she was letting go of something important in her life. She gripped the carved talisman Ping Lü had given her that lay around her neck, feeling her lack of certainty keenly.
How do I know what I feel for Paolo? Why am I reacting so strongly to him when he's almost a stranger?
The same questions kept coming back to her; it had all been so swift and sudden, like a fever.

She switched off the light, but she couldn't sleep, so she turned on the radio. U2's ‘With or Without You' was playing and she gave an uncontrollable start, as this eighties favourite of hers was bound up in her mind with Judd – she had listened to it again and again for years after he left her. Still, tonight, strangely enough, it was not Judd's handsome face that swam in front of her in the dark, but Paolo's eyes. They were indeterminate in colour: sometimes a luminous cobalt, the rim of his irises darkening dramatically almost to midnight-blue every now and then, imparting a look of pathos to his tanned face; and at other times, like water with the sun shining on it. Paolo, who, with his hands, his mouth, and his tender words, had brought Venetia's body back to life again.

Her senses cried out for him to possess her, ached with the memory of that brief time in her office, and then in the gondola, when his strong arms had enfolded her and she had been thrust into an urgently pulsing hardness. She had surrendered herself with wanton abandon to the whispering touch of his palms, his lips, the demands of his muscular body. Recalling those passionate moments, Venetia's breath caught and fragmented, Paolo's name a shuddery sigh that lingered in her throat.

Thoughts whirled round and round in her tired brain. Maybe there could never be any firm security in love. The mere process of loving made one hopelessly vulnerable. Maybe it was best to be content with the ‘here and now', and refrain from peering back at the past or into the future. There comes a time in most people's lives when they have to stop running. Was it her time now? If it were, she wondered, would she have the courage to stand still and face the fear and the memories that haunted her? But exhausted, the conclusion eluded her as the Sandman took over and she drifted off into a deep sleep.

* * *

The next day, before Venetia even had time to sit down at the office, she was out again into the early spring morning. It was an exquisite, heart-lifting day, when Venice lay like a city bewitched, with skies a tender blue, the air clear and soft, the sea serene as a table of oil, and the trees a vivid green.

‘Don't even bother to take off your jacket,' Francesca told her with a grin as Venetia came into the workshop ten minutes late. ‘You've been summoned.'

Venetia's heart leapt and she became aware of its heavy thumping against her ribcage. Paolo was probably at the office and had complained to her godmother.

She lifted her eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?'

Francesca chuckled. ‘Honestly, I don't know what you do to these men, Venetia! Yesterday it was
Signor
Barone – by the way, I'm sorry I barged in on you… you must tell me all about that later,' she said with a wry glance. ‘Anyhow, today
il Conte
has been leaving messages all morning that he needs to see you urgently.'

Venetia's amber eyes were momentarily shadowed by a frown. ‘To my knowledge, there's nothing outstanding in that job. We've even received payment, I'm sure.'

‘Well, I don't know what it's about. He sent an email yesterday at eleven-thirty at night, and this morning he's already left three messages with different departments.'

Venetia sighed. ‘I suppose a phone call wouldn't do?'

‘Not really! Here are the messages.' Francesca handed Venetia the three notes. ‘Besides,
Signora
Lombardi asked about you first thing. She wasn't very happy, I'm afraid, and would like to see you when you come back from your meeting with the Count.'

Venetia stared at the messages in her hand as a fearful sense of inevitability rose inside her. She gave a little groan. ‘I'm almost sure I know what this is about. He's going to harass me again about his marriage proposal and, frankly, I'm really not in the mood for his tantrums this morning.'

Francesca looked at her friend sharply. ‘What's up? You look as though you haven't slept for a year.'

‘Don't worry about it, Francesca, I'll tell you later.' She picked up her briefcase and was on her way again.

When Venetia arrived twenty minutes later at Palermi di Orellana Torre, she was not kept waiting. She shivered, an odd little chill of something between anger and dread sliding down her spine as she was ushered into the vast room at the top of the building, which was Count Umberto's office.

Il Conte
stood at the wide picture window overlooking Venice, his back to Venetia. He waited a few moments, motionless, before turning towards her.

‘
Buongiorno
Venetia, did you have a nice evening last night?' he asked point blank, his slate-grey eyes narrowing almost to slits, watching her through his lashes like a cat observing its prey. His cutting tone belied an outward calm, but Venetia had worked for months with him and didn't need an explosion to guess there was a storm brewing inside.

Oh God
, she thought sickly, realising what he was alluding to. Was he also having dinner at La Lanterna? But that was almost impossible: Francesca had said he had sent an email at eleven-thirty at night, and anyhow, the restaurant wasn't so big that he would have gone unnoticed.

Umberto signalled for her to take a seat, and sliding behind his desk he sat back in his chair, still looking at her, a sarcastic expression dancing on his lips.

‘Yes, La Lanterna is an amazing restaurant,' Venetia answered calmly, ignoring the barbed question and forcing herself to hold his gaze.

Umberto scoffed. ‘It's the hunting ground of our mutual friend. He likes to take his women friends there.'

Venetia smiled stiffly, refusing to rise to the jibe. ‘Were you there? I didn't see you.'

Umberto's eyes travelled over her insolently. ‘Oh, you wouldn't have,
cara
, you were so wrapped up in your… what shall we call it, passionate embrace? I was in one of the gondolas that passed yours and I saw you. I must say, that for someone who doesn't feel ready to get involved romantically and regards men as friends only, you have an extraordinary way of showing your appreciation of friendship, no?'

The gall of the man; he probably thought she was easy prey and was likely to double his propositions now, and would possibly be even more brash about it.

‘First of all, Paolo Barone is not my lover. Secondly, I don't see that my private affairs have anything to do with you,' she flared. She was about to get up, but Count Umberto stopped her with a peremptory gesture of his hand.

‘Please don't go. Hear me out, you might be surprised by what I have to tell you, and you must trust that I have your best interests at heart, yes?'

Venetia's lips parted and then she quickly closed them again. She was eager to learn all there was to know about Paolo, even from someone like the Count. After all, they were supposedly good friends. Maybe through Umberto she would find out a little more about him.

‘Very well,' she murmured.

A humourless smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. ‘Shall we talk about this calmly over a cup of coffee?' Without waiting for her answer Umberto pressed a button on his intercom.
‘Angelina, la prego di portare un vassoio di caffè e biscotti
.
'
He turned back to her, took out a gold case and withdrew a cigarette. He reached forward and passed the case to Venetia. ‘I know you don't smoke, but with what I am going to tell you, you may need one.' His tone was sardonic. When she refused, he returned it to his pocket, leaned back into his chair and puffed quietly on his cigarette for a few seconds, looking across at her through the smoke. Venetia sat there, to all outward appearance cool, proud and distant.

‘What do you know about Paolo?' Umberto asked at last, slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Venetia caught her breath; there was no reason for it, but she felt something ominous was in the air. ‘Not a lot.'

There was a silence and then the Count smiled again, but she knew that something other than humour lay behind that smile. ‘So has it always been with him and the various women he has been involved with over the years. He has not told you about his condition?'

Venetia's nerves contracted. ‘What condition?' She clasped her hands in her lap so he should not see they were trembling; she was sure he was going to announce that Paolo was married.

He gave a soft, cynical laugh. ‘Ugh, why am I not surprised? The man is utterly dishonest when it comes to relationships.'

Angelina brought in a tray of coffee and cakes. Umberto waited until his secretary had served them and left the room, closing the door behind her, before resuming the conversation.

‘I really don't know how to put this to you, so as to dull the shock. After all, you must be emotionally involved with Paolo … if not, how does one explain your behaviour yesterday night, no?' he asked, his voice light as he stubbed out the cigarette and took a languid sip of coffee, his hard gaze intently fixed on Venetia's face.

She was sourly aware that Umberto was perversely dragging on the suspense, trying to rattle her. Her mouth twisted in a grimace of irony. ‘Don't worry about my sensitivities, Umberto. Just tell me what you have to say.'

‘Well,
cara
, to put it bluntly then, Paolo is amnesic. He lost his memory in a car accident ten years ago, while on honeymoon. He and his wife were returning from a nightclub; his wife was driving, and she died on the spot. He was badly hurt and was in a coma for several months. When he woke up, he had forgotten his past – a total loss of memory.' Count Umberto paused, as if to ascertain whether or not his words had provoked some reaction on Venetia's part but she merely continued to look at him, her face empty of expression, waiting, and so he pressed on. ‘He's originally from Verbania, but he moved to Tuscany to reinvent his life and lives there with his regular mistress, Allegra, who is his caretaker's niece. A most alluring young creature, I must say.'