The Echoes of Love (22 page)

What was so special about this man? He was not that handsome – not in a conventional way, anyhow; quite the reverse. Certainly he didn't have the fine bone structure that had so attracted her to Judd, or the aristocratic regular features and Norse god colouring that had earned Umberto the title of Mr Venice when he was twenty. But Paolo's whole being held something else, something much more powerful: a primitive look that made him different to other men, as the jungle animal is different from its domestic counterpart; a savage harshness, which gave his face a certain sexual appeal that she found almost irresistible. Obviously she was not the only woman on whom he had this effect. She had seen how others flocked to him, the way their heads turned and their eyes followed him, so it was not overly surprising he had been nicknamed
l'Amante delle Quattro Stagioni
.

Back at the cottage, Venetia found a tray waiting for her with a salad of baby vegetables, a plate of cold meats, a loaf of crusty bread, olives, cheese and a bottle of
red wine. The large bowl of fruit was still standing untouched in the alcove where she had noticed it the night before. She had planned to go into town for lunch, but this uncomplicated meal was a far more attractive alternative – Venetia had always admired the Italian art of living simply and exceedingly pleasantly. Exploring Cala Piccola and Porto Santo Stefano in the afternoon seemed a good option, and maybe she could ask around to find out if the airport in Pisa had reopened. On reflection, it was quite astonishing that Paolo hadn't just taken a train or driven down to
Miraggio. It seemed strange that neither course had apparently crossed his mind, she thought, a little miffed at this somewhat cavalier attitude, given his insistence on her coming down.

Although the sun was as brilliant as ever, it was not too hot to sit on the veranda, so Venetia opened up the umbrella and settled herself to look out over the beautiful Tuscan countryside surrounding the property, with the ground sloping down in parts to the valley and the main road from Miraggio, to the far-off town of Porto Santo Stefano. Wisteria was in full bloom now, clambering over the rough whitewashed walls of the sheds and stables on the estate.

Venetia's heart gave a little squeeze as the purple clusters brought back the memory of the magical evening she had spent with Paolo at La Lanterna, only spoilt when he had taken that phone call, an action that had raised all her defences. She had ended their date ungraciously. He had asked why she was denying them simple happiness when the fire in her eyes reflected the passion that filled her soul, and she could not answer him... nor could she forget the sad, almost bewildered expression on his face when she had pushed him away with words she had not even believed herself.
My tongue – my dreadful tongue!
What had possessed her to let it run away with her like that? The answer was simple and she knew it: the deep-seated fear of relationships that had plagued her life since her devastating experience with Judd all those years ago.

Still, had she not saved herself from a more terrible heartache by rejecting Paolo? How could she regret the way she had reacted to his advances in view of the present circumstances? It was all for the best, she told herself for the umpteenth time. Yet deep down, Venetia knew that something irrevocable had happened to her when she had met him. It was as if the far-off echoes of her love for Judd, the only true love she had known, were coming back to haunt her; and fight it as she may, Venetia doubted very much she would be able to stifle the flame that seemed to burn relentlessly day and night, hot and fierce, in her breast… although this new flash of passion, she knew, was not burning for Judd.

It's only chemistry
, a voice at the back of her mind whispered. But could it really be only sexual desire that meant when Paolo kissed her, when he held her so close against him, and she could feel every hard muscle in his body, it was somehow never enough? Was it simply physical attraction that made her want to be closer, so much closer, to feel his warmth seep into her, his skin against hers, so not only their bodies, but their souls would blend forever?

She sat absorbed in thought, unconscious of the passing of time. It must have been an hour later, at least, when she heard someone come into the cottage, and a moment after, Ernestina appeared on the veranda.

‘Oh,
signorina
, you didn't like Ernestina's salad?'

‘On the contrary, Ernestina, I enjoyed your salad very much, thank you, but I'm not used to having a large meal at lunchtime,' Venetia said hastily, realising guiltily that she had hardly touched her food.

‘Not even a glass of wine?
La cucina piccola fa la casa grande,
a small kitchen makes a house big, and anyone will tell you, Ernestina has the best kitchen around here.
The bread was baked this morning. The
signore
will eat only homemade bread and ours is
delizioso, squisito
!' Pursing her lips, the housekeeper made a little sound to express the delectability of the crusty loaf for which Venetia had not shown enough appreciation.

Venetia smiled a little sheepishly; the last thing she wanted was to ruffle the kind old woman's feathers. ‘If you don't mind, I'll have some tonight with my dinner. I'm really not hungry right now.'

Ernestina gave a pert nod, as if placated by this answer, then her brow furrowed slightly. ‘I hope the
signore
will be back for dinner,' she said, almost apologetically. ‘The telephone lines are still down and Antonio hasn't had time to go into town again to ask about the airport.'

‘Not to worry, I'm going to explore Porto Santo Stefano this afternoon and I'll investigate and let you know.'

They went back inside. As Venetia was picking up her bag from the sofa, her eyes fell on the painting over the fireplace that she had been looking at the night before. Having seen Miraggio
in daylight, she had no doubt now that La Torretta and Miraggio
were one and the same. The only difference was the profusion of climbing roses and other vegetation that now dressed the somewhat severe walls of the house and gave Miraggio the air of a fairyland castle instead of that of a medieval fortress.

‘This is how Miraggio used to look before
Signor
Barone bought the place,' said Ernestina, noticing Venetia's pause in front of the picture. ‘La Torretta
was derelict in those days. It belonged to
un cantante d'opera ben noto.
God save us from such evil, but this opera singer was murdered by one of his mistresses, and some say the house is haunted by
il suo fantasma
.' Ernestina looked up and crossed herself before carrying on. ‘But we mustn't think about that. Bad thoughts bring
vibrazioni negative
, and the house has had many owners and a long history. Although the
signore
has had them blocked up, the dungeons are still in the original part – you know, facing the lake. And there's still that old, clunky machinery for flooding the lowest dungeon.'

‘Miraggio also has a lake?'

‘Yes, it's small
e
molto inquietante
, and very spooky. Nothing grows well around it and
Signor
Barone never goes there. Legend has it that in medieval times, the owners of La Torretta used to tie their prisoners to iron rings in the dungeon walls and drown them slowly, inch by inch. Later, they let the water out again and put weights on the bodies before throwing them into the sea.'

Venetia let out a horrified cry. ‘How morbid!'

Ernestina shrugged with Italian matter-of-factness. ‘An effective way of disposing of
i tuoi nemici,
your enemies, all the same!'

Venetia shivered; it all sounded extremely macabre. She picked up her bag. ‘Where is the garage, Ernestina? I gave my car keys to Antonio yesterday and he hasn't returned them.'

‘They'll be in the car. This place is very safe,
molto sicuro
. No one can get to the garage without passing the stable block or outbuildings, where there's always someone working, even during the
siesta
. And at night, that wolf of a dog Rufus is on guard. Come, I'll show you.'

They went out into the sunshine and took a wide path along the back of the cottage, past a vine-covered pergola, haylofts, and other outbuildings, each overshadowed by age-old oaks, cedars, and beech trees, with here and there a tall, elegant cypress, the very signature of Tuscany. A couple of men were working outside and Venetia felt their curious eyes scrutinising her as she passed by – they were obviously unaccustomed to having strangers on the premises.

When the stable block came into view, a single glance sufficed for Venetia to assess that this was a state-of-the-art equestrian building. U-shaped, it comprised five stables, a wash room, a tack room, and a feed room, set in lines on either side of a dramatic stone archway with wisteria and Virginia creeper hugging its walls. Built in hardwood with oak posts, beams and stays, it had high eves with a tiled overhanging roof in brown asphalt shingles. A fleeting peep inside showed the stalls to be spacious, with fresh straw on the ground, and four beautiful, well-groomed and contented-looking animals housed there.

Venetia had ridden all her life. Sir William owned extensive stables in Berkshire where he used to hunt. She herself had never participated in that sport, but had been given her first pony when she was seven and had been through pony club, dressage lessons and competitions, and had even won a trophy when she was sixteen. Judd was an accomplished rider and she had wonderful memories of their horseback hikes around Hyde Park in the early mornings during summer. A pang of sadness gripped her once more, as she took in these familiar surroundings.

‘
Signor
Barone is an expert rider,' Ernestina told her, jolting her out of her reflection. ‘He oversees the work on the property
a cavallo,
on horseback, instead of going round with a car or one of the estate trailers.'

And he's obviously always accompanied by his mistress
, Venetia thought hollowly. For two pins, though, as pride gave her a poke, she would have asked the friendly housekeeper about the young girl she had seen that morning on horseback, but she kept silent.
Everything comes to him who waits,
she told herself philosophically.

‘And that is where Antonio lives,' muttered Ernestina she hurried past the large stable cottage. It was larger than La Sirena but somehow not as charming. Venetia suddenly realised that Allegra must also live there and it took all her willpower to bite her tongue.

The garage was near the stable block. The Porsche was there and Venetia noticed it was cleaned of all the mud that had been splashed over it on the journey through the storm. The key was in the ignition.

‘
State attenta
, drive slowly,
le strade sono molto insidiose,
the roads are very treacherous.' Ernestina said, as Venetia climbed into the front seat.

‘Don't worry, I'm a good driver.' She waved at the house-keeper as she pulled away down the gravel track towards the great entrance gates.

The scenery going down the hill towards Cala Picola was quite different from the craggy splendour of Miraggio, but just as dramatic. The little hamlet with its cottages, beaches, vineyards and its little church looked like a miniature village under the blazing sun. It was a brilliant day, a day as different from the bleak greyness of yesterday as could be imagined. Venetia could hardly believe this was the same route she had driven only twenty-four hours ago. The coastline as she approached Porto Santo Stefano afforded a most breathtaking view, though less dramatic than the one coming up to Miraggio. Here, wrought-iron gates led down to private coves and large millionaires' villas; and beyond them, the coastal road led on to stuccoed houses covered with flowering creepers that perched precariously on the bank, and to quaintly painted cottages whose stone steps were lapped by the blue waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

When she reached the port, Venetia left her car in the main car park. The town was modern with bright, clean shops and charming
caffetterias
, and with luxury hotels, their terraced walls festooned with climbing roses. There was not much to do in this pretty port but shop, laze in the sun, swim or take a boat on the azure-blue ocean. Venetia stopped to buy some postcards, and glancing at the headlines on a local newspaper read that the airport at Pisa had reopened and scheduled flights were running on time. Though Giovanna would doubtless be expecting an update from her immediately, Venetia felt oddly reluctant to call her godmother – already she'd sent a text message saying that she'd arrived safely and, besides, there was nothing else to report since the client had yet to make an appearance.

The market, its stalls piled high with gaily coloured fruit, sausages and cheeses, and souvenirs appealed to her artist's eye. She found an outdoor
caffetteria
with a cheerfully striped awning, and sat under a red umbrella sipping a
caffè shakerato
that had been poured into a wide-mouth, martini-type glass. It was Fabrizio who had introduced her to this frothy and creamy fresh-brewed espresso drink, shaken with ice and sugar. Venetia found that there was nothing more refreshing on a hot summer's Italian afternoon. She smiled inwardly at the thought of her colleague. Why couldn't she have just given Fabrizio a chance? Handsome, with so many excellent qualities, he would make some woman a wonderful partner. Some woman… but not her, oh no! She needed tortured, complicated souls to spark her interest, she thought derisively… a glutton for punishment, her father always said.

Women in the market, mostly wearing sombre black shawls over their shoulders, were clearly the housewives of Porto Santo Stefano. As they shopped, they prodded and poked, chaffered and bargained, in the manner of housewives all over the world, and their dark clothes only served to enhance the effect of bright sunlight and deep shadow, the colour in the fruit, vegetables and flowers. Venetia was so enjoying the scene before her that she wished she had brought her sketchbook. Undeterred, she asked the waiter for a pen and paper and was soon at work.