Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
coolly, his fingers closing round Flora’s.
A gesture not lost on the newcomer. ‘Ciao, bella. Come ti chiami?’
Flora lifted her chin. ‘I’m sorry, signore, but I don’t speak your language.’
There was an odd silence. Then, ‘Inglesa, eh?’ their visitor said musingly. ‘Well, well.’ The black eyes surveyed her unwinkingly. ‘And what is your name, bella ragazza?’
‘This is Flora Graham,’ Marco intervened coldly. ‘Flora, allow me to present Antonio Baressi.’
‘But you must call me Tonio.’ He gave her another lingering smile, then turned to Marco. ‘What a wonderful surprise to find you here, my friend. I thought, after your successful mission, you would be keen to get back to your desk in Milan. Instead you are entertaining a charming guest. Bravo.’
Marco’s mouth tightened. ‘What are you doing here, Tonio?’
‘Visiting Zia Paolina, naturally.’ He allowed a pause, then smote a fist theatrically against his forehead. ‘But of course—you did not realise she was in residence. She will be fascinated to know that you are at the castello. May I take some message from you?’
On the surface he was all smiles, and eagerness to please, but Flora wasn’t deceived. There was something simmering in the air, here, a tension that was almost tangible.
‘Thank you,’ Marco said with cool civility. ‘But I shall make a point of contacting her myself.’
Tonio turned to Flora. ‘My aunt is Marco’s madrina—his godmother,’ he explained. ‘It is a special relationship, you understand. Since the sad death of his parents they have always been close.’ The black eyes glittered jovially at her. ‘But I am sure he has already told you this.’
Flora murmured something polite and noncommittal. The sun was blazingly hot, but she felt a faint chill, as if cold fingers had been laid along her spine, and found herself moving almost unconsciously slightly closer to Marco.
‘You must bring Signorina Flora to meet Zia Paolina,’ Tonio went on. ‘She will be enchanted—and Ottavia, too, naturalamente.’ He dropped the name like a stone into a pool, then gave them an insinuating glance. ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to be alone.’
‘Si,’ Marco said softly, his hand tightening round Flora’s. ‘I think so.’
Tonio shrugged. ‘How well I understand. In your shoes I would do the same.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers, accompanying the gesture with a slight leer. ‘You are a fortunate man, compagno, so why waste valuable time paying visits?’
Marco said, very softly, ‘Or receiving them…’
‘Ah.’ The other’s smile widened. ‘A hint to be gone. You wish to enjoy each other’s company undisturbed. Si, capisce. Arrivederci, signorina. I hope we meet again.’
That, thought Flora, is the last thing I want. But she forced a smile. ‘Thank you.’
As they stood, watching the boat heading out to sea again, she stole a glance at Marco, aware of him rigid beside her, his face expressionless.
She said, quietly and clearly, ‘What a squalid little man.’
There was a silence, then she felt him relax slightly. He turned to her, his smile rueful.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘And today he was relatively well-behaved.’
She hesitated. ‘We don’t—have to see him again, do we?’
‘I hope not.’ Marco’s mouth tightened. ‘But, as you see, he does not always wait for an invitation.’
She said slowly, ‘He’d need a hide like a rhinoceros to come back. You were hardly welcoming.’
‘I have my reasons.’
She bit her lip. ‘Are you going to tell me what they are?’
‘Perhaps one day,’ he said, after a silence. ‘But not now. Not yet.’ He moved his shoulders briefly, almost irritably, as if shaking off some burden. ‘Do you wish to swim again, cara, or shall we go back to the house? Has that fool spoiled the afternoon for you?’
‘He’s spoiled nothing. And he’s gone. So I’d like to stay for a while—catch the last of the sun.’ Flora moved over to one of the sun loungers and lay down on it. As Marco stretched himself silently beside her she looked at him, aware of his air of preoccupation.
She said suddenly, ‘Marco, if you feel you should visit your godmother, then that’s fine with me. I’ll be perfectly happy to stay here.’
‘Do not concern yourself, carissima. I have more than fulfilled my obligations to her, believe me.’
He spoke quietly, but she could hear an underlying note of almost savage anger in his voice, and was shaken by it.
There were undercurrents here, she thought, staring sightlessly at the sky, that she could not begin to understand. But, then, her comprehension wasn’t required, she reminded herself with a pang. His other relationships were none of her business. Because she was here to share Marco’s bed, not his problems.
So she wouldn’t ask any more questions about Zia Paolina.
Nor would she permit herself to speculate about the unknown Ottavia, and her place in the scheme of things. After all, Marco had enjoyed a life before he met her, and that life would continue after she was gone. She couldn’t allow that to matter.
But then she remembered the satisfaction in Tonio’s voice when he’d pronounced the name—the gloating relish in his black eyes—and she knew that Ottavia could not be so easily dismissed.
She thought suddenly, Tonio’s the serpent that Marco warned me about—the serpent waiting for me here in paradise.
And found herself shivering, as if a dark cloud had covered the sun.
IT WASN’T really a cloud, Flora decided. It was more a faint shadow. Yet she was aware of it all the time.
It was there in the sunlit days, while she and Marco went to the beach, swam in the pool, played tennis, and explored the surrounding countryside.
While they dined by candlelight, or sat on the moonlit terrace, drinking wine and talking, or listening to music.
It was even there at nights, when he made love to her with such exquisite skill and passion, or soothed her to sleep in his arms.
And the time was long past when she could have said totally casually, Who is Ottavia?
To ask now would be to reveal that it was preying on her mind. That it had come to matter. And she couldn’t let him know that.
Because she had no right to concern herself. The parameters of their relationship were in place, and there was no space for jealousy.
There had been no more unwelcome visitors. In fact, no visitors at all. The real world was hardly allowed to intrude.
Flora was wryly aware how quickly she’d adapted to life at the castello, where unseen hands seemed to anticipate her every wish.
It was the quiet, impassive presence of Alfredo, she knew, that made San Silvestro run with such smooth efficiency. And, whatever his private views on her presence, he treated her invariably with soft-voiced respect.
Which was more than could always be said for Ninetta, Flora acknowledged frowningly. And it was just unfortunate that she had more to do with her than any of the other servants at the castello.
Not that the girl was overtly insolent, or lazy. There was just something—sometimes—in her manner which spoke of a buried resentment. The occasional suggestion of a flounce, and a faint curl of the full lips