Married Under The Italian Sun. Lucy Gordon
broad steps led up to the double doors that formed the entrance, and which stood open. She went right in, followed by the driver, who was hauling her many bags. Looking around, she saw a hall that was spacious yet strangely domestic, even cosy. Warm red tiles stretched away across the floor, leading to archways that seemed to invite her in. Incredibly, she felt welcome.
She tried to be sensible. This feeling of having come home to the place where she belonged was the merest sentimentality, sugar coated with wishful thinking. Yet the sensation pervaded her, despite her efforts to resist it. It was almost like being happy.
She paid the driver, refusing his offer to carry the bags further. She wanted to be alone to enjoy her first minutes in this lovely place.
From the hall a flight of stone stairs with wrought-iron banisters streamed upwards, beckoning her. Angel began to climb it slowly, feeling as though she were moving in a dream. Halfway up she stopped to look out of a window, and realised that the house was close to the edge of the cliff, directly overlooking the sea. From here she could see the water stretching into the distance, incredibly blue, shining serenely under the clear sky. The window was open and she stood there a moment, breathing in the clear air, listening to the silence.
When had she last heard silence? When, in her rackety life, had there been such peace, such potential for tranquil joy? If she hadn’t come here, how much longer would she have survived?
Soon she began to climb again. After the heat outside, the house was blessedly cool, protected by the thick stone walls. She emerged onto a large landing, leading to a corridor with several doors. One in particular attracted her attention, because it was the only double door. No doubt this would be the master bedroom, and the one she would take as her own.
Eager to see it, she pushed open both doors and walked in.
For a moment she could discern nothing, as the wooden shutters at the three windows were mostly closed. Then the gloom cleared slightly and she saw that one of them was open a few inches, and a man was standing there, looking out through the narrow gap.
At first Angel could make out little of him, except that he was tall and lean. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw that he was dressed in old jeans and a frayed denim shirt, with scuffed shoes to complete the picture. Probably the gardener, she thought. But what was he doing here?
‘Hello?’ she said.
He turned quickly.
‘Who are you?’ they both said together, in Italian.
Angel gave a brief laugh, realising that her indignation was a tad illogical.
‘I’m sorry, this is my fault,’ she said, ‘for not letting anyone know I was coming today.’
He pushed the shutters further open so that light streamed into the room, falling directly onto her like a spotlight as she moved towards him. She saw him grow suddenly tense, his face harden, but he didn’t speak.
‘I’m the new owner of the estate,’ she said.
‘The Signora Clannan.’
Angel had reverted to her maiden name, but she let it go for the moment.
‘That’s right. Obviously you’ve been expecting me.’
‘Oh, yes, we’ve all known you were coming, although not exactly when. You kept that detail to yourself, so that you could catch us unawares. Very shrewd. Who knows what discoveries you might have made?’
She could see him better now, and thought she’d never come across any man who looked so hard and unyielding. There was a gaunt wariness about him, not just in his face, but in his tall, angular shape, the way he crossed his arms defensively over his chest, telling the world to keep its distance.
He might as well have warded her off with a sword, she thought.
‘I wasn’t trying to catch anyone out,’ she said, trying to remain good-tempered. ‘It was an impulse decision.’
‘And you couldn’t even have made a phone call from the airport to give Berta a chance to be ready for you? She’s your housekeeper, and a more faithful, hard-working soul never lived. She deserves better.’
Angel had a faint sense of remorse, but it was quashed in the rush of indignation. What the hell did he think gave him the right to talk to her like this?
‘Look,’ she said, ‘I presume you’re one of my staff, so let me make it clear right now that you don’t speak to me like that. Not if you want to go on working for me.’
‘Is that so? Then how fortunate that I don’t work for you, or I’d be shaking in my shoes now.’
‘Don’t be impertinent. If you’re not one of my employees, what are you doing in this room, where you most decidedly have no right to be?’
She thought he grew a little paler, the twist to his mouth a little more sardonic.
‘True,’ he said. ‘I have no right. Not any more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My name is Vittorio Tazzini, and I used to own this place.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOU?’ The word had an unflattering tone that came out before Angel could stop it.
‘Yes,’ he said, looking down at himself. ‘A scarecrow like me. This used to be my room, and I returned to search for something I left behind. I apologise for being here when the new padrona arrived. If I’d been warned, I’d have cleared out and not troubled you.’
She was disconcerted, not so much by his words as by the way his eyes flickered over her. There was nothing new in that. For years men had gazed at her with admiration, even frank lust, trying to strip her in their thoughts. She had thought she was bored by it, but it might have been better than the contempt in this man’s gaze.
‘There’s no need to be melodramatic,’ she said coolly.
‘Is it melodramatic to call you padrona? Isn’t that what you are? The new mistress to whom everyone will now defer? I’m merely recognising reality.’
‘No, you’re trying to make me feel uncomfortable, as though I should be ashamed of being here.’
‘It never occurred to me that you would feel ashamed of anything.’
‘Look, this won’t work. I’ve seen off sharper men than you.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Your very presence in this place is a triumph. But what will you do now you’re here? I’ll wager you haven’t given it a thought. Not a serious thought, anyway. But why should you care? Those huge alimony payments will take care of all problems.’
‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Angel said, her eyes beginning to sparkle with anger, ‘but I intend to make my own way. I understand the estate is profitable. Everyone assures me that Tazzini lemons are second to none.’
He regarded her sardonically.
‘So, you’ve heard about the lemons and now you think you know everything.’
‘No, but I know about limoncello.’
A grin spread over his face, suggestive of derision rather than amusement. It made her uneasy.
‘Truly,’ he said, ‘your knowledge is awesome. But how far does it go? For instance, what kind of lemons are grown in this place?’
‘What kind? Lemons are lemons, aren’t they?’
‘You instruct me. How foolish of me not to think of that.’
‘Now, look—’ she began hotly.
‘Lemons, as you so expertly say, are lemons. But are they Meyer lemons, Eureka lemons, Lisbon lemons?’
‘All right. I didn’t know there was