The Italians: Cristiano, Vittorio and Dario: Once a Ferrara Wife... / A Dark Sicilian Secret / Blackmailed Bride, Innocent Wife. Jane Porter
she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
Even without looking she would have known she was in Sicily.
‘Do you have that key?’
Roused by his voice, Laurel opened her eyes and stared at the gates and then at the key on her lap. ‘This key opens those gates?’
‘Try it and see.’
She stepped out of the car, feeling the sun burning her head. The jeans she’d worn to travel back to foggy London were too hot for this climate and suddenly she couldn’t wait to change into something cooler. Without the movement of the car to cool the air it was baking hot, the ground dry and parched from the lack of rain.
Despite the less than encouraging volume of rust clinging to the handle, the key slid joyfully into the lock but before she could turn it the gates started to open.
The car inched forwards behind her. ‘I admit that I added a few mod cons,’ Cristiano confessed, his smile apologetic. ‘The key is symbolic rather than essential. Get back in. It’s too hot to walk.’
‘Walk where?’ But Laurel climbed back into the car, noticing for the first time the security cameras above the gates. And then they were driving down a dusty lane bordered by olive groves and almond trees that she suspected had been there for centuries.
Here the air was scented with mimosa and jasmine and the sun beamed down on them as if smiling on their choice of destination.
Intrigued, Laurel glanced at Cristiano but his eyes were on the lane as he carefully negotiated the uneven surface. ‘As you can see, this is a work in progress.’ Grimacing as he picked his route, skilfully protecting the undercarriage of the car, he finally pulled up in a shaded courtyard.
Laurel’s jaw dropped as she saw the magnificent honey-hued building. ‘It’s a castle?’
‘Welcome to Castello di Vicario. The east part was built as a monastery in the twelfth century but the monks were booted out by a Sicilian prince with big ambitions who expanded it to house all his mistresses.’ Cristiano leaned back and stared at the building with satisfaction. A profusion of Mediterranean flowers snaked up the walls and cascaded down from balconies, tumbled in colourful bursts against the sun-baked stone. ‘Because of the views and the seclusion, it was used by artists and writers from all over Europe.’
‘But who owns it now?’
‘We do.’ With that simple response, Cristiano sprang from the car and greeted the two Dobermanns who bounded from nowhere.
Laurel gasped as she saw the dogs, suddenly understanding his remark about already having security. ‘Oh.’ She was out of the car in a flash and down on her knees in the dust, hugging the dogs, laughing and crying as they licked her and greeted her with the same dopey enthusiasm she showed towards them. Within seconds she was covered in dust and paw prints but she didn’t care.
When they were first married she’d hated the level of security he’d insisted on but the one compromise she’d been prepared to make was the dogs. With his customary wry humour he’d called them Rambo and Terminator and she’d taken them everywhere with her whenever she left the security of his offices in the hotel. Losing the dogs had been another reason she’d been broken-hearted to leave the island.
Cristiano watched with amusement as the dogs kicked up dust. ‘Why didn’t you ask me about them?’
‘I didn’t dare. I missed them so much—’ She hugged Rambo tightly, pressing her face into his smooth black coat as he whined his pleasure at seeing her again. ‘I couldn’t bear hearing that you’d sold them or something.’
‘I would never have sold them.’ There was an odd expression on his face as he watched her.
‘No, I don’t suppose you would.’ She played the pouncing game with Terminator as he barked for attention. ‘They’re far too valuable.’
‘That isn’t why.’ His gaze enigmatic, he gestured to the door. ‘Are you interested in seeing your home?’
Home?
‘This is where you live now?’ She rose slowly to her feet, one hand still on Terminator’s head. The significance of it wasn’t lost on her. Taormina was their place. It was the place they’d shared their first kiss. The place where he’d first told her that he loved her.
All the best parts of their relationship had been played out in this exquisite corner of the island. They’d strolled hand in hand along flower-decked streets, they’d enjoyed leisurely meals in one of the many intimate piazzas, but nowhere they’d stayed had been as perfect as this. As private, as exclusive—as romantic. ‘When did you buy it?’
‘I bought it while we were married but it needed a lot of attention. It was supposed to be a surprise.’
The shock of it made her heart skip a beat. ‘While we were married?’
‘It was my gift to you. From the moment I saw how much you loved the place I wanted to find somewhere. It took me eighteen months to persuade the owners to sell. Another six months to make the necessary alterations.’ He breathed deeply. ‘And then you left.’ The raw emotion in his voice brought the lump back to her throat and her eyes met his.
When he held out his hand, she hesitated because voluntarily putting her hand into his felt like a big step and she wasn’t sure she was ready to take it. She experienced a painful moment of indecision and then she slid her hand into his and heard him exhale slowly.
It was a huge leap of faith and he apparently understood that because his fingers closed tightly around hers as he led her round the side of the house to a terrace that overlooked the sea.
‘So, what do you think? Does it meet with your approval?’
Laurel looked up at the castello and felt overawed by the beauty of it. His wealth had always been part of who he was, of course. It was impossible not to be aware of it, but it had never interested her particularly. She’d always thought there was nothing his wealth could buy that could move her.
Until now.
She turned her back and discovered that from the terrace she was looking at a one hundred and eighty degree view that took in the snow-covered peak of Mount Etna and the dazzling emerald sea of the bay of Naxos. And on the terrace itself, just metres from her feet, a series of infinity pools cut into the slope, each cascading into the one beneath, the insistent rush of water soothing in the humid heat of the day.
‘I think you have delusions of grandeur,’ she croaked and he laughed and pulled her into his arms in a possessive gesture, not giving her the chance to reject that spontaneous intimacy.
‘The pools are inspired, don’t you think? You always loved to swim so I told our architect to make use of the gradient to create something special. I always thought it was a good idea but I must admit it surpassed my vision.’
‘You saw us living here?’
‘Yes, for some of the time, at least. It was good enough for DH Lawrence and Truman Capote so it must have something special.’
Yes, it was special. Special in every way. But the most special thing about it was that he’d done this for her.
He’d done this for her while she’d been working the same punishing hours that he’d been working. She’d accused him of being a workaholic and now she was discovering that at least part of his working day had been devoted to building somewhere that she was going to love. Not somewhere he’d lived as a rich single guy but somewhere he’d chosen with her in mind.
Somewhere that was their own.
Her impression of him shifted into a different shape. Thoroughly confused and hating that feeling, she pulled away from him and he sighed.
‘Now what’s going through that head of yours? Tell me what you’re thinking.’
She was thinking