In the Italian's Sights

‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed softly. As they came closer she could see just how beautiful. And how large and imposing.

Vittorio brought the Ferrari to a stop and smiled as he turned to face her. She wondered if he knew how that smile affected the opposite sex and then decided that of course he did.

‘Grazie.’ His eyes moved from her face to the languid villa. ‘I, too, think my home is beautiful and have never wished to live anywhere else.’

‘Do you still farm the olives?’ she asked weakly, reeling from the way his smile had softened the handsome but somewhat stern features.

‘But of course. The production of olive oil is one of the oldest industries in Puglia, and the Carella estate is second to none. Because of the methods required to harvest and produce the oil it is impossible to turn the industry into a high-tech affair, however. Modern machinery may be used, but the industry here is still by and large a private one, with the families of farmers tending to their own trees and producing their own oil as opposed to giant conglomerates. I like this.’

He turned to look at her again. ‘My great-grandfather was first and foremost a businessman, though, and invested much of the Carella wealth here and there, making sure we were not solely dependent on the olive trees. He was—how you say?—an entrepreneur. Is that correct?’

Cherry nodded. So he was one of the filthy rich.

‘He was, I understand, a formidable man, but his ruthlessness guaranteed a privileged lifestyle for future generations.’

She stared into the dark face. He sounded as though he approved of his great-grandfather’s hardness. ‘You think ruthlessness is a good thing?’ she murmured.

Slate-grey eyes met her blue ones. ‘On occasion, si.’ He opened his door before she could comment, walking round the low bonnet and helping her out of the car.

Cherry found she didn’t want him to touch her. It evoked something of a chain reaction which had her nerve-endings quivering. Not that he prolonged the contact. Once she was standing on the pebbled forecourt which led to wide circular steps fronting the house he stepped back a pace.

‘I am sure you would like to refresh yourself,’ he said formally, reminding her how bedraggled she must appear to him. ‘One of the maids will show you to a guest room and I will have coffee and cake waiting when you are ready.’

The door to the villa had opened as he’d spoken, and a neat little uniformed maid was standing in the aperture.

‘Ah, Rosa.’ He gestured for Cherry to precede him up the stone steps and she found she’d forgotten how to walk. ‘Would you take the signorina upstairs to one of the guest rooms and make sure she has everything she needs? And perhaps you would like me to try the hire company for you?’ he added to a bemused Cherry, who was trying not to gape at the palatial interior.

The light, cool hall, with a marble floor and white walls hung with exquisitely framed paintings, was huge, its air scented with bowls of fresh flowers and several chairs and tables dotted about the vast expanse. And the staircase stretching in front of them was a thing of beauty in itself, made of the same pale green marble as the floor and curving upwards to two levels, giving the impression that the hall itself was an inner courtyard.

Speechless, she followed the maid up the stairs and halfway along a landing, whereupon the young girl opened a door, allowing Cherry to precede her into a vast bedroom. ‘Please to call if you need anything, signorina,’ the maid said in broken English as she walked across and opened the door to an en-suite bathroom. She waved at open basketwork shelves holding neatly folded fluffy towels and toiletries and then left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

‘Wow!’ Cherry breathed out softly as she stood surveying her surroundings. The cream, stone and taupe colour palette of the room was offset by the blaze of colour coming from the open full-length windows leading on to a balcony thick with purple, red and white bougainvillaea and holding a small table and two chairs. It was obviously a guest bedroom—there were no personal belongings of any kind when she furtively opened one or two of the doors of the wall-to-wall wardrobes and drawers. Imagine what the rest of the house must be like, Cherry thought weakly. She’d been right. He must be absolutely loaded.

She padded across to the balcony. It overlooked an enormous garden stretching away from the back of the villa for what seemed like miles to her stunned gaze. It was bursting with tropical trees and shrubs and manicured flowerbeds, and the ancient walls which enclosed the garden from the olive groves were brilliant in places with cascade upon cascade of more bougainvillaea. An Olympic-size swimming pool glittered blue under the clear cerulean Italian sky, and orange, apricot, almond and fig trees lived in harmony in a small orchard at the very rear of the grounds. She had never seen anything like it.

Double wow! She breathed out slowly. Triple. What an oasis. How the other half lived!

As she continued to gaze out she noticed what must be Vittorio Carella’s gardener, tending a flowerbed next to a lush flower-covered bower, but otherwise the sun-soaked grounds were still, slumbering in the heat of the afternoon.

One thing was for sure, Cherry thought with wry humour as she stepped back into the bedroom. Vittorio Carella was no ordinary olive farmer. And she supposed if she had to be stranded anywhere for a few hours she could have picked somewhere a darn sight worse than Casa Carella.

Becoming aware she had been lost in contemplation when she should have been freshening up, Cherry hastily walked into the gorgeous en-suite bathroom of cream marble. The mirror which took up all of one wall showed her just how grubby and bedraggled she looked. She groaned softly. No wonder he’d thought she was a young kid playing at being grown-up. Urgent repair work was needed.

The bathroom held everything from hairbrushes and cosmetics—still in their wrapping—to male and female perfume and other such niceties. Clearly the guests of Vittorio Carella had their every need met. But she wasn’t a guest. Not in the traditional sense anyway.

Cherry stood in front of the mirror, decorum warring with vanity. Vanity won. After washing her face, and brushing her hair until it shone like silk with one of the brushes she’d unwrapped, she opened a tube of mascara and a pot of eyeshadow. Not for the first time she blessed the fact she was a female and had make-up at her disposal. She might have entered the house as a little lost waif and stray. She certainly didn’t intend to leave as anything less than a full-grown woman!

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN she opened the door of the bedroom to go downstairs the little maid was hovering at the end of the landing, fiddling with the huge bowl of sweet-smelling roses on a small table under the magnificent arched window which flooded the space with light. Cherry smiled at her.

‘Ah, signorina. If you will come this way? The signore, he is waiting,’ the young girl said politely.

Cherry nodded and followed the immaculately dressed maid as she led the way down the stairs and across the hall. After knocking on a door the girl opened it and then stood aside for Cherry to enter. The drawing room was even more beautiful than she’d prepared herself for: the ceiling high, the light wood floor scattered with thick rugs, the gracious furniture and drapes clearly wildly expensive and the white walls covered with exquisite paintings. The huge French windows were open to the scents of the garden beyond, and on the patio immediately beyond the windows a fountain tinkled in the afternoon heat.

But all this was on the perimeter of her consciousness. Her senses were caught up with the man who had risen from an armchair at her entrance and was now saying, ‘Come and sit down and take some refreshment. Would you prefer coffee or perhaps a cold drink? Orange juice? Pineapple? Mango?’

‘Coffee will be fine, thank you.’ He remained standing as he waved his hand at a chair opposite his. A coffee table was groaning with an array of cakes and pastries, and the aroma from espresso coffee was rich. His loose-fitting trousers and silver-grey cotton shirt were clearly expensive, and the way they sat on the lean male body was guaranteed to make any female heart beat a little faster.

He didn’t sit down again until she was seated, and then he poured her a coffee before gesturing at the cream, milk and sugar. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Thank you. I take mine black.’

‘It is the only way.’ He smiled in agreement.

Her heartbeat—which had just returned to normal—quickened again. He really was the man with everything, she thought weakly. It was a shame that included an ego to match.

He picked up the cakestand and offered it to her, and as she gazed at the sweet delicacies she found she was hungry. She selected one of the small iced sponge cakes filled with cream and jam which she knew were called sospiri—sighs in English—and sighed herself inwardly. What must it be like to enjoy such a privileged life, free from the cares and trials which afflicted most people? He only had to crook his little finger and his every need was catered for. Heady stuff to the uninitiated.

‘I spoke with the hire company while you were upstairs, but they will not be able to send another car for twenty-four hours.’

Cherry almost choked on the cake. ‘Twenty-four hours?’

‘This is not a great problem, surely? You had no pressing engagement?’ he asked with silky smoothness.

He knew she didn’t. ‘No, but—’ She paused, wondering how to say she had no intention of staying in this house for twenty-four hours—if that was what he was suggesting. ‘But I can’t impose on your hospitality—’

‘Please do not speak of it. You are more than welcome to stay for as long as you like. I am desolate you have had such a bad experience whilst visiting my beautiful country. Let me make amends by offering you the safety of my home until the new car arrives.’

Oh, hell. What could she say to that?

In the event she wasn’t called upon to say anything, because the drawing-room door opening with a flourish caused both their heads to turn to the voluptuous young woman standing in the aperture, her hands on her hips and her eyes flashing fire. Cherry didn’t need to speak the language to understand the thrust of the outburst in Italian which followed. For some reason the girl was furious with Vittorio, and not afraid to tell him so in spite of his darkening face. Cherry found she was beginning to enjoy herself.

He rapped out something in Italian which stopped the flow but still left the girl glowering at him. Then he turned to Cherry. ‘I apologise,’ he said with steely flatness. She could see he was hanging on to his temper by a thread. ‘My sister is not usually so bereft of manners. Let me introduce you. Cherry, this is my sister, Sophia. Sophia, meet Cherry, a guest from England who deserves more courtesy than you have shown.’

Cherry could see Vittorio’s sister was fighting for control but now she stepped forward, forcing a smile as she held out her hand and said, ‘I am sorry. I did not know Vittorio had anyone with him or that we were expecting a guest.’

A little embarrassed now, Cherry smiled back. ‘You weren’t expecting me,’ she said awkwardly as she shook hands. ‘I’m afraid I strayed on to your property by mistake and my car broke down, so it’s me who should be apologising for intruding.’

Vivid green eyes set in a face which was quite outstandingly lovely surveyed her for a long moment. And then Sophia smiled—a real smile this time. ‘No, it is me,’ she said ruefully. ‘But you are most welcome, Cherry from England. Where is your car?’ she added. ‘I did not see it.’

Cherry waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the road. ‘Out there somewhere. I’m afraid it’s blocking the way to the house. Apparently my petrol was sy phoned off in the last town.’

‘The south road?’ Sophia enquired of her brother, who nodded, his face still grim. ‘It is of no matter, Cherry. We have more than one entrance to the property. You are staying for dinner?’ she added.

‘Cherry is staying overnight until the hire company can deliver a new vehicle.’ Vittorio’s voice was cold.

‘Then I will see you later. I am going to my room to rest.’ Sophia swung round, her hair—which hung in a glossy black curtain to her waist—rippling as she left the room.

Cherry sat down again, reaching for her coffee cup and not knowing what to say. Clearly brother and sister were at loggerheads over something or other. Aiming to relieve the crackling atmosphere, she murmured, ‘Your sister is very beautiful.’

‘And very wilful.’ It was almost a bark. And then he raked a hand through his hair. ‘Scusi. Now it is I who has the bad manners, si? But Sophia—she tries my patience.’

Cherry had the feeling that patience was not one of Vittorio’s attributes at the best of times. He had the air of a man who was used to having people dance to his tune without question—a man who controlled his world absolutely. She found all her sympathies were with his sister, whatever the disagreement was about. Quietly, she said, ‘I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing for a woman to be strong and wilful. We are living in the twenty-first century after all.’

He looked at her. A hard look. ‘How old do you think my sister is?’ he asked expressionlessly.

Taken aback, Cherry hesitated. ‘My age? Twenty-five or thereabouts?’

‘Sophia will be seventeen on her next birthday in four months’ time,’ he said grimly. ‘And although she has the body of a mature woman I can assure you she has the mind of a sixteen-year-old—a reckless and obstinate sixteen-year-old. Our parents died when she was still very young and I have been her guardian since then, but over the last few years it has been a battle.’

Teenage girls. She could have told him it wouldn’t be an easy ride—not with rampant hormones and especially not with someone who looked like Sophia. The boys must have been after her in droves since she was out of nappies.

He confirmed this with his next words. ‘There is a boy,’ he ground out woodenly. ‘She has been meeting him secretly when she was supposed to be with schoolfriends.’

‘But that’s natural at her age.’

His mouth compressed. ‘Sophia is a Carella. She knows there will be no boys until she is eighteen, and then only when she is chaperoned. To do such a thing is unforgivable.’

Cherry stared at him. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘In England, maybe. Not in Italy. Not among girls of good families. She has attended a select school where the girls are supervised at all times. When she is eighteen any suitors will come to me first. This is for her protection.’

He couldn’t be serious. What a dinosaur!

‘My housekeeper now has to accompany her when she leaves the house as I cannot trust her. It is an inconvenience.’

No power on earth could have stopped Cherry’s next words. ‘And what about her? Sophia?’ she asked indignantly. ‘She must be feeling so embarrassed if she has to see her friends with your housekeeper tagging along. That’s cruel.’

Stormy grey eyes turned thunder-dark. She watched him rein in his temper and gain control, and it was impressive. ‘You are a guest in my home, signorina.’ He was suddenly very much the aristocrat. ‘I must not burden you with my concerns. Suffice to say Sophia is a child and must be protected from herself. Now, if you will excuse me, I have business to attend to. Please make yourself comfortable and ring for anything you desire. The pool and grounds are at your disposal, of course, and dinner is served at seven o’clock.’

He had swept out of the room before Cherry could think of a reply. Although once the door had closed behind him a hundred acidic put-downs were there.

What a horrible, arrogant, chauvinistic pig of a man—and his poor sister, she thought angrily, her cheeks burning. Sophia was virtually kept in a cage here. Albeit a gilded one. He was still living as though it was two or three centuries ago, when women had no rights nor voice of their own.

Cherry sat and brooded for another ten minutes, absent-mindedly eating three more of the delicious cakes and pastries, which were the best she’d tasted since arriving in Italy. The scents of a thousand flowers drifted into the room from the open windows. The patio area was bright with huge terracotta pots of lemon-scented verbena, pink begonia, brilliant red geraniums, salvias, pelargoniums and other flowers she didn’t recognise but which all added to the dazzling display of summer colour. Suddenly she wanted to be outside, despite the afternoon sun. A dip in that magnificent pool would be sheer heaven.

Decision made, she left the drawing room and found her way to her bedroom, where she changed into the modest black one-piece swimming costume she’d brought with her. She had also packed two brightly coloured bikinis, both of which were on the skimpy side, and she balked at wearing those here. It was silly, but somehow the thought of appearing half-naked anywhere within a ten-mile radius of Vittorio was out of the question. To that end she pulled on a brightly coloured sarong which went with one of the bikinis for good measure, feeling better once her legs were covered.

She sat down on the bed once she was ready, gazing round the room as she admitted to herself she was feeling a mite guilty about the way she’d behaved. It had been good of Vittorio to offer her refuge the way he had, and she didn’t think she had actually thanked him once. She bit her lip, her small white teeth gnawing at the soft flesh. It wasn’t like her to be so antagonistic—just the opposite, in fact.

She shook her head at herself, her shoulder-length brown hair, which the Italian sun had bleached almost blonde in places, shining like raw silk.

But it was him. Vittorio. He’d rubbed her up the wrong way from the minute she’d laid eyes on him—or certainly from the first time he’d opened his mouth. He was so arrogant, so sure of himself, so very male. But that didn’t excuse her ingratitude. She’d have to apologise and thank him properly for coming to her rescue. She groaned softly, wriggling off the bed and standing up. But after her swim. Maybe tonight during dinner? And then once the replacement car arrived tomorrow she’d thank him again for his hospitality and put as many miles between them as she could.

She slipped on the daisy flip-flops she’d bought for the beach and walked to the door, turning round and looking at the sumptuous room again before she left. The whole situation she found herself in seemed quite surreal: one of the most—if not the most—handsome men she’d ever seen in her life, a house and gardens straight out of the pages of a glossy magazine featuring millionaire lifestyles, servants, wealth, splendour, and here she was, bang-smack in the middle of it. Even if it was just for a night. She almost felt like pinching herself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. It would be something to tell her friends.

Once downstairs, Cherry stood uncertainly, wondering which was the accepted way to the pool. A door at the far end of the hall opened and a severe-looking woman with iron-grey hair and dressed completely in black appeared. The housekeeper, Cherry surmised—rightly. And straight out of a Dickens novel.

On seeing her, the woman came gliding forward, a polite smile on her somewhat formidable face. ‘Si, signorina? Can I help you? There is something you require?’

Not sure if the housekeeper knew the circumstances, Cherry said quickly, ‘Mr Carella said I could use the pool. I’m staying here overnight. My car—’

‘Si, si, signorina.’ It was slightly impatient. ‘I know of this. The signore—he has informed me of your situation. You have everything you need in your room?’

‘Yes—yes, thank you.’ Cherry thought the housekeeper fitted in well. She was every bit as intimidating as her indomitable employer. Poor, poor Sophia.

‘You please to follow me, signorina.’ Without further ado the woman turned and retraced her steps, stopping at a door which led into a sunny breakfast room which again had doors leading to the garden. The housekeeper opened a cupboard stocked with massive fluffy beach-towels, taking two and handing them to Cherry as she said, ‘The pool, si?’ She pointed into the distance. ‘I will send Gilda or Rosa with the iced drink shortly, signorina.’

‘Oh, no, please don’t go to any trouble on my account,’ Cherry said hastily. ‘I’ll be fine, really.’

‘Is no trouble, signorina.’

The stern face hadn’t mellowed an iota, and feeling as though she was five years old and back in school again, being reprimanded by a teacher for some misdemeanour, Cherry thanked the housekeeper again and stepped out into the hot sunshine.

The quality of light and the intensity of colour she’d noticed since arriving in Italy seemed even more pronounced in the beautiful gardens she walked through to reach the pool. She breathed in the scented air, taking it deep into her lungs. The pool was huge, the water crystalline under the clear blue sky, and on the surrounding tiled area there were several sun-loungers, hammocks and exterior sofas dotted round marble tables—some in the shade of magnolia, oleander and orange trees, and others under parasols. But a number were in the full glare of the sun. It was the perfect place for an afternoon siesta.

Throwing her towels on to a hammock in dappled shade, Cherry slipped off the sarong and walked to the edge of the pool, diving into the deep end without hesitation. The water felt icy to her heated skin, but exhilarating, and she cut through the water with powerful strokes, feeling tinglingly alive. She had always loved swimming since a small child. It was the only sport she had excelled at—unlike Angela, who had been good at everything.

Annoyed with herself that she’d let thoughts of Angela intrude, Cherry cleared her mind of everything but the sensation of the cold water and the heat of the sun above, swimming back and forth at a punishing pace until after ten minutes she was exhausted. Climbing out, she wrapped one of the towels around her middle and positioned the other one in the hammock—just as Rosa appeared with a tray holding a jug of iced fruit juice and a plate of small sugared biscuits.

After thanking the maid she drank a glass of the fruit juice, ate three of the biscuits, and then positioned herself carefully in the hammock, intending to go straight to sleep. Instead she was suddenly reliving the last ugly scene with Angela and Liam, the suddenness of the onslaught taking her completely by surprise. Sitting up so quickly she was almost tipped out on to the hot tiles, she brushed wet hair out of her eyes, angry and upset at her weakness. It was over—done with. You’ve moved on, she told herself fiercely. You wouldn’t have Liam back if he came giftwrapped, so no more dredging up the past. You’re finished with all that—and, anyway, they’re not worth it.

‘Cherry?’ The soft female voice brought her out of the maelstrom of emotion, and as her eyes focused she saw Sophia was standing in front of her, her voluptuous curves accentuated by the scarlet bikini she was wearing. ‘Are you unwell?’

Hastily composing her face into a smile, she said, ‘No, no, I’m fine. I was just thinking, that’s all.’

Sophia sat down on a sun-lounger, a few feet from the hammock. ‘Unpleasant thoughts?

‘You could say that.’

‘Oh, scusi. I do not wish to pry,’ Sophia said quickly, clearly taking Cherry’s reply as a rebuff.

‘No, it’s all right.’ Cherry felt sorry for this beautiful girl who was a prisoner in her own home. ‘I was in love with someone and he dumped me for someone else. It’s as simple as that,’ she said lightly.

‘Is never simple.’ Emerald eyes surveyed her compassionately.

‘No, you’re right. It never is.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

Surprisingly, Cherry found she did—probably because until this point she hadn’t opened up to anyone. She had never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve. All her life the more something hurt her, the more she put on a brave face and carried on. ‘I worked with Liam,’ she said quietly, ‘and we were good friends before we started going out together. I—I thought he was different to most men, that I could trust him implicitly. We’d been together for six months and things were getting serious—talk of engagement and all that—so I thought I’d better take him home and introduce him to my family.’