The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener

Instead, he thought, crumpling the note in his hand, I will be spending the time in close consultation with the builders at Vostranto, so I shall call her tomorrow and make my excuses.

And after that, I shall also ask Ottavio for Lucia’s phone number.

‘No,’ said Ellie. ‘It’s very kind of Madrina to invite me, but I’ve already made my plans for that weekend. I’m sorry, Silvia.’

‘You don’t sound it.’ Her cousin leaned back in her chair, pouting. ‘I suppose you’re off to bury yourself at Nonna Vittoria’s shack as usual.’

It might only be a small house, but it was hardly a shack, Ellie thought drily. And Silvia clearly hadn’t thought so when she discovered that their grandmother’s will had left Ellie in sole possession of what could be an eminently desirable property in a charming fishing village on a beautiful coastline. She had raged about the total unfairness of the bequest for weeks if not months, accusing Ellie of wheedling her way into Nonna Vittoria’s good graces.

By which Ellie supposed she meant visiting her grandmother regularly and remembering her at birthdays and Christmases. Something Silvia’s busy social life had overlooked most of the time.

‘And how can you even think of it when you could be staying in the lap of luxury at the Villa Rosa?’ Silvia went on.

‘Perhaps I don’t find the lap of luxury particularly comfortable,’ Ellie said drily. ‘Especially when I’m aware that I’m the only person present who’s actually an employee instead of an employer.’

Silvia waved a languid hand. ‘Oh, you’re far too sensitive, cara. Besides Madrina adores you, and you owe her a visit. She has said so, and will be so upset if you refuse.’ She paused. ‘And you could do me the most enormous favour too.’

Ellie’s hand stilled in its task of refilling their coffee cups. Ah, she thought, without surprise. Now we’re coming to it.

She said, ‘Oh God, Silvia, you haven’t been losing money at bridge again, not after the things Ernesto said last time.’

‘Oh, that.’ Silvia looked down, playing with the emerald and diamond ring on her wedding finger. ‘I’ve hardly touched a card for months. Truly. Anyone will tell you.’

‘Except that I don’t know anyone to ask,’ Ellie returned, scenting an evasion. ‘And I have no money to bail you out, so don’t even think about it.’

‘That’s not what I’m asking,’ Silvia denied swiftly. ‘It’s just that—well—Ernesto is being a little silly at the moment about my going away without him, even to see my own godmother, and if he knew you’d be there too, I’m sure he’d change his mind.’

Ellie brought over the fresh coffee, placing the cup on the table beside her cousin’s chair.

She said slowly, ‘It’s not like him to play the heavy husband. Silvia, you’re sure that you’re not the one who’s being silly?’

Silvia flushed angrily. ‘And what makes you an authority on married life? I wasn’t aware that you even had a boyfriend.’

Ouch, thought Ellie, remembering at the same time that attack had always been Silvia’s favourite form of defence. Also, that it had been several weeks since her cousin had sought her company—and then only at the last minute to make up the numbers at a dinner party, where, to add to her usual shyness, she’d felt badly dressed and totally out of her depth.

Especially when Silvia had been at her sparkling best, eyes gleaming like her jewellery, and her mouth curved on the edge of a smile all evening, and the centre of everyone’s attention. As if, Ellie thought, a fire had been lit inside her.

In fact, on that occasion, Ellie had taken her godmother’s place, as the Principessa Damiano had been suffering from a heavy cold. But at least she’d only had to give up a few hours—unlike this new request, where she’d be committed from Friday evening until late afternoon on Sunday. Not a prospect she relished, however fond she was of her tiny, exquisite godmother fluttering like a butterfly in the pale draperies she affected.

Although that, Ellie had always suspected, was just a façade, concealing a will of reinforced steel. Which was why she’d probably used Silvia to back up her invitation.

But Ellie was always conscious that Madrina inhabited a world where Silvia belonged, but she herself did not. They might be first cousins, but chalk and cheese didn’t even come near it.

Silvia, the elder by almost a year, was silvery fair, with green eyes that looked at the world from the shadow of extravagant lashes, a small straight nose and a frankly sexy full-lipped mouth. Her chief ambition from childhood had been to marry a rich man and she’d achieved it effortlessly, although Nonna Vittoria had frowned and tutted over her choice, murmuring that cara Silvia needed to be held in check, and that her fidanzato, though estimable, might not be the man to do it.

Ellie, on the other hand, had often thought, without rancour, that she resembled the negative of a dramatically coloured photograph. Her own hair was the shade generally known as dirty blonde, and she was pale-skinned and slender. Nonna Vittoria always told her she had unusual eyes, but the rest of her features were nothing to admire. Nose too long, she thought. Mouth too serious.

However, on the plus side, she enjoyed her work, liked most of her colleagues and had a small group of friends of both sexes with whom she ate out and attended films and concerts.

She supposed it was a relatively sedate existence, but it suited her. Yet so did her own company, and the times when she could escape to the coast and the waiting Casa Bianca were among her happiest.

She couldn’t let the opportunity to spend the weekend there pass. Could she?

Yet, as she drank her coffee, she sent a covert glance at her cousin. Something was wrong. She knew it. The shining brightness of a few weeks ago had become restive—even edgy.

She said quietly, ‘Silvia, I don’t want us to fall out but I need you to be honest with me. Why do you want me to accept Madrina’s invitation?’

Her cousin looked sulky. ‘It is nothing. An absurdity. A man Ernesto feels has paid me too much attention. He has even started to think that I am meeting this man and not going to

Largossa at all. But if he knows that you and I will be at the Villa Rosa together, his mind will be at rest.’

Ellie frowned. ‘Wouldn’t it be simpler if he accompanied you himself?’

Silvia spread her hands. ‘He cannot. There is a client—an important man—with tax difficulties which must be settled pronto. So Ernesto must handle the case personally, even if he has to use the weekend.’

Ellie could sympathise with the client’s needs. Italy’s labyrinthine tax laws were not for the inexperienced or the fainthearted.

And yet—and yet …

She recalled suddenly that she’d thought she heard the name of Alberoni mentioned in a low-pitched conversation by the water cooler at work a few weeks ago, only to find when she joined the group that they were talking about something completely different.

Now she found herself wondering uneasily if the subject had been deliberately changed at her approach and just what they’d been discussing.

If the stolid Ernesto had been stirred to a seething mass of jealousy, might he have reason? Whatever, he seemed to be taking steps to keep Silvia in check at last, and maybe, as her cousin was all the family she had left, she should help, besides having no wish to hurt her godmother’s feelings by a refusal to attend her house party.

‘Who else will be there?’ she asked cautiously.

Silvia shrugged. ‘Oh, Fulvio Ciprianto and his wife.’ She added casually. ‘Plus one of Madrina’s elderly cronies, the Contessa Manzini.’

Manzini, thought Ellie. The name was vaguely familiar, but in what context? Then her mind went back to that wretched dinner party, and she remembered. A man, she thought, tall, very dark, and lethally attractive even to her untutored gaze, who’d been pointed out to her as Count Angelo Manzini. Not, she’d reflected at the time, that he looked even remotely like an angel. The lean saturnine face, amused dark eyes and mobile, sensuous mouth suggested far more sin than sanctity.

However, no playboy apparently, but the successful chairman of the Galantana fashion group, or so she’d been informed by her neighbour during a brief lull between courses.

Which, considering what she’d been wearing, was probably why the Count had totally ignored her.

‘A few others, perhaps,’ Silvia went on, twisting the emerald on her finger again. ‘I am not sure. But if you get bored,’ she added with renewed buoyancy, ‘you can always ask Zio Cesare to show you his roses. You like such things.’

Ellie had never addressed her godmother’s august husband as ‘uncle’ in her life, and Silvia knew it. Another reminder of the wide gap in their circumstances.

‘Thank you,’ she returned ironically.

‘So I can tell Madrina that you will be coming with me, Ella-Bella?’ Silvia was watching her almost eagerly.

But, thought Ellie, there was another element in her expression that was not so easy to fathom, and which sparked a faint frisson of concern.

‘Only if you swear never to call me that stupid name again, Silly-Billy. We’re no longer children,’ she retorted crisply. ‘And I’ll telephone her myself.’ She paused. ‘Shall we go in my car?’

Silvia looked as horrified as if Ellie had suggested they trudge to Largossa, pushing their luggage in a wheelbarrow. ‘You mean that little Fiat? No, I will arrange for Ernesto to lend us the Maserati with Beppo to drive us.’

Ellie frowned. ‘He won’t want them himself?’

‘He has the Lamborghini.’ Silvia pursed her lips. ‘Or he could walk. The exercise would do him good, I think.’

‘Poor Ernesto,’ said Ellie.

And poor me, she thought when her cousin had departed, leaving a delicate aroma of Patou’s ‘Joy’ in the air. Although that, she admitted, was rank ingratitude when she would be staying in a superbly comfortable house, with magnificent food and wine, and being thoroughly indulged with her godmother’s unfailing affection.

But it was simply not the kind of visit she was accustomed to. Usually she was invited to keep Lucrezia Damiano company while her husband was away attending meetings with other European bankers. Sometimes, but not always, Silvia came too.

But Ellie could not imagine why her cousin was so keen for them both to attend what seemed to be a distinctly middle-aged party.

Oh for heaven’s sake, she adjured herself impatiently, as she carried the coffee pot and used cups into her tiny kitchen. Stop worrying about nothing. It’s not a major conspiracy. It’s simply a couple of days out of your life, that’s all.

And when they’re over, you’ll be straight back to the old routine again, just as if you’d never been away.

Then she paused, as she began to run water into the sink, staring into space as she wondered exactly what it was that Silvia wasn’t telling her. And why she should suddenly feel so worried.

CHAPTER TWO

‘CARISSIMA!’ Lucrezia Damiano embraced Ellie fondly. ‘Such a joy.’

Ellie, partaker of a largely silent drive from Rome in the back of the Maserati, with Silvia, face set, staring moodily through the window, had yet to be convinced of the joyousness of the occasion, but her godmother’s welcome alleviated some of the chill inside her.

The Villa Rosa had begun its life at the time of the Renaissance, and, with additions over the centuries, including a small square tower at one end, now had the look of a house that had simply grown up organically from the rich earth that surrounded it. The Damianos possessed a much grander house in Rome, but Largossa was the country retreat they loved and regularly used at weekends.

The salotto where the Principessa received her guests was in the oldest part of the house, a low-ceilinged room, its walls hung with beautifully restored tapestries, furnished with groupings of superbly comfortable sofas and chairs, with a fireplace big enough to roast a fair-sized ox.

The long windows opened on to a broad terrace, and offered a beguiling view of the grounds beyond, including the walled garden where Cesare Damiano cultivated the roses that were his pride and joy.

But her host, Ellie learned, would not be joining the party until the following day.

‘My poor Cesare—a meeting in Geneva, and quite unavoidable,’ the Principessa lamented. ‘So tonight will be quite informal—just a reunion of dear friends.’

She turned to her other god-daughter, who was standing, her expression like stone. ‘Ciao, Silvia mia. Come stai?’

‘I am fine, thank you, Godmother.’ Silvia submitted rather sullenly to being kissed on both cheeks, causing Ellie to eye her narrowly.

She didn’t look fine, she thought. On the contrary, since she entered the house, Silvia appeared to be strung up on wires. Nor had it been lost on Ellie that, on their arrival, she had scanned almost fiercely the cars parked on the gravel sweep in front of the villa’s main entrance as if she was looking for one particular vehicle before sinking back in her seat, chewing at her lip.

‘And now there are people you must meet,’ the Principessa decreed, leading the way out on to the terrace.

An elderly lady, dressed in black, her white hair drawn into an elegant chignon, was seated at a table under a parasol, in conversation with a younger, plumper woman with a merry face, but they turned expectantly at the Principessa’s approach.

‘Contessa,’ she said. ‘And my dear Anna. May I present my god-daughters—the Signora Silvia Alberoni, and Signorina Elena Blake. Girls, allow me to make the Contessa Cosima Manzini and Signora Ciprianto known to you.’

The Contessa extended a be-ringed hand to both, murmuring that it was her pleasure. Her smile was gracious, but the eyes that studied Ellie were oddly shrewd, almost, she thought in bewilderment, as if she was being assessed in some way. If so, it was unlikely that her simple button-through dress in olive-green linen, and the plain silver studs in her ears would pass muster. And nor, she imagined, would her very ordinary looks.

The Contessa, by contrast, was not only dressed in great style, but her classic bone structure still suggested the beauty she must have been in her youth.

They took the seats they were offered, and accepted glasses of fresh lemonade, clinking with ice. Silvia seemed to have come out of sulky mode and was talking brightly about the journey, the warmth of the day, and the beauty of the gardens, her smile expansive, her hands moving gracefully to emphasise some point, while Contessa Manzini listened and nodded politely but without comment.

Under the cover of this vivacity, Ellie found herself being addressed quietly and kindly by Anna Ciprianto, and asked, with what seemed to be genuine interest, about her work at the Avortino company, so that she was able to overcome her usual shyness with strangers and chat back.

After a while, Lucrezia Damiano went off to greet more guests, a couple called Barzado, also middle-aged, the wife bright-eyed and talkative, whom she brought out to join the party.

So what on earth am I doing here? Ellie asked herself in renewed perplexity. And, even more to the point, what is Silvia?

On the surface, her cousin was brimming with effusive charm, the very picture of the lovely young wife of a successful man, but Ellie could see that her posture was betrayingly rigid, and the hands in her lap were clenched rather than folded.

I want to help, she thought, wondering why, when she and Silvia were together, she so often felt like the older one. But how can I—if she won’t talk to me—won’t tell me the problem?

And at that moment she saw the Contessa look down the terrace, a hand lifting to shade her eyes, as the faint austerity of her expression relaxed into warmth and pleasure.

‘Mio caro,’ she exclaimed. ‘Alla fine. At last.’

Ellie did not have to look round to see who was approaching, and whose tall shadow had fallen across the sunlit flagstones. Because one glance at Silvia, her eyes wide and intense, her natural colour fading to leave two spots of blusher visible on her cheekbones, suddenly told her everything she needed to know, making her realise at the same time that it was information she would far sooner have been without. And that all her concerns about this weekend were fully justified.

Nor did she need to wonder further about the whispers round the coffee machine, either in her workplace, or probably any other.

‘Oh God,’ she whispered under her breath, dry-mouthed with shock. ‘I don’t believe this. Silvia—you complete and utter fool.’

‘My dearest one.’ Count Angelo Manzini, contriving to look elegant in chinos and an open-necked white shirt, bent to kiss his grandmother’s hand, then her cheek. ‘Ladies.’ A brief, charming smile acknowledged everyone else at the table, but bestowed no special attention anywhere.

Ellie had the curious sensation that the air around them had begun to tingle, and hastily drank some more lemonade, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the ground, as he pulled up a chair and joined the group.

In daylight and close up, he was even more formidable, she thought, taking a deep steadying breath, and wishing with all her heart that she was back in Rome. Or that Silvia was.

She wondered if she could invent some emergency to provide her with an excuse for leaving, only to remember, with a sinking heart, that she had inadvertently left her mobile phone on charge back at her apartment, and that any landline calls to the villa would be answered by Giovanni, the major domo, and relayed through the Principessa herself.

So it appeared she was stuck here for the duration.

Lucrezia was speaking. ‘My dear Count, I know you are acquainted with Signora Alberoni, but I believe you have not been introduced to her cousin, my other god-daughter, the Signorina Elena Blake.’

‘No, I have not had that pleasure. I am charmed, signorina.’

Ellie sat up with an alarmed jolt, forcing herself to look at him, and murmur something polite and meaningless in return. His mouth was unsmiling, but his dark gaze that met hers held a faint glint that might have been amusement. Or—equally—anger.

Though what he had to be angry about defeated her, she thought, glancing away, her own expression stony. After all, she was the one who’d been manipulated into providing cover for his affair with Silvia. But if he imagined she’d have come within miles of the Villa Rosa if she’d known the truth, then the glamorous Count Manzini could think again. And, she told herself almost grinding her teeth, if he actually thought it was funny …

As soon as she could do so, she excused herself on the grounds she needed to unpack and went indoors, feeling as if she’d escaped.

There was never any question about which room she’d be using. Since her first childhood visit, when she’d gazed entranced at the little tower, telling her amused godmother that it was like something out of a fairy tale, that had been where she’d slept.

But as she climbed the spiral staircase leading up to it from the little sitting room below, she reflected that, mercifully, the Principessa no longer teased her that she was waiting for some princely hero to leap up the other steep flight of exterior steps from the garden to the small balcony outside her window and carry her off.

On the contrary, in recent years, she’d come to regard the tower room in much the same light as the Casa Bianca—as something of a refuge, and probably it would never be more so than this time, she thought with a troubled sigh as she contemplated the afternoon’s developments.

Unlike Silvia, Ellie had only brought one small case, so her unpacking was soon completed, but she had no intention of returning to the terrace, even though it would probably be expected of her.

Instead, she used the tiny adjoining bathroom to shower away the stickiness of the journey, and, she vainly hoped, some of its subsequent tensions. Then, wrapped in her white cotton robe, she curled up in the small deeply cushioned armchair in front of the open window and resignedly gave full rein to her uneasy thoughts.

She would be having severe words with Silvia, once the opportunity presented itself, she promised herself grimly. Her cousin had no right—no right at all—to implicate her even marginally in whatever was going on between herself and that diabolically good-looking bastard who’d just swanned in.

Not that there were any real doubts in her mind about the situation—how could there be?—which suggested that, if Silvia wasn’t careful, other people including Madrina, would be drawing the same conclusions.

And Silvia must be mad if she thought her godmother, or, more particularly, the austere Prince Damiano would tolerate any possibility of open scandal under their roof.

And while she could admit that maybe Ernesto was not the most exciting man in the world, she remembered how Silvia had insisted she wanted to marry him and no-one else. Or was it more the status of being a rich man’s wife she’d actually hankered for?

Whatever—there was a limit to Ernesto’s placidity, and if he even suspected that Silvia had been unfaithful to him, there’d be trouble bordering on catastrophe.

How could her cousin take such a risk—especially when it did not seem to be making her happy? Ellie asked herself in bewilderment. But remembering her original assessment of Count Manzini, she doubted whether bestowing happiness would be a priority in his relationships anyway.

Here today, she thought, biting her lip, and gone tomorrow. Not that she was any real judge of such matters, of course, but instinct warned her he was the kind of man anyone with sense should cross a busy street to avoid.

But there were no busy streets at the Villa Rosa, as Ellie discovered several hours later when, to her horror, she found she’d been placed next to Count Manzini at dinner.

It was punishment, she thought, for fibbing to her godmother that she’d stayed in her room with a slight headache instead of rejoining the party.

Nor was it any consolation that the Count seemed no more pleased at having her as a neighbour than she was.

Because Madrina had emphasised an informal evening,

Ellie had kept back the long dress she’d brought in deference to the Prince’s known wishes, choosing instead a pretty georgette skirt in white, patterned with sunflowers, which floated around her when she moved, and a scooped-neck silk top, also in white. Neither of them were from the Galantana line, as she was sure one quick glance had told him.

She had no idea who’d made his expensive suit either, but decided it was probably Armani.

At the other end of the table, Silvia was resplendent in a royal blue cocktail dress, made high to the throat in front, but plunging deeply at the back. She seemed to have recovered her equilibrium—in fact she looked almost glowingly triumphant—and was chatting with animation to her neighbours as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

Leaving me free to do the worrying for her, Ellie thought, serving herself from the dishes of antipasti which began the meal.

She’d not yet had the chance for a private word with her cousin who’d been missing from her room at the other end of the villa when she went in search of her, leaving Ellie to wonder where she was and decide that she’d probably prefer not to know.

‘May I offer you some tomato salad?’ Count Manzini enquired with cool politeness, and she looked up from her plate with a start.

‘No,’ she said, stiltedly. ‘No, thank you.’

‘I seem to alarm you, signorina,’ he went on, after a pause. ‘Or do you simply prefer to eat in silence?’

‘I think—neither.’

‘I am relieved to hear it.’

He smiled at her for the first time, and she felt her throat tighten nervously as she reluctantly experienced the full impact of his attraction. The government, she thought shakily, should issue a warning, and felt something like a grudging sympathy for Silvia.