The Medici Lover

They came to the villa through formal gardens of lawns and hedges laid out with geometric attention to detail, and Suzanne saw the shadowy courtyard, mosaic-tiled, where a marble basin echoed to the waters of the fountain. The fluted columns of the loggia were indistinct in the fading light, but the balcony above would give a wonderful view of the surrounding countryside.

They entered into a long gallery, illuminated by wall lamps, intricately carved in bronze. All the downstairs apartments of the villa opened on to the loggia, Pietro had explained, but now the shutters were drawn against the invasion of night insects.

Their feet echoed on marble tiles, their presence seemed an intrusion to plastered walls, decorated with panels painted in colours which had faded only slightly with the years. Suzanne looked about her in wonder—at the panelling of the arched ceiling above their heads, at a side table inlaid with ivory, at the fine-grained marble beneath their feet. There was a silver salver standing on the table, and the richness of its scrollwork put its value far beyond the reach of any ordinary individual.

Pietro put down their cases and regarded her tolerantly. ‘I can see that you appreciate art and architecture, too,’ he commented dryly. ‘Come. We must let my—family—know we are here.’

His deliberate hesitation did not go unnoticed, and Suzanne looked down doubtfully at the purple corduroy slacks suit she was wearing. In these surroundings, trousers on a woman seemed an insult somehow. She wished she had worn a skirt. But then she had not known that Pietro’s family lived in one of Italy’s famous villas.

Before they could move, however, a door to their left opened, and the tall, slightly stooped figure of a man emerged. Suzanne stiffened, guessing this must be her host, but even so she was not prepared for her first meeting with the master of the Villa Falcone.

Amazingly, what struck her first about him was his eyes. Amazing, because in spite of his distorted body, she looked first into clear green eyes, deep set and thickly lashed, hooded by heavy lids. His eyes were beautiful, which made what came after much harder to look upon.

She had been expecting a younger man, for one thing. Pietro was, after all, in his early twenties, and as this man was his cousin, she had expected someone of a similar age. But Mazzaro di Falcone was much older, in his late thirties at least, and the thick black hair which fell below the level of his collar was streaked with grey in places. He was taller than the average Italian, with a lean muscular body, but he leaned heavily on two sticks, and when he moved his gait was slow and awkward, twisting his spine and obviously causing him some pain, judging by the tightness of his dark features. But it was the scarring of his face and neck which distorted his expression, giving him a vaguely malevolent appearance. He reminded Suzanne of Dante’s Fallen Angel, and the awareness of the feelings he was arousing inside her made her uneasy.

Pietro, perhaps sensing the tension in the air, moved towards his cousin. ‘Good evening, Mazzaro,’ he said, gesturing to Suzanne to come forward. ‘As you can see, we have arrived. Allow me to introduce you to my—to Suzanne, Suzanne Hunt.’ He paused, as his cousin’s eyebrows arched. ‘Suzanne, as you’ve probably guessed, this is my cousin Mazzaro, Count di Falcone.’

‘Count?’ The word was out before Suzanne could prevent it, and the fingertips of one hand sought her lips as if in admonishment.

Mazzaro di Falcone’s eyes narrowed. ‘No doubt my cousin omitted to mention what is, after all, purely a nominal title, Miss Hunt,’ he commented, in perfect English. ‘How do you do? As you can see, I am not in a position to shake your hand, but you are welcome to the Villa Falcone.’

‘Thank you.’ Suzanne glanced awkwardly at Pietro. ‘I—it was kind of you to permit me to come.’

Mazzaro made a dismissing gesture with his shoulders. ‘Your mother is in the small salon, Pietro. I know she is awaiting your arrival with much—excitement. If you and Miss Hunt will excuse me …’

Again he spoke in English, but Pietro broke in quickly in his own language, almost defiantly, Suzanne felt. ‘Suzanne speaks Italian fluently, Mazzaro. You don’t have to demonstrate your command of English on her.’

His words were ill-chosen, almost insolent in intonation, but Mazzaro di Falcone merely regarded his cousin with slightly amused eyes. ‘I gather you do not feel the need to do so,’ he remarked in Italian, and Pietro’s expression darkened angrily.

But Mazzaro did not wait to continue the altercation. With a faint bow of his head in Suzanne’s direction, he moved away along the hall, his shadow cast upon the panelling like some grotesque caricature of a man. Pietro, too, watched his cousin’s progress, and a little of the angry frustration left his face. Then he turned and took Suzanne’s arm.

‘Come! The small salon is this way.’

As they passed the room from which Mazzaro di Falcone had emerged, Suzanne glimpsed a high-ceilinged apartment, comfortably if sparsely furnished, with a wall of leatherbound books facing the door. But Pietro had already stopped outside an adjoining apartment, and as he pushed open double doors with a flourish, a young girl of perhaps ten years came rushing to greet him.

‘Pietro! Pietro!’ she cried excitedly, wrapping her arms around his middle, looking up into his face with wide-eyed delight. ‘I thought you were never coming!’

Pietro bestowed a kiss on both the child’s cheeks, and then looked over her head at the elderly woman seated in an armchair by the screened marble fireplace. ‘Mamma!’ he spoke with the warmth to which Suzanne was accustomed. ‘Mamma, it is so good to see you again.’

As Pietro went to receive his mother’s greeting, the child turned her attention to Suzanne, her brow furrowing with undisguised curiosity. She was a plain child, with the sallow complexion sometimes found in hotter climes, her straight black hair drawn unbecomingly back from her face in two stiff braids. And yet, when she had been greeting Pietro, animation had added warmth to her features, and it was then that Suzanne had guessed that she must be Mazzaro di Falcone’s daughter. Yet she had a neglected air, as if no one really took a great deal of interest in her, and certainly her clothes did not do justice to her slim little body.

Deciding that it might be easier if she spoke first, Suzanne forced herself to smile and say: ‘Hello. My name is Suzanne. What’s yours?’

Before the child could reply however, Signora Vitale’s voice rang out distinctly across the wide room: ‘Elena! Come here. At once.’

There was something about the Italian word avanti which gave it a much terser sound than its English translation: ‘Come’. Elena obviously responded to it, and without more ado, skipped obediently across to where Pietro’s mother was sitting, leaving the outsider feeling very much alone in the doorway.

This was the small salon, thought Suzanne in wonder, realising it was almost as big as the reception area of the hotel back in England. As in the hall, the walls here were inlaid with frescoed panels, depicting hunting scenes, the realism of a stag at bay reassuring her. She felt very much like that cornered animal at this moment. Signora Vitale was very much the mistress of the situation, seated in her tapestry-covered chair, Pietro slightly behind her, Elena standing in the circle of her arm, at home with the fine grain of polished wood and the richly woven carpets.

Pietro was looking at Suzanne, too, but with a gentler appraisal, and presently he beckoned her forward and introduced her to his mother. Like Pietro’s cousin, Signora Vitale was older than Suzanne had imagined, and she must have given up all hope of bearing a child before Pietro was conceived.

After greeting her son’s guest with a scarcely-concealed disapproval, which Suzanne put down to the informality of her appearance, the woman asked several personal questions about her background. Although Suzanne resented this inquisition, nevertheless, she gave in to it, deciding that as she had nothing to hide, there was no reason why she should not satisfy Signora Vitale’s curiosity. However, the old lady’s disapproval deepened when she heard that Suzanne’s parents were divorced, and in quelling tones she told the girl that there was no divorce in the eyes of God.

Pietro’s expression was apologetic, and his eyes begged her not to take what his mother said too seriously. Suzanne bit her tongue on the retort which sprang to her lips, and instead spoke again to the child.

‘Elena,’ she said, retrieving her smile, which had become strained and had finally disappeared in the face of Signora Vitale’s catechism. ‘What a pretty name!’

The little girl looked up at her doubtfully. No doubt Suzanne’s ability to address her in her own language had impressed her, but she still looked to Pietro’s mother for guidance. That lady drew the child to her, bestowed a kiss on both cheeks and then said: ‘You may go to bed now, Elena. You will have plenty of time to speak with Pietro tomorrow.’

Elena’s lips drooped, but there was no trace of rebellion in the way she obediently turned to Pietro for his kiss, and then with a bob which could have been directed at both Suzanne and Signora Vitale, she went quickly out of the room, closing the doors behind her.

Suzanne was sorry to see her go. While the child had been there, the situation had held promise, at least. Now, she felt chilled and ill at ease again.

‘Pietro tells me you work in an hotel, signorina,’ the old lady continued, apparently in no way diverted by Elena’s departure.

‘That’s right,’ Suzanne nodded, smoothing her palms down over the seat of her pants. ‘As a matter of fact, I worked in Rimini for several months last year.’

‘Rimini!’ The way the old lady’s lips curled showed her opinion of Rimini. ‘That tourist paradise! Is that all your experience of Italy?’

‘No. No. I’ve visited Rome and Venice, and of course while I was working in Rimini, I went to Florence several times.’

‘And which city did you prefer, signorina?’

Suzanne had the feeling it was a loaded question. How she answered this might influence her future relationship with Pietro’s mother. Then she scoffed at herself. What future relationship? A weekend! Four days to justify herself.

But she could only be honest, after all. ‘Florence,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘La città delle fiore!’

Signora Vitale’s expression actually softened slightly. ‘You do? You like Florence?’ Her lips twitched, and Suzanne breathed more freely. She had obviously chosen well. ‘Yes, signorina. Florence is my favourite, too. The cradle of the Renaissance, no? The pawn of the Medicis. And yet ultimately the city triumphs over all. Immortal. Brunnelleschi, Giotto, Pisano, Botticelli—ah, there is no end to its treasures. How could anyone tire of its magnificence?’

Pietro was looking pleased now. ‘My mother is an expert on Renaissance art and architecture,’ he told Suzanne proudly.

‘Then you must appreciate this villa,’ she ventured softly, but Signora Vitale made an impatient gesture.

‘I love the Villa Falcone!’ she said, with asperity. ‘But not opening its rooms to unfeeling tourists who come to poke and pry and stare and finger—’

‘Zia Tommasa!’ A light voice interrupted the old lady’s tirade. ‘I am sure Miss Hunt would not agree with you, would you, Miss Hunt?’

Suzanne swung round to confront a young woman standing just inside the doors of the salon. From the top of her sleekly groomed head to the Gucci shoes on her slender feet she breathed style and elegance, the swinging skirt of her printed silk dress proclaiming its exclusiveness by its very simplicity. A second appraisal, however, revealed a featherlight tracing of lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes and mouth, and Suzanne guessed she was older than she at first appeared.

‘Sophia!’ Pietro left his mother to approach the other woman, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his impulsive embrace with an abandon which might have shocked Suzanne had she and Pietro been emotionally involved with one another.

‘Pietro darling,’ the woman called Sophia protested at last, drawing back from him and casting a smoothing hand over the cap of auburn-tinted hair that framed her small features appealingly. ‘It’s wonderful to have you home again.’ Then her eyes moved to Suzanne. ‘And this is your English girl-friend.’ She smiled, the first really friendly smile Suzanne had received since entering the Villa Falcone. ‘Welcome to Castelfalcone, Miss Hunt. We want you to enjoy your stay with us.’

‘Which she won’t do if you have anything to do with it, eh, Sophia?’

A shadow had fallen across them, and turning to the sound of that lazily mocking voice, Suzanne saw that Mazzaro di Falcone had come to stand in the open doorway.

At once, Pietro started forward, words of repudiation spilling from his lips, but Sophia held him back with an imperious gesture of her hand, the jewels on her fingers reflecting light in a thousand different prisms.

‘You will have your little joke, won’t you, Mazzaro?’ she said teasingly, speaking in English as he had done, making light of something which for a moment had been anything but. ‘Miss Hunt, have you met my husband—Count di Falcone?’

‘We’ve met,’ retorted Mazzaro coolly, his curiously green eyes flickering over Suzanne’s flushed face before shifting to Signora Vitale. ‘Dinner is waiting, Zia Tommasa, and Lucia insists that she will not be held responsible if it spoils.’

CHAPTER TWO

SUZANNE’S FINGERS trembled as she silently released the catch on the balcony door. The last thing she wanted to do was to arouse anyone else to the awareness that she could not sleep, but she had lain sleepless for hours now and she needed some air.

The door swung open on oiled hinges, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The cool air was chilling, but refreshing, and her heated body responded eagerly. Closing her eyes for a moment, she lifted a hand to brush her hair back from her face. Oh, that was good, after the tormenting confusion of troubled impressions stirring her into consciousness.

She glanced back at the shadowy room behind her. Certainly the room was comfortable enough, and the bed quite luxuriously soft, but still she was restless. There were too many things to keep her awake, and not even the exhaustion of the journey was sufficient to banish the memories of the evening she had just spent.

She stepped out on to the balcony and moved to the rail, looking down on to the courtyard below. Even the fountain was silent now and only the breeze blowing down from the mountains made music through the columns of the loggia. She shivered. The negligee she had pulled on over her chiffon nightgown was scarcely a barrier to temperatures dipping in the hours before dawn, but still she lingered, loath to return to the turmoil she had found on her pillow. Somehow she had to come to terms with the situation here, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

Her eyes lifted to the mountains, their bulk a rugged landmass on the skyline. How could anyone live in such surroundings without being affected by a feeling of immortality? she wondered. But did that give one the right to treat someone else with contempt? Her brows drew together in a troubled frown. There were four adults and one child living at the villa, and between them they represented the whole gamut of human relationships. No wonder Pietro had been loath to discuss his family. How could anyone accurately describe the situation at the Villa Falcone?

Yet there seemed no reason for the tension she could feel just below that surface veneer of civility. Pietro’s mother was not the easiest person to get along with, she conceded, but she was old, and that excused a lot. Pietro’s attitude was a little less easy to understand. He obviously loved his mother and Elena, and he appeared to hold a great affection for Sophia. But he and his cousin seemed totally opposed to one another. Sophia, on the face of it, had the rawest deal. She seemed a perfectly normal friendly young woman, interested in Suzanne’s work, in her life in England and the places she had visited. She discussed the advantages of working in different countries with real enthusiasm, and was the only person at the dinner table to make Suzanne feel at ease. But it was her husband who acted as a catalyst on all of them, and Suzanne shivered again as she recalled her own disturbing reactions to Mazzaro di Falcone.

Dressed in black, which accentuated his brooding malevolence, he sat at the head of the long, polished dining table with the cool despotism of a Medici. The magnificent room matched his mood for period. Subdued lights, and scented candles burning in a bronze holder, cast shadows up to the carved ceiling, disguising the ugly weals that began below the Count di Falcone’s right eye, spreading across his cheek and running down the side of his neck. The collar of his silk shirt was open, and Suzanne had had to force herself not to stare at the spot where the scars disappeared beneath the fine material.

But it was not just his appearance that disturbed her. His scarred face did not repel her, rather the reverse, and she was made increasingly conscious of the penetration of green eyes when she gave in to the temptation to look at him. It was his behaviour towards his wife, however, which seemed so illogical, that aroused the most distracting emotions inside her. And it was this, more than anything, that she found hardest to assimilate.

Throughout the meal, Sophia had made repeated attempts to draw her husband into the conversation, and on each occasion he had repulsed her efforts with some mocking or scathing retort. He seemed to take pleasure in being rude to her, but she merely dismissed his insolence with a reluctant smile, continuing to talk to Suzanne as if nothing untoward had happened. But Suzanne knew it had happened, and so did Pietro, sitting across from her, judging by the way his hands were clenched where they rested on the table.

It was obvious that Pietro resented his cousin’s behaviour towards his wife. And why not? It was a perfectly natural reaction. And yet the courtesy which Mazzaro showed to his aunt negated his dismissal as a boor. So why did he treat Sophia in that way? And why didn’t she retaliate? If he spoke to her like that, Suzanne knew she would. But in Sophia di Falcone’s position, would she want to …?

She looked down at her fingers gripping the wrought iron, and as she did so a shadow moved in the courtyard below. She started violently, stepping back from the rail, her mouth suddenly dry. Someone was down there. But who? And why? And had they seen her?

Even as she stood, transfixed, the shadow moved again and materialised into the tall, lean figure of a man, a man who moved stiffly, as if unused to such movements.

Suzanne pressed her hand to her lips to prevent the involuntary ejaculation that hovered there. It was Mazzaro di Falcone. She could see him now, the darkness of his head, the muscular width of his body. But Mazzaro di Falcone walking without his sticks, unevenly to be sure, limping a little, but definitely upright.

For a few moments longer she stood motionless, and then realising she ought not to be seeing this, she stepped silently back towards her balcony door. It didn’t make sense. Mazzaro walking the courtyard in the early hours of the morning—walking alone and unaided. Did anyone know? Had he confided in anybody? Or was this his secret, the reason he treated his wife with such contempt? Obviously, Sophia could not know about this, or she might be a little less patient with him. But what possible motive could he have for keeping it a secret, for denying his family the joy of knowing he was getting so much better?

Shedding her negligee, Suzanne tumbled back into bed, feeling more confused now than she had done before. And yet, for all that, she fell asleep almost immediately.

She awakened to the sound of someone knocking at her door. For a moment, it was difficult to get her bearings, but the sunlight shafting through the still-open door to the balcony brought awareness into sharp perspective. Struggling up against the cream silk-cased pillows, she called: ‘Avanti!’ and the elderly housekeeper, Lucia, came into the room carrying a silver tray. For all the brilliant sunshine outside, Lucia clung to dark clothes and voluminous skirts which almost touched her ankles, but her lined face was not unfriendly.

‘Buon giorno, signorina,’ she greeted the girl politely, as she approached the bed across the rug-strewn tiled floor.

‘Buon giorno, Lucia. Che ora sono?’

Lucia looked pleased that Suzanne could understand her own language. ‘Sono le dieci e mezzo, signorina,’ she told her smilingly, setting the tray across her knees. ‘Ha dormito bene?’

But Suzanne was scarcely listening to her now. Was it really half past ten? Had she slept so long? Perhaps it was not so surprising, though, considering her disturbed night and the hour at which she finally fell asleep.

Still conversing in Italian, she said: ‘There was no need for you to go to all this trouble, Lucia. I’m afraid I’ve overslept.’

Lucia folded her hands across her white apron. ‘It is no trouble, signorina. And Pietro, he tells me you will be very tired.’

Suzanne examined the contents of the tray, the silver coffee service, the jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice, the chafing-dish containing hot croissants, and curls of butter in an ice-chilled bowl. Lying beside her plate was a single rose, an exquisite bloom, magnolia white, but veined with a delicate thread of palest pink.

She lifted it carefully, cradling it between her palms, inhaling its perfume. It was as delicate as its colour, and hauntingly fragrant. It was charming of Pietro to think of such a thing, but she hoped he was not reading more into her acceptance of his invitation than was really there.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Thank him for me, will you?’

‘The Conte sent you the rose, signorina,’ Lucia stated expressionlessly. ‘They are cultivated here—at the Villa Falcone.’

Suzanne dropped the bloom as if its thorns had suddenly pierced her skin. Mazzaro di Falcone had no right to send her roses, and she felt angry with him for placing her in such an ambiguous position. Unless … Unless, he had seen her in those hours before dawn, and this was his way of letting her know it …

‘Well—thank you, Lucia,’ she said now, pouring herself some orange juice with a slightly unsteady hand. ‘And—and if you do see Pietro, will you tell him I shan’t be long?’

Lucia moved towards the door. ‘Do not alarm yourself, signorina. Pietro has driven his mother to the village. The Mass will not be over for some time yet.’

Of course. Suzanne felt a pang of regret. It was Good Friday. If she had not overslept, she could have gone with them.

‘Has—did the—I mean, where is the Signora Sophia?’ she asked, her fingers melting the frosting on her glass.

Lucia made an eloquent movement of her shoulders. ‘The Contessa seldom rises before noon, piccola. Relax. This is a holiday for you, no?’ She smiled. ‘Until later, signorina,’ and the door clicked shut behind her.

Suzanne finished the orange juice in her glass, and poured herself some of the strongly flavoured coffee. She drank it black with two spoons of sugar, and as she did so, she studied the rose again. It was certainly the most perfect specimen she had ever seen, just coming to fullness, its petals thick and velvety soft. But why had he sent it? she asked herself, chafing at the way her heart thumped when she thought of Mazzaro di Falcone.

Thrusting the tray aside, she swung her legs out of bed and padded across to the long windows. She paused at the balcony doors, loath to emerge for fear of being seen in the filmy transparency of her nightgown. Had it been a dream, what she had seen last night? Had she really seen Mazzaro walking without sticks? Or had it all been wishful thinking on her part?