The Costanzo Baby Secret

“What matters, cara, is how did you see yourself?”

“Differently,” she admitted. That night she’d looked in the mirror, something she normally avoided, and discovered not a flat-chested, gangly teenager forever tripping over her own feet, but a long-legged stranger with soft curves, straight teeth and clear blue eyes.

Not that she said as much to Dario, of course. She’d have sounded too conceited. Instead she explained, “I realized it was time to get over myself. I vowed I’d never again be ashamed of who I was, but would face the world with courage, and honor the ideals my parents had instilled in me. In other words, to value honesty and loyalty and decency.”

“People don’t necessarily abide by their promises though, do they?”

Taken aback by the sudden and inexplicably bitter note underlying his remark, she said, “I can’t speak for other people, Dario, but I can tell you that I’ve always tried hard to stick to mine.”

He stared her at her for a second or two, his beautiful face so immobile it might have been carved from granite. When he spoke, his voice was as distant as the cold stars littering the sky. “If you say so, my dear. It’s such a fine night that I ordered dinner served out here. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” she answered, “but I do mind your changing the subject so abruptly.”

He turned away with a shrug, as if to say, And I should care because? But she was having none of that. She’d been stonewalled long enough by doctors and nurses and therapists. She’d be damned if she’d put up with the same treatment from a man claiming to be her husband.

Grasping his arm, she stopped him before he could put more distance between them. “Don’t ignore me, Dario. You implied that I’m lying, and I want to know why. What have I done to make you not believe me?”

Before he could answer, the housekeeper came to announce that dinner was ready. Obviously relieved at the interruption, he took Maeve by the elbow and steered her the length of the terrace, to a table and chairs set under a section of roof that extended from the house. Long white curtains hung to the floor on the open three sides, no doubt to provide protection from the sun and wind during the day, but they were tied back now and gave an unobstructed view of the moon casting a glittering path across the sea.

It was, she thought, as he seated her and took his place opposite, like a scene out of the Arabian Nights. Candles glowed in crystal bowls and sent flickering shadows over a marble-topped table dressed with crisp linen napkins and heavy sterling cutlery. Music with a distinctly Middle-Eastern flavor filtered softly from hidden speakers. Some night-blooming flower filled the air with fragrance. Yet the harmony was tainted by the tension still simmering between her and Dario.

Antonia reappeared from inside the house and proceeded to serve from a sideboard positioned next to the wall. The meal began with a salad of tomatoes, olives, onions and capers dressed in oil flavored with basil, followed by grilled swordfish on a bed of linguine. And since Antonia remained at her post well within earshot as they ate, the opportunity to pursue the cause of Dario’s sudden change of mood had to go on hold in favor of inconsequential chitchat.

At length, however, the meal was over, the dishes removed and they were alone again. Pushing aside her water goblet, Maeve interrupted him as he waxed eloquent about the therapeutic benefits of the many hot springs on the island, and said, “Okay, Dario, it’s just you and me now, so please forget being a tour guide and answer the question I put to you before your housekeeper interrupted us. And don’t even think about telling me to forget it, because I’ve had about as much as I can stand of people not being straight with me.”

“I spoke out of turn,” he said carefully, seeming to find the contents of his wineglass more riveting than her face. “I’ve met more than a few business acquaintances whose idea of a gentleman’s agreement turned out to be as meaningless as their handshake. Sad to say, it’s left me somewhat jaded as a result.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, finally meeting her gaze. “I apologize if I insulted you, Maeve. It was not my intention, and I quite understand if you feel compelled to kick me under the table for being such a brute.”

His smile was back, dazzling as ever. Basking in its warmth, she said, “I’ll forgive you on one condition. So far tonight I’ve done most of the talking, when what I’d really like is to learn more about you.”

“All right.”

“And I wouldn’t mind going for a walk while I quiz you.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it? This is your first day out of hospital, after all.”

“But I haven’t been bedridden for a few weeks now. As long as I don’t have to rappel down a cliff or run a marathon, I’m quite sure I’ll be fine.”

“Then we’ll take a stroll through the grounds.”

He led her along a crushed stone path that meandered around to the landward side of the villa and through a series of small gardens.

“Why is each one enclosed like this?” she wanted to know, finding the high stone walls almost claustrophobic.

“To protect them from the winds. These lemon trees here, for instance, would never survive if they were exposed to the sirocco.”

She supposed she once knew that, along with the thousand other trivial details that made up daily life on this tiny island, but rediscovering them could wait. For now, sketching in the major figures that shaped her particular situation had to take precedence. “I can see I have a lot to relearn, so let’s get started.”

“D’accordo. Where shall I begin?”

“With your family, since they’re also now my family by marriage. Do they live here some of the time, as well?”

“Yes.”

“Are they here now?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t seen any sign of them.”

“They don’t actually live in my dammuso.”

“You’re what?”

“Dammuso,” he repeated, his grin gleaming in the dark. “Plural, dammusi. It’s an Arabic word loosely translated as house although more accurately meaning vaulted structure. The style and method of construction is the same for all residences on Pantelleria.”

Not quite, she thought. They might all be shaped like sugar cubes with arched openings and domed roofs, but most were a far cry from the elegant luxury that defined his and the others perched on this remote headland. “Then where do they live?”

“Here, we’re close neighbors. My sister lives next door, and my parents next door to her.”

“And when you’re not on the island?”

“Our home base is Milan where our corporate headquarters are located. But we’re not on top of each other there the way we are here. In the city, you and I have a penthouse, my parents also, but not in the same building, and my sister and her husband have a villa in the suburbs.”

“You have no brothers? Just the one sister?”

“That’s right.”

“Does she have children?”

“Yes, but it’s probably not a good idea to confuse you with too many names and numbers just yet.”

“Okay, then tell me about these corporate headquarters, which sound imposingly grand. Exactly what sort of corporation is it?”

“A family business going back over ninety years. Costanzo Industrie del Ricorso Internazionali. You might have heard of it.”

She frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“My great-grandfather started it in the early 1920s. After hearing about and reading of the misery and destruction during World War I, particularly of children left orphaned and homeless, he vowed he’d dedicate himself to creating a better, more beautiful world for those who’d been born into poverty. He began small here in Italy, buying abandoned land and creating parks in areas of our cities where before, rat-infested alleys were the only playgrounds.”

“Then you do know of at least one man who kept his word.”

“Sì.” He acknowledged her gentle dig with another smile. “Eventually, he expanded his idea to include holiday camps in the country for needy children, some of whom had never seen the sea or a lake. To subsidize their operation and make it possible for cash-strapped families to send their sons and daughters away for a few weeks every summer, he turned his entrepreneurial skills in a more lucrative direction, developing ski, golf and beach resorts, at first on his home turf, then in neighboring countries. A portion of the profits went toward setting up endowment funds for his charity work.”

“I wish I’d known him. He sounds like a very fine gentleman.”

“From all accounts, he was. When he died in the mid-1960s, CIR Internazionali was a household name in Italy. Today, it’s recognized worldwide and supports a variety of nonprofit organizations for underprivileged children.”

“And where do you fit in the corporate structure?”

“I’m senior vice-president to my father, the chairman and CEO. Specifically, I oversee our European and North American operations.”

“So I married an executive giant.”

“I suppose you did.” By then they’d come to a flight of stone steps that brought them back to the seaward side of the property. “Be careful. These are a little uneven in places,” he warned, taking her hand.

This time he didn’t release it at the first opportunity, but tucked it more firmly in his. Except for the glow of lamps inside the house and the lights illuminating the infinity pool, the scene was locked in dark blue moon shadows, creating a sense of such isolation that she instinctively tightened her fingers around his. “We might be the only two people left in the world,” she murmured.

He caught her other hand and drew her closer. So close that even though their bodies weren’t quite touching, such an electrifying awareness sprang up that she wouldn’t have been surprised to see blue sparks arcing between them. “Would it trouble you if, in fact, we were?”

“No,” she said, lifting her face to his. “I can think of no one else I’d rather be alone with.”

He did then what she’d been wanting him to do from the moment she set eyes on him that afternoon. He lowered his head and kissed her. Not on the cheek, as he had before, but on the mouth. Not coolly, as one person greeting another, but like a man possessed of a hunger he could barely keep in check.

She swayed under the impact. Closed her eyes, dazzled by sudden splendor. Felt his arms go around her and pin her hard against him.

His tongue slid between her lips and she tasted desire. His, hers, theirs, more intoxicating than champagne. And for as long as the kiss lasted, the emptiness that had gripped her from the moment of her arrival at the villa eased just a little.

Then it all slipped away. Lifting his head, he put her at arm’s length, his breathing as ragged as hers. “I think you’ve learned enough for one day,” he muttered.

“Not quite,” she whispered, the desolation he left behind striking through her heart like a darning needle. “I have one more question begging to be answered.”

“What is it?”

“If we can kiss like that, Dario, how is it we weren’t happily married?”

CHAPTER FOUR

PERUZZI would not be pleased. “Answer truthfully, but only as much as she asks for,” the good doctor had counseled. “Above all, don’t try to rush matters.”

In theory it had all sounded simple enough. In fact, applying the advice was as dicey as picking a path through a minefield. And kissing her, Dario realized, frustrated on more levels than he cared to number, ranked high on the list of rushing things, at least from his perspective. He was hard and aching and half-blind with hunger for a woman who wouldn’t have known him from Adam if she’d happened to pass him on the street. All of which most definitely left him in no shape to field another round of her astute questions.

Playing for time, he said, “What makes you think we weren’t happy?”

“You told me so, remember?”

Unfortunately he did, and wished he’d had the good sense to think before he spoke or, failing that, to keep his mouth shut altogether. A chunk of recent history might have gone missing from her memory, but the rest of Maeve’s brain was firing on all cylinders.

Despite not being able to see her clearly, the intensity of her gaze burned in the gloom. “Were we on the brink of divorce, Dario?” she persisted.

Were they? Only she knew the answer to that one. “No,” he said, sticking strictly to the facts. After all, no papers had been filed, no lawyers called in to divide the marital assets or mediate custodial rights.

“Then what was the problem?”

Racking his brains for a misleadingly truthful reply, he said, “All marriages go through rough patches once in a while.”

“But we’ve been married such a short time,” she mourned. “We should have been still on our honeymoon.”

Dannazione! Next, she’d be asking where they spent their honeymoon, and getting into the circumstances surrounding their wedding would certainly not meet with Peruzzi’s approval. “Don’t assume, because we might have hit a few bumps along the way, that our marriage was a failure,” he temporized. “For every disappointment there were a hundred joys, and for me, having you home again rates as one of the latter.”

“If you care that much, why did you never visit me in the hospital?”

Dio dare lui forza! Raising his eyes heavenward, he appealed for help. “I did visit you, Maeve. I sat by your bed day and night for weeks after the accident, praying that you’d live.”

“But then you stopped coming. Why?”

Because we have a son who was also hospitalized, and he needed me, too. “For a start, I’d had you transferred to a clinic outside Rome, one renowned for its success in treating brain injuries. But you didn’t know I was there, and since I was able to do nothing for you, I focused on what I could do.”

“Turned to work to distract you, you mean?”

“Yes,” he lied, because he knew the truth would be more than she was ready to hear.

“What about when I woke up from the coma?”

“I would have come to you immediately, but your doctors advised against it. You still had a long way to go before being discharged, and they didn’t want anything to interfere with your recovery.”

“Since when does seeing her husband impede a woman’s recovery?”

“When she doesn’t remember him?” he suggested drily.

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Yes, I suppose so.”

As much by good luck as good judgment, he’d steered the conversation into safer channels. Before she derailed it with another question he couldn’t or shouldn’t answer, he said, “Difficult though it might be, you have to slow down, Maeve. When last we spoke, Peruzzi warned me against letting you overdo it. If he were here now, I guarantee he’d be appalled that, after the kind of day you’ve put in, you’re not yet in bed.”

“But there’s still so much I don’t know!”

Ushering her inside the house, he said firmly, “And a hundred tomorrows in which to learn it. At this point, what you need above all else is to get some rest. The last thing either of us wants is for you to suffer a relapse.”

He’d found the magic word. “Heavens, no!” she exclaimed with a shudder. “That’s the one thing I couldn’t face.”

“Then I’ll say good-night.” Keeping a safe distance between them, he bent and brushed his mouth across her cheek. But even so chaste a benediction tempted him beyond bearing. The fabric of her dress whispered over her skin in invitation, reminding him of the smooth, creamy flesh it concealed. And the color, a purple as deep as midnight in the tropics, turned her beautiful eyes an iridescent amethyst.

Clinging to him suddenly, she said on a trembling breath, “I am going to remember us eventually, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“You have my word.” He disentangled himself and shooed her away. “Off you go now. Sleep well, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

With a last doe-eyed look, she went. Expelling a breath of relief, he strode to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff measure of grappa. The brandy seared his throat, but did nothing to ease the turmoil consuming him.

He hadn’t climbed to the top of the corporate ladder through indecision, but through sound judgment and an uncanny ability to read other men. He could sense weakness, detect lack of integrity before an opponent so much as opened his mouth. Yet she left him riddled with self-doubt.

Had she surrendered to his kiss because the desire that had run riot in him had taken her hostage, too, or because she saw pandering to his sexual appetite as a way to buy forgiveness for past transgressions? When she’d talked of abiding by her promises and he’d hinted at her duplicity, had her dismay been sincere or a disingenuous cover-up?

He had no answers. Not for her or himself.

That night she dreamed of home. Except it wasn’t home any longer. Someone else had moved into her apartment and she stood at her parents’ graveside, with all her worldly possessions stacked around her in various crates and traveling trunks. “I’m going away and never coming back,” she told her mother and father, “but you’ll always be with me in my heart.”

The leaves on the trees chattered in a gust of wind. “You can’t go. You belong here.”

“I must,” she protested, indicating a shadowy figure in the distance. “He needs me. I hear him…”

“No.” The branches swooped low, binding themselves around her. The leaves piled on top of her, smothering her, holding her captive.

She awoke, tangled in fine cotton sheets, her body bathed in sweat, the blood thundering in her ears. Sunlight flooded the room.

Desperately she tried to hold on to the dream, certain she’d been on the brink of a memory breakthrough. Closing her eyes, she fought to recall the image of that elusive background shape, but the clouds that had inhabited her mind for so long now, closed in again, blotting out the picture. Perhaps tonight or tomorrow…

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