Tall, Dark and Italian. Carol Marinelli
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for company, Tess didn’t spend long in the shower. Towelling herself dry, she contented herself with running a comb through her hair before dressing in a lemon chemise top and a green and blue Indian cotton skirt. Canvas boots completed her outfit and, after viewing herself without enthusiasm in the mirror of the carved ar-moire where Ashley kept her clothes, Tess left the apartment.
The morning passed, thankfully without incident. The only visitor she had who wasn’t a would-be customer was Silvio and he seemed to find nothing amiss with her appearance.
‘Cara,’ he exclaimed, his use of the familiar endearment reminding her painfully of Castelli, ‘how are you today? You are feeling better, spero?’
‘Better?’ Tess frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Mas, ieri,’ said Silvio, wide eyed. ‘Yesterday. You close the gallery early, no? Naturalmente, I think you are not well’
‘Oh.’ Tess felt her face heat. ‘Um—yes. I did close early. You’re right. But—’ she couldn’t tell an outright lie ‘—it wasn’t because I was ill.’
‘No?’ Silvio gave her an inquiring look and she knew she had to elaborate.
‘No.’ She paused. ‘I—it was such a lovely day, I decided to—to take a little time off.’
‘Ah.’ Silvio regarded her with narrowed eyes. ‘And you enjoyed this—this time off?’
No.
‘Very much,’ she said, deciding one white lie was in order. And then, to distract him, ‘Isn’t it hot today? I’ve got the fan going but it just seems to be moving the air around.’
‘It is warm air,’ he pointed out drily, and she wondered if he was entirely satisfied with her reply. ‘So, do you have any plans for lunch?’
‘Lunch?’ Tess had the feeling she would never want to eat lunch again. ‘Oh—no.’ Then, realising what was coming next, ‘I’m too busy to think about lunch. Taking time off is all very well, but it just means the work piles up in your absence.’
Silvio glanced about him at the empty gallery. ‘It does not seem so busy to me.’
‘Oh, it’s paperwork,’ said Tess, realising she was having to lie again. ‘Honestly, you’d be surprised at the number of enquiries Ashley gets about this or that artist. And then there are the bills…’
‘In other words you do not wish to have lunch with me,’ remarked Silvio flatly. ‘You do not have to—if you will forgive the pun—draw me a picture, Tess. It is obvious some other man has—what do you say?—beaten me to it, no? Who is he, eh? Do I know him?’
‘No!’ Tess spoke impulsively and then, realising her words could easily be misconstrued, she hastily amended her answer. ‘That is, there is no other man, Silvio. Um—not here, anyway,’ she added, her face burning with embarrassment. ‘I just can’t keep taking time off, that’s all. It wouldn’t be fair to—to Signor Scottolino.’
Silvio shrugged. ‘As you say.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Si. Anch’io, cara.’ Me, too. He gave her a small, strangely knowing smile. ‘Do not work too hard, ragazza. All work and no play is not good, no? Ciao!’
Tess breathed a sigh of relief as he disappeared through the open doorway and, deciding she’d earned a strong cup of black coffee, she went to put water into the pot. But she couldn’t help wondering if Silvio’s visit had been as innocent as he’d pretended. Could he possibly have seen her leaving with Castelli the day before?
Of course he could, but if he had there was nothing she could do about it now. And, besides, she had a perfectly legitimate excuse for the outing if she was asked. But she wouldn’t be. Silvio had said his piece and no one else was interested. Except Maria and her husband, she amended. And they knew nothing about what had happened after she and Castelli had left the albergo.
Thank goodness!
By midday Tess was feeling a little more relaxed. Her fears that Castelli might decide to pay her another unexpected visit had not been realised, and, with her stomach reminding her that she’d not had any breakfast that morning, she decided to slip out to the bakery to buy a sandwich for her lunch.
She’d only closed the gallery for a few minutes. The bakery wasn’t far. But when she came hurrying back along the parade of shops she saw a woman trying the door with obvious impatience. With the blinds pulled up, it appeared that the gallery was open, and Tess thought it was just her luck that a customer had arrived in the short time she’d been away.
‘Mi scusi,’ she called, reaching the woman just as she was turning away. The woman turned back and Tess saw she was older than she’d thought. ‘Eccomi, signora. Posso aiutare?’ Can I help you?
Dark brows arched aristocratically over equally dark eyes. The woman was tall and exquisitely dressed in a taupe silk suit and high heels. Because of her height, she towered over Tess, her whole manner one of undisguised condescension.
Yet for all that, there was something familiar about her. Tess knew she’d never seen the woman before but the annoying sense of familiarity remained. Tess had barely registered the fact that she reminded her of Maria Castelli when the woman spoke, and her words gave substance to the thought.
‘Miss Daniels, e?’ she inquired coldly, looking down her long nose at Tess in a manner intended to intimidate. ‘Ah, si. You recognise the name. Let us go inside, Miss Daniels. I desire to speak to you.’
‘All right.’ Tess was too taken aback by this turn of events to offer any resistance and she unlocked the door and allowed the older woman to precede her into the gallery. Then, gathering herself, she said, a little less submissively, ‘Do we know one another, signora?’
The woman didn’t immediately proffer a reply. Instead, she stood in the centre of the floor surveying the paintings that lined the walls with evident dislike. They were not all good paintings, Tess acknowledged, but some of them weren’t at all bad. They didn’t deserve the contempt with which they were being regarded. Her visitor was acting as if they were little better than trash.
Or perhaps she’d got it wrong, she mused suddenly. Perhaps it was she whom the woman considered to be trash. That would fit if she was some relation of Maria Castelli—or rather Maria Sholti. And despite the relief she’d felt at Castelli’s non-appearance, now she felt a growing sense of resentment that he should have sent this woman in his place.
The woman swung round at last. ‘I know of you, Miss Daniels,’ she said, and Tess had to remind herself of what she’d asked moments before. ‘My son has spoken of you to me. I am Lucia di Castelli.’ She said the name arrogantly. ‘The boy your sister has corrupted is my grandson.’
Tess caught her breath. So this was Castelli’s mother. She should have guessed. The similarity wasn’t totally confined to his daughter.
But Castelli wasn’t going to help her now and, holding up her head, she said stiffly, ‘We don’t know that Ashley has done anything of the kind.’
‘Oh, I think we do, signorina.’ Lucia was scornful. ‘I cannot think of any other reason why a woman approaching thirty should encourage the attentions of an impressionable child, can you?’
‘Marco’s hardly a child,’ protested Tess indignantly. ‘In England, boys of sixteen can be quite—mature.’
‘And there you have it, Miss Daniels.’ Lucia’s lips curled. ‘As you say, in England things are very different indeed. Young single women think nothing of having a child—children—with several different partners. Marriage is considered an outdated institution and the church’s teachings are ignored. That is not how things are done in Italy, Miss Daniels. Here we respect our institutions, we respect our elders. And we expect visitors to our country to do