CHAPTER THREE

      JOANNE wandered outside. The fierce heat of the day had subsided and a soft breeze had sprung up. At such times life at Isola Magia had always been at its most relaxed and contented, but now she could feel the growing tension. Even so, the beauty of the land struck her afresh.

      Here was the terrace and the exact same place where Franco had nearly kissed her on that fateful night. Geraniums still hung from above, trailing in gorgeous purple majesty. A glance showed Joanne that it was the same plant that had flowered faithfully year after year, always putting forth the same beauty while life and death passed underneath.

      There was the apple tree just under the window of the guest bedroom. Joanne had seen Franco stand beneath that tree on the night before his wedding, looking up at Rosemary’s window. His bride had come to the window and gazed down at him with her heart in her eyes, and neither had moved for a long time. Joanne had crept away, feeling that it was sacrilege to watch.

      She tried not to be self-conscious at the glances she received, wondering whether people were staring at her face or the unflattering dress. It was a relief when Franco and Nico emerged from the house and indicated for everyone to gather around the table.

      Nico slipped his hand into Joanne’s. ‘Can I call you Zia?’ he asked shyly, using the Italian word for ‘Aunt’. ‘I’d love that,’ Joanne said. ‘Will you show me where to sit?’

      He led her to the table, and introduced her to everyone as ‘Zia Joanne’. Umberto, the foreman, was there, with his wife and three children. The family greeted her politely, but with the look of awe that she was beginning to recognize. Franco sat at the head of the table, and Nico placed her between his father and himself. Franco poured her a glass of wine. His manner was attentive, but his eyes didn’t meet hers.

      As he’d said, Celia had whipped up a banquet in an amazingly short time, black olive pâté, spinach and ricotta gnocchi, and a delicious dish made of white truffles, the local speciality. It was washed down with the local wine.

      Elise, Umberto’s wife, had worked in the vineyards when Joanne had been there eight years ago, and remembered her. She questioned her politely, and Joanne talked about her career and her work in Vito’s house. Franco spoke to her courteously, but she had the feeling it was an effort. Nico said little, but sometimes she turned and caught him smiling at her.

      It was like floating in a dream. Everything that was happening was unreal. She knew every inch of this place, yet it was as though she’d never been here before. She knew Franco, yet he was a stranger who wouldn’t meet her eyes.

      But then she looked up and found that he’d been watching her while she was unaware. And there was something in his eyes that wasn’t cold and bleak. There was despair and misery, reproach and dread; but also anger. For a moment his iron control had slipped and she saw that Franco Farelli was possessed by a towering, bitter rage.

      Rage at what? At fate that had taken the woman he loved? At herself, for coming here and stirring up his memories?

      She felt suddenly giddy. Heat rose in her, and she was transported back years to the last time she’d sat at this table, trying to hide her feelings for a man who didn’t love her. There was a roaring in her ears and she felt as though the world were spinning.

      Then it all stopped. Everything was back in its right place. Franco was talking to someone else. It might all never have happened.

      But the soft pounding of her blood told her that it had happened. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed. He was no longer the fierce stranger he wanted her to think, but a man at the limit of his endurance.

      At last Umberto and his family departed. The sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving only a crimson lining on the clouds, and that too was fading.

      Celia appeared bearing a small tray with a bottle of prosecco, a very light, dry white wine, that was almost a soft drink. Italians drank it constantly, and Joanne even recalled being offered a glass as she had waited to be served in a butcher’s shop.

      Celia placed the bottle and glasses on the table, and added a little plate of biscuits that she set close to Joanne with an air of suppressed triumph. While Franco poured the wine she tasted one of the tiny biscuits, then checked herself.

      ‘Is something the matter?’ he asked.

      ‘I’m sorry, I can’t eat these. I’m allergic to almonds, and I’m sure I can taste them.’

      Franco took a biscuit, tasted it, and frowned as he studied the sugar coating. To Joanne’s astonishment his face grew dark with anger.

      ‘Celia!’

      The old woman came hurrying back. Franco asked her a question in Piedmontese, and Celia answered with a look of puzzled innocence. The next moment she backed away from his blast of cold fury, and hurried to snatch the biscuits from the table.

      ‘What happened?’ Joanne asked.

      ‘It’s nothing,’ he said curtly.

      ‘But you mustn’t be angry with poor Celia just because I didn’t like the food.’

      ‘It wasn’t that. Leave it.’

      For the moment they’d both forgotten Nico, watching them with eyes that saw too much for a child. He moved closer to Joanne and whispered, ‘They were Mama’s favourite.’

      Franco winced. ‘Yes. I don’t know what Celia was thinking of. They haven’t been served in this house since—for over a year.’

      ‘She must have thought that, since I’m Rosemary’s cousin, I might like the same things,’ Joanne said calmly, although she was feeling far from calm. She suspected what Celia was really thinking, and it was something far more eerie.

      Franco seemed to pull himself together. ‘Doubtless she thought that,’ he agreed. He was very pale. ‘Nico, it’s time for bed.’

      But at once the child squeezed closer to Joanne, smiling up into her eyes. Instinctively, she opened her arms to him, and he scrambled onto her lap.

      ‘Let him stay,’ she begged Franco.