The Medici Lover. Anne Mather
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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.’
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