The Medici Lover. Anne Mather
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face flushed, Suzanne moved away from the door and took the chair he offered, crossing her legs and then uncrossing them again when she realised that by so doing she was exposing the smooth skin of her thigh. If Mazzaro noticed this small charade, he made no comment upon it, moving round his desk to take the chair opposite her. He seated himself slowly, setting the sticks aside, immediately assuming that air of command he had possessed at dinner the evening before.
For a few moments he seemed content to relax, his hands resting loosely over the arms of the chair. His hands were brown, and long-fingered, a jewelled signet ring on his left hand catching the light as it moved. Suzanne fixed her gaze no higher than his desk. As well as the mass of papers upon it, there was an onyx paperweight, and a gold inkstand, and a bronze statuette of a bull, which must surely be very old. Her hands itched to hold the statuette. The metal looked very smooth, burnished to a dull shine, cool to the touch. She wanted to hold it between her palms and feel the metal expand beneath the probing caress of her fingers …
‘Have you known my cousin long, Miss Hunt?’
Mazzaro’s question interrupted her train of thought, and her head came up jerkily. His eyes were narrowed as they watched her, cat-like between the thick short lashes. For a moment, she almost believed he had known what she was thinking and deliberately broken the thread.
‘Wh-what?’ she stammered. ‘Oh, no—no. Not long.’
‘How long?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. About two months, I suppose.’
‘Not long, as you say.’ He brought his elbow to rest on the arm of his chair, supporting his chin with the knuckles of one hand. ‘How well would you say you know Pietro?’
‘How well?’ Suzanne shifted awkwardly under his gaze. ‘As well as anyone knows anyone else after such a short space of time, I imagine.’
‘You think time is relative to how well one knows another person?’
‘Well—of course.’ Suzanne hesitated. ‘Don’t you?’
He did not answer, for at that moment there came a knock at the study door, and Suzanne looked round in relief. But at his command, it was Lucia who entered with the coffee he must have ordered earlier. There was only one cup, however, and in swift Italian he requested that she fetch another.
Suzanne was uncomfortably aware that Lucia had given her a swift appraisal as she came into the room, and no doubt she was speculating on the relationship between Pietro’s English friend and the lord of Castelfalcone.
While the old servant went to get a second cup, Mazzaro poured coffee for one, raising the cream jug in silent interrogation. But Suzanne mutely shook her head, adding two spoons of sugar when he pushed the cup towards her. She lifted the cup and saucer into her hands, stirring it vigorously, and then stopping herself from doing so when she found mocking green eyes upon her.
Lucia returned a few moments later, and Mazzaro thanked her warmly. ‘It was my pleasure, signore,’ she responded, with a knowing smile. ‘If there is anything else …’
‘We will let you know, Lucia. Thank you.’
Mazzaro inclined his head and Lucia made her departure, the smile still on her lips.
Suzanne looked down into her coffee cup. This was the moment she should ask him why he had put the rose on her tray, she thought fiercely. He must know he was giving Lucia a deliberately false impression of their association, and heaven knew what she might make of it. Summoning all her determination, she looked up and found his eyes upon her.
‘Signore—’ she was beginning, when he said abruptly: ‘I saw you admiring my statuette. Do you know anything about such objects, Miss Hunt?’
Suzanne’s momentary resolution fled. ‘It—it’s bronze, isn’t it?’ she ventured, and despised herself for her weakness. ‘Is it Italian?’
His smile was wry. ‘I am afraid not, Miss Hunt.’ He picked up the small statuette, and smoothed it between his fingers as she had wanted to do. ‘This little fellow was made in Egypt many, many centuries ago. It is bronze, as you say, but many of these antiquities were imported from Greece or North Africa. The Romans themselves, I regret to say, did not appear to have had an innate capacity for art. Nevertheless, they were sufficiently well educated to recognise and appreciate articles of artistic merit.’
Suzanne found herself leaning forward. ‘It—it must be very valuable,’ she murmured.
‘It is without price,’ he stated, without conceit. ‘To a collector like myself, such objects defy valuation.’ He extended his hand across the desk. ‘Would you like to examine it?’
Suzanne stared at him aghast. ‘But I—I’d be afraid—I might drop it!’
Mazzaro’s full lower lip curved almost sensuously. ‘I trust you not to do that,’ he remarked, gesturing with the bronze. ‘Go ahead. Take it.’
Once more his words were in the nature of a command, and setting down her cup and saucer, she took the statuette from his hand. The exchange was executed without their fingers touching, but the bronze was still warm from his flesh.
It was a solid little article, standing squarely on an inch-thick base, probably used to decorate some wealthy Egyptian’s home thousands of years before. The animal’s head was lowered slightly, as if ready to charge, its horns projecting wickedly.
‘Aren’t you afraid someone might steal it?’ she exclaimed, looking up at him, forcing herself to return his stare.
Mazzaro shrugged. ‘I should be sorry if he disappeared, naturally,’ he said. ‘But sometimes I wonder whether I am right to hold on to such an object. Why should I be permitted to possess something which is, in fact, no more mine than anyone else’s?’
‘But your family must have owned it—’
‘—for many years. Yes, I know,’ he agreed dryly. ‘But that does not alter the situation. No doubt my ancestors were no better than profiteers, taking advantage of those less knowledgeable than themselves.’
Suzanne looked down at the statuette, stroking the arc of its tail. ‘Not everyone appreciates such things.’
‘Are you defending my ancestors—or my honour, Miss Hunt?’
Suzanne moved her shoulders impatiently. ‘I’m sure that whatever you say, you would not like to think of him in the hands of some unfeeling dealer,’ she persisted. She looked up. ‘Would you?’
Mazzaro’s eyes shifted to her hands, moving lovingly over the heavy object. ‘It would seem that already my selfishness has been rewarded,’ he commented. ‘Will you be as sympathetic to everything that is mine, Miss Hunt?’
His words had a dual edge, and she leant forward quickly and replaced the small bull on his desk. She wished he would not say such things to her. She wished she was not affected by them as she was. Of what possible interest could her approval be to him?
‘Now what is wrong, Miss Hunt?’ he inquired, as her eyes sought the open spaces of the courtyard. ‘If it is of any consolation to you, the insurance company demands that I seal the gates electrically at night. Then we have installed an ultrasonic sound-wave transmitter. Any movement by an intruder distorts the waves coming to the receiver, and triggers an alarm system on the premises.’
Suzanne frowned. ‘A sort of—neonic beam?’
‘No. This is a more sophisticated system. Beams can be avoided. Sound-waves cannot.’
‘I see.’
Suzanne was impressed. All the same, she had opened her balcony doors the night before without experiencing any difficulty. Couldn’t an intruder enter that way? She shivered involuntarily. She would make sure she closed the doors in future.
‘You are frowning, Miss Hunt.’ Mazzaro reached for his sticks and got to his feet again, and Suzanne