Indiscretions (36 page)

The Palazzo di Montefiore was set like a jewel in the crown of a wooded hillside overlooking the sea, and India ached to paint its creamy stone-walled courtyards, its arches and fountains, the crumbling statues and the jasmine and trailing bougainvillaea that surged untamed over every surface. And if the outside of the palazzo was a gem, inside it was packed with treasures. No major ones—those had been sold long ago, and the spaces on the faded silk wall-hangings protested their removal. But there was a pair of large oil paintings in the dining room that, if she wasn’t mistaken, were by a minor Italian master, and there was some excellent furniture, particularly in the “French drawing room” in the east wing. The Montefiores would have to make the sacrifice, but they would be able to raise money.

India ordered another espresso and studied the plans she had spread out across the table. The palazzo was built around a central courtyard and the object was first to convert two of the wings, and then later, if the venture proved successful, a third, retaining the south wing for the family. She could see no structural problems in the conversion; the old building had the high-ceilinged spaciousness of a bygone era that would adapt beautifully. The only difficulty came in preserving the Montefiores’ privacy. She pored over the plans, trying to figure out the best place for the new entrance to the family apartments. Whichever way she went, it meant the driveway would have to be extended all the way around to the south side. That would cost a bit, but you couldn’t expect them to have to park at the front and then walk all the way around, could you? It would defeat the whole exercise, which was to keep them quite separate from their guests.

Aldo Montefiore spotted India at the table outside Ricarda’s as he drove by. Her head was bent over the papers in front of her, but he would have recognized that marvelous hair anywhere. Her pigtail swung across her shoulder and she wore a yellow flower tucked into the spiky curls over her ear. He swung the car around and pulled up beside her Fiat near the fountain.

“Signorina Haven?”

India looked in surprise into Aldo’s brown eyes, fringed with curling dark lashes.

“Oh, Aldo … Signore … Conte …” she said, confused by his sudden appearance.

He laughed. “Aldo will do, if I may call you India?”

“It’s a deal,” she countered, “if you’ll let me buy you a drink?”

“Shouldn’t I be buying you one?”

Her full mouth curved in the generous smile he remembered.

“Next time,” she promised, “it’ll be your turn.”

Aldo moved his eyes from her mouth and looked down at her plans. “Well, India, are we in business?”

“The Palazzo di Montefiore is so beautiful, I’m in love with it. When I walk through its rooms I imagine romantic young Montefiore counts riding off to conquer a neighboring princess.”

Aldo laughed. “You’re like my mother, too in love with it to want to take it from the seventeenth century and adapt it to modern life. But I’m afraid if we don’t, India, then it will just crumble and there will be nothing at all for this romantic Montefiore to leave his grandchildren.”

His grandchildren! India shifted her glance away from him, back to the plans.

“I manage to combine romance with practicality sometimes,” she said firmly, “and I think your palazzo will do the same.”

The romantic regrets were gone from her eyes and she looked suddenly businesslike and capable; it was a pity, thought Aldo.

“Shall we go through the rooms together later today?” he asked. “You can tell me all your plans.”

India leaned forward enthusiastically. “First we must discuss the furniture and the paintings. You know, Aldo, I think we should replace the antiques that must be sold with modern designs from Parolis. Fabrizio’s special touch is combining the old with the new. But I warn you, I mean to be drastic; we shall get rid of all those faded wallpapers and frayed old draperies. And the carpets are so worn they’ve lost all their beauty. We must carpet the upstairs corridors and put Paroli rugs on the bedroom floors. And of course each suite must have its own bathroom.”

“Suite?” He’d envisioned just hotel rooms.

“Yes—they must all be suites, some quite small, but still suites. We can partition some of the larger rooms to
make a small sitting room, but the larger ones will have their own proper sitting rooms and dining areas.”

Aldo listened amazed. He hadn’t really believed that India would be able to do the job—she was too young and too pretty. He’d thought she was just a movie star’s daughter, playing at working for a fashionable interior decorator, a busy, happy-go-lucky girl who’d left a deep impression on his memory so that he’d snatched at the opportunity of seeing her again when Fabrizio had suggested she come to Montefiore.

“India,” he began, “I hadn’t—”

“Don’t interrupt me yet, let me just tell you first …” Her eyes, as glossy and brown and darkly lashed as his, gleamed with excitement, as she continued to expand on her plans for his palazzo, and Aldo listened, enjoying her enthusiasm. After a couple of weeks spent in Marisa and Renata’s languid, predictable company she was like a breath of fresh air.

“It was such a
clever
idea, Aldo,” she finished. “The palazzo is exactly the kind of unique, out-of-the-way place that would appeal to the discerning tourist. It has the beauty and the charm of its age; all we need to do is add twentieth-century facilities and a little luxury. No, I amend that. A
lot
of luxury. Custom-made mattresses for those ancient four-posters, and we’re going to need considerable rewiring for the lighting plans I have in mind—good lighting should contribute to the ambience of the place as well as just allowing you to read the paper. Oh, and excellent linens, and the biggest towels you can find—Americans love those—and we’ll keep all those funny old baths with the brass taps, we’ll just have to get them refinished. Oh, truly, Aldo, it’s a
terrific
idea!”

“I wish I could take credit for it”—Aldo smiled—“but actually it was Marisa Paroli who thought of it.”

“Marisa?”

“When she was here with her cousin a couple of
months back, she said it was a shame to see the place crumbling and that as the one problem I didn’t have was servants, I’d be better off running it as a hotel. You see, the women in the village like to work at the palazzo; some of their families have worked for us for centuries. The idea grew on me as a way to help us all; it would provide employment for the villagers as well as benefiting my family.”

“I see,” replied India. So then it hadn’t been Fabrizio’s idea to send her here, it had been Marisa’s method of getting her out of the way!

“Well, then.” She gathered her papers together briskly. “That’s basically what I have in mind. If you have the time, we can go through everything in more detail this afternoon.”

Aldo wondered what he could have said to turn off her enthusiasm. They walked together toward their parked cars.

“I shall be back around four,” he said, “if that’s convenient for you.”

Damn, thought India, why did his eyes smile so nicely? Aldo wasn’t handsome in the way Fabrizio was, but close to her in his shirt-sleeves under the early summer sunshine, she felt the same attraction she had when she had met him at that party. India pulled herself together. She wasn’t going to be turned on by Aldo’s romantic brown eyes; she’d had enough of romantic Italians! “Fine. I’ll see you then.”

“Thanks for the drink.” He waved as she backed up her car. “I’ll see you at four.” He grinned as he watched her drive off. India Haven’s American energy would turn a few Montefiores in their graves, but this Montefiore was certainly going to enjoy it.

Marisa watched Fabrizio playing with the children. Five-year-old Giorgio, dressed in bright yellow pajamas and
his favorite cowboy boots, from which he refused to be parted until after he’d fallen asleep, clambered up the elaborate red tubular frame Fabrizio had designed for him and swung by his hands from the topmost rung. He had Marisa’s long slender face and Fabrizio’s blue eyes and a devilish sense of humor that made them both laugh. Fabiola at six was a chubby-cheeked feminine replica of Fabrizio, the same curling blond hair and Florentine nose, and a more solemn personality. Fabiola was a cuddler; if there was a lap free she’d climb onto it, if there was an arm doing nothing, she’d snuggle into it. She leaned against Fabrizio now, hugging his knees with her plump little arms. It was the perfect family scene, thought Marisa, and maybe the perfect moment to suggest her next move.

She still couldn’t decide whether it had been annoying or satisfying that Mario Tomasetti had found nothing incriminating in the movements of India and Fabrizio. He’d had them both followed for two weeks and had presented her with a typed report detailing their exact movements in every twenty-four-hour period. They had been in the office together but of course nothing could go on there, it was too busy, too many people coming and going. There had been no long intimate lunches together—in fact no lunches together at all, not even a drink or a cup of coffee. India seemed to live a very quiet life; she’d eaten alone most evenings in a trattoria near her apartment and then gone straight home. She hadn’t emerged again until the next day. Fabrizio had been out a good deal in the evenings, but that was quite usual—he often attended receptions and dinners without her when it was for business, and these were no exception. Most evenings he’d managed to get home to play with the children before they went to bed—just as he was now.

Marisa sighed in exasperation. She didn’t want to believe that her husband was unfaithful to her—especially
with India Haven—but since Renata had put the idea in her mind, and despite Tomasetti’s innocent report, she had a sneaking suspicion that he was unfaithful. That was why she had decided to suggest—more than suggest, to
state
—that it would be a good idea if Fabrizio offered India the job at the Palazzo di Montefiore. She had been quite surprised, though, when Fabrizio had agreed so readily to her suggestion; in fact, he had seemed almost happy about it. It was all very strange. India had been gone almost two months now. Surely if anything were going on Fabrizio would have made an excuse to visit the Palazzo di Montefiore? Yet, as far as she knew, there had been no contact other than a normal business one. Tomasetti’s men had Fabrizio under surveillance, but he still appeared to be the most faithful husband in Italy.

Well, it was time for the acid test. And if, as she suspected, there was anything between them, then it would be a coup de grâce for Miss Haven.

“Fabrizio,” she called over the delighted squeals of Fabiola, whom he was swinging high over his head, spinning around, “Fabrizio, she’ll be sick. Put her down. Please.”

Fabrizio sank to the floor, clutching Fabiola in his arms.

“Ohh,” he groaned, “you’re so heavy—look what you’ve done to your poor old papa. Oh, I can’t move.” He lay back, arms outstretched dramatically, while Fabiola sat on his chest, bouncing up and down, laughing.

“Fabrizio, I think it would be a good idea to take the children away this weekend, get them into the country for some fresh air now that the weather is so beautiful.”

“Good idea,” he agreed. “You’d like that, Fabiola, wouldn’t you?”

“Where?” demanded Fabiola, curling up in his arms. “Where are we going?”

“I thought we might go to the Montefiores’,” said
Marisa casually. “We could take Renata with us—you know she’s in love with Aldo and I’m sure he likes her. It would be a terribly good match for both of them … and isn’t it time you and India had a little meeting about the palazzo? Surely there must be lots of things to discuss?”

Fabrizio sat up abruptly, clutching Fabiola to him. “There’s really no need for me to go. I sent an architect up there three weeks ago. He confirmed that India’s ideas were workable and that her technical drawings were faultless. She has itemized all her ideas for the interiors to me and now she’s working on sketches to present to the Montefiores. India’s doing an excellent job without being bothered by having the boss around.”

“But after all,
cara
, the Montefiores are paying for Paroli, not India, aren’t they?” She glanced at him slyly. “I mean, there’s no reason why India should be upset to see her … “boss,” is there?”

“Of course not!” Fabrizio’s voice had a slight edge to it. “It’s just that she’s doing a good job without me.”

“Well, then, that’s settled. I’ll call Paola now and make arrangements.” Marisa headed purposefully for the phone in her bedroom. She was glad when Aldo answered the phone and said of course, he was more than pleased to have their company. He was sure India would, too. She was working so hard, a break would do her good.

“Oh, Aldo,” begged Marisa sweetly, “please don’t tell India that we’re coming—I’d like it to be a surprise.”

“A surprise? Of course, if you wish, Marisa.”

“Then we’ll see you Friday. Renata will be looking forward to it, Aldo.”

“We shall all look forward to it, Marisa,” said Aldo.

And that was that, thought Marisa, putting down the phone. She’d put little India to the test this weekend and she’d give the Aldo/Renata situation a little boost—it
was time some definitive progress was made there. Two birds with one stone, she thought happily. How clever.

Aldo tore himself away from the muddle of plans, papers, contracts, and bills on the walnut rolltop desk in his room—the same desk used by his great-great-grandfather, who had been one of the more successful Montefiore businessmen, amassing a sizable fortune from a newly industrial era. Unfortunately, his great-great-grandfather had not been as lucky with his children—two willful daughters and a son who had considered the family fortune a bottomless pocket for their wild ways. Enzo Montefiore, the son, whose portrait hung in a deliberately out-of-the-way part of the second-floor corridor, had made his name and reputation—and lost his money—in the cafés and music halls of a fin-de-siècle Paris, competing with British dukes and new American millionaires in the contest for the city’s loveliest courtesans. Mind you, thought Aldo, shrugging on a light linen jacket as he prepared for dinner, Enzo, like all the Montefiores, hadn’t done things by halves. His women were the most beautiful and fashionable courtesans in Paris and his extravagances had been monumental. Which was one of the reasons now why this hotel idea had to work. The entire remaining resources of the Montefiore family were committed to it. There would be no going back. The old place must pay for itself—or it must crumble into dust like its past inhabitants.