Indiscretions (39 page)

Paris caught Marisa’s triumphant smile and turned quickly to look at India, who was pretending to eat her food. What was all that supposed to mean?

After lunch India toured the palazzo with Fabrizio and Aldo; they checked each room, detailing the changes that would be made. They inspected the brand-new hole in the grounds where the swimming pool was to be and went over the plans for the poolside patio/bar. All was in order.

“It will take time, of course,” commented Fabrizio as they returned to the house, “—at least six months before it’s complete. India will have to be here for quite a while longer.”

Aldo grinned at India. “That’s fine with me.”

India managed a polite smile. “If we’re finished,” she said, “I think I’ll go and find Paris.”

She found her playing on the lawn with the children, kicking a rubber ball around and laughing at their delighted faces. At least Paris seemed cheerful; she had been so afraid for her when she’d received that letter.

“Stan’s death was the final straw,” explained Paris as they strolled barefoot along the beach, “coming on top of everything else … I mean—well, there are some things I can’t tell you, India, but it just seemed as though everything I did was jinxed. Nothing has gone right since Jenny died.” Paris trailed her toe in the tip of a tiny wave. “If it weren’t for Didi, I don’t know what I would have done. And Alice. India, I don’t think I can ever be truly happy unless I achieve success. It’s more than just a creative urge—I
need
that other thing, the excitement of winning, of being
someone
. It’s what Jenny had. I understand her now more than I ever did before.
I have to make it
, India, I just have to.”

“Then if you need it that much, you will. Nothing will stop you, Paris. What happened was only a setback. One day you’ll do it. Stay here for a while, get your spirit back and your energy—and you’ll be ready for another try.”

Paris linked her arm through her sister’s. “What about you? I like your Aldo, he’s sensitive and aware—and he doesn’t take any nonsense from that silly woman Marisa.”

“I guess Aldo’s going to marry Renata.” India shrugged, doing her best to keep it casual. “You saw what happened at lunch.”

“Then if he is, it won’t be for her money. He’s not the type, India. Why would he sell the family treasures to finance his hotel scheme? Surely he could have waited and used her money?”

It was true, he could have done the whole thing on
Renata’s money. He needn’t have sold possessions that obviously meant such a lot to his mother.

“I noticed it was you he greeted first,” said Paris, “your hand he held onto, and he treated Renata and Marisa exactly the same, friendly but not intimate.”

“Perhaps he’s saving that until after they are married.”

“India, for God’s sake! The man said he was planning marriage and Marisa obviously thought it was to Renata.
I
think it’s
you
. Aldo is too much of a man to be manipulated by the Marisas of this world, and he seems to me a man of his own opinions and actions. Are you going to disappear into the background and leave him to a Renata? Whatever happened to the old fighting India Haven spirit?”

“But what should I do? I mean, I can’t just ask him, can I?”

“Tell me the truth. Are you in love with Aldo? If he asked you to marry him, would you?”

India was silenced by her sister’s logic. Would she marry him? Yes, like a shot. She knew it. But wouldn’t she have married Fabrizio in the beginning too—if he had been free? Yes, she would, but it hadn’t worked out and life had moved on. Her affair with him had nothing to do with her feelings now for Aldo.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I’d marry him. But he hasn’t asked me.”

“I bet he hasn’t asked Renata either. You know what Jenny would say, don’t you, India? There’s only one way to find out.”

“Ask him,” breathed India.

“Damn right. Jenny wouldn’t have waited around for any man. Get on with it or get rid of it, she would have said. If he’s not interested in marrying you, then call it a day—forget him. And if he is? India, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

India hitched up her skirt and dashed into the waves, laughing as she jumped them.

“I do love you, Paris,” she called. “You’ve made it all seem so simple.”

Paris decided that India should look sophisticated at dinner and nothing India had brought with her would do.

“Do you realize your competition down there?” asked Paris, shifting a complaining Alice from the top of her open suitcase and rummaging through it. “Now, how about this?”

India inspected the little pale gray lace dress. “It’s way too long and, anyway, I look awful in gray.”

“Not when I’ve finished with you.” Paris spread the dress across the bed, checking the seams. “I made this for Naomi to wear, so it’s bigger than my usual things; it’s a more traditional dress, the kind that always sells.”

“You mean to persons like me who aren’t born models?”

Paris laughed. “Exactly. If I unpick this here and cut the neck lower and then chop about six inches from the hem—maybe more, it should be quite short, just touching the knee to get the proportions right … hand me the scissors.”

Paris’s sure hands swathed through the lace.

“You’ll never get it done in time,” India protested.

Paris grinned confidently. “This is nothing,” she said. “I’ll have it ready in one hour. Go take a shower—and don’t bother with your makeup. I’m doing it for you.”

Paris was as good as her word. In forty-five minutes she had expanded the bodice with panels of lace taken from the hem, shortened the skirt by cutting around the scalloped pattern of the lace, and hastily tacked up the silk taffeta underskirt.

She sat India down in front of the dressing table, took out her makeup box, and went to work. In ten minutes
she had transformed India from a pretty girl into an exotic one. And when Paris eased the dress over India’s head and zipped her up, tying the gray taffeta sash in a bow at the back, India realized just how clever her sister had been. The dress fitted closely, emphasizing her tiny waist and full breasts, the neckline was low, and the sleeves just a tiny ruffle of lace—it was the perfect dress for the formal dinner planned for that night. And for asking a man if he wanted to marry you!

India was suddenly aware of the passing of time. “Paris, you’ve only got twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be ready in fifteen,” called Paris, heading for the shower.

The Contessa and Aldo were waiting in the grand salon for their guests when they came downstairs. Paris noticed the way Aldo’s face lit up when he saw India, and thought that at least one of the dresses from her collection had been worthwhile.

Marisa, sweeping into the room behind them, eyed them in astonishment. Paris, in a severe white satin dinner jacket and black skirt, was superb—Marisa felt overdressed in the Valentino blue organza with the full skirt, and she’d thought it so charmingly feminine when she’d bought it. Damn. And just look at India! Damn, thought Marisa, damn. She wasn’t used to being upstaged.

The son of Ricardi from the bar in the village, who was being trained as head waiter for the hotel, handed around glasses of champagne. Marisa watched carefully as Fabrizio talked with Paris and India … no, she had been quite wrong, there was nothing going on. His smile was easy, and hers was innocent. It was more of a relief than she had thought.

The children appeared in their nightclothes with their nurse and were pampered with a tiny taste of champagne and a chocolate before being carried off to bed by Aldo and Fabrizio.

Conversation at dinner was light and easy, with none of the odd pauses of lunchtime. Even Marisa seemed to be behaving, and Aldo, seated between India and Renata this time, was being equally attentive to both.

Afterward they had coffee in the salon. The night was warm and still, and the long windows stood open to catch some air. They wandered out onto the lawns, admiring the full moon that spread itself over the calm sea. Renata, sliding her arm through Aldo’s, waited for him to say something. Surely if he wanted to marry her, this was the perfect night to ask.

“Where are you planning to be this summer?” he asked instead. “Sardinia or the south of France?”

“I don’t really know.” Renata was startled; it wasn’t quite what she’d expected him to say. “The de Bohans have asked me to stay at their villa in Antibes, but I haven’t decided yet.”

“You should go, Renata, you’d enjoy it.”

“Yes. Well, perhaps I may.” Renata was subdued. “What about you, Aldo?”

“I? I’m afraid I won’t be taking holidays for a long time, not until I get this place on its feet. Hopefully I’ll be helping other people enjoy their holidays instead. Look, India and Paris are going down to the beach. Shall we join them?”

“No,” said Renata abruptly. “I’m feeling rather tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”

“Good night, then, Renata. Sleep well.” Aldo kissed her gently, watching as she joined Marisa and his mother on the terrace.

He caught up with Paris and India by the steps that led down to the beach.

“I’ve come to gaze at the moon with you,” he called. “Renata’s gone to bed, she felt tired.”

Paris yawned extravagantly. “I’m afraid it’s been a
long day for me. If you don’t mind I think I’ll turn in too.”

Aldo took India’s hand and helped her down the stone steps.

“It seems you and I are the only true romantics who long to see the moon’s path on the water,” he said.

“It seems so.”

He put his arm around India’s shoulders as they walked along the firm sand by the water. “India, I haven’t seen you alone all day. I’ve missed you.”

“Have you?”

“Haven’t you missed me?”

India didn’t answer, and he looked at her in surprise. “No, or yes?”

India took a deep breath and said it. “Aldo, are you going to marry Renata?”

“Why are you asking me such a question?” Aldo stared at her dumbfounded.

“I want you to tell me the truth. Are you?”

In the moonlight Aldo’s eyes were dark. It was impossible to read what he was thinking. “Has Renata suggested that we might be going to marry?”

“Well, no …”

“Then it’s Marisa! India, why would I be here with you? Why would I have spent these past weeks with you if I were in love with Renata?”

“Marisa didn’t say you were in
love
exactly. I mean, well, Renata has a lot of money and you need it for the estate.”

“Jesus Christ, India,” said Aldo furiously, “what sort of man do you think I am? Do you really think that I’d marry Renata, marry
any
woman, for her money? Why did you listen to that damned stupid woman, Marisa?” He shook India furiously. “You
believed
her!”

His anger was impressive and India stared back at him in dismay. “I didn’t know what to think … perhaps
you might just have been flirting … maybe I was just a little ‘affaire’ for you.”

Aldo was shocked. “How could you think that? Let me tell you something, India.
No
Montefiore has
ever
married for money. We are a family of lovers, not financiers.”

India listened, awed, as Aldo’s anger gathered momentum. “I had not thought, India, that you could be so stupid as to believe a woman like Marisa Paroli.”

“I didn’t want to believe it. I really wanted to believe that you were falling in love with me.”

Aldo grabbed her again by the shoulders. “Of course I was falling in love with you. I’ve been falling in love with you ever since you spilled champagne on my jacket, but you’ve been keeping me at arm’s length. Come here.” He pulled her closer, tightening his arms around her. “You crazy girl,” he murmured between kisses, “of course I’m in love with you.”

India felt all her good resolutions melting along with his kisses. She ran her hands through his shaggy hair, holding him closer.

“Oh, Aldo. I love you, too, but I can’t be your mistress.”

“Mistress? Good God, India, I’m not asking you to be my mistress, I’m asking you to marry me.”

They stared at each other in the moonlight.

“Marry you?” asked India in astonishment. “But why?”

“Why? A thousand reasons. Which one do you want to hear? That I can’t run this hotel without you? You bossy American woman!”

India threw back her head and laughed. “That’s a sensible reason. I’m not sure Jenny would approve of it, but it’s sensible.”

“Then I’m sure she’d approve of the other reasons. I can’t live without you, India Haven. You bring joy to my
life. I want to love you forever, to have children with you, to grow old with you. Please say you’ll marry me.”

It was as romantic as one of Jenny Haven’s movies, thought India; the lighting man had got the angle of the moon just right, the sound man had provided the soft, rhythmic background of the waves on the shore, and she knew her lines perfectly.

“Yes. Oh, yes, Aldo,” she said, “I want to marry you too.”

As her lips met his she knew Jenny would have approved the ending … 
fade out over lovers, camera pans onto moonlit sea and the surging waves
. Only, this was better than Hollywood.

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