Loving Venus (Sally-Ann Jones Sexy Romance) (11 page)

     Ignoring his protests, she dragged him down the hallway and into the kitchen, where Tomasina was sitting in a rocking chair by the fire and Umberto at the table, drinking an espresso.

     “Signor de Rocco looks ill,
dottore.
You fix him,
no?”

    
He’s already fixed me, good and proper, Alessandro thought somberly. But generations of good breeding didn’t desert him and he greeted Tomasina and the doctor graciously before allowing himself to be sat at the table and poured a coffee.

     “I am actually very well,” he said, realizing that the sisters and even the young doctor were genuinely concerned for him. “Perhaps a little tired. I haven
’t slept well recently and I galloped here from the stables. “

     The relief on the three faces who were looking at him was palpable and he felt heartened enough to go on. “I actually wanted to buy some paints from you, Tomasina. I
’d like to try my hand at being an artist. You know I studied art in Florence. Well, now that I … no longer have the estate, I feel I need some employment.”

     He was amazed that the doctor’s face did not register embarrassment at this point. Did he not feel any qualms about taking over a property that had been in the same noble family for generations?

     Tomasina grinned. “You know,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “Your great-grandfather often said to me, one day, Tomasina, my boy will discover his true vocation. I know it. Maybe not in my lifetime or yours, but one day.”

     Tonia was nodding her agreement. “Yes! He said it to me too. He knew it, Alessandro. You will be a great artist.”

     Alessandro laughed despite the shock he’d received at the doctor’s words. “Thank you for your confidence in my ability. I certainly don’t feel it. But, maybe he knew me better than I know myself. If nothing else, painting will pass the time until I decide what to do with the rest of my life. After all, I wouldn’t feel comfortable living in the cottage when my second cousin marries.”

     “When she marries?” asked the sisters in unison.

     He was too distracted to wonder at their surprise.

     “Yes. She will, you know,” he answered.

     “Nothing’s surer,” agreed the doctor.

     “No,” he replied grimly . “Nothing’s surer. So, I will try to earn my living somehow. Which is why I am here, Tomasina. Would you mind selling me some art supplies?”

     “It would be my very great pleasure,” she beamed. “Would you be so kind as to help me out of this chair?”

     Alessandro did so and took her arm as he walked her slowly to a small room off the kitchen, where the merchandise was spread out in a haphazard way on coffee tables, against walls, scattered across couches and chairs. “Help yourself,” she said, “And I will tally it all up at the end.”

     Alessandro couldn’t help but feel excited as he gathered together everything he’d need. And the fact that the old man had believed he would be a painter had lit a fire in his belly. He would prove his great-grandfather was right. Maybe the de Roccos had lost Casa dei Fiori, but their name would live on. He would make sure it did!

                           CHAPTER EIGHT

Alessandro rode back to the cottage with his precious cargo, deposited it carefully on the kitchen table and cantered the old horse back to the stable, thankfully not having glimpsed either his second cousin nor Carlo in the fields. He doubted he could have stomached another dose of her with the virile workman in one day. He unsaddled the mare, rubbed her down gently then took off her bridle and let her amble into the stable yard where she had a long drink and sank into the grass to roll. Having topped up her water and chaff containers, he strode down to the cottage, eager to begin.

     He set up his easel in the one room that was empty. The little dwelling held only a few basic rooms – kitchen, bedroom and the one he would now call his study. The toilet was, with the basic bathroom and laundry, out of doors and thankfully out of view of the road. The study was cramped and dusty like the rest of the house. But it had a big, curtainless window and a pleasant airiness thanks to having pale walls and an uncovered shiny wooden floor. He prepared a big rectangular canvas that measured about five feet across by four down. On this, he would capture forever the way his second cousin had looked the previous night, when she sat naked on the table, lips slightly parted as she dreamt of her lover. At least, that was what he was sure she
’d been doing. She’d be a modern Venus, even more seductive than the odalisque he’d so long admired in Florence.

     Never had Alessandro felt so sure of himself, so in control of his destiny. His second cousin was the most beautiful woman in the whole of Italy, he was sure, but she was unattainable. Alessandro knew she wanted him, but then, she was attracted to anything in trousers. He wanted her too, but it would be as dangerous for him as meddling with cocaine to become involved with her. She owned everything he loved. He
’d never let her have his heart and soul as well.

     He appreciated every angle, plane and curve of her sumptuous body. He could have spent hours simply drinking in the perfection of her face. He never tired of the infinite reds, golds, coppers, blondes and even crimsons that comprised her fabulous hair. Her physical appearance was flawless but, at heart, she was a common little Australian. Her noble Italian blood had been diluted away by convicts and wheat farmers. He wanted his picture to celebrate her beauty and to show, somehow, that despite her appearance, she was an ordinary woman with all the appetite and greed that a girl bred on a farm in the Antipodes was sure to have.

     What a challenge he set himself! And he’d show his great-grandfather that he could meet it. It was with almost Epicurean delight that he mixed the velvety oil paints he’d need. They were almost the texture of her creamy flesh – except that they were cold while she was warm-blooded. He didn’t allow himself to image the touch of her warm skin. Even the squirrel-hair brushes he’d selected reminded him of her. Her hair was fine, he remembered only too well from that long-ago summer. Fine and soft as spun gold.

     He stored, deep inside his brain, the image of her sitting on the table in the moonlight. It was locked there, never to be erased. Even now, he could see her exactly as she was. It was as if a life-size, warm, breathing photograph had been etched into every one of his cells. Effortlessly, he could recall every pore of her. He even knew how her lips, translucent with miniscule drops of
vin santo,
tasted.

     As if in a dream, his right hand daubed the first colour onto the canvas and he almost moaned aloud with the relief of allowing his emotions free rein. He wanted her so, so much. And, on canvas, she could not hurt him.

Annabella stood under the ilex trees with Carlo at the end of their day’s work. Around them, lay a well-tended vineyard. There was hardly a
leaf out of place, the soil had been tilled and aerated, dead wood cut away, new shoots supported on the solid trellises. She could have sworn the grapes had swelled and coloured in just the few short hours they’d spent working here.

     “It looks so much better, Carlo, thank you,” she smiled, gratefully taking the flask of water he handed her and pouring some into her dry mouth.

     “It’s a good feeling, to help the vines,
no
?” he asked. “Some of these grapes, you know, are for making wine. Others are for eating. We call them salamanders, a funny name, eh? They’ll be ready soon, I think.”

     “Salamanders,” she repeated, remembering that summer long ago, when she was a girl.

      “Come and see my salamander,” Alessandro had said. “It’s in my room, in an aquarium.”

      Eagerly, she had followed him up the stairs, not knowing what a salamander was. She was amazed when he led her to a dark corner of the room and to a low table, on which sat a glass tank. Peering inside, she was amazed to see a pinkish creature which resembled a lizard as well as a fish.

     “This is yours?” she asked, incredulous. “It’s not the sort of thing I thought you’d like.”

     “Actually, I’m minding it until …” he began, then abruptly stopped.

     “Until?” she prompted.

     It was the first time she had seen him discomposed. He actually stuttered as he answered, “Um … until … I see the friend who it belongs to.”

     Even as a child, Annabella knew better than to pursue the subject and changed it to something she knew would cheer him up – his plans for university at the end of the summer.

     Years later, she still was intrigued by his confusion over the salamander. Would she ever find out whose it was? And why had he been so secretive? Was this secret part of the reason why Alessandro was so hostile towards her now?

     She sighed and stretched her shapely arms high above her head to relieve the tension in her back. Carlo whistled appreciatively and she quickly dropped them down by her sides, blushing.

     “I’d better go,” she said quickly. “The doctor
’s coming over for dinner tonight and I must have a shower and prepare a meal. Will I see you tomorrow, Carlo?”

     “
Si
,” he assented. “We’ll fix the walls, perhaps. I must go too. My fiancée is waiting for me. She wants to show me her dress for the ball on Saturday night.”

     Annabella’s ears pricked. She
’d always loved dancing but something about Tuscany made her want to be held tightly in a man’s loving arms and to sway gently to romantic music. Before leaving Australia, she’d enjoyed nothing more than the monthly discos in the town hall, when a group of local lads who had formed an indifferent but very noisy band played their own special brand of pop music. She, with Sassy and their friends would dress in their cleanest jeans and shirts and cavort all night and well into the next morning. But in Italy, she wanted sweet, tuneful music that tugged the heartstrings.

     “Where
’s the ball going to be held, Carlo?” she asked.

     “In the village. We have a tradition in Fortezza Rosa. Instead of celebrating a successful harvest when the grapes are safely picked, we believe in being optimistic so we have a party before we start the
vendemmia,
the harvest
.
That way, we have fun, whatever happens. We have had some bad years lately, as you know.”

     She nodded and added wistfully, “I wish I had someone to take to the ball.”

     “Here is someone,” laughed Carlo, pointing to the man who was approaching them on foot.

     It was Umberto. “I heard you mention the ball,” he said to them both. “I was going to ask you, Annabella, if you
’d like to go to it with me? “

     She smiled gratefully. She
’d hate to be alone at Casa dei Fiori on a Saturday night when everyone who lived in the vicinity was kicking up his or her heels in the village square. She was sure her second cousin would be there with Claudia Silvestro, although their neighbour didn’t yet appear to be back from Siena. “I’d love to go with you. Thank you,” she replied.

“I’m sorry you’ve found me like this, Umberto. I wanted to be bathed and changed before you came.”

     “It’s all right. I’m a little early. I wanted to talk to you about something. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll happily wait under the fig tree outside while you ready yourself.”

     Annabella was washed and dressed in less than fifteen minutes, much to the doctor’s amazement. He
’d never met a woman less affected by her beauty, less bedazzled by make-up, clothes and jewellery. She was enchanting, just like her friend.

     “I suppose it
’s Sassy you want to discuss,” Annabella laughed, pouring them each a glass of cool wine.

     “Naturally,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.

“What am I going to wear tonight, Tonia?” Annabella asked. She, the housekeeper and Tomasina were in Tomasina’s kitchen, sipping
espresso
coffee and nibbling the delicious almond
biscotti
that everyone in this part of Italy seemed to be expert at baking. She worked all morning in the fields with Carlo and, at lunchtime, both decided they’d take the rest of the day off to be fresh for the evening of dancing and feasting. But Annabella had been too excited to spend the afternoon relaxing in Casa dei Fiori and, instead, had walked down to the village with Carlo, laughing at his amusing anecdotes about his big family of brothers.

     She didn
’t know that as she passed the cottage where Alessandro was painting, he heard her bright peal of laughter and, looking up from his canvas, caught sight of her radiant face.

     His hand was trembling slightly when he turned back to his work.

Tonia sipped thoughtfully then said, “I know just the thing, Bella. I just hope it
’s not ruined by the moths or the damp. It’s in a trunk somewhere in the villa, I think, although I haven’t looked there for many years. It was worn only once, by your grandmother, Elisabetta, just days before she went off to Australia to marry her farmer. It was 1950. I remember it as if it were yesterday. She and I were the same age. Just 18. Her father, your great-grandfather, held a ball in her honour because she’d announced that she was going away to the other side of the world to marry a young man she met in a gondola in Venice. He was devastated, the old man, but he knew better than anyone the power of love. She’d come back to Casa dei Fiori from visiting friends in Venice, breathless with excitement and had told him all about the magical gondola ride on the Grand Canal at sunset. There was, she said, a young Australian with the Titian red hair who had begged the gondola man to let him take charge of the boat because he simply had to be close to the beautiful girl, who was Elisabetta.