Loving Venus (Sally-Ann Jones Sexy Romance) (2 page)

     “Go ahead,” he retorted, his hunger for her a distant memory. “I suppose you
’ll convert it into a wheat station, complete with barbed-wire fences, windmills and dams. I hope the silly old man turns in his grave.”

     “Al!” she pleaded, but he turned and stomped away.

     He’d never admit to her that he’d always expected to be the master of Casa dei Fiori, had never even imagined ever living anywhere else. His roots were here, as surely as were those of the sheltering cyprus, and he was devoted to the place, despite its ramshackle appearance and the fact that the farm had run at a loss for decades, gradually eking away the fortune amassed by his blue-blooded ancestors.

     Alessandro had been selling off pieces of artwork to keep the place going, to prevent it falling into the hands of the receivers who would likely subdivide its precious acres and flog it to German or American tourists. He knew every stone and blade of grass on the estate as well as he knew the creases on his own palms. Every time he had to drive to Rome or Florence with a centuries-old painting or piece of sculpture, he felt he was chipping away at another piece of his heart. He
’d grown up with these beautiful things, they were part of him, they linked him to generations of past de Roccos.

     And now the estate and the villa belonged to Annabella, who cared not a fig.

     He stormed into the house. Tonia, who’d seen the heiress’ arrival, had prepared a special luncheon for the cousins and she ran into the hallway to ask him if he’d like her to serve it under the fig tree on the front lawn. But, seeing his furious face, she knew better than to disturb him and scuttled back into the kitchen, out of his way.

     Alessandro flung up the curving staircase, flinching as he always did at the pale patches in the stucco on the walls. These were places where paintings had once hung, to be admired and enjoyed by the family. At the top of the stairs, he turned to the right, marched down the wide, stone-flagged passageway and threw open a door. At once, from a wide-open doorway on the other side of the palatial room, a glorious view met his eyes. Yellow sunflowers in the foreground, purple hills beyond, with a village the colour of
the flesh of a blood grapefruit nestling in their folds. This had been his bedroom, his sanctuary, since babyhood. But he couldn’t stay here another minute.

     He ransacked drawers, cabinets, cupboards, wardrobes, and tossed the contents over the balcony railings. Books, boots, shirts, trousers, underwear, aftershave, a toothbrush, all flew down in the fresh breeze and landed on the chamomile-starred lawn below, on the rosemary or tomato bushes, or across an old urn filled with scarlet ivy geraniums.

     When the room was cleared of his possessions, he went and stood on the balcony to take in the view one last time. He saw that the workmen were now eating their lunch, sprawled under an oak tree. He saw the river snaking below the estate, its passage etched into the towering cliffs over millennia. He saw the magenta splashes of the wild cyclamen that seeded themselves throughout the unkempt garden. And he saw his second cousin, sprawled under the flapping sheets on the washing line, weeping her heart out into the grass.

     His own heart contracted. Her noisy crying reminded him of how she had been as a child. He
’d loved her then. But, he told himself fiercely, he could not love her now. She was the cuckoo in the nest and he wanted her out.

                                                 CHAPTER TWO

Annabella sobbed out her disappointment, her salty tears falling into the long green grass under the washing line. She’d been so looking forward to seeing her charming, funny, handsome, brave second cousin again. She idolized him when she was a little girl, in those three short months her family had spent here, at Casa dei Fiori. And now he wanted nothing to do with her, resented her, even!

     She wept lustily, not caring who saw or heard her. She
’d always been the same. When she was a baby, her Italian mother had blamed her fierce temper on her red hair, which she had inherited from her paternal relations. Her father, however, had put her passionate nature down to her maternal Italian blood.

     But, from wherever it had come, there was no doubting she had a wild, untamable streak. Once, Alessandro had loved her for it.

     “Al, let’s go riding together,” she’d suggested all those years ago on her first day on their great-grandfather’s estate. “I want to see everything and I want you to show me.”

     “I’ll saddle the pony for you, then, Bella,” he
’d said, running his hand through her tangled red curls.

     “The pony! I don’t ride ponies!” she spat contemptuously. “I need a big horse, so I can see more. I don’t want to miss anything.” 

     Alessandro roared with laughter. His second cousin was so short, she hardly reached his waist, and here she was, insisting on a big horse. “Very well then,” he’d laughed, “You can ride Gregorio.”

     He took her by the hand and they walked to the stables, where several elderly animals neighed with pleasure when they saw Alessandro. Even then, it had been many years since anyone at Casa dei Fiori had been able to afford a new, young horse.

     “Meet Gregorio,” he said, leading her to a stall where a huge chestnut stood, his big head hanging over the half-door.

     Alessandro suppressed a chuckle as
Bella’s shining eyes tripled in size as they took in the twenty-hand-high monster. But he couldn’t help admiring her for her grit.

     “You’ll have to give me a leg-up,” was all she said, refusing to betray any fear. Alessandro doubted she was familiar with fright, she was such a plucky kid.

     He saddled the gentle giant for her, helped her up, made sure she was safe then leapt aboard his own spirited Arab mare, Sofia. They clip-clopped down the road, skirting the sunflower fields, then headed for the forest, where thirty-foot cliffs towered over the river.

     “Race you to that gate at the end of the wood!” she called, booting old Gregorio into a canter.

     Alessandro laughed indulgently, reining in Sofia so his diminutive relation could have the pleasure of winning. He ambled slowly behind her, marvelling at her skilful handling of the big horse, at her insouciance when she came perilously close to the edge of the rock-face. He trusted Gregorio to stay on the track that threaded its way through the oaks that grew near the side of the cliff. But he prayed his darling Annabella would stay firmly in the saddle.

     How well she remembered that wonderful day! Where had that young man gone? Although he was seventeen, with several girlfriends telephoning him at least six times a day, he
’d been more than happy to spend time with her. He’d proudly ridden into the village, Fortezza Rosa, with her and introduced her to the priest, the baker, the butcher and the green-grocer, as his
piccola cugina d’Australia
. His little Australian cousin. He’d asked her about her own farm, about school, about her friends and pets.

     And the pair of them had sat with great-grandpapa Alessandro on the lawn under the fig tree, as he told them of his youth, of the wars which had ravaged his beloved country, of his heartbreak when his daughter Elisabetta took herself off to a distant land and married a farmer. The old man’s eyes twinkled as the second-cousins sat at his feet, Annabella’s head in Alessandro’s lap as the young man idly played with her riotous hair.

     “When little Bella is your age, my boy, she will be…” He put his gnarled fingers to his lips and kissed them, in a gesture which even the girl understood. “She will be irresistible,
no
?”

     “Yes!” Alessandro agreed, his white teeth flashing as he grinned up at their great-grandfather.

     Well, Annabella thought bitterly, her handsome relative had certainly changed his mind on that subject.

     She didn’t want the place, but it was her duty to do what the old man had desired and do her best to look after it. She
’d loved him and she wanted to make him proud of her, sure he would be watching from wherever very good people go when they die. She could understand Alessandro’s disappointment, but she wanted to share the estate with him, to shoulder the burden of it together and reap the rewards, if there were to be any.

     She felt a soft hand on her shoulder and her heart sang. Alessandro had forgiven her!

     She lifted her face from where it had been buried in the grass, but it was not his eyes hers met, but the dark, concerned ones of the woman she’d noticed working in the kitchen as she walked through the garden after getting out of the taxi.

     “
Cara
,” the woman said, using the Italian word for “darling”. “You mustn’t cry any more. Your salty tears will kill the grass,
no
?”

     Annabella smiled.

     “Come, I’ve prepared a delicious lunch for you under the fig tree. You will try to eat, for Tonia? You remember me? I was here, when you came to see the old man with your mama and papa. Thirteen years have passed since then, eh? And now, at last, you are home.”

     “I do remember you, Tonia,” Annabella smiled, recognition flashing in her eyes. “Though I must admit, I didn’t at first. But I recall that my great-grandpapa was fond of you. He said nobody could cook like Tonia. That God held your hand while you
kneaded the pasta dough.”

      Tonia’s black eyes sparkled at the mention of the old man. She dried Annabella’s tear-and-dirt-stained face with a corner of her spotless white, starched apron and the newcomer couldn
’t help but be cheered by her ministrations.

     Tonia was about seventy, Annabella guessed, with the serene beauty of a person whose life has been filled with love. Her blue-black hair was streaked with silver and around her fine, long-lashed eyes were fans of wrinkles. But age hadn
’t dimmed her loveliness.

     “Come, then, come and eat. You need your strength,” Tonia urged.

     Annabella allowed herself to be led to a cushion-filled cane chair under the sunshine-scented tree. The long table, which could easily have sat a dozen people, was laid with a snowy cloth and a single place-setting had been prepared. There was a bottle of chianti, a bowl of spaghetti with simple tomato
sugo
and grated
pecorino
, cheese, another bowl of rocket drizzled with olive oil, a loaf of
ciabatta
bread and a platter of figs, grapes, peaches and pears.

     “I wish I had someone to eat this with,” Annabella said wistfully. “It looks so delicious and it’s a shame to enjoy it alone. Won’t you have some, too, Tonia?”

     The older woman, who hadn’t yet eaten her midday meal, took pity on the young Australian heiress. Nobody in Italy should have to dine without the seasoning of conversation and laughter.

     “
Si
,” she assented, “I will eat with you,
cara.
”

     Annabella poured two glasses of wine and the women laughed delightedly as their glasses clinked together with a resounding clang. Annabella pushed the bowl of spaghetti closer to Tonia, handed her the fork and took the spoon for herself. In this way, both dipping into the spaghetti, they emptied the bowl then proceeded to demolish the rest of the feast.

     “Aaah!” sighed Annabella, leaning back in her chair and grinning contentedly. “That was the best meal I have eaten since I was last here.”

     “Your mama is a good cook, surely?” Tonia asked worriedly. She didn
’t like to think of sweet Annabella having had to put up with bad cooking most of her life.

     The younger woman giggled. “
Si
, my mama can cook, but everything always tastes better here, at Casa dei Fiori. The tomatoes have the flavour of sunshine and the basil is sweeter.”

     “Of course,” Tonia agreed, nodding gravely.

     “Tonia,” Annabella said, suddenly becoming serious. “May I ask you something?”

     “It is about Alessandro,
no
?”

     “
Si
. Why does he hate me?”

     “He doesn
’t hate you, Bella. Far from it, although he will not admit it, even to himself. He’s very upset with your great-grandfather. The old man was very ill at the end. His mind wandered. He said strange things. At the last moment, as he lay on his deathbed, he ordered Alessandro to run and get the will. And, before the priest and his great-grandson, he changed it. Everything was to belong to your second cousin but, just two minutes before he took his final breath, the old man gave it to you, Annabella. Naturally, Alessandro was shocked. And then angry. And, three weeks later, he is still angry. He’s very sad too because he adored that old man and it was hard for him to watch him slowly, slowly fade away. But, don’t you worry, I believe your great-grandfather knew exactly what he was doing and I know that, in the end, your second-cousin will be glad of what he did.”