Sign of the Times (2 page)

Brushing back her curls, Holly tried to compose herself and prepare what she had to say. She stretched herself up to her full five feet four.
 
She didn’t know exactly how to explain her situation, as although her Italian was very good, it wasn’t every day you got a puncture in Italy.

The heavy door opened, to reveal a Greek God.
 
Standing at a little over six feet,
he was
well-built, muscular but not bulging.
 
With dark brown floppy hair, brown puppy dog eyes, and
eyelashes that any girl would kill for, he took Holly’s breath away.
 
It didn’t help that he was wearing only a towel and had obviously just come out of the shower. His dark hair complemented his deep tan, in stark contrast to Holly’s Celtic pallor.

“
Si?
’ said the man, with a smile, aware that he was unsuitably dressed.
 
Holly managed to blurt out the whole sorry tale.
 
His smile increasing, showing off very white teeth, he said that of course he would help her, but would she wait in the lounge, whilst he went upstairs and dressed.
 
She followed him into an austere looking hall, with oak panels and what looked like real paintings on the walls.
 
Doors led off in all directions. Holly trotted behind her new friend until he stopped, so suddenly that Holly almost bumped into him.
 
She could see the droplets of water on his skin and sense the heat of his body.
 
She gulped and stood back, as he showed her into the lounge.

“I’ll be back in five minutes.
 
Please take a seat,” he said, in his Tuscan singsong accent.

Holly sat gingerly on the edge of an armchair. Everything in the room looked antique. The gold, brocade curtains the finely polished credenza, the oil lamps which lit the room.
 
Rows of bookcases were stacked high and crammed with books.
 
An avid bookworm, Holly found herself drawn to the first bookcase and her eyes slid greedily over the titles.
 
Verga, Lampedusa, all the classics were there, peppered every so often by contemporary novels.
 
Moving to the second bookcase, she recognised some Bill Bryson travel books and a few about Tuscany written in English.
 
Intrigued, she continued along, until with delight, she found a copy of
Secrets of the Neapolitan Riviera
.
 
Holly felt hot all over.
 
He had bought her book.
 
Well, perhaps not him, but someone from this house had bought her book.

“
Le piacciono i miei libri?
” Holly started at the sound of his voice.
 
She stammered a yes. He clearly didn’t know who she was and who could blame him
,
as she looked an absolute sight and the photo her publisher chose for the book cover portrayed a glossier, shinier Holly.
 
She was pleased he had her book. Perhaps she would have time to question him later. What was she like?
 
How long did she think it was going to take him to change her tyre?
  
She turned to face him.
 
He was now dressed in Levis and a cream fisherman’s jumper.
 
He smiled down at her, his handsome features crinkling in amusement at his real life, damsel in distress.
 
He spoke perfect English, he had to for business, but this signorina was making such an effort speaking Italian that he felt it would have been churlish, to switch into English.

“
Andiamo
.” he told her.

Whilst relaxing in his lounge, Holly hadn’t realised it had started to rain.
 
It had been so warm when she had arrived.
 
Cursing her light jacket and skirt, she jumped when he enveloped her in a large waterproof jacket.
 
His touch was electric.
 
She felt as if she’d accidentally bumped into a high voltage fence.
 
Approaching her car, she unlocked it with the electronic key fob.
 
He was beside her, a torch shining from beneath his waterproof.
 
He walked slowly around the car and whistled, then dug the jack out of the boot and worked away silently.
 
After five minutes, he looked up at Holly, who hadn’t dared interrupt him and told her it was no good. It wasn’t just the tyre that was punctured, the wheel was buckled.
 
It would have to go to a garage.

Holly was at her wits’ end. What the hell was she meant to do now?
 
She realised she was standing staring open-mouthed at this complete stranger.
 
Eventually, she latched on to the idea that she would need to find a hotel nearby.
 
She asked if he could recommend somewhere to stay.
 
In typical Italian fashion, he gesticulated with his arms and told her that the nearest hotel was Il Giardino, but unfortunately it was twenty miles away. She couldn’t drive twenty miles with her wheel like that and besides the garage was only two miles away.
 
She must stay the night here.
  
There were many guest rooms in his house.
 
Holly started to protest, but he silenced her, saying he would be offended if she didn’t accept and besides, what was the alternative?
 
Smiling at her, he leaned forward slightly and said, “No need to be afraid. I am not some crazed madman.

Holly followed her host inside.
 
She didn’t even know his name.
 
Dawning on him, too, he said “Dario Barsacchi.” He offered his hand to Holly, which she accepted, saying “Holly Jameson. Where am I anyway?”

“This is Rosetto. It is around thirty kilometres from Pisa.” As Holly didn’t ask him anything else, he turned, passing the lounge and indicated a room on the left.

“That is where you will find me once you have settled in.
 
Are you hungry?”

Holly was starving, but didn’t want to impose further. As if
reading her mind, Dario said, “It’s no trouble. I am cooking for myself and it is always more pleasant to have company.”

Acknowledging his generosity with a barely discernible smile, Holly followed, as he ascended a marble staircase.
 
Alabaster busts were positioned at intervals along the staircase.
 
Holly tried to appear nonchalant, but was dying to see, as she passed, if they were members of Dario’s family.
 
Some of the inscriptions were so worn it was impossible to read to whom they belonged.
 
At the top of the staircase, Dario swept towards the left wing.
  
It was dark in this corridor, but Dario pulled an object from behind a hidden alcove.
 
He then scrambled around a little more and the next moment, there was light.
 
It was an old oil lamp, encrusted with semi-precious stones.

Who is this guy?
 
Holly found it odd that he should be knocking around in this stately home all on his own.
 
She couldn’t deny it, the size and grandeur of this building made it obvious that this was the home of someone of standing.
 
Leaning across her, Dario turned a key in the lock.
 
He stepped into the room and laying the oil lamp down, beckoned Holly to enter.

“Wow!”
 
She wasn’t sure what was more impressive, her host or this sumptuous room.
 
In front of her there was a huge four poster bed, with full canopy.
 
The ruby red hangings looked ridiculously expensive.
 
An enormous, cast iron bath, occupied the middle of the room.
 
Glancing round, she was surprised to see the furnishings were terribly feminine.
 
There was a mahogany dressing table, several replica, Louis XVI chairs, at least she imagined they must be replicas, they couldn’t be real could they, a credenza, a roll top writing desk as well as a chaise longue. How decadent.
 
She had always imagined having a chaise longue, although she knew they were terribly impractical, much better off with a squashy sofa from Laura Ashley.
 
She decided she would have a little lie on it later.

Dario pointed to a room off the main chamber, which housed a bathroom with power shower and a dressing room.
 
Such a strange mix, Holly thought, power showers, but oil lamps. She had noticed there was no electric lighting.
 
After inviting her to use the telephone, Dario excused himself.

Holly thanked him for his kindness and he left. She really must start being more articulate. She would be spending the evening with this drop-dead gorgeous man and she couldn’t string two words together.
 
It wasn’t even speaking Italian which was making her tongue-tied, more the fact that Dario was stirring emotions in her, which she didn’t want stirred, because of Tom. She loved Tom.
 
Dario probably had a beautiful wife or a girlfriend who was a sultry sex goddess.
 
It was true how much women let themselves get carried away, one date and they were planning the wedding. She hadn’t even been on a date with Dario, nor was ever likely to be, yet was already picturing their dark eyed, perfectly tanned children, with her flawless complexion and green eyes
.
 
Snapping back to reality, Holly called the hotel in Bibbiena.

Wonderfully relaxed after her exquisite soak, Holly lay down on the four poster. This was the life.
 
She assumed the four poster was genuine, as the frame itself was pretty worn.
 
It was too tempting to lie there for long though, as she knew she would drift off.
 
Pulling herself up, she dressed hurriedly in the things she had taken off less than an hour before.

Chapter Two

Finding the door Dario had indicated, Holly hesitated briefly before pulling it open.
 
Her senses were instantly assailed by the aroma of herbs and meat mingling.
 

“
Ciao
.”

“
Ciao, vieni
,” Dario invited her in.
 
He was standing in front of the hob, flipping the contents of a small saucepan.
 
A larger saucepan boasted aubergines, peppers and courgettes, She joined him at the hob. He looked very au fait with what he was doing, as if he was no stranger to a spot of cooking.
 
At the far end of the kitchen she saw what she supposed was the dining room.
 
Dario invited her to sit.

As he cooked, he asked Holly questions.
 
She opened up to him quite freely. It was a lot easier, she soon discovered, to hold forth on topics she was used to discussing.
 
She explained about her writing and told him about her childhood in a little village near Edinburgh and how she had started to write at the age of twelve.
 
It had then become an obsession. He was a good listener.
 
She told him about her life back in Ayrshire, in the south west of Scotland, of the farm she lived on. She didn’t mention Tom, and Dario didn’t ask if she had a significant other.

This woman positively glowed, Dario thought.
 
She was so animated.
 
She was truly beautiful, unlike some women he met and seemed unaware of how lovely she was, which only made her more attractive.
 
Her forest green eyes shone out from beneath her loose raven curls.
 
Smaller than the women who usually surrounded him, he felt it would be nice for once to tower over someone, to be able to act protectively towards them
.
 
She was slim, with an impressive cleavage.
 
Curvaceous, he supposed you would call her, sexy.
 
He had found her striking when she had first rung his bell, but now, as she sat here chatting away as if they had known each other for years, he was warming to her even more, too much he realised.
 
Tomorrow she would be out of his life again and there was nothing he could do about it.
 
Unaware of the inner turmoil she was causing him, Holly babbled on.
 
She was nervous, but at the same time exhilarated to be in the company of such a… gentleman, was the only word she could think of to describe Dario.

After Dario finished preparing the
meal, he led Holly through to the dining room. The food was divine.
 
Holly hadn’t realised just how hungry she was, until Dario tempted her with his special bruschetta.
 
He explained that the ingredients were all fresh from his garden and the olive oil from the olive groves his family owned.
 
So that’s where the money comes from, she thought.

When they finished the Chianti, Dario went off to the cantina.
 
Bearing a Brunello di Montalcino 1997, he pulled out the cork and poured a small quantity into a glass.
 
Holly thought it was OK.
 
She wasn’t a wine connoisseur, but what she did know was that the more expensive a wine, the more acquired the taste.
 
The Chianti was more to her taste, even if it was a classier and older version than that drunk in the UK.
 
She wagered it wasn’t Chianti from Tesco at a fiver a bottle she’d had.
 
The Brunello, however, didn’t do much for her.
 
Honest to a fault, when Dario asked her impression of it, she told him apologetically she preferred the Chianti.
 
Dario let out a belly laugh.
 
He found her endearing, her brand of honesty so refreshing.

“Perhaps we should let the wine breathe,” he suggested.
 
What a pity their paths were unlikely to cross again, he thought.
 
He told her of his family, of his business, but left out that he owned several vineyards, passed to him by his father on his retirement.
 
He spoke of Rosetto with such pride.
 
Holly had an image of him, as a kind of Italian laird. If she had only known the half of it.

He spoke of the re-enactments they held at the beginning of June, of the
Ferie della Giostra
– the jousting ceremony and craftsmen showing off their art, teaching the younger generations how to carry out the ancient arts of book binding and arrow making.
 
He told her of the determination of the locals to beat their neighbouring Carduccio.
 
To Holly it was highland games, but far more interesting and romantic, as befitted twelfth century Tuscany.
 
His friend was undefeated in the archery tournament since 1997.
 
People came from the length and breadth of Italy, to see if they could beat him. The festivities lasted a week, but with the anticipation before the events and the enthusiasm and good natured sense of belonging which permeated the whole village it felt more like a month.

The weather had improved. Only the odd tiny puddle remained here and there, so Dario suggested they sit outside.
 
An old fashioned lean-to canopy clung to the side of the house.
 
Dario switched on the lights and stepped outside.
  
Picking up a long wooden pole, he pushed the water laden sections of the canopy, upwards.
   
However, he wasn’t quite quick enough to move out of the way and managed to almost drown himself with the water which spilled over.
  
Holly grinned, as, soaked through, he looked up at her.
 
She had no need to ask what “
Cazzo
,” meant.
 
Pulling out a wicker chair, Dario invited Holly to sit and said he would go and change.

A blanket lay on a shelf next to her and picking it up, Holly wrapped it around her.
 
Dario had only just left the room and already she missed him.
 
Even though she wasn’t doing anything wrong, she felt guilty. She didn’t want to sleep with him, but found it hard to believe she could like someone so much when they had just met, especially when she already had a wonderful boyfriend.
 
This was torture.

Dario returned wearing a white t-shirt, which perfectly showed off his physique.
 
The two continued to blabber on, each aware of the sexual chemistry which was playing out, but both believing it was one-sided.
  
It was getting late and Holly yawned.
 

“You must be tired. It has been a stressful day for you.
 
We should go to bed now,” stated Dario.

Startled, Holly’s heart leapt.
 
Then she realised she had probably lost something in translation and Dario meant they should go to bed, separately.
 
But Dario had seen the way Holly reacted and had decided it was now or never. Maybe what he had read in Holly’s expression had been desire, he couldn’t be sure, but he was going to find out. He turned out the lights and escorted Holly to her room.
 
Outside, he stopped and said “Goodnight” and leaning in, he kissed her.
 
Holly kissed him back, expecting the sensation to last a mere instant, but he began placing little kisses tenderly around the edge of her lips.
 
She couldn’t breathe. She shouldn’t be doing this, but was powerless to stop herself. All evening she had imagined this happening and now it was.
 
She hadn’t even known he was interested.
 
Dario flicked his tongue gently inside her mouth, across her teeth, finding her tongue, until Holly moaned softly beside him.
 
All of a sudden she stopped him.

“I’m sorry.
 
I can’t do this,” she took hold of his arms, to distance herself from him. “I really like you, but I have a fiancé and I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“I kissed you,” Dario said quietly.
 
“And I can only say that I wish I was your boyfriend.
 
Lots of women are not so faithful.
 
I am sorry if I offended you.”

“Not at all.
 
If things were different...”

A brief silence ensued.

“What time do you want me to wake you?”
 
Dario finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Whenever suits you.”

“Eight o’clock then.”

“Fine. Thank you, for everything.”

Dario lay in bed and wondered if ‘for everything’ included his kiss.
 
He hoped so.
 
It took him a long time to fall asleep, but when he did his thoughts were of this particularly captivating Scottish woman.

Holly also had trouble sleeping.
 
It was too quiet. Crickets chirruped in the garden.
 
She felt
so
guilty. She had let Dario kiss her. In four years, she had never kissed anyone but
Tom.
 
She loved him. They were getting married.
 
Maybe it was the fine wine, which had gone to her head.
 
Exhausted, she drifted into a restless slumber.

“
Buongiorno, signorina
.”
 
Holly opened her eyes to see a wizened old lady standing in front of her bearing a cup of coffee.

“
Ha dormito bene?
”
 
chirped the old woman again.

“
Si, ho dormito benissimo, grazie
,” she lied.

The elderly lady, happy Holly had slept well, turned to go, but as she was leaving, she said,

“The mechanic will be here in an hour to collect you.
 
Breakfast is ready downstairs.”

“Is Dario up yet?” enquired Holly.

“Yes, but he has gone over to the vineyard. He left a note.”

Holly barely touched her breakfast.
 
When she reached the breakfast room, she looked for Dario’s note.
 
She picked it up eagerly and after reading the single line, turned it over to read the back, but it was blank.
 
Dismayed, she re-read the line, hoping to translate it into something with more substance, but the stubborn,

“
Sorry. I have to work. I have asked the mechanic to collect you,”
couldn’t be expanded into anything with more feeling.
 
It was with a heavy heart that Holly left L’Uliveto an hour later.

“
Grazie, Signore
,” Holly bid farewell to the mechanic, happy that her car was roadworthy again.
 
A bit of a dent in her credit card, but she would be reimbursed by the car hire company.

Holly had been unable to think of anything all day, but Dario. Dario and Tom.
 
She tried not comparing them, but it wasn’t possible.
 
Tom was a bear of a man.
 
He was reliable and provided safety and security, but Dario had awakened feelings of passion in her, which she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt for Tom.
 
Holly tried to blot out this disloyal thought from her mind.
 
She felt unfaithful just feeling like this.
 
With a sigh of exasperation, she realised she was heading in the wrong direction.
 
Glancing briefly at the map, she dropped it on the passenger seat and navigated a u-turn.