The Echoes of Love (29 page)

‘You must believe me,
cara
, when I tell you that I was a different man before I met you. To live without a dream is a frightening prospect,' he went on huskily, tracing his lip with his finger and drawing her attention to his mouth again. She wished she could look away. ‘Meeting you has given me a lust for life again. You're the sunshine that has brightened my sad, dreary days. Thanks to you, I dream, I hope and believe in love, and in all the wonderful things that the world has to offer. We are made by our past, and mine is gone… but when I'm with you I'm not anxious about not having a history any more. All that was yesterday is unimportant, because today and tomorrow belongs to me… to us.'

Still Venetia did not speak. She tried to summon the energy to tell him that it would never be
us
for them, but all she could manage was a small sigh that contained her stifled longing and frustration. Paolo's manner of talking to her was making her weak and she could not afford to be so.

He was staring at her, the pupils of his eyes dilating until they filled the blue irises. Venetia could read an emotion in them that she couldn't fathom. He sounded genuine enough… but no, he was an expert at handling women, his desire for her was a fleeting thing… he would soon tire of her and cast her aside as he had other women. She must not let passion cloud her judgement; if she listened to him any longer she would be lost.

Venetia half turned away from him and looked down at her hands. They were kneading one against the other as though they had a life of their own.

Paolo's eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you running away from me,
cara
? There's something about me that worries you; that puts you on the defensive. I'm not a wolf, and you are definitely not a lamb.'

He had such a picturesque way of putting things and his words were remarkably apt: she might not be a lamb, but yes, she felt on the defensive because when he spoke like this, it was more of herself that she was afraid than of Paolo. Logic told her that the sensible way forward would be to talk this whole situation out; to admit to the attraction between them and untangle this mess. After all, she still had to work with Paolo; if she couldn't find some reasonable and workable solution to the confusing way things stood with them, how could she carry on being so close to him, day in day out? It should be so simple to confront him about Allegra, yet something deep inside her feared his answer, and she knew that emotionally she simply wasn't strong enough to do so.

Mario was back with a steaming plate of pasta. He frowned as he noticed that the plate of
arancini
had gone almost untouched. ‘You've hardly eaten any of my
arancini! Non sono di vostro gusto?
You didn't like it?'

Paolo grinned at the restaurateur. ‘You must forgive us, Mario. We're just beginning to get to know each other and we've been lost in conversation.'

‘
Ah,
l'amore, l'amore,
' Mario sighed and shook his head. ‘
Persino
quando sei innamorato non puoi vivere solo di amore e acqua fresca
, even when you're in love, you cannot live on love and fresh water.'

Venetia felt her face flame. How dare Paolo make such an implication?

‘I hope you will honour this dish.' Mario winked at Paolo. ‘Sardines, like most oily fish, are well known to be a powerful aphrodisiac –
buon appetito!'

‘How could you let Mario believe that there's any romance going on between us?' Venetia whispered urgently as soon as the restaurant owner had turned his back.

Paolo gave her a half smile as he sipped his water. ‘Is that not what's going on between us,
carissima
?'

‘Certainly not,' she retorted haughtily – she had to defend herself against the mad feelings that were invading her.

‘
Sì,
we're flirting, finding out what makes the other person tick.' His eyes narrowed almost to slits – Venetia was beginning to know that cat-like look, playful and yet edged with danger – and just to prove to her how wrong she was, he leaned over, lowered his head and took her lips with his in a couple of biting kisses that sent a tremor through her limbs, and her pulse racing.

‘We kiss and arouse all kind of vibrations, light all sorts of fires and we burn,
sì
?' he murmured, looking at her mouth, his face still close to her. ‘There is no shame in it. A man and a woman should feel this way when with each other, as though they need nothing else but to be together, alone in a world made up of their dreams.' He dug his fork into his pasta and began to eat slowly, watching her, his smile subtle, with a mixture of challenging amusement and something far darker.

Venetia had to look away from him, her teeth clenched hard as she fought for control. His words were kindling the glowing embers trembling inside her that threatened to erupt into flames, despite all her attempts to stifle them. She despised herself for what she felt towards Paolo. She didn't even know what it was, only that he exerted a hypnotic power over her and she had lost all of hers to him. He only needed to look at her for her mind to cloud and her body to wish to surrender completely.

They ate their pasta with
finochio con sarde
in silence, listening to the sounds of the waves as they carried on their own flirtation with the shore and the breeze gliding across the water and through the palms, causing them to sway back and forth and rustle like smothered footfalls.

They ended their meal with a Sicilian
gelato
, ice-cream flavoured with
grappa
. Mario told them that ice-cream probably originated from Sicily, because during the Roman times, relays of runners used to bring snow down from Mount Etna to be flavoured and served to rich patricians. His little anecdotes between each new course lightened the atmosphere and by the time they were having their coffee the tension between them had calmed down.

It was almost sunset when they pulled into the drive at Miraggio. Paolo went round to Venetia's side and opened the car door for her. ‘Would you like to have a tour of the house, or would you prefer to wait until dinner?'

Venetia climbed out of the car. ‘Now would be perfect. I'm not used to eating so much at lunch. I would prefer to skip dinner if you don't mind.'

‘Would you like Ernestina to bring you a tray at La Sirena?'

‘No, really, you're very kind and I have still to finish the wonderful bowl of fruit that was set out for me in the cottage. Thank you.'

Antonio, with Rufus in tow, came over to take the keys and park the car. The dog contented himself to sniff at Venetia, but this time didn't growl as he had on her arrival.

‘Please tell Ernestina that there will be no dinner tonight, and I will have a
panino
al
prosciutto
and a cup of coffee in my study.' Paolo stood back from the car.

‘But
signore
, Allegra has…' the caretaker protested.

Paolo was quick to interrupt him before the man was able to finish his phrase.

‘I have urgent work that needs to be attended to.' His tone was cutting and allowed for no argument.

Something akin to anger sparked in Antonio's eyes as he turned to look at Venetia, but it was gone in a flash, and he climbed into the car and drove off in the direction of the garage. The man resented her; she had felt his reticence when she had first arrived and by the looks of it nothing had changed. Like his niece, he probably regarded her as a threat to what must be a very comfortable situation.

Allegra, the dusky beauty that furnished Paolo's nights, was no doubt waiting impatiently for him
,
Venetia told herself.
Well, at least it seems as though he doesn't need the young Amazon's services tonight
. And though her scalp had prickled at the sound of Allegra's name, suddenly her heart felt light and warm.

The imposing arched wooden front door was wide open to let the late afternoon sunshine in, as Paolo led her through the hallway. The house itself, Venetia assessed, was half manor, half fortress and was fascinating. In the morning she'd had a glimpse of the hall; now she saw the spacious interior in all its splendour with its vaulted and cupola ceilings, archways and beautifully etched cornices, and the various levels and areas connected by passages and corridors. The rooms were simple and comfortable with polished old mahogany and glowing bits of silver, glass and china; the subtle nuances of the pale-hued walls made them look unusual in their shape, arresting, and the elegant, tall narrow windows ensured they were full of light. Large vases and bowls of flowers added daubs of bright colour to the more sedate furnishings.

It was a romantic house, far larger than it appeared at first glance, and yet built for a patriarchal life and a self-contained one. It was not unfriendly, but it guarded its secrets; very much like its present owner, Venetia thought, who himself was open and friendly yet gave an impression of reserve, a man whose smile was frank but also grave and serious. Everything glittered with squeaky cleanliness; for someone who never entertained, Paolo's home was surely well looked after and that fact in itself was as much an enigma to Venetia as the master of the house. Was he so damaged by the loss of his past and the people in it that he now had no desire to build a future, and no impulse for the company of others?

Listening to Paolo recount the background to every piece of furniture and the story behind each ornament, Venetia was amazed at the difference in him. As at the site that morning, he had thrown aside his armour of coolness and became passionately alive, vibrating with the force of his emotion almost as if he was talking to her about love. The furniture was real to him, the ornaments and paintings were full of colour and the fabrics that he touched were alive. It didn't surprise her – Paolo had substituted art and its history for his own history; as well as collecting stories to populate his imagination, he had furnished his life with beautiful things to compensate for the lack of beautiful memories. It was understandable and she was full of sympathy for him.

At the door to his study, as they came to the end of their tour, Paolo smiled.

‘It's six-thirty. Will you join me in a glass of wine? I always have one at this time.'

He opened the door to the room Venetia had sat in that morning. It was now bathed in the incandescent colours of the most dramatic sunset as the great red ball sank below the horizon and an array of magnificent tints painted the sea and flushed the sky. It took her breath away and she was drawn into the room, spellbound by the enchanting glow, dazzled for a brief moment by its luminosity.

Unintentionally, Venetia's eyes moved up to the painting that dominated the room. It was crowned with a light that was almost unreal. She met the enigmatic gaze and shivered – the beautiful blonde looking down at her seemed very much alive.

‘My wife,' Paolo announced to her in a matter-of-fact way that took Venetia a little aback. ‘She died in the accident which robbed me of my past. I don't remember her – for me it's as if she never existed.'

He took out a couple of glasses from a drawer in his desk and poured Venetia a glass of white wine from a bottle that stood in a bucket of ice on a small table next to it. ‘I don't grieve for her as much as I grieve for my lost life. We were on our honeymoon. She was driving, so I don't even have the privilege of feeling guilty – I might as well be dead.' His voice hardened as he spoke.

Venetia's heart gave a sharp twist as if she had been stabbed. An overwhelming and unexpected emotion surged within her, frightening in its implication. Not for the first time that day she felt a passionate desire to put her arms around Paolo and comfort this lonely, unhappy man. She looked at him, her eyes wide and tender, the golden lights in them quenched, their colour deepened. Still, she fought it down, refused to recognise it for what it was.

‘You mustn't talk that way, Paolo. Look around you – you've created so much beauty. You're talented and creative – a visionary who has plenty to offer.'

‘You mean a mirage. A ghost,' he said, without looking at her. His eyes had taken on a wintry expression as he gazed, unseeing, at the view of the indigo sea that stretched to infinity beyond the window, while he turned the stem of his wine glass round and round in abstracted fingers. Venetia saw the lines around his mouth deepening, and the tragic weariness steal back into his face, which earlier had been relaxed and amused, almost youthful.

‘Not at all! How old are you? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?'

‘Thirty-eight, going on ninety.'

‘Nonsense! You're a passionate man with plenty to live for. What will all those women who pine after you do if you desert them?' Venetia spoke with more lightness than she felt.

Paolo turned his gaze upon her.

‘You've not been through what I have, and God forbid that you ever will, Venetia. You can still play with words and play with feelings, but I've been broken. Life has maimed me inside and out. The truth is that all the experience and substance that was once me is now dead, and I can't remember how anything feels, or
should
feel. I can't go hunting with the hounds of imagination any more… I don't want the fine flowers of life. Something has gone with my memory – the carefree big-heartedness of youth. But when I met you, I glimpsed a way out of this abyss, a glimmer of hope. All I know now is that you have lit up the darkness with a dazzling light and the whole current of my being flows to you. It's you, and you alone, who can make me whole again.'

He paused. Dusk darkened the room and the silence was heavy.

Venetia shook her head. Paolo's hard voice made her realise the pain that drenched him, and at his slightest movement a strained trembling came over her. The pain etched into his features was too raw to be feigned – this man was not playing games.