The Villa (32 page)

He hadn’t stopped touching her hair. ‘The green, the amber, the brown – they are common enough. But to find the perfect sea-buffed blue violet … ’ He shook his head sadly.

‘Lucky for you to have it in the flesh then,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘You are also provocative.’ He leaned closer. ‘And interesting. Funny. And infuriating.’

‘Oh, I see.’ She laughed. An irresistible combination, was it? ‘Well you’re not so bad yourself.’

‘And … ’ His dark gaze was smouldering into her now.

Like molten lava, she thought. Like black, liquid oil. Oh, God. ‘And?’ Her voice wavered. What was the matter with her? Anyone would think she’d never been on the edge of paradise with a gorgeous and sexy man before. Exactly.

He put a finger on her lips. ‘And I want to kiss you. Again.’

Tess didn’t really have time to consider how she felt about this prospect –
yes please; oh, yes please
– before his lips were on hers and he tasted like honey and ricotta and Prosecco all mixed into one and it was so good, too good, and then his body was closer, closer, and he was touching her shoulders and her thighs, and he was kissing her throat, her neck, her breasts, and …

She was sinking. Sinking and lost and abandoned and loving every sensual, blissful second of it.

Minutes later, as he was nuzzling into her neck, and attempting to remove her bikini bottoms with his free hand, she felt him stop, his hand resting on her thigh, as he raised his head and looked over her shoulder out to sea. He swore softly.

‘What is it?’ Tess struggled to sit up.

‘The sea, she grows angry,’ he murmured.

Tess ran her fingertip down the length of the scar on his
face, feeling the contours of his cheekbone, letting her fingertip rest on his lips. But she had lost his attention. She followed the direction of his gaze and tried to breathe more normally. In the distance, she could see the waves being whipped into white horses. ‘It does look a bit choppy out there,’ she agreed. Closer to shore, the water was wrinkled like polythene; no longer calm and unruffled as it had been only an hour before.

He was on his feet in seconds. ‘It is a very strong wind,’ he said. ‘We must get the boat back to harbour. Or we will be stranded here. Come.’ He took her hand and she got to her feet.

Would that be so bad, thought Tess? But she didn’t waste time. She threw the picnic things back in the hamper, grabbed her towel and ran down the beach towards the boat. Suddenly the wind felt chill around her bare shoulders.

‘How long?’ she asked him.

He helped her in. ‘Ten, fifteen minutes.’ Already he was unmooring the boat. He pushed it out and jumped in. Started the motor and they were away, the engine on full throttle, the boat pitching and crashing through the waves, speeding back towards Cetaria Bay.

Racing the wind, thought Tess, pushing her hair from her face, trying not to look at him. She wasn’t worried. Exhilarated, more like. He had said ten minutes and in ten minutes they would be safe. The sea was rolling, and the little boat was being tossed about a bit. But they would make it. She was sure they would make it.

He reached for her hand. ‘
Mi dispiace
, Tess, sorry.’

She smiled and shook her head. Better to be so close to the sea that you could sense these sorts of changes, than blind to it. Still … Inside, she was conscious of a warm ache of desire. It would have happened. Maybe it should have happened. But it hadn’t. Not yet.

They got into harbour with the wind right on their tail and howling. Behind them, the waves were climbing high and the open sea had changed dramatically from turquoise into murky grey. Tess had pulled on a sweater but was still shivering, her hair matted with salt water and tangled from the wind. The change had been fast – she had never realised that the Mediterranean Sea could be so wild.

‘Just in time,’ said Tonino, bringing in the small craft, and helping Tess out of the boat.

He’d just finished mooring it securely into position, when his mobile bleeped with a text message. With an apologetic glance at Tess, he checked his phone and read it. He frowned.

‘Problem?’ Tess was wondering whether or not to invite him in for coffee. It wasn’t the most original line in the book and his coffee was an awful lot better than hers, but she didn’t want the afternoon to end. Not yet.

His eyes flickered. ‘There is someone I must see,’ he said. ‘They sent a message. They say it cannot wait.’

‘OK.’ The disappointment hit her like a fist. They had, what you might call, unfinished business. But on the other hand, it was all moving so fast; maybe it was a good idea to
slow things down. ‘That’s fine,’ she said brightly. ‘Go ahead. I’ll see you—’

‘Later,’ he said. Gently, he touched her face. ‘At seven?’

‘At seven.’ She knew what he was saying. There would be no going back.

No, Tess didn’t want the afternoon to end. So instead of staying inside the villa, she grabbed her raincoat from the peg in the hall and descended the steps back into the
baglio
. She’d visit Santina.

She ran through the puddles of the
baglio
, collar up, ducking into doorways with each heavy burst of rain. Even so, she was soaked by the time she got to number fifteen and knocked on the door with the flaking green paint and rusty grille. She leant in as far as she could get out of the rain and crossed her fingers that Giovanni wasn’t at home.

Santina opened the door a fraction and then flung it wide. ‘Tess!’ She broke into a torrent of Sicilian and pulled Tess into the dingy blood-red hallway. ‘Come in, come in, my child,’ she said.

Thank goodness. Giovanni must be out.

Tess was propelled along the narrow hallway lined with photographs, certificates and religious paraphernalia, into the kitchen, where Santina had obviously been preparing vegetables. Spinach and beans were laid out with a small sharp knife on a wooden board by the enamel sink, and more vegetables had been piled into a metal colander. ‘Sorry to disturb you—’ she began.

‘
No
, no, no …’ Santina made gestures to indicate Tess should get out of her wet things.

She was glad to oblige.

The old woman took her coat and hung it on a hook by the stove, clicking her tongue and shaking her head throughout. ‘Some coffee?’ she suggested, pointing to her little percolator. ‘Some
dolce
?’

‘Lovely.’ Tess nodded. She was itching to launch into her questions. ‘Giovanni?’ she asked.

Santina shrugged. ‘Who know?’ she replied. ‘The Sciarra men – they always have go their own way.’

Tess was fascinated by this. ‘But you’re a Sciarra,’ she said. ‘You’re family.’ And she knew how families stuck together in Sicily.

Santina touched her forehead. ‘I different,’ she said. She shook her head violently. ‘I different.’

It was one thing, Tess supposed, to disagree with one’s family and their way of life, quite another to discard it completely. ‘You never married?’ she asked.

Santina was filling the percolator with water at the sink and so she had her back to Tess. ‘It never happen,’ she said. ‘Mostly I look after the family men.’ She turned, a strange look of defiance in her dark eyes. ‘I too have the fire in my belly.’ She patted her stomach. ‘I do what I can.’

Tess nodded. Like her mother, she thought. She watched Santina take the percolator to the stove and fill it with coffee from a small canister. ‘How did you know?’ she asked her. ‘About my mother’s broken heart?’

Santina lit the stove and placed the percolator on the flame to boil. ‘We write letters,’ she said. ‘Years go by. We write letters, Flavia and me.’

Tess had wondered about that. ‘And now?’ she asked.

‘
No
.’ Santina shook her head vehemently. ‘Now,
no
. Not for many years.’

No matter how much she cared for her old friend, her mother wouldn’t have wanted the contact with Sicily – Tess knew that. She would have had to let her go. ‘But why?’ Tess asked. ‘Why did she hate Sicily so much, Santina?’ Surely it couldn’t have been just because her father wanted her to marry Rodrigo Sciarra?

Santina shook her head. ‘She not say, not to me.’

And Tess had done the sums – why had it taken her mother so long to go to England? It couldn’t have been just because of the war. ‘My mother was twenty-three years old when she left Sicily and travelled to England,’ she said. ‘That’s six years after she met this English airman you told me about. A long time.’

Santina was fetching the tiny white cups and saucers and plates from behind the fabric that curtained the kitchen cupboard. She shrugged. ‘She wait,’ she said.

She was very patient then, thought Tess. She must have loved him an awful lot. ‘And he helped her when she arrived in England?’ She could imagine how scary it must have been to a young, sheltered Sicilian girl to arrive in England alone. Her mother was very brave.

Santina shook her head. ‘
No, no
,’ she said. ‘Signor
Westerman from Villa Sirena. He help her. His sister in London help her. She cook, yes!’ She laughed.

‘Ah.’ It was all becoming clearer now. Tess accepted the tiny cup of coffee and pastry from Santina. ‘
Grazie
.’ So her mother had waited for him in Sicily – but he hadn’t come. So what had she done? Well, she’d gone to England to find him, of course. And Edward Westerman had helped her do it – just as he had helped Tess come to Sicily. She sipped the coffee. The jigsaw was gradually slotting into place.

‘So I suppose she tried to find the English airman and it was like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ she suggested to Santina.

‘Needle …? ’ Santina frowned.

‘She couldn’t find him?’ Tess said. ‘So she gave up her search and eventually forgot all about him.’ Another sip of coffee – it was rich and warming. And a bite of
cornetti
, the icing sugar sticking to her lips. ‘And then she met my father?’

‘Ah, no,’ said Santina. Her expression was one of compassion. ‘She find him, my child. She never forget that man.’

‘But—?’ Before Tess could say more, she heard the door opening and a stream of Sicilian that signalled the arrival of Giovanni.

He stopped short when he saw Tess sitting in the kitchen. ‘You,’ he said.

‘What?’ Tess was confused. Giovanni was looking very angry.

He said something else in Sicilian and she caught Tonino’s name. Santina was looking from one to the other of them,
twisting her apron between her fingers. What was going on? Had Giovanni somehow found out about Tess and Tonino? Not that there was too much to find out – yet.

‘What?’ she repeated.

Giovanni turned on her. ‘I warned you, Tess,’ he said. ‘I told you to keep away from Tonino Amato.’

But how did he know? There was only one way, Tess realised. Tonino must have told him. ‘It’s your quarrel, Giovanni.’ She tried to keep her voice level. ‘Not mine.’

He came closer. Gripped her arm just a bit too tightly. His mouth was set and angry and his eyes seemed to burn into hers. ‘That is where you are wrong, Tess,’ he said. ‘Your family has as much reason to hate Amato as mine.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’ But she felt a flutter of fear in her stomach. How well did she know Tonino – really?

‘
Il Tesoro
,’ Giovanni muttered. ‘The treasure.’

Ah, thought Tess. The mysterious ‘it’. Now they were getting somewhere.

‘Your grandfather – he had the responsibility for
il Tesoro
,’ Giovanni said sternly. ‘And Amato’s grandfather – he stole it. He was your grandfather’s best friend. So. Not only a theft. But a betrayal too. You see?’

Should she believe him? Tess looked down at his hand, still gripping her arm.

‘Sorry, Tess.’ Giovanni let go of her. He seemed to be recovering his cool.

‘Anyway,’ she said, aware that she was desperately trying to find excuses. ‘That was Tonino’s grandfather, not Tonino
himself.’ And unlike the Sicilians, she didn’t hold people responsible for the behaviour of other members of their family.

‘They are all the same,’ growled Giovanni. ‘They are Amatos. And that man, he tricks so many women …’

Hang on a minute. ‘So many women?’

Giovanni shrugged. ‘You will find out, Tess,’ he said.

She had heard enough. All the pleasure of the afternoon was in danger of evaporating completely. ‘I must go.’ She got to her feet. She would ask Tonino to tell her his version of what had happened. She wouldn’t judge him – not yet.

Giovanni nodded gravely. ‘Take care, Tess,’ he said.

It had stopped raining and the sun had re-emerged as Tess made her way back towards Villa Sirena. Should she drop in on Millie on the way home? Why not? She might be able to shed some light on the situation. Tess did a detour past Hotel Faraglione and went into reception.

‘Is Millie around?’ she asked the girl there.

‘Sorry.’ The girl spoke perfect English but with a strong accent. ‘She is with someone. She cannot be disturbed.’

‘No problem.’ As she left, Tess thought she saw her friend with someone at an upstairs window. The silhouette looked familiar. But … Oh, she was probably imagining it. Anyway, she had a lot to think about. Her family, Tonino’s family,
Il Tesoro
… Not to mention her mother’s story. Her mother, who had not forgotten her English pilot, who had come to England, and who had found him.

And so Flavia had come to England.
God be thanked
… Her life in Sicily was at an end.

Flavia stood shivering on the platform at Victoria station, Signor Westerman’s old travel bag crouched at her feet, damp and heavy as a stone. London in November. Flavia’s first impression was of grey. Unremitting grey. Wet too. And cold.

Around her, people huddled in groups with bags and cases, faces blank as if they were frightened to even acknowledge where they were or where they had come from. Others strode along the platform, some of them running as if to an emergency. Flavia heard the scream of the whistles, the mighty rush and the blow of the steam engines. She had to move. She had to get … somewhere.

In a blur, she followed the stream of bodies, some of whom, at least, seemed to know where they were heading. Out of the station they went. Flavia stopped. Holy Madonna. A cold damp wind slapped her face. She flinched and pulled the collar of her coat higher around her neck. Tall red buses, big black cabs, people, people, people … What next? She clutched her travel bag to her like a comfort blanket; it was all she had.