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The Medici Lover
Anne Mather


Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.  Seduced by the handsome Italian…When Mazzaro di Falcone bursts into Suzanne’s life like a bomb, she knows nothing will ever be the same again. An art lover, Suzanne finds herself seduced as much by the man as by the beautiful treasures of his ancestral Italian mansion! Mazzaro can’t help but feel he has found something infinitely precious when he meets Suzanne. But at Villa Falcone, passions and jealousies pervade the very walls – and a desire as strong as theirs can be infinitely dangerous…










Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




The Medici Lover

Anne Mather





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u8aa316d2-b671-5833-8563-761e0dcd0253)

About the Author (#uf9a10a56-198c-53da-8bfb-201b8fb14fe2)

Title Page (#u8063e4a0-0fdd-526d-8004-728e5ec55448)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u9a202efb-3b62-5954-aadd-72b753994b54)


EVER SINCE the sleek Trident had circled low over the lagoon before making a smooth landing at Venice’s international airport, Suzanne had been concerned. No, even before that, she conceded silently to herself, watching Pietro’s square hands as they lightly circled the driving wheel of his sports car. And concerned did not seem a strong enough adjective either. Disturbed, anxious—even uneasy might have described her feelings better. For as they drew nearer and nearer Pietro’s home, she became more and more convinced that she should not have given in to the impulse to come.

What did she know of his family, after all? That he had no brothers or sisters, and that his father was dead. More than that he had seemed curiously loath to reveal, and had Suzanne not found the opportunity to get out of London at this time to her advantage, she would probably never even have considered his invitation.

And yet wasn’t she being unnecessarily harsh with herself? After all, she and Pietro were good friends, and although she sensed that he was hoping their friendship might blossom into something more emotional, there was no reason why she should blame herself for a situation which had been of his making.

All the same, in other circumstances she would have thought twice, and possibly three times, before committing herself to several days in the company of people she had never met, and who were not of her own nationality. Just because she could speak the language and had spent several months last year as courier for the company she worked for at their hotel in Rimini, it did not mean she understood the people.

She and Pietro Vitale had only known one another six weeks. At present, she was working in London, employed at the company’s hotel in the West End, and her meeting with the young Italian had been quite coincidental. Later, he had told her he was studying at the London College of Art, but that morning, in the little antique shop in the Portobello Road, he had been just another tourist trying to make himself understood to an uncomprehending assistant. Appreciating his difficulties, Suzanne had automatically intervened, forgetting for the moment her own reasons for entering the shop. The dark-skinned Italian had not been unappreciative of the combination of thickly-lashed brown eyes and streaked honey-blonde hair that swung silkily about Suzanne’s shoulders, but eventually, between them, they had made the assistant understand that he wanted to price a bronze figurine of the Virgin and Child. He wanted it as a present for his mother, he said, but it had been too expensive and he had had to decline. Afterwards, it had been natural for him to invite her to have coffee with him, and Suzanne had accepted, more out of sympathy for him than a longing to further their acquaintance. But sitting in the coffee shop only a few yards away, she had seen the sleek Mercedes, which had driven her to take refuge in the antique shop in the first place, cruising by on the opposite side of the road, and had felt more relaxed than she had done for weeks.

Pietro had proved to be an entertaining companion, and when he had suggested a second meeting, she had agreed. If her motives had more to do with the cruising Mercedes and less with a genuine desire to go out with him, she excused herself on the grounds that Pietro had invited her, and would have been disappointed if she had refused.

Even so, going back to the hotel in a cab which Pietro had hailed for her, she had had misgivings, and not until Abdul Fezik came storming into her office late that afternoon had she felt that her behaviour had been justified. Now, at least, she had a genuine reason for refusing the Turk’s persistent invitations, a means to divert his attentions, with luck, towards some other member of her sex. He was a powerful and wealthy man, not used to being thwarted when it came to women, particularly not women who had to work for a living.

Suzanne, however, had had surprisingly little to do with men. From an early age, she had learned that her looks might well prove to be an obstacle in her determination to carve a career for herself. Prospective employers tended to regard attractive girls in one of two ways: either predatorily, or suspiciously; on the one hand seeking the kind of relationship Suzanne was determined to avoid, or on the other, assuming she required employment only so long as it took her to find a suitable husband. The situation infuriated Suzanne, who, having seen her own parents’ marriage break up, had no intention of making the same mistakes herself.

Surprisingly though, since she came to work for the Minotaur Group three years ago, these problems had largely been avoided. Of course, that might be because she had spent so little time, comparatively speaking, in one place. During the past three years she had worked in several different countries, and at twenty-four was considered one of the company’s most successful executives. Nicolai Stassis, the elderly Greek who had founded the organisation, had none of his countrymen’s contempt for women, and judged his staff on their ability, not their sex. That was why she objected so strongly to Abdul Fezik’s chauvinist attitude, his assumption that because she was female, she needed masculine companionship. Pietro—at that time she had not even known his surname—had seemed the answer to a prayer.

But she ought to have known that nothing was ever that simple. Pietro was not a puppet she could pull about at her own convenience, no more than Abdul Fezik could be deterred by the supposed presence of a rival. Fezik was an arrogant man, working in London for his government and living at the hotel, and Suzanne was aware that hardly anything she did went unnoticed. She sometimes wondered when he found the time to attend to his own affairs, so intent did he seem on hers. She guessed what intrigued him, of course. He was a handsome man, if a little inclined to overweight; he had money and position, almost everything a girl in her position might wish for. He couldn’t accept that she did not find him as attractive as he seemed to find himself.

Her relationship with Pietro, however, was not totally one-sided. As she got to know him better, she began to enjoy his undemanding company, his gentleness, his courtesy, his sense of humour. His interest in art stemmed, he told her, from a love of beautiful things, and although he told her little about his home life, she gathered that he knew quite a lot about his own country’s heritage. He was obviously not a wealthy man—his clothes were always clean and serviceable, but they were worn in places, the elbows of his jackets patched with leather. And yet, he had a certain air about him at times which was strangely out of keeping with his appearance, and Suzanne had to curb her desire to question him about his background. It was nothing to do with her, she had told herself on these occasions. No matter how likeable Pietro was, he aroused little but her affection, and a curious sense of compassion for his diffidence.

When he told her he was going home to Italy for ten days at Easter, Suzanne had not immediately considered what his absence might mean to her. In the few weeks they had known one another he had heard about her parents’ divorce and her father’s subsequent death in a motor accident. Her mother had married again, but it was not a happy liaison either, and Suzanne’s contact with the woman who had borne her was limited to occasional lunches when her mother came up from Bristol for a day’s shopping. Since Suzanne’s work often kept her out of the country for months at a time, she could not blame her mother for their estrangement, and nowadays they seemed to have little to say to one another. Annabel moved in a different world from that of her daughter, and had never desired independence as her daughter did.

Nevertheless, when Pietro suggested that Suzanne should come home with him for the holiday, the idea of a family occasion had had some appeal. Granted his family was not her family, but if his mother was anything like Pietro himself then she would no doubt be a charming lady. And she was free for the weekend at least …

Even so, she had demurred, insisting that she could not accept such an invitation after such a brief acquaintance. Pietro had protested that he could write to his mother and have her invite Suzanne personally, but still she had refused. Apart from anything else, she was not the sort of girl to agree to spend ten days with a young man she knew practically nothing about, however ingenuous he might seem.

But again fate had taken a hand in the person of Abdul Fezik. Three days after Pietro’s invitation, the hotel manager sent for Suzanne. He had a request to make of her, he had said, half reluctantly she had felt, immediately apprehensive. He had been approached, he went on, by one of their guests, Mr Fezik, who intended holding a reception in the hotel during the Bank Holiday weekend. Mr Fezik needed someone to act as his hostess at the reception, and had suggested that perhaps Suzanne might be persuaded to accept.

Once again, Suzanne had been staggered by the man’s audacity. After everything that had gone before he still would not believe that sooner or later she would not succumb to his personality. Before she knew what she was saying, she had informed the manager that regretfully she could not accept Mr Fezik’s invitation, that she had already made arrangements for the weekend, that she was spending Easter in Italy with her boy-friend’s family.

Surprisingly, the manager had seemed slightly relieved. Perhaps, contrary to Suzanne’s beliefs, he had been aware of what was going on. In any event, he accepted her apologies with a smile, and assured her that she had no need to consider altering her arrangements.

Pietro had naturally been delighted when she had told him she had changed her mind about coming to Italy, but affronted when she suggested it might be better if she stayed at an hotel.

‘Castelfalcone is just a village,’ he had protested, in his heavily accented English. ‘There is no hotel—just the pensione. It would not be right for a guest of my family to stay at the pensione.’

And so Suzanne had acquiesced. It was only a few days, after all. She had to return to London the following Tuesday. As they were flying out on Thursday, it was only a matter of four days.

Nevertheless, as the aircraft carrying them to Venice took off from London’s Heathrow Airport, the ambiguity of her position began to make Suzanne uneasy. Pietro had told her that he had written to his mother, but not what he had said, and she couldn’t help wondering whether he had implied a relationship between them that stemmed more from his imagination than reality. What if his mother questioned their association, what could she say? What would Pietro say?

Pietro’s small sports car had been waiting for him at the airport. They had cleared passport control and Customs with the minimum amount of fuss, and emerged into the mild afternoon air, feeling the weight of their heavy clothes. The sky was vaguely overcast, but the light was brilliant, making Suzanne grope for her dark glasses in her bulky handbag.

Watching the other passengers making for the motorboats and buses made Suzanne wish they were staying in Venice. How much simpler it would have been to book in anonymously at some hotel, without the daunting prospect of facing Pietro’s unknown relatives.

They drove north, leaving the canals and campaniles of the city behind. The autostrada was busy with holiday traffic, and Suzanne, who had never driven with Pietro before, was alarmed by his reckless disregard for other motorists. He was obviously one of those men who assumed a different character behind the wheel, and her palms were moist and she was reassessing her opinion of him when they turned off the autostrada on to a narrower, rougher road.

In an effort to divert him and herself, Suzanne allowed herself the privilege of asking questions she had hitherto avoided. ‘Do you and your mother live alone?’ she queried tentatively, speaking in Italian to make it easier for him.

Pietro took a few moments before replying, pretending to concentrate on passing a farm cart drawn by a pair of rather tired-looking oxen, but eventually he said: ‘No. We live in the house of my cousin.’

‘Your cousin?’ Suzanne’s dark eyebrows arched.

Pietro nodded, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. ‘I told you, Suzanne—my father died some years ago.’

‘Well, yes …’ Suzanne considered the situation. ‘And your cousin lives at Castelfalcone.’

‘That is correct.’

Suzanne drew her lower lip between her teeth, wishing he would be a little more forthcoming. ‘Your—er—cousin is married?’ she probed, and Pietro nodded once more.

Suzanne tried to picture the household. She knew Italians held very strongly to the family ideal, but two women running a home was seldom successful. What was Pietro’s mother’s position in the household? Were there children? Was she her nephew’s housekeeper, or nursemaid to his children? Did other members of the Vitale family live in the house? Suzanne wished she had asked some of these questions before leaving London.

‘What—what does your cousin do?’ she queried unwillingly, and was surprised at the look of bitterness which crossed Pietro’s face.

‘Do?’ he echoed. ‘What do you mean—what does he do?’

Suzanne, who had thought the question quite a simple one, shook her head. ‘I meant—what is his occupation?’ she explained swiftly. ‘I presume he does have one, doesn’t he?’

Pietro glanced sideways at her. ‘My cousin is disabled,’ he stated harshly. ‘He had an accident three years ago.’

‘Oh!’ Suzanne wished she had never asked the question. She felt as if she had intruded into some personal tragedy, although there was curiously little sympathy in Pietro’s voice. ‘I’m sorry.’

Pietro shrugged. ‘These things happen. Mazzaro is lucky to be alive.’

‘Mazzaro? That’s your cousin’s name?’

‘Mazzaro di Falcone, yes.’

‘Falcone?’ Suzanne couldn’t prevent the ejaculation. ‘But …’ She paused. ‘I assumed his name would be the same as yours.’

‘No.’ Pietro shook his head. ‘Mazzaro’s father was my mother’s brother.’

‘I see.’

Suzanne stared out at the countryside through which they were passing. A fugitive gleam of sunlight was gilding the spire of a church she could see high up on the hillside. They were in rugged country, presently following a route that traced the winding course of a stream before rising to overlook the valley, rich with fields of ripening grain. They had passed through several villages, hamlets mostly, and ahead of them were rising the ascending plateaux of the Alps, snow-capped and magnificent, their pine-clad slopes the home of marmot and wild deer.

It was beautiful country, but Suzanne was paying little attention to the scenery. Something about Pietro’s cousin’s name was familiar, and it took her several minutes to realise it was the same as the village. Or almost. Castelfalcone … Falcone.

‘Pietro—’ she began, only to have him interrupt her by asking whether she was hungry or tired, explaining that it was not much further now. His smile attempted to reassure her, and Suzanne shrugged, defeated. She would, without doubt, learn soon enough why Pietro should choose to be so reticent about his family.

Castelfalcone reminded Suzanne a little of San Marino. Like the tiny republic perched high on its mountain, Castelfalcone was a fortified community, surrounded by crenellated walls and towers, with an encircling moat of water. It was entered by one of two arched gateways, its narrow streets and arcades redolent with history. A cobbled square, the Piazza della Cortina, Pietro told her it was called, seemed the focal point of the village, and there were plenty of people still about, enjoying the cool evening air. The doors of a trattoria stood wide and outside people were sitting at tables which in the heat of the day could be shaded by their striped umbrellas. Trees framed the piazza, some already dripping with blossom.

‘It’s beautiful!’

Suzanne spoke involuntarily, and Pietro looked pleased. ‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed, casting a smiling glance in her direction. ‘We get many tourists in the season.’

Suzanne glanced round as they circled the square and entered a narrow thoroughfare leading up out of the village. ‘Where does your cousin live?’ she asked frowning, and silently, Pietro gestured to a sign set at the side of the road just ahead of them. It read simply: ‘Villa Falcone’ with an arrow directing the motorist up a steep incline. Suzanne looked up, but all she could see was stone walls from this angle, and unknowingly she held her breath as Pietro swung across the road and accelerated swiftly up the tree-lined approach to tall iron gates.

She could see the villa through the gates as Pietro went to open them, and her breathing quickened uncontrollably. She did not need to see the family crest decorating the twenty-feet-high gates to know that somehow she had got herself invited to one of Italy’s stately homes, although in her experience wealthy men did not advertise themselves as that sign appeared to do down below them.

Pietro returned and got into the car, and she turned to him half impatiently. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she exclaimed, but he was putting the car into gear and would not look at her.

‘Would you have come if I had?’ he countered.

‘Probably not.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘But, Pietro, can’t you see? I can’t stay here!’

‘Why not?’ He had halted the car inside the gates and was waiting to get out to close them.

‘You know why not. Pietro, if this is your cousin’s home—’ She sighed. ‘Surely you understand.’

He looked at her then. ‘Suzanne, do not concern yourself. My cousin does not have a lot of money, if that is what is worrying you.’

‘He must have!’

‘No.’ Pietro shook his head. ‘Suzanne, do you think your country is the only country to suffer from inflation and taxation? We have suffered, too. We are still suffering. There are few Italians with money today.’

‘But—this place …’

Pietro shrugged. ‘What you are looking at, Suzanne, is a—museum, no? Rooms full of furniture and paintings, cases of china and glass, goblets and medallions, shelves of books which will never be read. A mausoleum would have more life! And in a few weeks tourists will come. They will be conducted around the Villa Falcone by my mother. They will buy a guide book, and we hope a souvenir to remind them of their visit. Now do you understand?’

Suzanne understood what he was saying, but not the tone in which he was saying it. The contempt in Pietro’s voice was something she had not heard before.

‘But—but surely the paintings you mentioned—and other things—they must be valuable?’

‘No doubt.’

‘Then why doesn’t—I mean, I know there’s a great demand for such things today.’

Pietro stared ludicrously at her, affecting horror at her words. ‘Suzanne! What you are suggesting is—blasphemous! Outrageous! Sacrilegious!’

The mockery in his voice made her draw in her lips. ‘I gather your cousin does not want to sell,’ she said flatly.

‘You gather correctly.’ Pietro vaulted out of the car. ‘Excuse me.’

When he came back after closing the tall gates, the mockery had disappeared. Instead, he apologised as he got into the car, giving her a rather shamefaced smile.

‘I am afraid I allow my cousin’s selfishness to upset me at times,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I am not normally so impolite.’ He sighed. ‘No doubt, you are wondering where we live. Well, we occupy the west wing at the back of the villa. You will see it is built on three sides of enclosed square, with a loggia where one can sit on hot days. There is a fountain in the square, and the sound of running water is delightful. I am sure you will like it.’

Suzanne wished she felt as confident. The long, south-facing portico of the villa was magnificent, of course. No one could fail to admire its classical lines, the stone façade inlaid with variegated marble, creating a pattern of light and dark over the entire building. But staying in such a place was something else. And if Pietro disliked his cousin so much, why did he stay?

They drove beneath an archway, overhung with vines, and along a tree-shaded avenue at the side of the villa, until Pietro drew up in a stone-flagged courtyard, flanked by garages and stables and various other outbuildings. An elderly man emerged from one of the buildings at their approach, but his greeting was barely civil when he recognised the car. Considering Pietro had been away for several weeks at least, Suzanne thought his welcome was less than enthusiastic. But Pietro seemed not to notice, hoisting their suitcases out of the back of the car, and bidding Suzanne to follow him.

A belt of trees shielded the villa from the stables, but the pergola-shaded walk back to the house was charming. Already Suzanne could see lights from the villa as darkness deepened amongst the trees, and a ripple of anticipation quickened her blood. Unwillingly, she was becoming intrigued by the situation here, curious to know more about the family who accepted all this magnificence as commonplace.

They came to the villa through formal gardens of lawns and hedges laid out with geometric attention to detail, and Suzanne saw the shadowy courtyard, mosaic-tiled, where a marble basin echoed to the waters of the fountain. The fluted columns of the loggia were indistinct in the fading light, but the balcony above would give a wonderful view of the surrounding countryside.

They entered into a long gallery, illuminated by wall lamps, intricately carved in bronze. All the downstairs apartments of the villa opened on to the loggia, Pietro had explained, but now the shutters were drawn against the invasion of night insects.

Their feet echoed on marble tiles, their presence seemed an intrusion to plastered walls, decorated with panels painted in colours which had faded only slightly with the years. Suzanne looked about her in wonder—at the panelling of the arched ceiling above their heads, at a side table inlaid with ivory, at the fine-grained marble beneath their feet. There was a silver salver standing on the table, and the richness of its scrollwork put its value far beyond the reach of any ordinary individual.

Pietro put down their cases and regarded her tolerantly. ‘I can see that you appreciate art and architecture, too,’ he commented dryly. ‘Come. We must let my—family—know we are here.’

His deliberate hesitation did not go unnoticed, and Suzanne looked down doubtfully at the purple corduroy slacks suit she was wearing. In these surroundings, trousers on a woman seemed an insult somehow. She wished she had worn a skirt. But then she had not known that Pietro’s family lived in one of Italy’s famous villas.

Before they could move, however, a door to their left opened, and the tall, slightly stooped figure of a man emerged. Suzanne stiffened, guessing this must be her host, but even so she was not prepared for her first meeting with the master of the Villa Falcone.

Amazingly, what struck her first about him was his eyes. Amazing, because in spite of his distorted body, she looked first into clear green eyes, deep set and thickly lashed, hooded by heavy lids. His eyes were beautiful, which made what came after much harder to look upon.

She had been expecting a younger man, for one thing. Pietro was, after all, in his early twenties, and as this man was his cousin, she had expected someone of a similar age. But Mazzaro di Falcone was much older, in his late thirties at least, and the thick black hair which fell below the level of his collar was streaked with grey in places. He was taller than the average Italian, with a lean muscular body, but he leaned heavily on two sticks, and when he moved his gait was slow and awkward, twisting his spine and obviously causing him some pain, judging by the tightness of his dark features. But it was the scarring of his face and neck which distorted his expression, giving him a vaguely malevolent appearance. He reminded Suzanne of Dante’s Fallen Angel, and the awareness of the feelings he was arousing inside her made her uneasy.

Pietro, perhaps sensing the tension in the air, moved towards his cousin. ‘Good evening, Mazzaro,’ he said, gesturing to Suzanne to come forward. ‘As you can see, we have arrived. Allow me to introduce you to my—to Suzanne, Suzanne Hunt.’ He paused, as his cousin’s eyebrows arched. ‘Suzanne, as you’ve probably guessed, this is my cousin Mazzaro, Count di Falcone.’

‘Count?’ The word was out before Suzanne could prevent it, and the fingertips of one hand sought her lips as if in admonishment.

Mazzaro di Falcone’s eyes narrowed. ‘No doubt my cousin omitted to mention what is, after all, purely a nominal title, Miss Hunt,’ he commented, in perfect English. ‘How do you do? As you can see, I am not in a position to shake your hand, but you are welcome to the Villa Falcone.’

‘Thank you.’ Suzanne glanced awkwardly at Pietro. ‘I—it was kind of you to permit me to come.’

Mazzaro made a dismissing gesture with his shoulders. ‘Your mother is in the small salon, Pietro. I know she is awaiting your arrival with much—excitement. If you and Miss Hunt will excuse me …’

Again he spoke in English, but Pietro broke in quickly in his own language, almost defiantly, Suzanne felt. ‘Suzanne speaks Italian fluently, Mazzaro. You don’t have to demonstrate your command of English on her.’

His words were ill-chosen, almost insolent in intonation, but Mazzaro di Falcone merely regarded his cousin with slightly amused eyes. ‘I gather you do not feel the need to do so,’ he remarked in Italian, and Pietro’s expression darkened angrily.

But Mazzaro did not wait to continue the altercation. With a faint bow of his head in Suzanne’s direction, he moved away along the hall, his shadow cast upon the panelling like some grotesque caricature of a man. Pietro, too, watched his cousin’s progress, and a little of the angry frustration left his face. Then he turned and took Suzanne’s arm.

‘Come! The small salon is this way.’

As they passed the room from which Mazzaro di Falcone had emerged, Suzanne glimpsed a high-ceilinged apartment, comfortably if sparsely furnished, with a wall of leatherbound books facing the door. But Pietro had already stopped outside an adjoining apartment, and as he pushed open double doors with a flourish, a young girl of perhaps ten years came rushing to greet him.

‘Pietro! Pietro!’ she cried excitedly, wrapping her arms around his middle, looking up into his face with wide-eyed delight. ‘I thought you were never coming!’

Pietro bestowed a kiss on both the child’s cheeks, and then looked over her head at the elderly woman seated in an armchair by the screened marble fireplace. ‘Mamma!’ he spoke with the warmth to which Suzanne was accustomed. ‘Mamma, it is so good to see you again.’

As Pietro went to receive his mother’s greeting, the child turned her attention to Suzanne, her brow furrowing with undisguised curiosity. She was a plain child, with the sallow complexion sometimes found in hotter climes, her straight black hair drawn unbecomingly back from her face in two stiff braids. And yet, when she had been greeting Pietro, animation had added warmth to her features, and it was then that Suzanne had guessed that she must be Mazzaro di Falcone’s daughter. Yet she had a neglected air, as if no one really took a great deal of interest in her, and certainly her clothes did not do justice to her slim little body.

Deciding that it might be easier if she spoke first, Suzanne forced herself to smile and say: ‘Hello. My name is Suzanne. What’s yours?’

Before the child could reply however, Signora Vitale’s voice rang out distinctly across the wide room: ‘Elena! Come here. At once.’

There was something about the Italian word avanti which gave it a much terser sound than its English translation: ‘Come’. Elena obviously responded to it, and without more ado, skipped obediently across to where Pietro’s mother was sitting, leaving the outsider feeling very much alone in the doorway.

This was the small salon, thought Suzanne in wonder, realising it was almost as big as the reception area of the hotel back in England. As in the hall, the walls here were inlaid with frescoed panels, depicting hunting scenes, the realism of a stag at bay reassuring her. She felt very much like that cornered animal at this moment. Signora Vitale was very much the mistress of the situation, seated in her tapestry-covered chair, Pietro slightly behind her, Elena standing in the circle of her arm, at home with the fine grain of polished wood and the richly woven carpets.

Pietro was looking at Suzanne, too, but with a gentler appraisal, and presently he beckoned her forward and introduced her to his mother. Like Pietro’s cousin, Signora Vitale was older than Suzanne had imagined, and she must have given up all hope of bearing a child before Pietro was conceived.

After greeting her son’s guest with a scarcely-concealed disapproval, which Suzanne put down to the informality of her appearance, the woman asked several personal questions about her background. Although Suzanne resented this inquisition, nevertheless, she gave in to it, deciding that as she had nothing to hide, there was no reason why she should not satisfy Signora Vitale’s curiosity. However, the old lady’s disapproval deepened when she heard that Suzanne’s parents were divorced, and in quelling tones she told the girl that there was no divorce in the eyes of God.

Pietro’s expression was apologetic, and his eyes begged her not to take what his mother said too seriously. Suzanne bit her tongue on the retort which sprang to her lips, and instead spoke again to the child.

‘Elena,’ she said, retrieving her smile, which had become strained and had finally disappeared in the face of Signora Vitale’s catechism. ‘What a pretty name!’

The little girl looked up at her doubtfully. No doubt Suzanne’s ability to address her in her own language had impressed her, but she still looked to Pietro’s mother for guidance. That lady drew the child to her, bestowed a kiss on both cheeks and then said: ‘You may go to bed now, Elena. You will have plenty of time to speak with Pietro tomorrow.’

Elena’s lips drooped, but there was no trace of rebellion in the way she obediently turned to Pietro for his kiss, and then with a bob which could have been directed at both Suzanne and Signora Vitale, she went quickly out of the room, closing the doors behind her.

Suzanne was sorry to see her go. While the child had been there, the situation had held promise, at least. Now, she felt chilled and ill at ease again.

‘Pietro tells me you work in an hotel, signorina,’ the old lady continued, apparently in no way diverted by Elena’s departure.

‘That’s right,’ Suzanne nodded, smoothing her palms down over the seat of her pants. ‘As a matter of fact, I worked in Rimini for several months last year.’

‘Rimini!’ The way the old lady’s lips curled showed her opinion of Rimini. ‘That tourist paradise! Is that all your experience of Italy?’

‘No. No. I’ve visited Rome and Venice, and of course while I was working in Rimini, I went to Florence several times.’

‘And which city did you prefer, signorina?’

Suzanne had the feeling it was a loaded question. How she answered this might influence her future relationship with Pietro’s mother. Then she scoffed at herself. What future relationship? A weekend! Four days to justify herself.

But she could only be honest, after all. ‘Florence,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘La città delle fiore!’

Signora Vitale’s expression actually softened slightly. ‘You do? You like Florence?’ Her lips twitched, and Suzanne breathed more freely. She had obviously chosen well. ‘Yes, signorina. Florence is my favourite, too. The cradle of the Renaissance, no? The pawn of the Medicis. And yet ultimately the city triumphs over all. Immortal. Brunnelleschi, Giotto, Pisano, Botticelli—ah, there is no end to its treasures. How could anyone tire of its magnificence?’

Pietro was looking pleased now. ‘My mother is an expert on Renaissance art and architecture,’ he told Suzanne proudly.

‘Then you must appreciate this villa,’ she ventured softly, but Signora Vitale made an impatient gesture.

‘I love the Villa Falcone!’ she said, with asperity. ‘But not opening its rooms to unfeeling tourists who come to poke and pry and stare and finger—’

‘Zia Tommasa!’ A light voice interrupted the old lady’s tirade. ‘I am sure Miss Hunt would not agree with you, would you, Miss Hunt?’

Suzanne swung round to confront a young woman standing just inside the doors of the salon. From the top of her sleekly groomed head to the Gucci shoes on her slender feet she breathed style and elegance, the swinging skirt of her printed silk dress proclaiming its exclusiveness by its very simplicity. A second appraisal, however, revealed a featherlight tracing of lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes and mouth, and Suzanne guessed she was older than she at first appeared.

‘Sophia!’ Pietro left his mother to approach the other woman, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his impulsive embrace with an abandon which might have shocked Suzanne had she and Pietro been emotionally involved with one another.

‘Pietro darling,’ the woman called Sophia protested at last, drawing back from him and casting a smoothing hand over the cap of auburn-tinted hair that framed her small features appealingly. ‘It’s wonderful to have you home again.’ Then her eyes moved to Suzanne. ‘And this is your English girl-friend.’ She smiled, the first really friendly smile Suzanne had received since entering the Villa Falcone. ‘Welcome to Castelfalcone, Miss Hunt. We want you to enjoy your stay with us.’

‘Which she won’t do if you have anything to do with it, eh, Sophia?’

A shadow had fallen across them, and turning to the sound of that lazily mocking voice, Suzanne saw that Mazzaro di Falcone had come to stand in the open doorway.

At once, Pietro started forward, words of repudiation spilling from his lips, but Sophia held him back with an imperious gesture of her hand, the jewels on her fingers reflecting light in a thousand different prisms.

‘You will have your little joke, won’t you, Mazzaro?’ she said teasingly, speaking in English as he had done, making light of something which for a moment had been anything but. ‘Miss Hunt, have you met my husband—Count di Falcone?’

‘We’ve met,’ retorted Mazzaro coolly, his curiously green eyes flickering over Suzanne’s flushed face before shifting to Signora Vitale. ‘Dinner is waiting, Zia Tommasa, and Lucia insists that she will not be held responsible if it spoils.’




CHAPTER TWO (#u9a202efb-3b62-5954-aadd-72b753994b54)


SUZANNE’S FINGERS trembled as she silently released the catch on the balcony door. The last thing she wanted to do was to arouse anyone else to the awareness that she could not sleep, but she had lain sleepless for hours now and she needed some air.

The door swung open on oiled hinges, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The cool air was chilling, but refreshing, and her heated body responded eagerly. Closing her eyes for a moment, she lifted a hand to brush her hair back from her face. Oh, that was good, after the tormenting confusion of troubled impressions stirring her into consciousness.

She glanced back at the shadowy room behind her. Certainly the room was comfortable enough, and the bed quite luxuriously soft, but still she was restless. There were too many things to keep her awake, and not even the exhaustion of the journey was sufficient to banish the memories of the evening she had just spent.

She stepped out on to the balcony and moved to the rail, looking down on to the courtyard below. Even the fountain was silent now and only the breeze blowing down from the mountains made music through the columns of the loggia. She shivered. The negligee she had pulled on over her chiffon nightgown was scarcely a barrier to temperatures dipping in the hours before dawn, but still she lingered, loath to return to the turmoil she had found on her pillow. Somehow she had to come to terms with the situation here, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

Her eyes lifted to the mountains, their bulk a rugged landmass on the skyline. How could anyone live in such surroundings without being affected by a feeling of immortality? she wondered. But did that give one the right to treat someone else with contempt? Her brows drew together in a troubled frown. There were four adults and one child living at the villa, and between them they represented the whole gamut of human relationships. No wonder Pietro had been loath to discuss his family. How could anyone accurately describe the situation at the Villa Falcone?

Yet there seemed no reason for the tension she could feel just below that surface veneer of civility. Pietro’s mother was not the easiest person to get along with, she conceded, but she was old, and that excused a lot. Pietro’s attitude was a little less easy to understand. He obviously loved his mother and Elena, and he appeared to hold a great affection for Sophia. But he and his cousin seemed totally opposed to one another. Sophia, on the face of it, had the rawest deal. She seemed a perfectly normal friendly young woman, interested in Suzanne’s work, in her life in England and the places she had visited. She discussed the advantages of working in different countries with real enthusiasm, and was the only person at the dinner table to make Suzanne feel at ease. But it was her husband who acted as a catalyst on all of them, and Suzanne shivered again as she recalled her own disturbing reactions to Mazzaro di Falcone.

Dressed in black, which accentuated his brooding malevolence, he sat at the head of the long, polished dining table with the cool despotism of a Medici. The magnificent room matched his mood for period. Subdued lights, and scented candles burning in a bronze holder, cast shadows up to the carved ceiling, disguising the ugly weals that began below the Count di Falcone’s right eye, spreading across his cheek and running down the side of his neck. The collar of his silk shirt was open, and Suzanne had had to force herself not to stare at the spot where the scars disappeared beneath the fine material.

But it was not just his appearance that disturbed her. His scarred face did not repel her, rather the reverse, and she was made increasingly conscious of the penetration of green eyes when she gave in to the temptation to look at him. It was his behaviour towards his wife, however, which seemed so illogical, that aroused the most distracting emotions inside her. And it was this, more than anything, that she found hardest to assimilate.

Throughout the meal, Sophia had made repeated attempts to draw her husband into the conversation, and on each occasion he had repulsed her efforts with some mocking or scathing retort. He seemed to take pleasure in being rude to her, but she merely dismissed his insolence with a reluctant smile, continuing to talk to Suzanne as if nothing untoward had happened. But Suzanne knew it had happened, and so did Pietro, sitting across from her, judging by the way his hands were clenched where they rested on the table.

It was obvious that Pietro resented his cousin’s behaviour towards his wife. And why not? It was a perfectly natural reaction. And yet the courtesy which Mazzaro showed to his aunt negated his dismissal as a boor. So why did he treat Sophia in that way? And why didn’t she retaliate? If he spoke to her like that, Suzanne knew she would. But in Sophia di Falcone’s position, would she want to …?

She looked down at her fingers gripping the wrought iron, and as she did so a shadow moved in the courtyard below. She started violently, stepping back from the rail, her mouth suddenly dry. Someone was down there. But who? And why? And had they seen her?

Even as she stood, transfixed, the shadow moved again and materialised into the tall, lean figure of a man, a man who moved stiffly, as if unused to such movements.

Suzanne pressed her hand to her lips to prevent the involuntary ejaculation that hovered there. It was Mazzaro di Falcone. She could see him now, the darkness of his head, the muscular width of his body. But Mazzaro di Falcone walking without his sticks, unevenly to be sure, limping a little, but definitely upright.

For a few moments longer she stood motionless, and then realising she ought not to be seeing this, she stepped silently back towards her balcony door. It didn’t make sense. Mazzaro walking the courtyard in the early hours of the morning—walking alone and unaided. Did anyone know? Had he confided in anybody? Or was this his secret, the reason he treated his wife with such contempt? Obviously, Sophia could not know about this, or she might be a little less patient with him. But what possible motive could he have for keeping it a secret, for denying his family the joy of knowing he was getting so much better?

Shedding her negligee, Suzanne tumbled back into bed, feeling more confused now than she had done before. And yet, for all that, she fell asleep almost immediately.

She awakened to the sound of someone knocking at her door. For a moment, it was difficult to get her bearings, but the sunlight shafting through the still-open door to the balcony brought awareness into sharp perspective. Struggling up against the cream silk-cased pillows, she called: ‘Avanti!’ and the elderly housekeeper, Lucia, came into the room carrying a silver tray. For all the brilliant sunshine outside, Lucia clung to dark clothes and voluminous skirts which almost touched her ankles, but her lined face was not unfriendly.

‘Buon giorno, signorina,’ she greeted the girl politely, as she approached the bed across the rug-strewn tiled floor.

‘Buon giorno, Lucia. Che ora sono?’

Lucia looked pleased that Suzanne could understand her own language. ‘Sono le dieci e mezzo, signorina,’ she told her smilingly, setting the tray across her knees. ‘Ha dormito bene?’

But Suzanne was scarcely listening to her now. Was it really half past ten? Had she slept so long? Perhaps it was not so surprising, though, considering her disturbed night and the hour at which she finally fell asleep.

Still conversing in Italian, she said: ‘There was no need for you to go to all this trouble, Lucia. I’m afraid I’ve overslept.’

Lucia folded her hands across her white apron. ‘It is no trouble, signorina. And Pietro, he tells me you will be very tired.’

Suzanne examined the contents of the tray, the silver coffee service, the jug of freshly-squeezed orange juice, the chafing-dish containing hot croissants, and curls of butter in an ice-chilled bowl. Lying beside her plate was a single rose, an exquisite bloom, magnolia white, but veined with a delicate thread of palest pink.

She lifted it carefully, cradling it between her palms, inhaling its perfume. It was as delicate as its colour, and hauntingly fragrant. It was charming of Pietro to think of such a thing, but she hoped he was not reading more into her acceptance of his invitation than was really there.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Thank him for me, will you?’

‘The Conte sent you the rose, signorina,’ Lucia stated expressionlessly. ‘They are cultivated here—at the Villa Falcone.’

Suzanne dropped the bloom as if its thorns had suddenly pierced her skin. Mazzaro di Falcone had no right to send her roses, and she felt angry with him for placing her in such an ambiguous position. Unless … Unless, he had seen her in those hours before dawn, and this was his way of letting her know it …

‘Well—thank you, Lucia,’ she said now, pouring herself some orange juice with a slightly unsteady hand. ‘And—and if you do see Pietro, will you tell him I shan’t be long?’

Lucia moved towards the door. ‘Do not alarm yourself, signorina. Pietro has driven his mother to the village. The Mass will not be over for some time yet.’

Of course. Suzanne felt a pang of regret. It was Good Friday. If she had not overslept, she could have gone with them.

‘Has—did the—I mean, where is the Signora Sophia?’ she asked, her fingers melting the frosting on her glass.

Lucia made an eloquent movement of her shoulders. ‘The Contessa seldom rises before noon, piccola. Relax. This is a holiday for you, no?’ She smiled. ‘Until later, signorina,’ and the door clicked shut behind her.

Suzanne finished the orange juice in her glass, and poured herself some of the strongly flavoured coffee. She drank it black with two spoons of sugar, and as she did so, she studied the rose again. It was certainly the most perfect specimen she had ever seen, just coming to fullness, its petals thick and velvety soft. But why had he sent it? she asked herself, chafing at the way her heart thumped when she thought of Mazzaro di Falcone.

Thrusting the tray aside, she swung her legs out of bed and padded across to the long windows. She paused at the balcony doors, loath to emerge for fear of being seen in the filmy transparency of her nightgown. Had it been a dream, what she had seen last night? Had she really seen Mazzaro walking without sticks? Or had it all been wishful thinking on her part?

In spite of the turmoil of her thoughts, nothing could spoil her delight in the view that confronted her. Stretching above the walls of the villa, the hillside was thick with larch and pine trees, a cloak of foliage reaching towards the snow-capped peaks beyond. Nearer at hand, she could see a waterfall cascading over an outcrop of rock to reappear as a stream further down the valley, and meadows bright with the yellow heads of dandelions.

But it was the villa itself which really enchanted her, its stone walls honey-tinged in the sunlight. She could hear the fountain playing and longed to dip her fingers in its depths, its coolness like a trail of ice across her skin. She raised her shoulders in a gesture of supplication, encompassing the whole beauty of her surroundings. Then she turned determinedly back to the room.

It was a relatively plain apartment, but as with the other rooms of the villa, the pattern of architecture was repeated. The bed was comparatively modern, although its head-board was intricately carved, and the silk sheets disguised a mattress which owed its comfort to modern technology. There were tall arched doors leading into an adjoining bathroom, which had to have been a new innovation, but the green-veined marble tiles blended into their surroundings.

Suzanne took a shower in the sunken bath, deliberately cooling the water so that her skin tingled pleasurably and then she tackled the contents of her suitcases. The night before she had done little more than drape the crushable items over the back of a chair, and take out her nightgown and toiletries. Now she hung her clothes away in the capacious depths of a massively carved cabinet with a long oval mirror giving her back her reflection.

It was difficult deciding what to wear. In the normal way, jeans and a shirt would have sufficed, but somehow the Villa Falcone demanded a less casual approach. Or was it just Signora Vitale? she wondered shrewdly. Certainly, the old lady had not approved of her slacks suit.

With a frown, she buttoned a green shirt across her pointed breasts and stepped into a printed cotton skirt, that swung in pleats against bare slender legs. She refused to wear tights when it was so warm, and stepping into cork-soled sandals, she brushed vigorously at her straight hair. It swung in bleached strands about her shoulders, and as an added adornment, she looped a heavy gold medallion on its chain around her neck. She wore little make-up during the day. Just a light foundation to prevent her skin from shining, and mascara to add lustre to her already dark lashes.

Before leaving the room, she approached the bed again and looked down at the rose still lying on the tray. She stretched out her hand towards it and then withdrew it again, quickly. Whatever game Mazzaro di Falcone was playing, she wanted no part of it, and the rose could be returned to its owner without her being involved. Even so, it troubled her that by his action, Mazzaro had disrupted the even composure she had always maintained, even in the face of Abdul Fezik’s pursuit, and made her more aware of him as a man than anyone else she had ever met. But it was ridiculous, she told herself severely, drawing in a jerky breath. She was making far too much of what to him had probably been nothing more than a mocking gesture to the romanticism of his race. If she hadn’t glimpsed him walking in the courtyard hours before she might not have thought anything about it.

But she left the rose on the tray when she went downstairs.

There was a curving marble staircase leading down into the main body of the hall, its ornate handrail an example of baroque ironwork. The night before, Suzanne had been able to see little of the beauty of this part of the villa, shrouded in darkness as it had been, but now she could see the domed ceiling overhead, and the round windows casting prisms of light in many colours over the mosaic tiling of the floor. The acoustics in the hall were such that she could even hear the sound of her cork-soled feet on the stair, and the rustle of her skirt against her legs.

The magnificent doors at the front of the villa were closed at present, but she guessed that when the building was opened to the public, visitors would come in that way and get the full benefit from their first glimpse of that nave-like entrance.

Tempted to linger and study the building in more detail, Suzanne walked determinedly across the hall and turned into the wing of the building occupied by the family. Perhaps later, she could ask Pietro if she might explore, but for the present she was a guest in the house and not a tourist.

The doors to the small salon were closed, and she was hesitating about opening them, when she heard the sound of steel against marble and the dragging sound of feet being propelled with effort. She knew at once who it was, and her head jerked round nervously as Mazzaro di Falcone approached her along the gallery. This morning, the sombreness of his attire was relieved somewhat by a dark red shirt, but his pants were still uncompromisingly black.

Seen in broad daylight, the scars on the right side of his face were a network of dry tissue, unhealthily white against the deeply tanned pigment of his skin. Suzanne’s eyes were drawn to them almost against her will, and she had to force herself to look away.

‘Good morning, Miss Hunt,’ he greeted her in English, inclining his head forward. ‘I trust you slept well.’

Suzanne had to look at him then, but the bland green eyes revealed no trace of its being a barbed question. ‘I—it was very hot,’ she compromised. ‘But I was very comfortable, thank you, Count.’

‘That is good.’ Without removing his hands from the sticks, he gestured towards the doors of the room he had first emerged from the night before. ‘Perhaps you will join me for coffee? If you would open the doors …’

It was a command, more than a request, and as Suzanne did not know her way about well enough to demur, she moved forward automatically and taking hold of the iron handles, swung the doors inward.

The room beyond was booklined and comfortable, as she had seen in passing the night before, but with a square mahogany desk, presently untidy with files and papers, and leather chairs in keeping with its use as a study. Of all the rooms in the villa she had entered so far, it was the least aggressively impressive, and possessed a charm and intimacy lacking in those larger apartments.

Mazzaro propelled himself into the room, and indicated that she should close the doors behind them. She did so reluctantly, impatient with herself unjustifiably for getting into such a position. Perhaps she should have stayed in her room until Pietro returned and came looking for her. But how could she have known that Mazzaro di Falcone would feel obliged to entertain her in Pietro’s absence?

She closed the doors and leaned back against them for a moment, her eyes moving to the long windows which gave an uninterrupted view of the fountain in the courtyard. But as yet these glass doors were closed, and there was no escape that way.

Mazzaro was regarding her with a disturbing scrutiny that increased her own feelings of unease, and she realised she had never encountered this kind of situation before. The conviction grew in her that she was to blame, that she was reading more into his behaviour because of her own peculiar reactions to him, which was ridiculous when she seriously thought about it. In the course of her work, she had met dozens of men, and many of them had shown her friendliness and admiration. She had met handsome men, rich men, charming men—men of all ages and nationalities; and it was positively ludicrous for her to feel this way about a middle-aged Italian count, who dragged himself around on two sticks and whose face would terrify small children.

‘Does my disfiguration repel you, Miss Hunt?’ Mazzaro asked now, and she guessed he had misread the emotions that played so revealingly across her face.

‘No,’ she said at once, colouring like a schoolgirl speaking to a superior. ‘Not at all.’

‘No?’ He sounded sceptical. ‘Yet you are reluctant to be alone with me, Miss Hunt.’

His candour disconcerted her further. ‘No. I—why I was just wondering when Pietro would be back …’

Mazzaro’s dark brows ascended. ‘Indeed.’ He gestured towards one of the leather chairs set beside the desk. ‘Well, not yet, at any rate, so won’t you sit down, Miss Hunt? Or would you rather remain poised for flight? I promise you, in any race between us, you would win.’

Her face flushed, Suzanne moved away from the door and took the chair he offered, crossing her legs and then uncrossing them again when she realised that by so doing she was exposing the smooth skin of her thigh. If Mazzaro noticed this small charade, he made no comment upon it, moving round his desk to take the chair opposite her. He seated himself slowly, setting the sticks aside, immediately assuming that air of command he had possessed at dinner the evening before.

For a few moments he seemed content to relax, his hands resting loosely over the arms of the chair. His hands were brown, and long-fingered, a jewelled signet ring on his left hand catching the light as it moved. Suzanne fixed her gaze no higher than his desk. As well as the mass of papers upon it, there was an onyx paperweight, and a gold inkstand, and a bronze statuette of a bull, which must surely be very old. Her hands itched to hold the statuette. The metal looked very smooth, burnished to a dull shine, cool to the touch. She wanted to hold it between her palms and feel the metal expand beneath the probing caress of her fingers …

‘Have you known my cousin long, Miss Hunt?’

Mazzaro’s question interrupted her train of thought, and her head came up jerkily. His eyes were narrowed as they watched her, cat-like between the thick short lashes. For a moment, she almost believed he had known what she was thinking and deliberately broken the thread.

‘Wh-what?’ she stammered. ‘Oh, no—no. Not long.’

‘How long?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. About two months, I suppose.’

‘Not long, as you say.’ He brought his elbow to rest on the arm of his chair, supporting his chin with the knuckles of one hand. ‘How well would you say you know Pietro?’

‘How well?’ Suzanne shifted awkwardly under his gaze. ‘As well as anyone knows anyone else after such a short space of time, I imagine.’

‘You think time is relative to how well one knows another person?’

‘Well—of course.’ Suzanne hesitated. ‘Don’t you?’

He did not answer, for at that moment there came a knock at the study door, and Suzanne looked round in relief. But at his command, it was Lucia who entered with the coffee he must have ordered earlier. There was only one cup, however, and in swift Italian he requested that she fetch another.

Suzanne was uncomfortably aware that Lucia had given her a swift appraisal as she came into the room, and no doubt she was speculating on the relationship between Pietro’s English friend and the lord of Castelfalcone.

While the old servant went to get a second cup, Mazzaro poured coffee for one, raising the cream jug in silent interrogation. But Suzanne mutely shook her head, adding two spoons of sugar when he pushed the cup towards her. She lifted the cup and saucer into her hands, stirring it vigorously, and then stopping herself from doing so when she found mocking green eyes upon her.

Lucia returned a few moments later, and Mazzaro thanked her warmly. ‘It was my pleasure, signore,’ she responded, with a knowing smile. ‘If there is anything else …’

‘We will let you know, Lucia. Thank you.’

Mazzaro inclined his head and Lucia made her departure, the smile still on her lips.

Suzanne looked down into her coffee cup. This was the moment she should ask him why he had put the rose on her tray, she thought fiercely. He must know he was giving Lucia a deliberately false impression of their association, and heaven knew what she might make of it. Summoning all her determination, she looked up and found his eyes upon her.

‘Signore—’ she was beginning, when he said abruptly: ‘I saw you admiring my statuette. Do you know anything about such objects, Miss Hunt?’

Suzanne’s momentary resolution fled. ‘It—it’s bronze, isn’t it?’ she ventured, and despised herself for her weakness. ‘Is it Italian?’

His smile was wry. ‘I am afraid not, Miss Hunt.’ He picked up the small statuette, and smoothed it between his fingers as she had wanted to do. ‘This little fellow was made in Egypt many, many centuries ago. It is bronze, as you say, but many of these antiquities were imported from Greece or North Africa. The Romans themselves, I regret to say, did not appear to have had an innate capacity for art. Nevertheless, they were sufficiently well educated to recognise and appreciate articles of artistic merit.’

Suzanne found herself leaning forward. ‘It—it must be very valuable,’ she murmured.

‘It is without price,’ he stated, without conceit. ‘To a collector like myself, such objects defy valuation.’ He extended his hand across the desk. ‘Would you like to examine it?’

Suzanne stared at him aghast. ‘But I—I’d be afraid—I might drop it!’

Mazzaro’s full lower lip curved almost sensuously. ‘I trust you not to do that,’ he remarked, gesturing with the bronze. ‘Go ahead. Take it.’

Once more his words were in the nature of a command, and setting down her cup and saucer, she took the statuette from his hand. The exchange was executed without their fingers touching, but the bronze was still warm from his flesh.

It was a solid little article, standing squarely on an inch-thick base, probably used to decorate some wealthy Egyptian’s home thousands of years before. The animal’s head was lowered slightly, as if ready to charge, its horns projecting wickedly.

‘Aren’t you afraid someone might steal it?’ she exclaimed, looking up at him, forcing herself to return his stare.

Mazzaro shrugged. ‘I should be sorry if he disappeared, naturally,’ he said. ‘But sometimes I wonder whether I am right to hold on to such an object. Why should I be permitted to possess something which is, in fact, no more mine than anyone else’s?’

‘But your family must have owned it—’

‘—for many years. Yes, I know,’ he agreed dryly. ‘But that does not alter the situation. No doubt my ancestors were no better than profiteers, taking advantage of those less knowledgeable than themselves.’

Suzanne looked down at the statuette, stroking the arc of its tail. ‘Not everyone appreciates such things.’

‘Are you defending my ancestors—or my honour, Miss Hunt?’

Suzanne moved her shoulders impatiently. ‘I’m sure that whatever you say, you would not like to think of him in the hands of some unfeeling dealer,’ she persisted. She looked up. ‘Would you?’

Mazzaro’s eyes shifted to her hands, moving lovingly over the heavy object. ‘It would seem that already my selfishness has been rewarded,’ he commented. ‘Will you be as sympathetic to everything that is mine, Miss Hunt?’

His words had a dual edge, and she leant forward quickly and replaced the small bull on his desk. She wished he would not say such things to her. She wished she was not affected by them as she was. Of what possible interest could her approval be to him?

‘Now what is wrong, Miss Hunt?’ he inquired, as her eyes sought the open spaces of the courtyard. ‘If it is of any consolation to you, the insurance company demands that I seal the gates electrically at night. Then we have installed an ultrasonic sound-wave transmitter. Any movement by an intruder distorts the waves coming to the receiver, and triggers an alarm system on the premises.’

Suzanne frowned. ‘A sort of—neonic beam?’

‘No. This is a more sophisticated system. Beams can be avoided. Sound-waves cannot.’

‘I see.’

Suzanne was impressed. All the same, she had opened her balcony doors the night before without experiencing any difficulty. Couldn’t an intruder enter that way? She shivered involuntarily. She would make sure she closed the doors in future.

‘You are frowning, Miss Hunt.’ Mazzaro reached for his sticks and got to his feet again, and Suzanne had to steel herself to remain where she was. ‘Are you perhaps concerned about something?’

Suzanne bit her lip. Here was her chance again. Was she to let it slip a second time. ‘I—I was wondering what—what would happen if some member of the—household happened to forget about the alarm system and—and stepped outside?’

Mazzaro came round the desk towards her, his eyes disturbingly intent. ‘You mean, as you did last night, Miss Hunt?’ he queried softly, and she gazed up at him in dismay, the initiative taken out of her grasp.

‘You—you know?’ she stammered.

‘That you were walking on your balcony at two o’clock this morning? Yes, I know, Miss Hunt.’

Suzanne could feel the back of her neck growing damp. ‘But then—you must know that I—that I—’

‘—saw me walking without these?’ He lifted one of the sticks from the floor. ‘Yes, Miss Hunt.’

Suzanne wished she could get up, but to do so would bring her that much closer to Mazzaro di Falcone, and right now he was quite close enough. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ she murmured faintly.

‘No.’ He inclined his head. ‘How could you?’

‘Don’t you need those sticks at all?’ she cried.

‘Not now. Not really. Although there are occasions when I am tired and walking is an effort.’

Suzanne pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘But—don’t you care that I know? Why did you let me see?’

He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t deliberate. The alarm sounded on the panel beside my bed. I had stepped into the courtyard before I realised what it must be. After that, I had to reassure myself.’

‘But if it had been burglars!’ she protested, and he half smiled.

‘Your concern is touching, Miss Hunt, but I was armed.’

Her skin prickled. ‘You don’t want me to—to tell Pietro?’

‘I can’t stop you from doing so.’

‘But why haven’t you done so yourself? Surely your wife would be delight—’

But something in his sudden stiffening made her realise she had gone too far. ‘My wife’s feelings need not concern you, Miss Hunt,’ he stated harshly, moving away from her again. He had not straightened or attempted to walk without the aid of the sticks, and the ridiculous notion came to her that whatever he said she had imagined the whole thing.

‘Would—would you rather I kept this knowledge to myself, then?’ she probed, as he halted by the long windows, his back towards her.

He was silent for so long, she had begun to think he could not have heard her, when he said quietly: ‘Let us say I have my reasons for remaining silent at this time, Miss Hunt. However, if you feel you cannot keep my secret, I will not reproach you for it.’

Suzanne pushed back her chair and got to her feet, linking her fingers tightly together. ‘Why did you send me the rose, signore?’ she ventured, finding the question easier than she had expected.

He turned then, more lithely than he could have done had the sticks been needed, and surveyed her with a wryly mocking amusement. ‘Of course. It was presumptuous of me, was it not?’ he conceded. ‘That a man like myself should overstep the bounds of his limitations and show himself vulnerable to admiration for a beautiful woman!’

Suzanne took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I may be disabled, Miss Hunt, but I am not blind. And besides, I wanted us to have this talk, which has proved most satisfactory, I think.’

‘But …’ Suzanne hesitated. ‘What has your—appearance to do with whether or not you sent me a rose?’

Mazzaro’s expression hardened. ‘Please do not insult me by pretending naïveté,’ he retorted stiffly.

Suzanne sighed. ‘I’m sorry if you think I was being insulting. I just don’t happen to see the connection between the two.’ She paused. ‘I don’t believe that a person’s appearance has a great deal of bearing on their personality.’

‘Your inexperience is showing, Miss Hunt,’ he returned cynically, but his features were less severe. ‘You will find that appearances count for a lot. A beautiful woman has the confidence that a less favoured contemporary has not. Looks frequently determine an individual’s course in life, and those less fortunate often become morose and bitter.’ He shrugged eloquently. ‘Like roses, we are judged on our overall composition, no?’

‘No!’ Suzanne was vehement. ‘You are not morose and bitter!’

‘And you think I should be?’

‘No!’ Too late, she had realised what she was saying. ‘I—I should feel sorry for someone who—who deserved—’

‘Pity?’ He inserted, as she hesitated once more. ‘But you don’t think I deserve pity, is that it?’

Suzanne looked across at him uncertainly, aware of the cleft stick into which he had steered her. ‘No,’ she said at last, slowly and distinctly. ‘I don’t feel sorry for you, Count di Falcone.’

There was a moment’s silence, and her conscience pricked her. Had she been unnecessarily harsh? Had he taken offence at her clumsily-worded beliefs?

‘Very well, Miss Hunt,’ he said finally, moving to prop himself against the side of his desk. He shifted both sticks into one hand and raked long fingers through the thick vitality of his hair. The action parted the collar of his shirt, revealing more of the savage scarring. ‘So now we know where we stand, do we not?’

Suzanne’s tangled emotions made it difficult for her to reply. She had the feeling that something was happening to her here, over which she had no control. It was as if she was seeing herself through a glass screen, aware of the dangers of becoming involved with this man, but unable to reach out and prevent the inevitable happening …




CHAPTER THREE (#u9a202efb-3b62-5954-aadd-72b753994b54)


THE SUDDEN OPENING of the door was both a relief and an intrusion.

Suzanne turned away from the man as his daughter came into the room, pale and foreign-looking in her neat silk dress, a wide-brimmed bonnet dangling by its ribbons from her hand.

‘Papà—’ she was beginning, only to halt uncertainly at the sight of Suzanne standing uncomfortably in the middle of the floor.

Mazzaro transferred the sticks to his hands, and straightened away from the desk, achieving his usual posture as Lucia followed the child into the room.

‘Elena!’ she scolded in Italian, ‘how many times have I told you not to enter your father’s study without first knocking? Signore—’

‘That is all right, Lucia.’ Mazzaro shook his head at the elderly servant. ‘You may leave us. I gather my aunt is home from church.’

‘Yes, signore.’ Lucia nodded, flicking a quick glance at Suzanne and away again. ‘You would like more coffee?’

‘Thank you, no, Lucia,’ Mazzaro declined, and with a reluctant bob, she left them.

Elena stood just inside the doorway, twisting the brim of her bonnet round and round in her hands, and Suzanne wished she could think of something to say to the child. It was obvious she was ill at ease, but whether that was wholly to do with Suzanne’s presence, or in part due to her father’s expected censure, she could not be sure.

‘Have you been introduced to Miss Hunt, Elena?’ Mazzaro spoke in English as the door closed, and the child stole a dark-eyed glance at Suzanne. But she did not reply.

‘Elena and I introduced ourselves yesterday evening.’ Suzanne felt obliged to speak. ‘Didn’t we, Elena?’

Still the child remained silent, swinging her hat against the full skirt of her dress, scuffing her toes against each other.

‘Elena!’




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