The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding Page 6

  She had seen the mansion and its perfect reflection a thousand times on supermarket shelves and in her own kitchen cabinet. It was featured on colorful metallic labels attached to millions upon millions of bottles.

  “Villa De Frenza Olive Oil,” she murmured.

  The brand was august indeed, even historic, a recognized standard of quality the world over. It was no wonder Nicholas de Frenza had far-flung business contacts, a private jet, personal assistants at his beck and call and shining limousines that slid to a stop in front of him the moment he appeared. Also no mystery why the paparazzi were drawn to any hint of scandal or catastrophe attached to one who without doubt mingled with the rich, famous and titled of Europe.

  It wasn’t at all surprising that he had the influence to see to it Jonathan was charged with negligence, if not worse, in the accident that injured his sister.

  “Si?” Nicholas lifted a brow, his gaze intent and brooding as he studied her.

  “I didn’t realize,” she said, her voice defensive yet bemused. “Not until this moment.”

  “Evidently.”

  “I suppose the name — but it never occurred to me. I must not have been thinking straight. Besides, you can’t be the only de Frenza in Italy.”

  “By no means. Nor am I the only one that matters,” he answered, his voice dry. “I’d thought your brother would have made the connection for you.”

  “I told you it’s been weeks since I spoke to him. Apparently he was too caught up in getting to know your sister to have the time.”

  “As you say,” he agreed before turning his gaze to the window again.

  The car approached the house and pulled up on the graveled court that fronted it. The heavy entrance door swung open before the vehicle came to a complete stop. A large woman wearing a pristine white apron over her simple black dress hurried down the stone steps. She burst into speech before the driver could come around to open the door. Amanda feared for an instant that she was delivering bad new, but her eyes were bright and her voice carried nothing but pleasure at the return of Il Signor.

  Nicholas answered with composure as he left the car then turned to give Amanda his hand. She would have liked to refuse his offer of help, but had not quite mastered the art of climbing from a limousine with grace. Besides, she was oddly reluctant to embarrass him in front of what must be his housekeeper.

  “This is Erminia,” he said. “I called ahead to tell her you would be joining us. She will show you to the room she has made ready for you.” He turned to the housekeeper, continuing in Italian that had the sound of detailed instruction. The woman nodded her understand. Then her face dimmed with concern as she spoke again.

  “Erminia offers her condolences on the injury of your brother,” Nicholas translated. “Jonathan was here often while I was away, and seems to have earned a place in her good graces. He was even allowed to call her Minnie Mouse as a play upon her name. She will bring something to drink and a light snack, if it pleases you.”

  Minnie Mouse. That was so Jonathan, Amanda thought, even if the teasing name didn’t quite match the Italian housekeeper’s as Nicholas had given it. Scornful of formality when it seemed most required, effortlessly charming, her brother would have taken great pains to earn the approval of those important to the woman he loved.

  Amanda’s throat closed, making it impossible to speak, though she smiled at the housekeeper.

  “You will have time to rest before lunch is served on the terrace,” Nicholas continued. “Allora, you will go with her now.”

  What else was there to do? Amanda thanked him politely and entered Villa de Frenza in Erminia’s wake.

  The house was dim and cool inside, smelling faintly of ancient wood and antique carpets, lemon oil furniture polish and the ghosts of a thousand bouquets. Walls of cream plaster were hung with portraits and tapestries, and colorful Olympian figures drifted about overhead inside an egg-shaped dome. More of the same was revealed through a series of doors on either side, while a double staircase of white marble mounted at the rear.

  Grand though it undoubtedly was, the villa had a lived-in feeling, a certain genteel lack of perfection that was oddly comforting. With its obvious immunity to change or modern decorating trends, it reminded Amanda of old Southern plantation houses she’d see on home tours.

  She smiled with weary pleasure at the room she was shown into for her stay. It was of a piece with the rest, having only a bit more modern influence in its color scheme of golden beige highlighted with various shades of blue. The space was cavernous, as large as her entire apartment, and included in its furnishings a huge antique wardrobe in place of a closet. The en suite bathroom was modern, however, with a walk-in shower and acres of mirrors.

  Erminia had brought up Amanda’s carryon bag, despite her protests that she could get it herself. Inside it was an extra blouse, a sleep shirt, a change or two of underclothing and minimal makeup, all she’d had time to gather during the brief stop at her apartment for her passport. At least it would allow her to freshen up a bit before lunch.

  She stood for long moments under a warm shower, allowing it to sluice away the faint hospital odor that clung to her, also to send some of her tension whirling down the drain. Afterward, she ate the toast, fruit and tea that Erminia brought and then the lay down on the cloud-soft bed with its smooth, thousand-count sheets.

  She closed her eyes but lay thinking, thinking in endless circles. She was far too keyed up to sleep, felt as if she might never sleep again. She gave up trying after a time, but only watched the gentle lift and fall of the curtains at the open windows, stared at the rolling acres of olive trees that shimmered in the sun, concealed and revealed by the movements of the pale silk gauze.

  Against her will, her thoughts went back to the kiss in the limo. She lifted her fingers to her lips, feeling their sensitivity as she relived the moment when Nicholas’s mouth had touched hers. Warm, sweet, electrifying, it had been like nothing she’d ever felt before. Her heartbeat had tripled, her breathing stopped and her brain shut down. All she had wanted was to be held closer and closer still. Stunned by disbelief and unreasoning need, she had let it happen without the least resistance, might have given him whatever he wanted if he hadn’t released her.

  She could still do that, or so he’d said. Surely he hadn’t meant it. Unless special guest privileges of that kind were common among wealthy Italians?

  No, she was being ridiculous. He’d achieved exactly what he intended, which was to stop her protests. He’d succeeded so well her face burned now to think of it.

  Fine. She was a guest at Villa de Frenza. She should be honored, was honored, really. It was a beautiful, historic mansion in the heart of Italy. She would probably look back on her time here with awe.

  But she was still going to find a hotel the first chance she got.

  Propelling herself from the bed with determination, she began to dress for lunch

  While she brushed her hair, applied lip gloss and a few strokes of mascara, she jotted down a few items she should have thrown into her travel bag but missed. She also noted the essentials necessary to round out her wardrobe. She would need several clothing changes, it seemed, whether she found a hotel or remained at the villa. After seeing Jonathan, she could not think she would be going home any time soon. He could not be moved because of his injuries, but she was certain he would not leave Carita until he knew she was going to be all right. No, and maybe not then.

  She had thought the housekeeper might come to show her the way to the terrace where the promised luncheon would be served. It was Nicholas who stood outside when she answered the quiet knock on her door.

  He had changed out of his suit. The expert cut and color of what he wore, the tobacco brown linen pants paired with a polo shirt two shades lighter, turned what should have been casual wear into a fashion statement. Or maybe it was the man who wore them, who could say?

  His gaze, brief and impersonal, skimmed over the fresh blouse she wore with the same sui
t skirt and plain low-heeled pumps. A frown settled between his dark brows.

  “Sorry if I’m not dressed for the occasion,” she said in answer to that implied criticism. “I was not allowed time to pack, if you will remember. But I’ve made a list of the things I’ll need while here.”

  “Permit me,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “I can do my own shopping, thank you.”

  “Don’t, please, turn this into another test of wills. I am not proposing to outfit you for my personal pleasure.”

  Hot color rose to her hairline at the idea of being dressed for his enjoyment. She wondered what he would choose for bedtime wear or if he would choose anything at all.

  No, she didn’t. She did not.

  “There will be no quarrel if you will allow me do my own shopping.”

  “But there is the difficulty. The villa is some distance from the stores. You will have to be driven to the better boutiques in Florence. If someone else chooses a few things for you, it will be less time wasted that could be spent with your brother. Besides, it’s what personal shoppers are for.”

  It made sense, particularly as she feared the transport mentioned might be the limo making a series of stops on the way to or from the hospital. The last thing she wanted was to search out what she needed while her host waited in a purring Mercedes at the curb or prowled up and down outside the dressing room door.

  “Oh, very well, but please tell the shopper I can only afford the basics and off the rack, no designer fashions.” Turning to the dressing table, she retrieved the list she’d made, added various sizes in a quick scribble, then walked back to slap it into his hand.

  “Bene,” he said with a smile that lighted the espresso darkness of his eyes with golden gleams. “Now we go to lunch.”

  Bene indeed, Amanda thought with a sigh of defeat, but was still aware of an odd lightness in her step as she walked beside him.

  The terrace lay at the rear of the house, a series of levels floored in black and white mosaics, and with wide steps marked by large vases overflowing with flowers. Below it was a garden that blended into the distant view of silver-gray olives and endless rows of grape vines backed by the blue-green line of the Ligurian Sea. The air smelled of sunshine, fresh herbs and flowers, also of warm, just-baked bread and the seafood salad Erminia was serving in pottery dishes so gorgeous they should be displayed as artwork.

  Three women sat waiting on the upper level, not far from the luncheon table beneath its bower of grape vines. The eldest was white-haired and elegant, with a fortune in pearls at her throat. The next was dark-haired, dark-eyed, voluptuously rounded and beautifully groomed in a chic, middle-aged fashion. The third was younger, and sat half-hidden behind the other two.

  “Nonna — Grandmother — and Aunt Filomena, may I present our guest, Miss Amanda Davies.” Nicholas paused in this formal introduction while Amanda shook hands. Then he turned to draw the younger girl to her feet. “And this is Carisa.”

  Amanda drew a silent breath of surprise. Carita’s twin was pretty in a gentle, almost fragile manner, with a softly rounded body, fine textured hair that curled on the ends, childish mouth and sweet expression. She also carried upon her small features the unmistakable imprint of Down’s syndrome.

  Amanda glanced at Nicholas, but he was smiling down at his sister. His face held such warm and gentle affection that it made Amanda’s throat ache to see it.

  It was so unexpected, this accident of birth when everything about Nicholas de Frenza, from his looks and manner of dress to his home and lifestyle, were so near perfection, exactly as he’d decreed they should be arranged. The tragedy of it seemed doubly poignant now, while Carita lay in a hospital bed with a head injury from which she might or might not recover.

  Amanda summoned a smile, taking the girl’s small, soft hand in her own as she acknowledged the introduction. But Carisa, staring at her with downturned lips and hardly a blink of her colorless lashes, did not return her greeting.

  “Shall we?” Nicholas gave his hand to his grandmother to help her rise, and then walked beside her to seat her at the table.

  Amanda saw no need to wait, but pulled out her own chair and sat down. That independent gesture earned a quick frown from Nicholas, who had turned to seat her next as his guest. Swinging away, he saw his aunt and his sister into their chairs then took his place at the head of the table.

  The food was wonderful, fresh and savory. Amanda ate slowly, trying to find appetite for it. It wasn’t easy, considering the knot of nerves in her stomach.

  The others ate with every appearance of relaxed enjoyment of each other and the food. They talked non-stop, waving their forks and hands for emphasis, and leaning to include her in frequent asides. Now and then they offered some choice morsel to tempt her appetite, commenting upon it with gusto, or else pointed out some bird or feature on the horizon they thought might interest her. If a somber expression crossed their faces now and again, it soon passed. More than once, they leaned back in their chairs to gaze around them with contentment.

  A pottery jug of chilled white wine sat in front of Nicholas. He lifted it as the meal advanced, topping off everyone’s glass as a matter of course. He paused as he came to her full one.

  “You don’t care for the wine? You would prefer another vintage?”

  “No, no, I just don’t drink it.”

  He lifted a brow. “I noticed you left it untouched on the plane. You are perhaps allergic.”

  “By no means. It’s simply a choice.” The look she gave him held finality.

  “But it’s one of life’s rare pleasures, and has been proven to have benefits for the health.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “To have a glass or two is far better than taking tranquilizers.”

  “I am aware.”

  “Just a drop then?”

  Exasperation touched her that he felt it necessary to turn everything into a challenge, especially after accusing her of the same thing. “I don’t want it, all right?”

  “Possibly she is what they call in the States a teetotaler, Nico,” Aunt Filomena said, looking at Amanda with a charming smile. “This is the word, no?”

  “Yes, but that isn’t it,” she answered, aware that his grandmother and Carisa had also stopped eating to watch the by-play.

  “It’s an excellent vintage,” Nicholas coaxed, “made here at the villa from our own grapes.”

  She could feel her resolve slip a notch. That added fire to her resentment. “My mother died from mixing drugs and alcohol. I promised myself I would never chance—”

  “Ah, certo,” he interrupted, his face clearing. “Mi dispiace, I apologize.” Turning to Erminia who had emerged from the house with more bread, he ordered mineral water to be brought for her.

  “I’m sorry to be extra trouble,” she murmured in her turn. Nicholas de Frenza became more Italian when moved by emotion, she thought, whether anger, desire or, as now, chagrin. It was an interesting discovery.

  His grandmother leaned forward at that moment, asking a polite question that allowed the conversation to return to normal. Her English was polished yet formal, as if it had been learned at some finishing school decades ago. Aunt Filomena, by contrast, spoke with an American accent, one she had apparently gained in the States while married to her second husband — or was it her third? — who had been from California. She had apparently been unlucky in her marriages, though it was unclear whether death or divorce had ended them.

  Carisa did not join the conversation but watched closely, dividing her attention between Amanda and Nicholas for the most part. Now and then a small, secret smile touched her lips, as if she might comprehend a little more of what was being said than Nicholas or the others seemed to think.

  It was only as a pause came while Erminia cleared the table in preparation for dessert that the girl spoke up. Her voice was soft and engaging but carried an obvious question in its lilting syllables.

  “Carisa! If you please!” Aunt Filom
ena exclaimed. “Per piacere!”

  The girl stared at Nicholas, putting her question again in puzzled tones. After a moment, he gave a short laugh before answering in quiet reassurance, “Si, si, little one.”

  Carisa sprang to her feet with sudden joy in her face. She ran to fling her arms around his neck while glancing toward Amanda and then back again, chattering happily. In that flood of Italian, Amanda caught only a single word, one which sounded like bambino.

  Nicholas laughed again, returning the hug. Talking in low tones, he smoothed the girl’s shining hair as if to calm her exuberance.

  Nonna, smiling with a slight tremor at the corners of her mouth, reached to pat Carisa’s arm with caressing fingertips then indicated that she should return to her seat. At the same time, Aunt Filomena signaled to Erminia that she was to serve Carisa’s desert at once. When that was done, she slipped her own dolce of cake and nuts with sweet cream onto the girl’s plate.

  Obediently, Carisa seated herself once more and dug into the food in front of her. It seemed some small crisis had been averted.

  Amanda could not imagine anything too unusual had been said, still she was curious. She turned to Nicholas with a smile. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing of importance.” His voice was distant, dismissive.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He looked away, drew a controlled breath, then turned back again. “Carisa asked if you were a special lady, my fiancée.”

  Amanda’s heart somersaulted in her chest, while her stomach muscles clenched. Still it took less than a moment to realize Carisa could only suspect that state of affairs if she was unaware of the accident and Amanda’s connection to it. But what, then, had that been about a bambino? Everyone recognized the word for baby.

  “She doesn’t know I’m Jonathan’s sister.”

  “No.” He made a staying gesture with one hand, lowering his voice as he went on. “Please. I will explain later.”

  Carisa might have some small disability, but her understanding seemed more than adequate when people spoke to her directly. At least her lack of knowledge explained why no one had mentioned Carita or Jonathan since they’d sat down at the table.