Married Under The Italian Sun. Lucy Gordon

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      Dismayed, she knew the answer. In the eyes of the household, he was still the master.

      ‘So you will stay here and listen to me, and when I am quite sure that you have understood I will let you go.’

      ‘Then get it over with,’ she said through gritted teeth.

      ‘The first thing is this. You have accused me of being prepared to damage this place because of my contempt for you. I told you before, I put my life’s blood into the estate and hell will freeze over before I do anything to harm it. What you suggested would be an act of petty spite, and it’s an insult that I won’t tolerate.’

      ‘Then perhaps you should have heard yourself say it,’ she flung at him. ‘You were delighted to have caught me out. Admit it.’

      ‘Of course I admit it. But I didn’t catch you out. You caught yourself out, thinking you could come out here and take over when you know nothing. Your arrogance is unbelievable. That’s why they left, because they are knowledgeable men and they don’t sell their services to ignorance. Expecting them to do so was your insult to them. They wouldn’t tolerate it, and why should they? You think I drove them away? On the contrary, I begged them to stay. Not for you, but for the estate, for the earth and the things that grow here, that need tending and loving, and which are more important than their pride, or yours.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘Or mine.’

      The last words sounded as though they were wrenched out of him. For a moment his attention seemed to wander, as though he’d side-slipped into another world. Then he forced himself back with an effort.

      ‘Just so that you understand, I do not descend to acts of spite, and I won’t tolerate the way you just spoke to me. Don’t ever do it again or you’ll be sorry.’

      ‘And that’s supposed to make me hire you, is it? Threatening me?’

      ‘You need me, damn you.’

      ‘I don’t think so. You’ve got the thing you came to find, so now get out of here. Do you hear me? Get off my property.’

      Angel spoke bravely but her heart was hammering at what she could see in his face. For a moment she thought Vittorio would lose control, but at the very last second he mastered himself. A shudder went through him. His hands fell from the wall and he moved away from her. She had a strange feeling that his strength had suddenly drained away.

      ‘Your property,’ he said bitterly. ‘Yes, it’s your property now. I wish you joy of it.’

      ‘Liar!’ she flung at him in a shaking voice. ‘You wish me nothing but misfortune and misery.’

      ‘How astute of you!’

      ‘Get out of here now, and don’t come back.’

      He gave her one final look of hatred. Then he was gone.

      Angel had expected a disturbed night but, to her surprise, she slept like a log. The apparently hard mattress was the most comfortable she’d ever known.

      Awaking early, she found the room still in darkness, but with slivers of light creeping between the cracks in the shutters. Pushing one of them open, she saw the softly growing light of early dawn. Entranced, she watched the sea, so still that it had an unearthly quality.

      It was perfect, she thought, smiling.

      Almost perfect.

      The fly in the ointment was Vittorio Tazzini, a dangerous man who had taken against her in a way she didn’t understand. True, she owned the home that had once been his, but she hadn’t stolen it. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to sell, but had been forced to by debts. Even so, he must have money left over, enough not to have to dress in such a down-at-heel manner.

      He was a mystery, but one she didn’t intend to let worry her. She’d thrown him out. Now she must put him out of her mind. It should be simple enough.

      But it wasn’t; she knew that already. He had the kind of presence that wouldn’t be easily dismissed. He wasn’t handsome—well, not in the ordinary way, she corrected herself. His nose was too prominent, his mouth too grim, his cheeks too lean for conventional good looks. What he had was all his own, a kind of dark inner force, unforgiving, implacable. He would be a bad enemy.

      Yet she wasn’t afraid of him. Far from it. For years the men she’d met had been too much alike—smooth, full of glib talk and meaningless compliments, all seeming to come from the same insipid mould: photographers, television producers, minor actors, models, young men with little personality but the kind of regular features that passed for good looks, flashing cheesy smiles, always performing with one eye on her, the other on the camera, and their inner eye on the impression they were making.

      She’d almost forgotten what the genuine article was like until she’d been forcibly reminded by a man who smelled of the earth after rain, and had no pretty speeches, only a blunt ferocity that, however disagreeable, was, at least, honest. Their encounter had left her strangely exhilarated.

      By closing her eyes she could conjure him up again, leaning close, his hands pressed against the wall on either side of her. She knew he hadn’t touched her, not by so much as a fingertip. How, then, could she explain the sensation of his hands roving all over her? She could almost feel them now, yet it had all been in her mind.

      I’ve got to pull myself together, she thought, almost amused. If my life had been half as colourful as the press thought, I’d be handling this better.

      It was too soon to get up for the day. She went back to bed and fell asleep again, but this time she had strange dreams. Footsteps walked through her head, although she could see nobody. She heard the steps going away and knew that she must stop them or something terrible would happen. But, before she could do anything, she awoke.

      Breakfast was on a balcony overlooking the sea, a magic place where small birds came daringly close and even landed on her table, demanding crumbs. She became so entranced with them, and the sight of the impossibly tiny boats below, that she almost forgot to eat.

      Berta served her delicious coffee and rolls. At first she was reserved, as if her loyalty was still to Vittorio. But gradually she thawed under Angel’s determined friendliness.

      They spent the rest of the day exploring the house and Angel’s delight grew. She loved this place. She even loved its slight shabbiness, its lack of pretension.

      It had seen better days, as was shown by the light patches on the walls where pictures had been removed. The bathrooms were pure nineteenth century, with pipes that clanked but delivered gallons of hot water. She was entranced.

      ‘It was built four hundred years ago, for…’ Berta named a once notorious ducal family. ‘Their main residence was a palace, but this was created for a younger son, who brought his bride to live here. After that, it passed to a daughter, then to her daughter. It’s been several generations since anyone with a title lived here, but it’s been a happy family house.’

      It was on the tip of Angel’s tongue to ask why Vittorio had had to sell, but she stayed silent, feeling sure Berta would pass the question on to him. Hell would freeze over before she let him guess she was curious about him.

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