Setting Him Free (14 page)

The first thing she noticed was the vehicle
sheltering under the vine-smothered pergola, its sleek red body an
incongruous splash of colour against the faded neglect of the
garden.

On quivering legs, Cristina crept forward for a
better view. A thread of smoke, caught by the sea-breeze, spiralled
from the centre of a neatly-raked heap of garden clippings. A pair
of tan boots lay discarded on the marble veranda.

Someone new was living in her house.

The silhouette of a man paced back and forth behind
the heavy lace curtains of the stone-mullioned window, a phone
clamped to his ear. Cristina didn't miss the unmistakeable note of
command in the voice that broke the quiet of the afternoon.

How many months had it been since Nonno Giuseppe
died? Three, four? How long since they'd carried him out and closed
up the family villa?

Sniffing the air, she caught the spicy scent of the
hand-made local sausage so beloved of the tourists who flooded the
island in high summer. The smell of freshly-brewed coffee and the
good local bread mingled with the faint tang of expensive
after-shave and new leather. After years of sadness, life was
returning to the old estate.

A tingle of excitement rippled her fur. Dario Denaro
visited so rarely, she barely recognised the man he'd become. Only
his voice told her the old patriarch's eldest grandson had finally
remembered the ancient villa that had formed part of his
considerable inheritance. He would be in his late thirties by now,
which meant that one woman, or even several may have already
ensnared him. Monied men rarely wanted for partners willing to
share their fortunes.

Please let him be unattached and in want of love. Or
at least in between wives, she prayed. And please let him remember
her.

A picture of Elena Marcante bumping up the mountain
road in her hired Fiat Cinquecento, windows down, copper curls
whipped to a mad tangle by the breeze, popped into her mind.

The timing was perfect, but the practicalities?
Cristina refused to waste time worrying about the chasm that still
divided Dario and Elena's families. Where love was concerned,
nothing was impossible. And, after five hundred years of failed
match-making, she had to admit to being more than a little
desperate.

Nothing less than the truest of love would lift this
curse she'd carried for half a millennium. All that stood in her
way was a feud that ran blood-deep. Two families divided by tragedy
and hate. And a gaping, open wound that refused to heal.

Okay, so no one said it would be easy.

Her most Royal Highness, the Princess Cristina of the
noble house of Denaro straightened her spine and reminded herself
that once nothing had been beyond her grasp. She had only to think
it and it was hers. Men had killed for a smile from her beautiful
lips. Defied their elders, betrayed their families.

One had even captured her heart.

A man whose passion had made her melt with desire.
The same man who'd cursed her to live as a humble, domestic
cat.

He might at least have turned me into a black cat,
she thought licking irritably at a spot on her usually-pristine
white paws. How like a man not to appreciate the difficulty of
keeping clean when forced to walk about on all fours. How like
Bernardo to think with his heart rather than his head.

Her vanity, his pride. A princess and a common
soldier. Not exactly a match blessed by the gods. But, after five
hundred years, they had both come to realise it was a love worth
fighting for.

Cristina's thoughts returned to the present. To
Singor Maserati and Singorina Fiat Cinquecento. Mr jet-set
lifestyle and miss unconventional.

While the man continued to bark orders into his
phone, she broke cover and quickly climbed the steps to the
veranda. Time to take a closer look at the man who might hold the
key to her prison.

Time to find out just how hard this was going to
be.

He should feel guilty for leaving it so long.

Dario paused to study the fading oil painting,
hanging in the formal dining room where it always had. As a child,
he'd hated sitting with his back to his unsmiling grandfather. The
eyes still seemed to follow him as he took inventory of the old
family villa.

The oldest of the family villas, he reminded himself.
And one neglected for far too long. How had he missed the
potential? The villa sat on the most exclusive enclave of the
island, which was itself a bolt-hole for Europe's rich and famous.
Unrivalled views, the privacy his clients' sought.

And built on the ruins of a royal palace.

He couldn't help a rueful smile. Gina, his second
wife had been a project in herself. The family jewels had never
glittered brighter than when laid against her flawless skin, or
when adorning her beautifully manicured hands.

Between the business and his movie-star wife, he'd
had no time to notice the old family patriarch, quietly fading away
in the place he loved most on Earth.

Dario pushed down the rising tide of irritation. When
had his grandfather ever lowered that stern mask of his? Showed
them a more human face than the ruthless man who'd made a fortune
by letting his head always rule his heart?

Dario rubbed absently at the nagging pain in his
thigh, remembering the argument he'd had with his mother over his
choice of university. The day he'd finally realised the family
owned him and any deviation would see him cut off and by himself.
Too cowardly to take the old man on, he'd meekly bowed to his
wishes. He was the old man's heir and one day everything would be
his. Then he would do as he damned well pleased.

Only life wasn't like that. Now fully at the helm of
Denaro Enterprises, with all its responsibility and wealth, Dario
sometimes felt just as trapped. Just as obligated to do what was
best for the business rather than for himself.

The fracture was healing well, but the question of a
limp still remained. With his grandfather dead and his latest
marriage over, it was time to take stock and see where his
thirty-nine years had taken him. Time to see if he couldn't inject
a little joy into this life of acquisition and gain, of false
smiles and yes-men.

Nonno Giuseppe would be moved to the study. He made a
note on his pad. Replace the portrait with one of the Hoppers or a
Picasso or two. Selling the world's most exclusive jewellery
demanded the venue spoke the language of those too rich to notice
the price-tag.

The New York apartment had proved a successful
testing ground for the idea of wining and dining a client for the
weekend while they perused the jewellery pieces and made their
choice. Perfect for the actors and rock stars only too happy to
parade their new bling for the tabloids. Similar plans were afoot
for the English country estate, where the old money would be more
likely to pay with an oil painting than hard cash.

And the island of Sorellina would be perfect for
those for whom absolute discretion was their first priority.

Dario lifted the faded lace curtain to study the
terrace and the view of the sea and the barely-visible Italian
mainland, shimmering in the morning mist. Only a short hop by
launch. The private jetty below the villa and the gravelled road
connecting it to the former royal palace would need updating. He
made more notes.

Former royal palace. That always looked good in a
sales pitch. A prince or two to go with that would have been even
better, but the family had lost their titles in the seventeenth
century in some dodgy deal with the Kingdom of Naples and never
regained them. Still, Europe didn't want for minor royals who would
be all too pleased to lend their kudos to proceedings, for a
fee.

The gardens, still tended by the same ancient
gardener, were a jungle, the marble terrace cracked with age. He
let the curtain drop. Nothing a large amount of money couldn't put
right. He winked at his grandfather's disapproving glare.

"Don't worry, Nonno, it will all be done in the best
of taste. Not even you would disapprove of what I have
planned."

"I would not be so sure of that."

Dario turned to the sound of the voice. "Ahh,
Mariella. You don't think it's about time this place saw some
life?"

Mariella moved to stand beside him, arms folded.
"Signor Giuseppe was from another time. He did not like
change."

"You're not kidding."

"Respect, Dario! Your nonno felt closer to his past,
here. That's why he left it as it is. Why he chose to die
here."

"Yes, I know. But don't judge me too harshly for what
I must do. The super-rich don't just stroll into stores for their
jewellery and this place is perfect for what I have in mind." Dario
sniffed theatrically, deftly changing the subject. "Is that the
Sorellina sausage I smell? Goodness, that takes me back to my
youth."

"What? You're old now? Dio mio!" Mariella threw up
her hands and then glanced at her watch. "I must take my grandson
to school so you will have to fend for yourself. Your breakfast is
in the kitchen and the coffee made. Just remember your nonno will
be watching your every move. And try not to burn the house down
while I'm away."

"As if I would." Dario tilted his head, giving her
his most winsome smile.

"You know that doesn't work on me," Mariella
returned, her wit still razor sharp. She touched him lightly on the
arm. "Dario, it is good to see you again. Though he did not show
it, your nonno grieved for the chasm that opened between you."

"We were all at fault, Mariella." The truth, so why
deny it? "I'm sorry it's too late to make things right."

"It's always too late, Dario. Remember that. But
unlike your dear papa, bless his soul, you were given a second
chance. Please be gentle with this old house. Take care to leave
its memories intact. There are ghosts here that must not be
disturbed."

Still the same old Mariella. Dario schooled his
features with difficulty as she shrugged into her black cardigan.
She would cross herself on the step, as she always did. Kiss her
fingers and touch them to the ancient stone gatepost on her way
out. Bless the bedrooms every time she cleaned them.

With Mariella around, what ghost would dare show its
face?

Okay, a more discrete painting for the dining room.
Weren't there a couple of Renoirs in the Venice palazzo? He made a
note to call the estate manager in the morning to find out if they
were still there or whether they'd found their way to his mother's
New York apartment like most of the other impressionists.

Mariella was right, the villa's charm lay in its
history. Use that as a starting point and fly in Genevieve and the
design team to make it all happen.

Or even do it himself? Take some time out to heal and
to think. To make a long overdue visit to the gold and obsidian
mines and see for himself why Mauro, the mine manager, had seen fit
to call him at three in the morning with reports of an exclusive
new find that was set to rival tanzanite in rarity if the first
reports were to be believed.

"Have you spoken to Signora Marcante yet about the
road?" Mariella reappeared tying a scarf under her chin. "You think
you can persuade her to sell with a smile? You know she still
hasn't forgiven you for breaking her window."

He laughed. "I was all of ten at the time. Not even
she could hold a grudge for that long."

"Don't underestimate these people. She would not sell
to your nonno, she will not sell to you."

"I need the access legal and clear, Mariella. I can't
bring the richest of the rich up from the harbour by donkey, now
can I? Nonno was too mean to offer her the market value, that's
all. I'll double it, triple it. She'll sell."

"We'll see. Don't burn the kitchen. I will be back
tomorrow."

"I'll try not to." He stooped and placed a quick kiss
on Mariella's cheek, now softened and sun-weathered with age. As
usual, she flapped him away with an irritable swish of her
hand.

"Thank you for tending to Nonno all these years. I'll
make sure you're well looked after, old friend."

"You will have no use for me, I suppose, when your
rich friends arrive."

"You will always have a place here." Mariella played
the martyr well, but she'd more than earned a good retirement.
"I'll buy you a new house," he said, pushing away yet another pang
of guilt. He couldn't see Mariella living easily with the
high-class catering team needed to serve the villa.

"I'll make sure you have a good pension."

"I have a house, Dario. You owe me nothing."

"I'll buy you one anyway. And pay your grandson
through school. You've more than earned it."

She treated him to one of her long-suffering sighs
before turning for the front doors. "Live with the house, first.
Listen and learn. It will tell you what it wants. It will tell you
what you want, too."