The Malaspiga Exit (25 page)

‘It is the most beautiful place I know,' he said. ‘I was planning to bring you here so we could share it. But not like this, not with anger between us.'

‘I'm not angry,' Katharine said. ‘You don't understand.'

‘No,' he admitted, ‘I don't. You say you don't feel anything for me; but when you kissed me you proved that was a lie. You think I'm just a callous Italian who humiliates his wife and makes a public show of his affairs?'

‘I think you treat her abominably,' Katharine said. ‘And I'm not in love with you, whatever you say.'

‘Then why won't you look at me when you say it?' He held her at arms' length. ‘Why are you afraid of me, Katerina—it isn't just Francesca. What is the real reason why you fight against me and yourself?' She was silent.

‘All right,' he said. ‘You won't answer. Very well.' He let her go and turned away, facing the magnificent view. ‘So we will talk about Francesca first. About my marriage and why our relationship is what it is.'

‘I don't want to hear,' Katharine said slowly. ‘I don't want to know.'

‘Because it helps you hide from the truth,' he said. ‘But I won't let you hide. You're going to hear about Francesca. You owe me that at least.' She looked at him and there was something in his face that she had never seen before. ‘Please,' he said. ‘Listen to me, and then judge.' She couldn't answer him; she only nodded. She had never imagined that someone so inherently proud could bring himself to plead.

‘I told you we were poor after the war,' he said. ‘I told you I married Francesca and that her money was a consideration. That offends you, because you're American, and marriages have to be made in Heaven, although most of them end in divorce after a few years. We're not a sentimental people, my darling. I knew my duty to my family and I chose a girl who had the right background and a personal estate which would help to restore ours. But I also loved her. I find it very difficult to admit that now, but at the time I did. She was beautiful; I've known many women who were more elegant, more sensually appealing. But she had this cool quality, this reserve. She reminded me of a Giotto painting, secretive and somehow out of reach. I wanted her very much. I wanted to be happy and have children and rebuild, with her beside me. I was thirty-five when I married her, and I had had a lot of women. I felt sure I could make her love me.'

A light breeze had sprung up, and the olive trees on the terraced slopes below were gently fluttering their feathery leaves. Katharine looked down, gripping the parapet.

‘She was a virgin,' Alessandro said. ‘I thought it would take time. I was patient. When I held her in my arms she shivered; for the first few days of our honeymoon she was in tears. When we went to America she pretended to be ill on the boat to keep me away. Something was wrong, but I didn't know what it was. I thought of myself as very sophisticated, but when I look back on it now, I was just a fool. I just thought she was afraid of sex. I didn't realize that she hated men.'

He paused; she saw him drop his cigarette on the ground and slowly tread it to pulp.

‘We stayed with the film star John Julius; I told you that. It was a relief to be with people. I thought it would help Francesca, amuse her. It didn't. She avoided me even more. There were parties given for us, a lot of interesting things to see. I hoped she would change. I wondered whether I was being soft and stupid with her. But when I saw the loathing in her eyes, how she would stiffen when I came near or tried to touch her … You would never understand what such a thing can do to a man. I think I could have compromised in some way, if I hadn't found out the truth,' he said. Now he was looking at Katharine and she saw the disgust in his face.

‘I found her with Julius's wife,' he said. ‘I went into the bedroom and saw them together. Naked. They were kissing, like lovers.'

‘Oh God,' Katharine said. The wind was rising, the trees below were swaying in agitation; she felt cold and sick.

‘I took her home,' he said. ‘I left her in Florence with my mother, who could never be told what had happened, and came to Malaspiga. My life was ruined. I was married to a lesbian; there was no divorce in Italy at that time and even if I tried to get the marriage annulled, the scandal would have killed my mother. I was helpless. I tried to make excuses for Francesca; the American woman was a very sophisticated degenerate. She had known how to seduce an inexperienced girl. It wasn't her fault. I said all the right things to myself and they didn't make any difference. I stayed at the Castle for some days. It was empty, Uncle Alfredo banished to the convent, the furniture gone, no servants, the village thought we had abandoned them and gone to live in Florence. Everything seemed to be over. And then I made up my mind. Fate, God, whatever name you like to give the force that rules our lives, had tried to give the Malaspigas a death-blow. I wasn't going to accept that.'

Looking at him, she saw the face of his ancestor, the ruthless prince of the Renaissance, defying all that God or man could do, cast forever by the genius of Bellini into a mask of pride.

‘I went back to Florence,' Malaspiga said, ‘determined on two things. I would have a child with this woman—a son—and I would see my family restored to everything which they had lost. No matter how I had to do it.'

He threw his arm round her suddenly, taking her by surprise. It was a hard grip which she couldn't have resisted. She felt him press her close against him and for a moment she closed her eyes, fighting with all her strength not to give in.
No matter how I had to do it
.

‘I forced her,' he said. ‘I was without pity. I had married for the normal reasons, now only one remained. I wanted a son. For a year we lived together like animals. I made love to her and I hated it as much as I hated myself for what I was doing. And then one night there was a change.' He looked at Katharine and then away. A nerve was jumping under the skin by the side of his mouth. ‘One night she showed me that she wanted me. She showed me passion; I don't think you will understand, but I was horrified, revolted. Love hadn't moved her, tenderness, consideration meant nothing. Force and humiliation were what had roused her; if she couldn't have a woman, then she wanted a brute. I couldn't touch her. She begged and pleaded, saying she loved me, that she'd do anything I wanted.

‘I rejected her. It was an opportunity to forgive, to arrive at some compromise where the marriage would have worked. I couldn't do it. I found out soon afterwards that she was unable to have children. The whole degrading episode had been for nothing.'

‘That's why she hates me so much.' Katharine said. ‘It's because she loves you.'

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘No, believe me. What she offered that night had nothing to do with love or loving. And whatever I did, she won in the end. I am the last of my line.'

They stood together, locked side by side. His hold seemed to be tighter as if he would never let her go. The sun was going down and a grey line showed on the horizon of the pinkish sky.

‘I built up my business,' he said. ‘I studied hard, I became an art expert, an authority on Italian furniture and bronzes. I worked like a dog, building a reputation, making contacts. Now I am a rich man. A very rich man.' His voice dropped a little. ‘Perhaps I have done things you wouldn't admire, my darling. Things which I may regret. But they had to be done. For seven hundred years the Malaspigas have been part of Tuscan life. They aren't going to die out with a whimper of self-pity. History can be my judge.'

He turned her to him and she made no resistance. Her arms went round his neck and her body fitted into his.

‘I love you,' he said at last. ‘We belong together. And you have told me that you love me, without any words.'

‘Take me back,' she said. ‘Please, Sandro.'

He brushed his fingers over her cheek. ‘Tears,' he said softly. ‘I'll make them tears of joy.'

The flight to Rome was an hour late; there was an agonizing delay over the airport due to stacking. Carpenter hadn't even dozed during the eight-hour flight. His mind was envisaging the problem, planning a single assault, unsupported by Interpol or the Italian authorities, upon Malaspiga Castle. He was not a man ruled by emotions. He seldom lost his temper or his sense of proportion. But he had made up his mind that if Katharine Dexter had disappeared from Malaspiga, he would kill the Duke. A month teaching her his own particular skills, days spent close to her, deliberately ignoring what was happening to him, his antipathy to her mission based solely on professional objections, and one night spent together. Now he no longer pretended. He had beaten Nathan like any precinct tough, defied Harper and walked out of his job to rescue her because he had fallen in love. There was a gun in his shoulder holster; going through security at Kennedy Airport he had shown his BNDD card, and they had cleared him before the other passengers. Rome; he saw the city swing out beneath the aircraft and then slide out of view as the jet banked for the turn and the run in.

Nathan. Nathan and Taylor. The whole rotten, crooked alliance had killed Firelli. He had gone out to Italy without a chance, because there was a spy in his own organization, who had sold him out. All the care, the preparation, had been for nothing. And the same was true for Katharine. The message had gone from Nathan to Taylor, and from Taylor to the Swede. They had many hours' start on him. He gripped the sides of his seat as they slid down the runway and then bumped once on landing. From Rome he had to catch a connecting flight to Pisa. He hurried off the plane, pushing against the stream of passengers. He showed his card and asked to go through without Customs clearance. A lieutenant in the
carabinieri
accompanied him. He went to the ticket office for the internal flight and asked when the next flight took off for Pisa. There was a delay while two of the assistants argued whether the next flight stopped at Pisa or went straight through to Milan. Finally they told him he would have to go to Milan and get a connection back to Pisa. He grabbed his one bag, cursed because it meant yet another few hours lost on the trip, and hurried off to board the plane. Milan, Pisa. Then by road to Malaspiga. If there were time he'd call Raphael from Milan airport. He could do with reinforcements. He might even hear that Katharine had been contacted and was out of danger. But he didn't dare to hope for that. He had an instinct trained by many years of hopes being disappointed. People in danger were seldom plucked to safety; miracles were only miracles because they never happened … In the plane he fell asleep for part of the flight, waking with a feeling of despair and rage just before they landed. At Milan airport a notice informed transit passengers that there was a fifty-minute delay on the connecting flight. He went to the telephone and dialled Raphael in Florence. The girl in his office answered and promised to deliver his message. Raphael, she said, had gone to Rome. No, the distant voice said, she couldn't give Signor Carpenter any information about Miss Dexter. Raphael was expected back next morning.

‘Tell him,' Frank said, slowly and carefully so that she couldn't misunderstand, ‘tell him that I've gone to Malaspiga. He can follow or not, as he likes.' He hung up and went outside to wait for the plane to Pisa airport. He could guess where Raphael had gone. It was Sunday. He couldn't get the authority necessary to force a way into Malaspiga Castle with a warrant until after the weekend. And that kind of authority didn't come from Florence. Raphael had gone to Rome. They must have crossed each other in the air. And that meant, without question, that Katharine had not been reached in time.

CHAPTER SIX

It was the hour before dinner and everyone had gone to their rooms. They had driven back from Monte Marcello in silence; several times during the journey he quietly pressed her hand, and once he kissed it, as they waited by the toll on the autostrada. It was the most intimate silence she had ever known, a communication deeper than words. She went upstairs to her room and closed the door. She saw her reflection in the mirror and was shocked. Her face was colourless, her lipstick gone, dark shadows under her eyes. The wind on the mountain at Monte Marcello had whipped her hair; she combed it, her hand unsteady.

She had had three love affairs; one lasting two years with a boy too young to marry her when they were both at college, and a brief and unhappy respite from nursing Peter, which was over after a few weeks, and the night spent with Frank Carpenter. She couldn't remember a moment with any one of them, when she had felt as she did in the arms of Alessandro di Malaspiga. She dropped the comb and turned away; she had cried in the grotto at Romani, and again on the ridge of that windswept hill. Now there were no tears left. He had wiped them away with his fingers, not understanding what they meant. Tears of joy, he had promised her, because he was thinking of the future. He had been happy, triumphant. She poured herself some water and sipped it slowly. She felt drained and weary.

She loved him. She faced the reality with a strange calmness. From the moment they met, the day she saw him in the long drawing room at the villa, something had sparked between them, some terrible chemistry had begun to work.

She had fought hard against it; Katharine gave herself credit for the struggle. Even though she had weakened in the early days, when Raphael told her the truth about her brother's death, she could protest that from that moment her purpose hadn't wavered. She had hated Alessandro di Malaspiga and feared him; nothing altered that. But now she knew she also loved him. Ruthless, a murderer, enriching himself by the most evil traffic in the world, responsible for the final extinction of hope for her brother. He talked of being judged by history. He spoke with the arrogance of a man who didn't accept the standards of common humanity. It wouldn't be history who passed sentence. It would be the woman who loved him. Whatever he was and whatever he had done, nothing could alter that love or change the consequences of it. The modern-minded, self-sufficient American girl who had left on Harper's mission had been taken over by another self, a stranger, with alien feelings and traditions that were very old.