The Passionate Italian 11 DECEMBER EPUB (12 page)

Giovanni’s response to her pathetic attempt to seduce him had obviously been purely automatic. What he really wanted she couldn’t give him—trust—and he’d fallen out of love with her. Whatever his real purpose in bringing her to Italy had been, it hadn’t been to rekindle their relationship. That much was clear. She knew when she left it would be for good and he would not follow her again.

She flipped open her laptop and logged into the company’s security system. The sooner she’d finished gathering the evidence that would put Alberto away, the sooner she could leave.

She felt the storm’s heavy atmosphere all around her, isolating her from the world. Rain and wind battered her windows and darkness enveloped the palazzo. She’d never felt so alone.

It was past four in the morning before he saw the light dim from her window. He sat watching the nightlife high above Milan, aware of her working across the courtyard. He knew what she was doing. Working to forget. It was the one constant in her turbulent childhood—her studies, her work—the one thing on which she could rely. That was what she’d always done. He could read her like a book.

It was her lack of understanding of him that had always perplexed him. For someone so clever, so bright and so understanding in many ways, she didn’t know him. He turned away from the window and closed his eyes. Or she didn’t dare to know him. Opening up to someone made you vulnerable. He knew that. And she’d have to learn it if they were to be together. And they
would
be together.

Tomorrow. He’d show her tomorrow. He’d make her see.

“Come, I have something to show you.”

Rose looked up blinking at Giovanni, standing over the computer.

“I’m busy.”

“Firstly, it’s Sunday. Secondly you’ve not stopped all day and you were up most of the night working.”

“How did you know?” She looked around the office and blinked. It was empty. “Hey, where is everyone?”

“You must be the only person in Milan who doesn’t know that it’s the Festa del Naviglio today.”

“Ah,” she rubbed her eyes, smarting from working at the computer screen all day, “that’s why they all had urgent appointments. She looked back at the computer absently. “Look, here, Giovanni, I need to show you—”

“You can tell me as we walk.”

She raised her eyebrows and smiled at him. “We’re walking?”

“More surprised that we’re walking or that I’m forcing you to stop work?”

She laughed. “I don’t know. Both are pretty unusual.”

“I look after my staff. You should know that.”

“Right.” She dropped her pen and stood up and stretched. “So you do.” She turned to him suddenly, suspiciously. “But not usually at such a personal level. What are you up to?”

“Come with me and find out.”

“You’re taking me to the festival?”

“En route maybe. But it’s not our destination.”

He held the door open for her as she grabbed her bag and walked towards him.

“Umm. This is all very mysterious.” She narrowed her gaze as she brushed past him, trying to ignore the quickening of her breath as she came close. It was as if a flick switched deep inside whenever he was close. Pity it wasn’t reciprocated. She was only a staff member after all.

Once outside, Rose looked up at the soft blue sky of a beautiful June day—cleared by the storm of its heavy atmosphere—and breathed deeply.

“You were right,” she said slipping her hand through his proffered arm. “It’s good to be outside.”

As they fell into step, a warm glow—of being, in that moment, in the right place—enveloped her. If she had no future with him, now was enough. She looked up at his face, to fix it into her mind. The crisp clear light of the summer afternoon highlighted Giovanni’s handsome features. Olive skin, straight black hair that fell across dark brows, above eyes the color of heated caramel. Long cheek-bones swept more down than across, beneath which his skin was dark with late-afternoon stubble.
 

It was the face of a man unconcerned with his looks, unaware of their power—an intense man, with an almost permanent frown. And then there were his lips: narrow but beautifully shaped. The tension and passion were held in check by that mouth. Years before, his mouth had seemed fuller, more generous, more given to laughing, to hope.

His dark tailored suit clung to his tall frame in all the right places, perfectly reflecting his innate, effortless style. Unlike his colleagues, Giovanni always gave the impression of a corporate man by accident, under duress, unconsciously stylish. He would rather be elsewhere but was focused on what he had to do nevertheless.

He was her man. And that would never change. The effort in keeping her hand still on his arm was immense. She wondered if the need for him would ever diminish. Somehow she doubted it. They’d walked down the same street years ago and her feelings had intensified, if anything, since then.

She sighed.

“Why are you sighing?”

“A little wistful perhaps.”

“Wistful or nostalgic?”

“Ah, you remembered.” Her hand tightened, involuntarily, around his arm.
 

“Of course. This is the way we came when we first met.”

“I hardly noticed. I think I would have followed you anywhere.”

“That didn’t last.”

She chose to ignore the not-so-subtle barb.

“Anyway, where are we going? Same place?”

“No. The festival first—and then? Something different.”

“We’re going sight seeing? That really doesn’t sound like you.”

“I prefer to think of it as gazing upon immortality.”

“An art gallery then?”

“Why are you English so prosaic?”

“Please, no praise—it just comes naturally.”

“When you were last in Milan, we were both too busy to enjoy it. Last night you said you knew nothing of its treasures. It’s time to rectify that.”

“You’re educating me then.”

“No. You don’t need any more education. You’ve spent your whole life filling yourself with facts and figures and certificates. It’s time to look at the emotional side, the spiritual side of Milan.”

“What exactly are we going to see?”

“You will soon find out.”

He squeezed her arm gently to his side in a gesture of affection that disarmed her. She realized that she really didn’t care where he was taking her, so long as she was with him.

It wasn’t until several hours later that they’d emerged from Naviglio with its criss-cross of canals and carnival atmosphere. They’d eaten at an osterie serving delicious Lombard cuisine and been entertained by street performers and musicians. But then the sun had dipped behind a building and Giovanni had hailed a cab for the short ride to the Castello Sforzesco.

Despite it being a familiar landmark, Rose had never entered. She’d always been too busy to join the throngs of tourists to check out the treasures within. But today, with the sun lowering in the sky, the fountain spun its rainbows in the sky only for them. The festival had robbed the usual tourist attractions of their crowds, lending a quiet magic to the beautiful buildings.

“The Castello Sforzesco? Why here?”

“You’ll see.”

“Will we have time? It must be closing soon.”

“We’re only going to one room. It will not take long. The Sala degli Scarlioni.”

She looked up at the Filarete Tower that fronted the massive brick fortress.

“Not bad as ancestral homes go. Is that why you wanted to bring me here? To impress me?”

“It’s true it was originally built by my ancestors. But I doubt much is left from the fourteenth century. And I doubt such a thing will impress you. But I’m hoping what I will show you will.”

They walked in silence through the massive Piazza d’Armi past treasures—architectural and artistic—without stopping. Time seemed to stop as soon as they’d entered the building; the traffic was muffled and the outside world rolled away.

It was only when they entered a vast room, with red zigzag lines running around the top that Giovanni paused. He took hold of her hand and drew her directly to a small sculpture standing in an alcove.

“The Rondanini Pieta. Michelangelo’s final sculpture. He was working on it in the last weeks of his life—1564. What do you think?”

“It beautiful. And strange.”

She stood silent, looking at the statue, taking in the cool marble lines—its finished and unfinished qualities.
 

“It’s not his usual work, that much is true. It’s of the Virgin Mary mourning the dead body of Christ. She has her arms around him, holding him to her.”

She moved round to see the statue from the side. “But she looks like she’s the one needing the support. Look, it’s almost as if he’s propping her up. Don’t you think?” She turned to face him.

To her surprise he was watching her closely.
 

“I think you’re right. The divine Christ is also a broken man, supportive and yet needing support.”

“Well, I guess nobody’s perfect—even Christ.”

“Some might find your conclusion sacrilegious, cara. But, aesthetically? Esattamente. Nobody stands alone. Come, our excursion is over.”

They walked out into the Ducal Courtyard and back onto the streets of Milan. The peace and quiet of the Castello Sforzesco were gone and they were once again a part of the busyness of the world.
 

The peace may have disappeared and so, too, had some of the magic. But Giovanni’s message had been as clear as daylight. Told in his inimitable style.
 

He was asking her to trust him, to lean on him, to have faith in him.

There were a hundred reasons why she shouldn’t trust him and she would have given them to him if he’d simply asked her outright. But he was too clever for that. He wanted her to make an emotional choice, not a logical one.

The Palazzo was in darkness when they arrived back. Giovanni closed the front door behind them and flicked on the light switch.

“Drink?”

Rose nodded and they entered the formal salon. It wasn’t used often but was a beautiful room, particularly at that time of evening when the light was soft and mellow and played tricks on the ornate plasterwork, giving it a depth and mystery. She sat on an overstuffed chaise longue upholstered many decades before in a pale blue and eau de Nil chintz and ran her fingers over the faded silk, as exquisite as all the other furniture. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up in such surroundings.

He handed her a glass of dark red wine and settled in the seat opposite.

“Why are you smiling?”

“At this beauty. It’s all around you. I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like to grow up surrounded by such things.”

“It was magical. It was normal.”

“How can magic be normal?”

He shook his head and took a sip of wine.

“Come, there must have been moments of magic in your life?”

She shook her head. She couldn’t even bring herself to say it out loud.

“No fairies, no mermaids, no glittering mirage in which anything could exist, in which your imagination wasn’t limited?”

“An imagination was a dangerous thing to have in a council estate in east London. You had to have eyes in the back of your head. My mother believed magic came from a bottle of pills.” She shook her head again. “You’ve no idea, Giovanni.”
 

He frowned. “Everyone needs magic. I will show you some tomorrow.”

“Umm. It’s so easily conjured up, is it?”

“There is no conjuring involved. It is all around us.” He leant towards her and took both his hands in his. “You simply need showing.”

She smiled. He was as irresistible as he was unfathomable.

“How much longer, Rose?”

Distracted by the warmth of his hands on hers and the direction of her thoughts, it took her a minute to understand what he meant.

“How much longer,” he repeated, “before you have found the proof you need?”

“Oh!” She sat back, discomfited by the sudden change from personal to business. “Only a few days. I have most of it.”

“Ahh. It did not take so long to discover that Alberto is thieving from his own family?”

“No. He hadn’t covered his tracks well. I guess he thought his family would never investigate him.”

“And he’s right. I had an ulterior motive in taking it this far.”

“Your dislike of him?”

He grunted. “No, that was not enough. I have disliked him ever since he was a child and tore wings of butterflies.” He looked into the distance. “I could never imagine why he would want to do that.” Then he looked at her once more. “But then I could never understand him at all.”

“Why then?”

“I have my reasons.”

“And you don’t intend to tell me.”

He leaned towards her. “We may still be married in name, cara mia, but I do not, nor ever have, told you everything.”

“Secrets?”

“There is no harm in secrets, providing they are kept for good reason.”

His words brought hope to her heart.

She started forward. “You believe that?”

“Of course.”

“Even if it’s someone other than you with the secrets?”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

She hesitated. She wanted him to know everything but had no idea what his reaction would be. She risked everything in the telling.

The silence was broken by the massive seventeenth-century grandfather clock chiming the hour—two long, deep tones reverberated around the room. It was ten past nine. The grandfather clock was kept for aesthetic and sentimental reasons only. That was the thing about Giovanni. He had a passionate attachment to those things he loved. She just didn’t know whether she was one of those things any more.
 

“Giovanni? Tell me. Do you believe that Alberto was my lover?”

Silence lay heavy but Rose was determined not to break it.

“I don’t know. That is your secret.”

She could see the tension flicker in his face, in his body, in the way he held his glass of wine.

“Is it? You have never asked me the question directly so how do you know that I will not tell you the answer.”

“You will tell me what I wish to hear because you are not an unkind person.”

“You think I am kind, but a liar?”