When the Siren Calls (16 page)

“But that’s not a reason to do it, not after everything.” Andy grew stronger and stronger, knowing his feelings as they materialised into sentences before him.

“We’ve known each other a long time, Andy.”

It seemed to Andy that for the past year he’d had to vet every sentence that came from Jay’s mouth, he was like a siren: beguiling, deceptive, maddening. But he wanted to believe this was sincerity, and he saw a new light in Jay’s eyes that seemed to prove it.

“Spare me the old soldier routine. I’ll think about how to get to Epstein, but no promises. That’s the best I can offer. But if I find out you’ve not been playing straight with me, well, then I guess you can figure out the rest.”Eighteen

As Peter and Isobel approached the village of Capadelli it felt as if they were driving on the very edge of the earth. All signs of modernity seemed to have vanished as they wended their way across the very spine of the hill, a steep drop to either side giving breathtaking views across the countryside and into the valley below, its parched greenery broken only by the unnatural lines of the vineyards that snaked their way across the landscape.

Capadelli itself was simple and sleepy, a picturesque example of rural Tuscany at its most authentic. The only signs of life were cats draped over the dusty sunlit walls and a cluster of men, their working days far behind them, drinking espresso and idling the afternoon away.

As they left the village, Castello di Capadelli was visible before them, looming grandly above the settlement. The immediate impression was striking; large and intricately wrought iron gates opened up onto a tree-lined avenue that created a canopy of colour as shafts of sunlight streamed through the branches. At the end of the path, framed proudly by the branches of the trees, stood an imposing country mansion — the Villa Magda — majestically situated with the Apennine Mountains as its backdrop.

“Well at least the location is up to expectations,” said Peter as he peered down the driveway.

“It’s enchanting,” said Isobel, ignoring his cynicism.

“Ok, well, let’s say so far so good.”

They stepped out of their car and were met by a glamorous young Italian woman elegantly dressed in a black trouser suit. She introduced herself as Gina and her companion, an athletic looking young man in a buttoned black jacket with lapels, as Paco, who would be taking their bags and parking their car.

“You will be staying in the Villa Magda,” Gina announced as she ushered them to an electric golf buggy. “I will show you to your suite and you will have half an hour or so to freshen up before a tour of Castello di Capadelli.”

Even Peter was rendered speechless by the splendour of the building’s interior; the rooms they walked through were majestic, characterised by high vaulted ceilings and lavishly frescoed walls.

The suite itself was palatial; furnished and decorated in opulent style with the sort of sumptuously upholstered chairs and sofas more commonly seen in English stately homes. Cream-coloured concertina style curtains hung either side of eight foot glass doors, which provided an uninterrupted view across the gardens and down into the valley.

“I hope your stay here will be a pleasant one,” Gina said with a smile. “I’ll be back later to introduce you to Mr. Devlin.” She closed the door gently and Isobel watched her through the window as she made her way back to reception, sharing her beauty and grace with the tall bending trees and the insects that danced on the air.

Isobel kicked off her shoes in contentment and settled down on the magnificent four-poster that formed the centrepiece of the bedroom.

“Well, Peter, now you’ve seen something of the place, how do you feel?”

“It’s a bit early to be giving a summing up. A great spot, that’s for sure, and everything seems very professionally done.”

Isobel ran her hand across the Egyptian cotton sheets. “Nice bedding. And did you notice the Armani toiletries in the bathroom? And I believe I saw a bottle of champagne for us in the lounge.”

“Champagne it is,” confirmed Peter after an investigative foray back into the lounge. “No everyday prosecco here, it seems.” He picked up the note beside the champagne bucket. “And complimentary too. The card here says we are invited to dinner at eight in the Il Paradiso restaurant. Guests of Mr. Jay Brooke.”

Isobel arose from the bed to join him in the lounge, struggling to control her heart as trepidation took hold. She studied the card; dinner with Mr. Brooke, that was something she hadn’t expected.

“Signed personally too,” pointed out Peter. “I guess he thinks we are VIP guests then.”

“Well, nothing wrong with being treated well. If only every hotel we stayed in tried this hard.”

“True. But then again, how many hotels do we go to where they want us to buy the room we’re staying in?”

For what seemed the millionth time that day, Isobel begrudged him his cynicism. “Well, I’m going to go freshen up. If they think we are VIP’s then we may as well look the part.”

Mr. Devlin was proving a charming and likeable host. Within moments of making Peter and Isobel’s acquaintance he ushered them from their rooms and into the pleasant afternoon sun, chatting away like a born entertainer. As he did so he told them of the history of Castello di Capadelli, and how it was originally the ancestral home of the Visconti family, who were once lord and master of everything as far as the eye could see. “We have of course retained as much of the authenticity as possible, which naturally was a condition of being granted planning permission, and we have worked closely with the Italian arts authorities in the painstaking renovation of the buildings.”

“Yes, we have been admiring the beautiful frescos,” said Isobel, thoughts of an art career that might have been surfacing in her memory, as Peter knitted his brow and Eamon broadened his smile.

“It is such a glorious afternoon I’d like to take you around the resort and perhaps bring some of what you saw back in Cobham to life. Then we can spend some time discussing the different investment opportunities while watching the sunset and enjoying a cocktail. And at some point I have asked Gina,” he gestured behind him to where Gina was standing with a stack of papers and brochures in hand, “to share with you the various activities and interests we are able to offer: Italian lessons, cooking classes, wine tasting and much, much more.”

“I noticed you offer horse riding. I will be very interested to hear more about that,” said Isobel as Peter frowned. “And I’d very much like to see the riding facilities.”

Eamon gulped. “Well, I must leave that to Gina, but what type of horse-riding are you interested in? Your standard may be too advanced for the modest offerings we have here.”

Isobel could not resist the temptation to reveal more of her interest and aptitude than was strictly necessary. “I used to ride competitively when I was younger, Hickstead, that sort of thing. But I gave up shows a long time ago. You really need to be dedicated. Now we just keep a few horses for pleasure, gentle strolls with friends around the farm. Nothing too ambitious…” She tailed off, Peter’s increasingly contracting eyebrows warning her she was revealing too much.

“Horse riding is something we see as one of the great pleasures to be enjoyed at Castello di Capadelli,” said Eamon, sharing Isobel’s enthusiasm. “The riding trails are as good as any around Killarney, and have varying levels of challenge, particularly for novices. But for an experienced rider like yourself they are an absolute treat, as Gina will be explaining later.” He looked at the girl intently as he emphasised her name. She smiled apologetically and hurried off, the dust rising in clouds around her heels as she did so.

Eamon took his guests round the development, pointing out detail after detail on the numerous and magnificent buildings which lined the pathways; each was a work of art with windows covered by stonework lattices and glass entrances secreted behind heavy wooden doors with elaborate iron hinges. He stopped at a limestone building with flaking walls and great wooden doors with a heavy padlock; only the stained glass windows, some cracked and broken, spoke of a more illustrious past.

“You noticed the church as you approached the entrance, I am sure. Well, here we are blessed with our own chapel. Next time you visit we will be able to see inside and, once it is fully renovated and re-consecrated of course, we will be able to host weddings right here. The perfect setting in which to exchange vows…or reaffirm them,” said Eamon with a mischievous smile. Isobel couldn’t stop herself squeezing Peter’s hand, so lost was she in the romance of it all.

“What is over there?” she asked, pointing to an arched trellis with red and white bougainvillea adorning the latticework.

“Ah,” said Eamon, “that is our modest vineyard. More a retreat than a serious attempt at viticulture, but I must confess one of my favourite spots.” He beckoned them to follow and the three stood under the bougainvillea as Eamon motioned around. “Beautiful isn’t it?”

Isobel skipped over to a weathered wooden bench that was strategically positioned to catch the sun, took a seat, and kicked up her heels in pleasure.

“It’s just so quiet, so peaceful, so romantic,” said Isobel, looking up to seek Peter’s affirmation, but meeting only a look of incredulity at her girlish naivety. She pushed herself up off the bench, crestfallen at his total lack of connection with the inexplicable sensuality of the hideaway.

After an hour of demonstrating beauty upon beauty, Eamon signalled that the tour had run its course, and that real selling was about to start. “All that lies between now and a well-deserved cocktail is a view of a selection of the apartments we have here at Capadelli. I trust they will meet your expectations.

“What I really want to show you is apartment sixty nine,” he confided as they exited the vineyard. “It’s a great example of one of the best we can offer in the two-bedroom category. But just to manage your expectations, this particular apartment is sold, and the owner, Mrs. Carragher, is on site today, but she has kindly agreed we can show the apartment. Between you and me, I think she is very proud of it,” he whispered.

A woman with perfect teeth and a penchant for brightly coloured eye shadow opened the apartment door and Eamon offered his apologies for the disturbance. But she brushed his niceties aside with a wave of a ringless hand and beckoned them inside, her advanced age — Isobel guessed her to be at least seventy — tempered with a disarming smile and a soft West Country accent.

“Don’t worry about me,” she reassured Peter and Isobel, “I am just enjoying a good book and a glass of prosecco. A bit early I know, but I blame Eamon.” She shot a disapproving look in his direction. “I always find he has left a bottle waiting for me in the fridge.”

“Away with you now, Eileen,” said Eamon, exaggerating his broad Dublin accent, “the prosecco is meant purely for medicinal purposes.”

She laughed and turned back to Peter and Isobel. “I would advise you not to believe everything Eamon tells you.” And with that she returned to the easy chair by the large open window, through which the late afternoon sun was streaming. Just as she was settling herself down, a brash looking book with a leopard print cover in hand, Eamon’s phone rang. The Irishman looked somewhat ruffled. “Excuse me while I pop out into the hall for a second to take this, I will be just a moment.”

He shut the door behind him, leaving Peter and Isobel staring out over the valley, not wanting to interrupt their host’s reading with questions or disturb her with their own conversation.

“That Eamon, he is such an old rogue,” said Eileen, breaking the silence as if it was too much for her. “I expect he told you that this was my apartment, didn’t he?”

Isobel turned to her husband and saw exactly what she expected, that horrible knowing glance that said, ‘I told you so.’

“So you are a rental guest then?” asked Isobel diplomatically.

“You might say that, I suppose. But the apartment is actually owned by my son, Roger; he bought it as a present for me after my husband died last year. He keeps it in his name for tax purposes or something I think.”

Isobel looked at Peter in triumph.

“Probably to avoid imminent death duties,” Peter muttered under his breath as he stared out the window. Isobel pinched him hard on the back of his arm whilst assuming a sympathetic countenance. “Sorry to hear about your husband.”

“No need for that, I was glad to be rid of the skinflint. If it had been left to him I’d be in some home for geriatrics in Truro by now, waiting for the call from above, not frolicking here in Tuscany.”

“So you like it here?” enquired Isobel.

“Oh, much more than that. It’s like I have a new lease of life. Last summer I came out here as often as I could; it’s the perfect place to relax and get away from all those tourists in Devon. And now I even speak a bit of Italian, enough to get by that is, thanks to the classes Gina runs.”

“And your son uses it too?” asked Peter.

“Only when I let him,” said the older lady. “He tells me it’s the best investment he’s made in years, so I reckon he’s not doing too badly out of it. Pity for him is I love it here so much I now think I might be around for a lot longer than he thought I would when he bought it.”

“It is certainly a beautiful apartment, and very tastefully decorated too,” said Isobel, keen to avoid any further talk of death.

“Oh, thank you so much. But I’m afraid I have Eamon to thank for that. Roger wanted to be part of Eamon’s rental scheme. I think he was worried that if he didn’t join it I might take root here for good. So all the furnishings are Eamon’s work; at least that is what he tells me, but I’ve a suspicion it might well be Gina that chose the furnishings. Are you thinking of buying here too?”