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‘Thank you. No need for you to escort me, Lucia.’
She stuck to his side. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’
‘He called me, not you.’
She flashed him a resentful look. ‘I’m just as much family as you, Dante.’
She’d eavesdropped on the call. He kept walking, saying nothing for her to get her teeth into. They entered the villa, moving towards the atrium, a central gathering place that connected the wings spreading out from it and led to the front courtyard.
Frustrated by his silence, Lucia offered information to tempt some speculation. ‘A man came yesterday afternoon. He didn’t give a name. He brought a briefcase with him and had a private meeting with Nonno. It left Nonno looking even more ill. I’m worried about him.’
‘I’m sure you’re doing your best to brighten him up, Lucia,’ he said blandly.
‘If I know what the problem is…’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Don’t play dumb with me, Dante. You always have an idea.’ The bite in her voice softened to a sweet wheedle. ‘I just want to help. Whatever Nonno heard from that man yesterday has knocked the life out of him. It’s awful seeing him so sunk into himself.’
Bad news, Dante thought, steeling himself to deal with the fallout as best he could. ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Lucia. You’ll have to wait until Nonno chooses to reveal what’s on his mind.’
‘You’ll tell me after you’ve talked with him?’ she pressed.
He shrugged. ‘Depends on whether it’s confidential or not.’
‘I’m the one here looking after him. I need to know.’
His grandfather had a private nurse and a whole body of servants looking after him. He shot his cousin a mocking look. ‘You’re here looking after your own interests, Lucia. Let’s not pretend otherwise.’
‘Oh, you…you…’ Her mouth clamped down on whatever epithet she would have liked to fling at him.
It was clear to Dante she hated him for seeing through her artifices, always had, but open enmity was not her game.
‘I love Nonno and he loves me,’ she stated tightly. ‘You might do well to remember that, Dante.’
An empty threat, but it probably gave her some satisfaction to leave him with it. They’d reached the atrium and she sheered off to the right, probably heading for the main entertainment room from where she could view what went on in the courtyard, though she wouldn’t be able to hear what was said.
Dante continued on, only pausing when he stepped outside, taking in the scene before announcing his arrival. His grandfather was resting in a well-cushioned chaise lounge, his face shaded by an umbrella, the rest of his brutally wasted body soaking up the natural warmth of the sun.
He wore navy silk pyjamas, their looseness emphasising rather than hiding the loss of his once powerful physique. His eyes were closed. Sunken cheeks made his cheekbones too prominent, his proud Roman nose too big, but there was still an indomitable air about his jutting chin. His skin had tanned, probably from many mornings spent like this. It made his thick, wavy hair look shockingly whiter.
The nurse sat on a chair beside him, ready to attend to his every need. She was reading a book. A pitcher of fruit juice and a set of glasses stood on a table within easy reach. Tubs of flowers provided pleasing cascades of colour, and the brilliant blue vista of sea and sky generated a peaceful ambience. But Dante knew the sense of peace had to be a lie. Something was wrong and he had to fix it.
His footsteps on the terrace flagstones as he moved forward alerted the nurse to his presence, and his grandfather’s eyelids snapped open. The nurse rose to her feet. His grandfather directed a dismissive wave at her and gestured for Dante to take the chair she had vacated. He didn’t speak until she had gone and his grandson was settled close to him. Greetings were unnecessary and any inquiry about his health was unwelcome, so Dante waited in silence to hear what he’d been summoned to hear.
‘I have kept many things from you, Dante. Private things, Personal things. Painful things.’ A rueful grimace expressed his grandfather’s reluctance to confide them. ‘Now is the time to tell you.’
‘As you wish, Nonno,’ Dante said quietly, not liking the all too evident distress.
The usually bright dark eyes were clouded as his grandfather bluntly stated, ‘Your grandmother, the only woman I ever really loved, my beautiful Isabella, died in this villa.’
His voice faltered, choked with emotion. Dante waited for him to recover, feeling oddly embarrassed by so much feeling, never openly expressed before. The only knowledge he’d had of his grandmother was the occasional reference in newspapers of Marco’s one and only wife having died of a drug overdose. It had happened before he was born, and when he’d queried the story, his grandfather had vehemently forbidden any further mention of it.
Dante had privately assumed he had felt some guilt over his wife’s untimely and scandalous death, but given she was the only woman he had ever really loved, perhaps there had been a deep and abiding grief that he couldn’t bear to touch upon. It did answer why Marco had chosen to die here, too.
A deep sigh ended in another grimace. ‘We had a third son.’
The missing Rossini ‘wild child’—another sensational story occasionally popping up in newspapers, full of lurid speculation about the rebellious black sheep who’d obviously refused to knuckle under to what Marco wanted of him, dropping completely out of his father’s world—speculation that was never answered by the Rossinis—a family skeleton kept so firmly in the cupboard, Dante’s curiosity about the uncle he’d never known had always been frustrated. His jerk of surprise at the totally unexpected opening of this door evoked a sharply dismissive gesture from his grandfather, demanding forebearance.
‘Just listen.’ The command held no patience for questions. ‘I banished Antonio from our lives. No one in the family was to even speak his name. Because of him, my Isabella died. He killed his mother, not deliberately, but he gave her the designer drug that led to her death. It was his fault and I couldn’t forgive him.’
Dante’s mind reeled with shock. It took him several moments to attach some current significance to the revelations of this traumatic family history. Had his exiled uncle resurfaced? Was this the problem?
‘He was the youngest of our four children. Your father, Alessandro—’ his grandfather sighed, shaking his head, still grieved by the loss of his eldest son ‘—he was my boy in every way. As you are, Dante.’
Yes, Dante thought. Even in looks, both he and his father had inherited Marco’s thick wavy hair, his deeply set dark-chocolate eyes, strong Roman nose, and the slight cleft centring their squarish chins.
‘Roberto…he was softer,’ his grandfather went on in a tone of rueful reminiscence. ‘It was obvious from early on he would not be a competitor like Alessandro, but he does well enough with his artistic talent. And Sophia, our first girl…we spoilt her, gave her too much, indulged her every whim. I cannot really blame her for the behaviour I now have to pay for. Then came Antonio…’
His eyes closed, as though the memory of his youngest son was still cloaked in darkness. It took a visible effort to speak of him. ‘He was a very bright child, mischievous, merry, given to creating amusing mayhem. He made us laugh. Isabella adored him. Of our four children, he looked most like her. He was…her joy.’
Dante heard the pain in every word and knew that Marco had shared his wife’s joy in the boy.
‘School was too easy for him. He wasn’t challenged enough. He looked for other excitement, adventures, parties, physical thrills, experimenting with drugs. I didn’t know about the drugs, but Isabella did. She kept it from me. When she died, Antonio confessed that she had been trying to make him stop and he had urged her to try the drug, to see for herself how marvellous it would make her feel and how completely harmless it was.’
His eyes opened and black derision flashed from them as he bitterly repeated, ‘Harmless…’
‘Tragic,’ Dante murmured, imagining the horror of discovering how his wife’s death had occurred, and the double grief his grandfather had suffered.
‘Antonio should have died, not my Isabella. So I made him dead as far as my world was concerned.’
Dante nodded sympathetic understanding. None of this had touched his life and he still felt somewhat stunned that so much had been kept totally suppressed by the family. No doubt it was a measure of his grandfather’s dominating and singularly ruthless power that not one word of the mother/son drug connection had leaked out, not privately nor publicly.
A mirthless little laugh gravelled from his grandfather’s throat. His eyes seemed to mock himself as he said, ‘I thought I might make peace with him. It’s bad enough for any man to have one son die before him. Losing Alessandro was…but at least I had you, my son’s son, filling that gap. Antonio was completely lost. And is completely lost. There can be no making peace with him.’
Dante frowned. ‘Do you mean…?’
‘I hired a firm of private investigators to find him, bring me news of the life he’d made for himself, information that would tell me if it was viable to set up a meeting between us. The owner of the firm called on me yesterday. Antonio and his wife died in a plane crash two years ago—a small private plane he was flying himself. Bad weather, pilot error…’
‘I’m sorry, Nonno.’
‘Too late for making peace,’ he muttered. ‘But he did leave a daughter, Dante. A daughter whom he named Isabella, after his mother, and I want you to fly to Australia and bring her here to me.’ His eyes suddenly blazed with a concentration of life. ‘I want you to do it, Dante, because I know you’ll do everything in your power to make her come with you. And there is so little time…’
‘Of course I’ll do it for you, Nonno. Do you know where she is?’
‘Sydney.’ His mouth twisted with irony. ‘She even works in the Venetian Forum we built there. You will have no trouble finding her.’ He leaned over, picked up a manila folder which was lying on the low table beside his chaise. ‘All the information you need is in here.’
He held it out and Dante took it.
‘Isabella Rossini…’ The name rolled off his grandfather’s tongue in a tone of deep longing. ‘BringAntonio’s daughter home to me, Dante. My Isabella would have wished it. Bring our grand-daughter home.…’
CHAPTER THREE
SATURDAY was always the best day for Jenny at the Venetian Forum. It had a carnival atmosphere with weekend crowds flocking to the morning markets set up on either side of the canal, staying on for lunch at the many restaurants bordering the main square. In their stroll around the stalls, people invariably paused to watch her drawing her charcoal portraits, many tempted to get one done of themselves or their children. She made enough money on Saturday to live on the entire week.
It was even better when it was sunny like today. Although it was only the beginning of September—the start of spring—it almost felt like summer, no clouds in the brilliant blue sky, no chilly wind, just lovely mild warmth that everyone could bask in while they looked at the marvellous array of Venetian masks, original jewellery, hand-painted scarves, individually blown-glass works of art—so many beautiful things to buy. The photographer was busy, too, taking shots of people on the Bridge of Sighs, or on their gondola rides. He wasn’t in competition with her. Hand-drawn portraits were different.
She finished one of a little boy, pocketed her fee from the pleased parents, then set herself up for the next subject in line, a giggly teenage girl who was pushed onto the posing chair by a couple of equally giggly girlfriends.
A really striking man stood to one side of them. Was he waiting his turn in the chair? Jenny hoped so. He had such a handsome face, framed by a luxuriant head of hair, many shades of brown—from caramel to dark chocolate—running through its gleaming thickness, and perfectly cut to show off its natural waves. It was a pity she couldn’t capture the colours in a charcoal portrait, but his face alone presented a fascinating challenge; the sharply angled arch of his eyebrows, the deeply set eyes, the strong lines of his nose and jaw with the intriguing contrast of rather full, sensual lips and a soft dimple centred at the base of his chin.
She kept sneaking glances at him as she sketched the girl’s portrait. He didn’t move away, apparently content to linger and observe her working. A very masculine man, she thought, taller than most and with a physique that seemed to radiate power.
He was dressed in expensive clothes, a good quality white shirt with a thin fawn stripe and well-cut fawn slacks. The fawn leather loafers on his feet looked like Italian designer shoes. A brown suede jacket was casually slung over one shoulder. She guessed his age at about thirty, mature enough to have made his mark in some successful business, and carrying the confidence of being able to achieve anything he wanted.
Definitely a class act, Jenny decided, and wondered if he was idling away some time before a luncheon date, probably at the most expensive restaurant in the forum. It was almost noon. She half-expected some beautiful woman to appear and pluck him away. Which would be disappointing, but people like him weren’t usually interested in posing for a street artist.
Gradually it sank in that he was studying her, not how she worked. It was weird, being made to feel an object of personal interest to this man. She caught his gaze roving around the chaotic volume of her dark curly hair, assessing the features of her face, which to her mind were totally unremarkable, skating down her loose black tunic and slacks to the shabby but comfortable black walking shoes she’d been wearing since breaking her ankle.
Hardly a bundle of style, she thought, wishing he’d stop making her self-conscious. She tried to block him out, concentrating on finishing the portrait of the teenager. Despite keeping her focus on her subject, her awareness of him did not go away. He remained a dominating presence on the periphery of her vision, moving purposefully to centre stage and taking the chair vacated by the teenager as the sale of the completed portrait was being transacted.
Jenny took a deep breath before resuming her own seat. Her nerves had gone all edgy, which was ridiculous. She’d wanted to draw this man, he was giving her the opportunity. Yet her hand was slightly tremulous as she picked up a fresh stick of charcoal, and the blank page on the easel suddenly seemed daunting. She had to steel herself to look directly at him. He smiled at her and her heart actually fluttered. The smile made him breathtakingly handsome.
‘Do you work here every day?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Wednesday to Sunday.’
‘Not enough people here on Monday and Tuesday?’
‘Those days are usually slow.’
He tilted his head, eyeing her curiously. ‘Do you like this kind of chancy existence?’
She instantly bridled at this personal probe. It smacked of a much superior existence, which he had probably enjoyed all his life. ‘Yes, I do. I don’t have to answer to anyone,’ she said pointedly.
‘You prefer to be independent.’
She frowned at his persistence. ‘Would you mind keeping still while I sketch?’
In short, shut up and stop disturbing me.
But he wasn’t about to take direction from her. He probably didn’t take direction from anyone.
‘I don’t want a still-life portrait,’ he said, smiling the heart-fluttering smile again. ‘Just capture what you can of me while we chat.’
Why did he want to chat?
He couldn’t be attracted to her. It made no sense that a man like him would take an interest in a woman so obviously beneath his status. Jenny forced herself to draw the outline of his head. Getting his hair right might help her with the more challenging task of capturing his face.
‘Have you always wanted to be an artist?’ he asked.
‘It’s the one thing I’m good at,’ she answered, feeling herself tense up at being subjected to more curiosity.
‘Do you do landscapes as well as portraits?’
‘Some.’
‘Do they sell?’
‘Some.’
‘Where might I buy one?’
‘At Circular Quay on Mondays and Tuesdays.’ She flashed him an ironic look. ‘I’m a street vendor and it’s tourist stuff—the harbour, the bridge, the opera house. I doubt you’d be interested in buying.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I think a name artist would be more your style.’
He didn’t rise to the note of derision in her voice, affably remarking, ‘You might make a name for yourself one day.’
‘And you want the pleasure of discovering me?’ she mocked, not believing it for a moment and feeling more and more uneasy about why he was engaging in this banter with her.
‘I’m here on a journey of discovery.’
The whimsical statement teased her into asking, ‘Where are you from?’
‘Italy.’
She studied his face; smooth olive skin, definitely a Roman nose, and that sensual mouth seemed to have Latin lover written all over it. His being Italian was not surprising. As she started sketching his features, she commented, ‘If you wanted a taste of Venice, surely it would have been much easier to go there.’
‘I know Venice very well. My mission is of a more personal nature.’
‘You want to find yourself?’ she tossed at him flippantly.
He laughed. It gave his striking face even more charismatic appeal. Jenny privately bet he was a devil with women and wished she could inject that appeal into his portrait, but the vibrant expression was gone before she could even begin to play with it on paper. The sparkle in his eyes gave way to a look of serious intent—a look that bored into her as though determined on penetrating any defensive layer she could put between them.
‘I came for you, Isabella.’
His soft and certain use of her friend’s name shocked her into staring at him. How could he know it? She signed her portraits Bella, not Isabella. Her mind reeled back over this whole strange encounter with him; the fact that he didn’t fit her kind of clientele, his too-acute observation of her, his curiosity about her work, the personal questions. A sense of danger clanged along her nerves. Was she about to be unmasked as a fraud?
No!
He thought she was Bella. Which meant he hadn’t known her friend. He must have got the name from one of the stall-holders who knew her as Isabella Rossini. Was he playing some supposedly seductive pick-up game with her? But why would he?
‘I beg your pardon!’ she said with as much indignation as she could muster, hating the idea of him digging for information about her, and thinking he could get some stupid advantage from it.
He gestured an apology. ‘Forgive me for not being more direct in my approach. The estrangement in our family makes for a difficult meeting and I hoped to ease into it. My name is Dante Rossini. I’m one of your cousins and I’m here to invite you back to Italy for a reunion with all your other relatives.’
