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Farelli's Wife
Lucy Gordon
Wanted: wife or mother?Joanne graciously stepped aside when Franco Farelli married her cousin four years before–her love for him kept a secret. Now Franco is a widower with an adorable little boy, Nico, and Joanne can't resist paying them a visit….Her heart leaps when she sees Franco again; the attraction between them is still as strong as ever. Franco begs her to stay with them, if only for Nico's sake. But Joanne needs to believe Franco's desire for her isn't because she resembles her cousin, but because he wants her for herself….KIDS & KISSESWhere kids and kisses go hand in hand
“I came to take you back.” (#u62f922b1-09d9-5149-a2eb-c82f1c542368)About the Author (#u89be6ba3-ea23-52cb-8a42-29a70b0f28aa)Title Page (#ua14b7c53-bbad-50f0-ad92-227b23f35690)Dedication (#ued7d4e32-b603-5e8d-b7a8-abd815d77598)PROLOGUE (#ucbca6e7c-f3c0-51a7-8f32-9c4e0bf25475)CHAPTER ONE (#u80664a49-5de0-5e60-9055-29aeeaf573d2)CHAPTER TWO (#u14fdc3f4-5ef0-5ff4-9a79-ec40481d0a8b)CHAPTER THREE (#u012ca361-6454-50c6-a4c3-da85fcf987cd)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I came to take you back.”
“I’m sorry you had a wasted journey, Franco,” she said firmly, “but I’m very busy for the next few days—”
“I told you I’d cleared it with your employers—”
“But you neglected to clear it with me. I do have some feelings.”
Franco gave Joanne a strange look, and she guessed he was remembering how she’d betrayed herself in his arms.
“I don’t ask for myself,” he said at last, “but for my son. You won Nico’s heart. Do I have to tell you how precious that is? Did you delight him only to amuse yourself, and to throw him aside when it suits you?”
“Of course not. That’s a wicked thing to say.”
“Then come back with me now. It will mean the world to him—and to me.”
Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences, which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met on vacation in Venice. They got engaged within two days, and have now been married for twenty-five years. They live in England, with their three dogs.
Farelli’s Wife
Lucy Gordon
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to Flump,
a loyal friend and a beautiful dog,
whose loss inspired the poem in the
last chapter.
PROLOGUE
THE headstone stood in the shadow of trees. A small stream rippled softly past, and flowers crept up to the foot of the white marble. The engraving said simply that here lay Rosemary Farelli, beloved wife of Franco Farelli, and mother of Nico. The inscription showed that she had died exactly a year ago, aged thirty-two, and with her, her unborn child.
There were other headstones in the Farelli burial plot, but only this one had a path worn right up to it, as though someone was drawn back here time and again, someone who had yet to come to, terms with the heartbreaking finality of that stone.
Three figures appeared through the little wood that surrounded the plot. The first was a middle-aged woman with a grim expression and upright carriage. Behind her came a man in his thirties, whose dark eyes held a terrible bleakness. One hand rested lightly on the shoulder of the little boy walking beside him, his hands full of wild flowers.
The woman approached the grave and stood regarding it for a moment. Her face was hard and expressionless. A stranger, coming upon the group, might have wondered if she’d felt any affection for the dead woman. At last she stood aside and the man stepped forward.
‘Let me take Nico home,’ she said. ‘This is no place for a child.’
The man’s face was dark. ‘He is Rosemary’s son. This is his right—and his mother’s.’
‘Franco, she’s dead.’
‘Not here.’ He touched his breast and spoke softly. ‘Not ever.’ He looked down at the child. ‘Are you ready, piccino?’
The little boy, as fair as his father was dark, looked up and nodded. He laid the flowers at the foot of the grave. ‘These are for you, Mama,’ he said.
When he stepped back his father’s hand rested again on his shoulder.
‘Well done,’ he said quietly to his son. ‘I’m proud of you. Now go home with your grandmama.’
‘Can’t I stay with you, Papa?’
Franco Farelli’s face was gentle. ‘Not now. I must be alone with your mother.’
He stood quite still until they had gone. Not until their footsteps faded into silence did he move towards the gravestone and kneel before it, whispering.
‘I brought our son to you, mi amore. See how he has grown, how strong and beautiful he is. Soon he will be seven years old. He hasn’t forgotten you. Every day we talk together about “Mama”. I’m raising him as you wished, to remember that he is English as well as Italian. He speaks his mother’s tongue as well as his father’s.’
His eyes darkened with pain. ‘He looks more like you every day. How can I bear that? This morning he turned to me with the smile that was yours, and it was as though you were there. But the next moment you died again, and my heart broke.
‘It is one year to the day since you died, and still the world is dark for me. When you left you took joy with you. I try to be a good father to our child, but my heart is with you, and my life is a desert.’
He reached out a hand to touch the unyielding marble. ‘Are you there, my beloved? Where have you gone? Why can I not find you?’
Suddenly his control broke. His fingers grasped the marble convulsively, his eyes closed and a cry of terrible anguish broke from him.
‘Come back to me! I can bear it no longer. For God’s sake, come back to me!’
CHAPTER ONE
IF JOANNE concentrated hard she could bring the brush down to the exact point, and turn it at the very last minute. It took great precision, but she’d rehearsed the movement often, and now she could do it right, every time.
The result was perfect, just as the whole picture was perfect—a perfect copy. The original was a little masterpiece. Beside it stood her own version, identical in every brush stroke. Except that she could only trudge slowly where genius had shown the way.
The dazzling afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows of the Villa Antonini showed Joanne how well she’d performed her allotted task, and how mediocre that task was.
‘Is it finished?’ Signor Vito Antonini had crept into the room and come to stand beside her. He was a tubby man in late middle age who’d made a huge fortune in engineering and was now enjoying spending it. He showered gifts on his plain little wife, whom he adored, and had bought her this luxurious villa on the outskirts of Turin.
Then he’d purchased some great paintings to adorn it. But because they were valuable the insurers had insisted that they should all be locked away in the bank, which wasn’t what he’d wanted at all. So he’d sent for Joanne Merton, who, at only twenty-seven, had a fast-rising reputation as a copyist, specializing in Italian paintings.
‘Your copies are so perfect that nobody will know the difference, signorina,’ he said now, gleefully.
‘I’m glad you’re satisfied with my work,’ Joanne said, with a smile. She liked the little man and his wife, who’d welcomed her into their home and treated her like an honoured guest
‘Do you think,’ he asked wistfully, ‘that we could put your pictures in the bank vaults and keep the originals on my walls?’
‘No,’ she said hastily. ‘Vito, I’m a copyist, not a forger. You know the condition of my work is that it’s never passed off as the original.’
Vito sighed, for he was a risk-taker, but just then his wife came into the room and Joanne appealed to her.
‘Cretino,’ she admonished her husband briskly. ‘You want this nice girl to go to gaol? Forget this silly idea and come and eat.’
‘More food?’ Joanne protested, laughing. ‘Are you trying to make me fat, Maria?’
‘I’m trying to stop you fading away,’ Maria said. ‘No girl should be as thin as you are.’
Joanne wasn’t really thin, but elegantly slim. She was fighting to stay that way, but Maria made it hard.
The table was groaning under the fruit of her labours: garlic bread and tomatoes, black olive pâté and fish soup, followed by rice and peas.
Despite her concern for her figure, Joanne couldn’t resist this mouth-watering repast. She’d loved Piedmont cooking since she was eighteen and had won a scholarship to study art in Italy. She’d been blissfully happy, tucking into the rich, spicy meals, or wandering through Turin, drunk on great paintings, dreaming that one day she would contribute to their number. And she’d fallen wildly, passionately in love with Franco Farelli.
She’d met him through his sister, Renata, an art student in the same class. They’d become good friends, and Renata had taken her home to meet her family, wine growers with huge vineyards just north of the little medieval town of Asti. Joanne had fallen in love with Isola Magia, the Farelli home, and been instantly at ease with the whole family: Giorgio, the big, booming papa who laughed a lot, and drank a lot and bawled a lot; Sophia, his wife, a sharp-faced, sharp-tempered woman who’d greeted Joanne with restraint, but made her welcome.
But from the moment she’d met Franco she’d known she’d come home in a totally different way. He’d been twenty-four, tall and long-boned, with a proud carriage that set him apart from other men. His height came from his father, a northern Italian. But his mother hailed from Naples down in the south, and from her he derived his swarthy looks, dark chocolate eyes and blue-black hair.
In other ways, too, he was an amalgam of north and south. He had Giorgio’s easygoing charm, but also Sophia’s volcanic temper and quick, killing rages. Joanne had seen that rage only once, when he’d found a young man viciously tormenting a dog. He’d knocked the lout down with one blow, and for a moment his eyes had contained murder.
He’d taken the dog home and tended it as gently as a woman, eagerly assisted by Renata and Joanne. That night the dog’s owner had returned with his two brothers, drunk and belligerent, demanding the return of their ‘property’. Joanne would never forget what had happened next.
Calmly Franco had taken out a wicked-looking stiletto, thrust the blade through some paper money and held it out to them.
‘This will pay for the dog,’ he’d said coldly. ‘Take it and never trouble me again.’
But the brothers hadn’t touched the money. Something they’d seen in Franco’s eyes had sent them fleeing out into the night, yammering with fear, never to return. The dog had been named Ruffo, and become his inseparable companion.
But such incidents had been rare. Franco had been more concerned with enjoying himself than fighting. For him there had always been a joke to be relished, a song to be sung, a girl to be wooed, and perhaps more than wooed, if she was willing. When he’d smiled his white teeth had gleamed against his tanned skin, and he’d seemed like a young god of the earth.
Until then Joanne hadn’t believed in love at first sight, but she’d known at once that she belonged to Franco, body and soul. Just looking at him had been able to make her flesh grow warmer, even in that fierce Italian heat. His smile had made her feel she were melting, and she would gladly have melted if, by doing so, she could have become a part of him.
His smile. She could see it now, slow and teasing, as though the world were his and he was wondering whom to share it with. And she knew, by instinct, what kind of a world it was: one of desire and satiation, of sinking his strong teeth into life’s delights while the pleasure overflowed, of heated taking and giving, living by the rhythms of the earth that received the seed so that there should be growing, reaping and growing again. She had known all this the first time she’d seen him, striding into the flagstoned kitchen and standing near the door, his black hair turned to blue by a shaft of light, calling, ‘Hey, Mama—’ in a ringing voice.
How could anyone resist that voice? It was rich with all the passion in the world, as though he’d made love to every woman he’d met. And Joanne, the girl from a cool, rainy country, had known in a blinding instant that he was her destiny.
Sadly, she had no illusions that she was his destiny. The estate was filled with lush virgins and ripe young matrons who sighed for him. She knew, because Renata had confided, between giggles, that Franco took his pleasures freely, wherever they might be found, to the outrage of his mother and the secret envy of his father.
But he had never even flirted with Joanne, treating her just as he had his sister, teasing her amiably before passing on his way, his exuberant laughter floating behind him. And her heart had been ready to burst with joy at his presence and despair at his indifference.
‘I couldn’t eat another thing,’ Joanne declared, regarding her clean plate.
‘But you must have some cream cheese and rum pudding,’ Maria said. ‘You’re working her too hard,’ she scolded her husband.
‘It’s not my fault,’ he protested. ‘I show her the pictures and say, “Work as you like,” and in a week she has finished the copy of the Carracci Madonna.’
‘Because she works too much,’ Maria insisted, slapping cream cheese on Joanne’s plate. ‘How many are still to do?’
‘Four,’ Joanne said. ‘Two more by Carracci, one Giotto and one Veronese. I’m saving the Veronese until last because it’s so large.’
‘I can’t believe that an English girl understands Italian paintings so well,’ Vito mused. ‘At the start I had the names of several Italians who do this work, but everyone said to me, “No, you must go to Signorina Merton, who is English, but has an Italian soul.” ’
‘I studied in Italy for a year,’ Joanne reminded him.
‘Only for a year? One would think you had lived here all your life. That must have been a wonderful year, for I think Italy entered deep into your heart..’
‘Yes,’ Joanne said slowly. ‘It did...’
Renata began inviting her every weekend and Joanne lived for these visits. Franco was always there because the vineyard was his life and he’d learned its management early. Despite his youth he was already taking the reins from his papa’s hands, and running the place better than Giorgio ever had.
Once Joanne managed to catch him among the vines when he was alone. He was feeling one bunch after another, his long, strong fingers squeezing them as tenderly as a lover. She smiled up at him. She was five feet nine inches, and Franco was one of the few men tall enough to make her look up.
‘I came out for some fresh air,’ she said, trying to sound casual.
‘You chose the best time,’ he told her with his easy smile that made her feel as if the world had lit up around her. ‘I love it out here at evening when the air is soft and kind.’
He finished with an eyebrow raised in quizzical enquiry, for he’d spoken in Italian, a language she was still learning.
‘Morbida e gentile,’ she repeated, savouring the words. ‘Soft and kind. But it isn’t really that sort of country, is it?’
‘It can be. Italy has its violent moods, but it can be sweet and tender.’
How deep and resonant his voice was. It seemed to vibrate through her, turning her bones to water. She sought something to say that would sound poised.
‘It’s a beautiful sunset,’ she managed at last. ‘I’d love to paint it.’
‘Are you going to be a great artist, piccina?’ he asked teasingly.
She wished he wouldn’t call her piccina. It meant ‘little girl’ and was used in speaking to children. Yet it was also a term of affection and she treasured it as a crumb from his table.
‘I think so,’ she said, as if considering the matter seriously. ‘But I’m still trying to find my own style.’
She hadn’t yet learned that she had no individual style, only a gift for imitation.
Without answering he pulled down a small bunch of grapes and crushed a few against his mouth. The purple juice spilled out luxuriantly down his chin, like the wine of life, she thought. Eagerly she held out her hands and he pulled off a spray of the grapes and offered them to her. She imitated his movement, pressing the fruit against her mouth, then gagged at the taste.
‘They’re sour,’ she protested indignantly.
‘Sharp,’ he corrected. ‘The sun hasn’t ripened them yet. It’ll happen in its own good time, as everything does.’
‘But how can you eat them when they taste like this?’
‘Sharp or sweet, they are as they are. They’re still the finest fruit in all Italy.’ It was a simple statement, unblushing in its arrogance.
‘There are other places with fine grapes,’ she said, nettled at his assurance. ‘What about the Po valley, or the Romagna?’
He didn’t even dignify this with an answer, merely lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug, as if other vineyards weren’t worth considering.
‘What a pity you won’t be here to taste them when they’re ripe,’ he said. ‘That won’t be until August, and you’ll have returned to England.’
