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The Italian Match
Kay Thorpe
Gina came to Tuscany to discover her roots, not to gain an Italian husband! But then she met Count Lucius Carendente, the most desirable man she had ever seen! Unable to resist their passion for one another, they spent one glorious night together. And the next morning Lucius informed her that they were to be married!Lucius only intended to make Gina his mistress, until the discovery of her virginity. But he had no reluctance about doing the honorable thing, if it meant Gina would now spend every night in his bed!
“We must marry.”
Shock held Gina rigid for several seconds, her mind blank of all rational thought. “That’s quite ridiculous!” she managed at length.
“It is the only way I have of restoring honor.”
“Because of last night? But it was my own choice.”
“It makes no difference. It is my duty to make reparation.”
Lucius was speaking with a clipped quietness more telling than any amount of ranting and raving. “Arrangements will be made immediately.”
Mamma Mia!
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The Italian Match
Kay Thorpe
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
STRANGE to think that this could have been her homeland, Gina reflected, viewing the lush Tuscany landscape spread before her as the car breasted the rise. Beautiful as it was, she felt no particular draw to the place.
Pulling into the roadside, she took a look at the map laid open across the passenger seat. If her calculations were correct, the collection of red-slate roofs and single-bell tower some mile or so distant had to be Vernici. Smaller than she had imagined, though big enough to offer some kind of accommodation for the short time she was likely to be spending in the vicinity. This close to her destination, she still had doubts as to the wisdom of what she was planning to do. Twenty-five years was a long time. It could be that the Carandentes no longer even resided in the area.
If that turned out to be the case, she would put the whole thing behind her once and for all, she vowed. If nothing else, she would have seen parts of Europe she had never seen before.
Surrounded by olive groves, the little town had an almost medieval air about it, its narrow streets radiating from a central piazza. The car that burst from one of the narrow streets at breakneck speed would have hit Gina’s car head-on if she hadn’t taken instant evading action. There was only one way to go, and that was straight through a flimsy barrier protecting some kind of road works, finishing up tilted at a crazy angle with her offside front wheel firmly lodged in the deep hole.
Held by the safety belt, she had suffered no more than a severe shaking up, but the shock alone was enough to keep her sitting there like a dummy for the few moments it took people attracted by the screeching of brakes to put in an appearance.
Her scanty Italian could make neither head nor tail of the voluble comment. All she could do was make helpless gestures. Eventually one man got the passenger door open and helped her clamber out of the vehicle, all the time attempting to make himself understood.
The only word Gina recognised was garage. ‘Si, grazie, signor!’ she responded thankfully, trusting to luck that he would take her meaning and call someone out for her. That the car would be in no fit state to be driven when it was pulled out of the hole, she didn’t doubt. She simply had to hope that repairs could be effected without too much trouble.
Her helpmate disappeared up a side street, leaving her to lean weakly against the nearest support and wait for succour. It was gone two, the heat scarcely diminished from its midday high; her sleeveless cotton blouse was sticking to her back. An elderly woman addressed her in tones of sympathy. Assuming that she was being asked if she was feeling all right. Gina conjured a smile and another ‘Si, grazie. Inglese,’ she tagged on before any further questions could be put to her.
It might have been an idea to learn at least enough of the language to get by on before setting out on this quest of hers, she thought wryly, but it was a little late for if onlys. She was in Vernici, and quite likely going to be stuck here for however long it might take to get her car back on the road.
Straightening, she walked round the vehicle to view the uptilted front end, in no way reassured by what she saw. The wheel had been crushed inwards by the impact, the whole wing and a corner of the bonnet badly crumpled. It was some small consolation that the car itself was Italian. If new parts were needed that surely had to help.
Hindered more than aided by the all-too-ready helping hands and eager advice, it took the two men who eventually arrived in a battered tow truck almost half an hour to drag the car free. It was, Gina saw with sinking heart, in an even worse state of disrepair than she had thought. The wheel was buckled, the wing a total write-off, the bonnet probably salvageable but unlikely to look pristine again without a lot of expert hammering and filling.
The happy-go-lucky manner employed by both mechanics gave little rise to confidence. One of them, who spoke some English, indicated that it would be necessary to send to Siena, or perhaps even to Florence for a new wheel and wing. When asked how long that might take, he spread his hands in a gesture only too easily recognisable. Perhaps a week, perhaps even longer. Who could tell? And then, of course, there would be the work. Perhaps another week. The possible cost? Once more the hands were spread. The cost would be what the cost would be, Gina gathered, by then in no fit state to press the issue any further.
Declining an offer to squeeze her into a seat between the two of them, she followed the truck on foot to a small backstreet garage, to see her only means of transport tucked away in a corner to await attention. The parts would be ordered at once, the younger man assured her. In the meantime, he could supply a good place for her to stay.
Faced with his overt appraisement of her body, Gina gave the suggestion scant consideration. For the first time she turned her mind to the car that had caused the accident. The driver had been female not male, and young, the car itself big and blue.
With faint hope, she described both car and occupant to her mechanic friend, to be rewarded with a grinning acknowledgement. ‘Cotone,’ he said. ‘You go to San Cotone. Three kilometres,’ he added helpfully, and drew a map in the dust. ‘Very rich. You make them pay!’
Gina had every intention of trying. She was covered by insurance, of course, but claims for accidents abroad were notoriously difficult to get settled. The more she thought about it the angrier she became, her object in coming to Vernici in the first place temporarily pushed to the back of her mind. She was stuck out here in the back of beyond because of some spoiled teenager with nothing better to do than tear around the roads without regard for life or limb. Recklessness didn’t even begin to cover it!
The question was how to reach the place. ‘Taxi?’ she queried. ‘Bus?’
He shook his head. ‘You take car.’
‘How the devil can I—?’ she began, breaking off abruptly when she saw where he was pointing. With almost as much rust as paint on the bodywork, and tyres that looked distinctly worn, the little Fiat’s better days were obviously a long way in the past. Beggars, however, couldn’t afford to be choosers. If that was the only vehicle available that was the one she would take.
‘How much?’ she asked.
The shrug was eloquent, the smile even more so. ‘You pay later.’
In cash, not kind, she thought drily, reading him only too well. Her bags were locked in the boot of her own car. After a momentary hesitation she decided they would have to stay there for the present. She had to get this other matter settled while the anger still burned good and bright. The question of accommodation could wait.
Despite its appearance, the Fiat started without too much trouble. Gina headed out along the route by which she had approached the town, to take the turning her adviser’s drawing had indicated through the gently rolling landscape.
Olive groves gave way to immense vineyards tended by what appeared to be a regular army of workers. Only then did Gina make the connection with the label she had seen on Chianti wines back home. A rich family indeed, she thought, well able to pay for the damage to her car, for certain.
A pair of wide wrought-iron gates gave open access to a drive that curved through trees to reach a stone-built villa of stunning size and architecture. Gina drew to a stop on the gravelled circle fronting the place, refusing to allow the grandeur to deflect her from her aim. A member of this household had driven her off the road; the onus was on them to reimburse her.
Set into the stone wall beside imposing double doors, the bell was of the old-fashioned pull-type. It emitted a deep, repeated note, clearly audible from where she stood. The elderly man who answered the summons was dressed in dark trousers and matching waistcoat along with a sparkling white shirt. A member of staff rather than family, Gina judged. His appraisement was rapid, taking in her simple cotton skirt and blouse. The disdain increased as his glance went beyond her to the battered vehicle standing on the gravelled forecourt.
‘I’m here to see the owner,’ she stated before he could speak, wishing she had thought to get a name from her mechanic friend. ‘Padrone,’ she tagged on, dredging the depths of her scanty vocabulary.
The man shook his head emphatically, loosed a single, terse sentence, and began to close the door again. Gina stopped the movement by placing her hands flat against the wood and shoving.
‘Padrone!’ she insisted.
From the look on the man’s face, she wasn’t getting through. Which left her with only one choice. She slipped past him before he could make any further move, heading for one of the doors leading off the wide, marble-floored hall with no clear idea in mind other than to block any immediate attempt to remove her from the premises.
There was a key in the far side lock. She slammed the heavy dark-wood door to and secured it, leaning her forehead against a panel to regain both her breath and her wits. That had been a really crazy thing to do, she admitted. A move hardly likely to impress the owner of the establishment, whoever he or she was.
A knock on the door was followed by what sounded like a question. Gina froze where she stood as another male voice answered, this time from behind her. She spun round, gaining a hazy impression of a large, book-lined room as her gaze came to rest on the man seated at a vast desk on the far side of it.
Slanting through the window behind him, the sun picked out highlights in the thick sweep of black hair. Dark eyes viewed her from beneath quizzically raised brows, the lack of anger or even annoyance on his leanly sculptured features something of a reassurance.
‘Buon pomeriggeo,’ he said.
‘Parla inglese?’ Gina asked hopefully.
‘Of course,’ he answered in fluent English. ‘I apologise for my lack of perception. I was deceived by the blackness of your hair into believing you of the same blood as myself for a moment, but no Italian woman I ever met had so vividly blue a pair of eyes, so wonderfully fair a skin!’
A fairness that right now was more of a curse than an asset, Gina could have told him, dismayed to feel warmth rising in her cheeks at the sheer extravagance of the observation. She was unaccustomed to such flowery language from a man. But then, how many Latins had she actually met before this?
‘It should be me apologising for breaking in on you like this,’ she said, taking a firm grip on herself, ‘but it was the only way to get past the door guard.’
A smile touched the strongly carved mouth. ‘As Guido speaks little English, whilst you obviously speak even less Italian, misunderstandings were certain to arise. Perhaps you might explain to me what it is that you are here for?’
Feeling like a stag at bay with her back braced against the door, Gina eased herself away, conscious of a sudden frisson down her spine as the man rose from his seat. No more than the early thirties, he had a lithe, athletic build beneath the cream silk shirt and deeper-toned trousers. Rolled shirt sleeves revealed muscular forearms, while the casually opened collar laid the strong brown column of his throat open to inspection.
‘I need to see the head of the household,’ she said, blanking out the involuntary response.
He inclined his head. ‘I am Lucius Carandente.’
Shock robbed her of both speech and clarity of thought for a moment or two. She gazed at him with widened eyes. There had to be more than one Carandente family, she told herself confusedly. This couldn’t possibly be them!
Yet why not? asked another part of her mind. She knew nothing of the family other than the name. Why assume it more likely that they be of proletarian rather than patrician stock?
The dark brows lifted again, a certain amused speculation in his gaze. ‘You appear surprised.’
Gina pulled herself together. ‘I was expecting someone older,’ she prevaricated, in no way ready to plumb any further depths as yet. ‘The father, perhaps, of a girl who drives a blue tourer.’
Speculation gave way to sudden comprehension, all trace of amusement vanished. ‘Donata,’ he said flatly. ‘My younger sister. What did she do?’
‘She caused me to crash my car an hour or so ago. Down in Vernici. It’s going to need new parts. The garage down there tells me they’ll have to be ordered from Florence, and it’s going to take a lot of time—to say nothing of the cost!’
‘You carry no insurance?’
‘Of course I carry insurance!’ she returned with asperity, sensing an attempt to wriggle off the hook. ‘Waiting for the go-ahead from my company would take even more time. In any case, it’s your sister’s insurance that should be responsible for the damage—always providing she carries some!’
She paused there, seeing his lips take on a slightly thinner line and aware of allowing her tongue to run away with her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she tagged on impulsively. ‘That was very rude of me.’
‘Yes, it was,’ he agreed. ‘Though perhaps not entirely unmerited. If you will kindly unlock the door behind you and allow Guido entrance, I will take the necessary steps.’
Gina obeyed with some faint reluctance, not at all certain that he wouldn’t order Guido to toss her out on her ear. The manservant entered the room without haste, his glance going directly to his master as if she didn’t even exist.
Lucius Carandente spoke in rapid Italian, despatching the older man with a final ‘Subito!’
‘Please take a seat,’ he told Gina, indicating the nearest of the deep club chairs.
He didn’t sit down himself, but leaned against the desk edge as she complied, placing her at a distinct and probably intentional disadvantage. No matter, she thought resolutely; she could always stand up again if she felt the need.
‘You have yet to give me your name,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she proffered once more. ‘I’m Gina Redman.’
‘You are here on vacation?’
It was easier at the moment to say yes, Gina decided, not yet convinced that the name wasn’t just a coincidence. Other than the obvious characteristics, this man bore no great resemblance to the photograph in her handbag.
‘I’m touring,’ she acknowledged. ‘I’ve driven all the way through France and Switzerland without a single mishap. If your sister hadn’t been going so fast…’
Lucius held up a hand. ‘It would be better that we wait until she is available to speak for herself, I think. She arrived home, I know, so it should not be long before she joins us. Until then,’ he added in the same courteous tones, ‘we will talk of other matters. The colour of your hair does not suggest the English rose. Is it possible, perhaps, that you have mixed parentage?’
Short of telling him to mind his own business, Gina was left with no choice but to answer. ‘My father was Italian.’
‘Was?’
‘He died before I was born.’ She forestalled the next question, hoping he would leave it at that until she had time to consider just how she was going to find out if he was indeed one of the Carandentes she had come so far to find. ‘I was adopted by my English stepfather.’
‘I see.’
To her relief he refrained from asking the name discarded for Redman. He probably assumed that her mother had never held title to it to start with.
