The Tuscan's Revenge Wedding (8 page)

It wasn’t at all surprising that he had the influence to see
to it Jonathan was charged with negligence, if not worse, in the accident that
injured his sister.

“
Si?
” Nicholas lifted a brow, his gaze intent and
brooding as he studied her.

“I didn’t realize,” she said, her voice defensive yet
bemused. “Not until this moment.”

“Evidently.”

“I suppose the name — but it never occurred to me. I must
not have been thinking straight. Besides, you can’t be the only de Frenza in
Italy.”

“By no means. Nor am I the only one that matters,” he answered,
his voice dry. “I’d thought your brother would have made the connection for
you.”

“I told you it’s been weeks since I spoke to him. Apparently
he was too caught up in getting to know your sister to have the time.”

“As you say,” he agreed before turning his gaze to the
window again.

The car approached the house and pulled up on the graveled
court that fronted it. The heavy entrance door swung open before the vehicle came
to a complete stop. A large woman wearing a pristine white apron over her
simple black dress hurried down the stone steps. She burst into speech before
the driver could come around to open the door. Amanda feared for an instant
that she was delivering bad new, but her eyes were bright and her voice carried
nothing but pleasure at the return of
Il Signor
.

Nicholas answered with composure as he left the car then
turned to give Amanda his hand. She would have liked to refuse his offer of
help, but had not quite mastered the art of climbing from a limousine with
grace. Besides, she was oddly reluctant to embarrass him in front of what must
be his housekeeper.

“This is Erminia,” he said. “I called ahead to tell her you
would be joining us. She will show you to the room she has made ready for you.”
He turned to the housekeeper, continuing in Italian that had the sound of
detailed instruction. The woman nodded her understand. Then her face dimmed
with concern as she spoke again.

“Erminia offers her condolences on the injury of your
brother,” Nicholas translated. “Jonathan was here often while I was away, and
seems to have earned a place in her good graces. He was even allowed to call
her Minnie Mouse as a play upon her name. She will bring something to drink and
a light snack, if it pleases you.”

Minnie Mouse. That was so Jonathan, Amanda thought, even if
the teasing name didn’t quite match the Italian housekeeper’s as Nicholas had
given it. Scornful of formality when it seemed most required, effortlessly
charming, her brother would have taken great pains to earn the approval of
those important to the woman he loved.

Amanda’s throat closed, making it impossible to speak,
though she smiled at the housekeeper.

“You will have time to rest before lunch is served on the
terrace,” Nicholas continued. “
Allora
, you will go with her now.”

What else was there to do? Amanda thanked him politely and
entered Villa de Frenza in Erminia’s wake.

The house was dim and cool inside, smelling faintly of
ancient wood and antique carpets, lemon oil furniture polish and the ghosts of
a thousand bouquets. Walls of cream plaster were hung with portraits and
tapestries, and colorful Olympian figures drifted about overhead inside an
egg-shaped dome. More of the same was revealed through a series of doors on
either side, while a double staircase of white marble mounted at the rear.

Grand though it undoubtedly was, the villa had a lived-in
feeling, a certain genteel lack of perfection that was oddly comforting. With
its obvious immunity to change or modern decorating trends, it reminded Amanda
of old Southern plantation houses she’d see on home tours.

She smiled with weary pleasure at the room she was shown
into for her stay. It was of a piece with the rest, having only a bit more
modern influence in its color scheme of golden beige highlighted with various
shades of blue. The space was cavernous, as large as her entire apartment, and
included in its furnishings a huge antique wardrobe in place of a closet. The
en
suite
bathroom was modern, however, with a walk-in shower and acres of
mirrors.

Erminia had brought up Amanda’s carryon bag, despite her
protests that she could get it herself. Inside it was an extra blouse, a sleep
shirt, a change or two of underclothing and minimal makeup, all she’d had time
to gather during the brief stop at her apartment for her passport. At least it would
allow her to freshen up a bit before lunch.

She stood for long moments under a warm shower, allowing it
to sluice away the faint hospital odor that clung to her, also to send some of
her tension whirling down the drain. Afterward, she ate the toast, fruit and
tea that Erminia brought and then the lay down on the cloud-soft bed with its
smooth, thousand-count sheets.

She closed her eyes but lay thinking, thinking in endless
circles. She was far too keyed up to sleep, felt as if she might never sleep
again. She gave up trying after a time, but only watched the gentle lift and
fall of the curtains at the open windows, stared at the rolling acres of olive
trees that shimmered in the sun, concealed and revealed by the movements of the
pale silk gauze.

Against her will, her thoughts went back to the kiss in the
limo. She lifted her fingers to her lips, feeling their sensitivity as she relived
the moment when Nicholas’s mouth had touched hers. Warm, sweet, electrifying,
it had been like nothing she’d ever felt before. Her heartbeat had tripled, her
breathing stopped and her brain shut down. All she had wanted was to be held
closer and closer still. Stunned by disbelief and unreasoning need, she had let
it happen without the least resistance, might have given him whatever he wanted
if he hadn’t released her.

She could still do that, or so he’d said. Surely he hadn’t
meant it. Unless special guest privileges of that kind were common among
wealthy Italians?

No, she was being ridiculous. He’d achieved exactly what he intended,
which was to stop her protests. He’d succeeded so well her face burned now to
think of it.

Fine. She was a guest at Villa de Frenza. She should be
honored, was honored, really. It was a beautiful, historic mansion in the heart
of Italy. She would probably look back on her time here with awe.

But she was still going to find a hotel the first chance she
got.

Propelling herself from the bed with determination, she
began to dress for lunch

While she brushed her hair, applied lip gloss and a few
strokes of mascara, she jotted down a few items she should have thrown into her
travel bag but missed. She also noted the essentials necessary to round out her
wardrobe. She would need several clothing changes, it seemed, whether she found
a hotel or remained at the villa. After seeing Jonathan, she could not think
she would be going home any time soon. He could not be moved because of his
injuries, but she was certain he would not leave Carita until he knew she was
going to be all right. No, and maybe not then.

She had thought the housekeeper might come to show her the
way to the terrace where the promised luncheon would be served. It was Nicholas
who stood outside when she answered the quiet knock on her door.

He had changed out of his suit. The expert cut and color of
what he wore, the tobacco brown linen pants paired with a polo shirt two shades
lighter, turned what should have been casual wear into a fashion statement. Or
maybe it was the man who wore them, who could say?

His gaze, brief and impersonal, skimmed over the fresh
blouse she wore with the same suit skirt and plain low-heeled pumps. A frown
settled between his dark brows.

“Sorry if I’m not dressed for the occasion,” she said in
answer to that implied criticism. “I was not allowed time to pack, if you will
remember. But I’ve made a list of the things I’ll need while here.”

“Permit me,” he said, holding out his hand.

“I can do my own shopping, thank you.”

“Don’t, please, turn this into another test of wills. I am
not proposing to outfit you for my personal pleasure.”

Hot color rose to her hairline at the idea of being dressed
for his enjoyment. She wondered what he would choose for bedtime wear or if he
would choose anything at all.

No, she didn’t. She did not.

“There will be no quarrel if you will allow me do my own
shopping.”

“But there is the difficulty. The villa is some distance
from the stores. You will have to be driven to the better boutiques in
Florence. If someone else chooses a few things for you, it will be less time
wasted that could be spent with your brother. Besides, it’s what personal
shoppers are for.”

It made sense, particularly as she feared the transport
mentioned might be the limo making a series of stops on the way to or from the
hospital. The last thing she wanted was to search out what she needed while her
host waited in a purring Mercedes at the curb or prowled up and down outside
the dressing room door.

“Oh, very well, but please tell the shopper I can only
afford the basics and off the rack, no designer fashions.” Turning to the dressing
table, she retrieved the list she’d made, added various sizes in a quick
scribble, then walked back to slap it into his hand.

“
Bene
,” he said with a smile that lighted the
espresso darkness of his eyes with golden gleams. “Now we go to lunch.”

Bene
indeed, Amanda thought with a sigh of defeat,
but was still aware of an odd lightness in her step as she walked beside him.

The terrace lay at the rear of the house, a series of levels
floored in black and white mosaics, and with wide steps marked by large vases
overflowing with flowers. Below it was a garden that blended into the distant
view of silver-gray olives and endless rows of grape vines backed by the
blue-green line of the Ligurian Sea. The air smelled of sunshine, fresh herbs
and flowers, also of warm, just-baked bread and the seafood salad Erminia was
serving in pottery dishes so gorgeous they should be displayed as artwork.

Three women sat waiting on the upper level, not far from the
luncheon table beneath its bower of grape vines. The eldest was white-haired
and elegant, with a fortune in pearls at her throat. The next was dark-haired,
dark-eyed, voluptuously rounded and beautifully groomed in a chic, middle-aged
fashion. The third was younger, and sat half-hidden behind the other two.

“Nonna — Grandmother — and Aunt Filomena, may I present our
guest, Miss Amanda Davies.” Nicholas paused in this formal introduction while
Amanda shook hands. Then he turned to draw the younger girl to her feet. “And
this is Carisa.”

Amanda drew a silent breath of surprise. Carita’s twin was
pretty in a gentle, almost fragile manner, with a softly rounded body, fine
textured hair that curled on the ends, childish mouth and sweet expression. She
also carried upon her small features the unmistakable imprint of Down’s
syndrome.

Amanda glanced at Nicholas, but he was smiling down at his
sister. His face held such warm and gentle affection that it made Amanda’s
throat ache to see it.

It was so unexpected, this accident of birth when everything
about Nicholas de Frenza, from his looks and manner of dress to his home and
lifestyle, were so near perfection, exactly as he’d decreed they should be
arranged. The tragedy of it seemed doubly poignant now, while Carita lay in a
hospital bed with a head injury from which she might or might not recover.

Amanda summoned a smile, taking the girl’s small, soft hand
in her own as she acknowledged the introduction. But Carisa, staring at her
with downturned lips and hardly a blink of her colorless lashes, did not return
her greeting.

“Shall we?” Nicholas gave his hand to his grandmother to
help her rise, and then walked beside her to seat her at the table.

Amanda saw no need to wait, but pulled out her own chair and
sat down. That independent gesture earned a quick frown from Nicholas, who had
turned to seat her next as his guest. Swinging away, he saw his aunt and his
sister into their chairs then took his place at the head of the table.

The food was wonderful, fresh and savory. Amanda ate slowly,
trying to find appetite for it. It wasn’t easy, considering the knot of nerves
in her stomach.

The others ate with every appearance of relaxed enjoyment of
each other and the food. They talked non-stop, waving their forks and hands for
emphasis, and leaning to include her in frequent asides. Now and then they
offered some choice morsel to tempt her appetite, commenting upon it with
gusto, or else pointed out some bird or feature on the horizon they thought
might interest her. If a somber expression crossed their faces now and again,
it soon passed. More than once, they leaned back in their chairs to gaze around
them with contentment.

A pottery jug of chilled white wine sat in front of Nicholas.
He lifted it as the meal advanced, topping off everyone’s glass as a matter of
course. He paused as he came to her full one.

“You don’t care for the wine? You would prefer another
vintage?”

“No, no, I just don’t drink it.”

He lifted a brow. “I noticed you left it untouched on the
plane. You are perhaps allergic.”

“By no means. It’s simply a choice.” The look she gave him
held finality.

“But it’s one of life’s rare pleasures, and has been proven
to have benefits for the health.”

“Nevertheless.”

“To have a glass or two is far better than taking
tranquilizers.”

“I am aware.”

“Just a drop then?”

Exasperation touched her that he felt it necessary to turn
everything into a challenge, especially after accusing her of the same thing.
“I don’t want it, all right?”

“Possibly she is what they call in the States a teetotaler,
Nico,” Aunt Filomena said, looking at Amanda with a charming smile. “This is
the word, no?”