The Medici Lover. Anne Mather

she felt as confident. The long, south-facing portico of the villa was magnificent, of course. No one could fail to admire its classical lines, the stone façade inlaid with variegated marble, creating a pattern of light and dark over the entire building. But staying in such a place was something else. And if Pietro disliked his cousin so much, why did he stay?

      They drove beneath an archway, overhung with vines, and along a tree-shaded avenue at the side of the villa, until Pietro drew up in a stone-flagged courtyard, flanked by garages and stables and various other outbuildings. An elderly man emerged from one of the buildings at their approach, but his greeting was barely civil when he recognised the car. Considering Pietro had been away for several weeks at least, Suzanne thought his welcome was less than enthusiastic. But Pietro seemed not to notice, hoisting their suitcases out of the back of the car, and bidding Suzanne to follow him.

      A belt of trees shielded the villa from the stables, but the pergola-shaded walk back to the house was charming. Already Suzanne could see lights from the villa as darkness deepened amongst the trees, and a ripple of anticipation quickened her blood. Unwillingly, she was becoming intrigued by the situation here, curious to know more about the family who accepted all this magnificence as commonplace.

      They came to the villa through formal gardens of lawns and hedges laid out with geometric attention to detail, and Suzanne saw the shadowy courtyard, mosaic-tiled, where a marble basin echoed to the waters of the fountain. The fluted columns of the loggia were indistinct in the fading light, but the balcony above would give a wonderful view of the surrounding countryside.

      They entered into a long gallery, illuminated by wall lamps, intricately carved in bronze. All the downstairs apartments of the villa opened on to the loggia, Pietro had explained, but now the shutters were drawn against the invasion of night insects.

      Their feet echoed on marble tiles, their presence seemed an intrusion to plastered walls, decorated with panels painted in colours which had faded only slightly with the years. Suzanne looked about her in wonder—at the panelling of the arched ceiling above their heads, at a side table inlaid with ivory, at the fine-grained marble beneath their feet. There was a silver salver standing on the table, and the richness of its scrollwork put its value far beyond the reach of any ordinary individual.

      Pietro put down their cases and regarded her tolerantly. ‘I can see that you appreciate art and architecture, too,’ he commented dryly. ‘Come. We must let my—family—know we are here.’

      His deliberate hesitation did not go unnoticed, and Suzanne looked down doubtfully at the purple corduroy slacks suit she was wearing. In these surroundings, trousers on a woman seemed an insult somehow. She wished she had worn a skirt. But then she had not known that Pietro’s family lived in one of Italy’s famous villas.

      Before they could move, however, a door to their left opened, and the tall, slightly stooped figure of a man emerged. Suzanne stiffened, guessing this must be her host, but even so she was not prepared for her first meeting with the master of the Villa Falcone.

      Amazingly, what struck her first about him was his eyes. Amazing, because in spite of his distorted body, she looked first into clear green eyes, deep set and thickly lashed, hooded by heavy lids. His eyes were beautiful, which made what came after much harder to look upon.

      She had been expecting a younger man, for one thing. Pietro was, after all, in his early twenties, and as this man was his cousin, she had expected someone of a similar age. But Mazzaro di Falcone was much older, in his late thirties at least, and the thick black hair which fell below the level of his collar was streaked with grey in places. He was taller than the average Italian, with a lean muscular body, but he leaned heavily on two sticks, and when he moved his gait was slow and awkward, twisting his spine and obviously causing him some pain, judging by the tightness of his dark features. But it was the scarring of his face and neck which distorted his expression, giving him a vaguely malevolent appearance. He reminded Suzanne of Dante’s Fallen Angel, and the awareness of the feelings he was arousing inside her made her uneasy.

      Pietro, perhaps sensing the tension in the air, moved towards his cousin. ‘Good evening, Mazzaro,’ he said, gesturing to Suzanne to come forward. ‘As you can see, we have arrived. Allow me to introduce you to my—to Suzanne, Suzanne Hunt.’ He paused, as his cousin’s eyebrows arched. ‘Suzanne, as you’ve probably guessed, this is my cousin Mazzaro, Count di Falcone.’

      ‘Count?’ The word was out before Suzanne could prevent it, and the fingertips of one hand sought her lips as if in admonishment.

      Mazzaro di Falcone’s eyes narrowed. ‘No doubt my cousin omitted to mention what is, after all, purely a nominal title, Miss Hunt,’ he commented, in perfect English. ‘How do you do? As you can see, I am not in a position to shake your hand, but you are welcome to the Villa Falcone.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Suzanne glanced awkwardly at Pietro. ‘I—it was kind of you to permit me to come.’

      Mazzaro made a dismissing gesture with his shoulders. ‘Your mother is in the small salon, Pietro. I know she is awaiting your arrival with much—excitement. If you and Miss Hunt will excuse me …’

      Again he spoke in English, but Pietro broke in quickly in his own language, almost defiantly, Suzanne felt. ‘Suzanne speaks Italian fluently, Mazzaro. You don’t have to demonstrate your command of English on her.’

      His words were ill-chosen, almost insolent in intonation, but Mazzaro di Falcone merely regarded his cousin with slightly amused eyes. ‘I gather you do not feel the need to do so,’ he remarked in Italian, and Pietro’s expression darkened angrily.

      But Mazzaro did not wait to continue the altercation. With a faint bow of his head in Suzanne’s direction, he moved away along the hall, his shadow cast upon the panelling like some grotesque caricature of a man. Pietro, too, watched his cousin’s progress, and a little of the angry frustration left his face. Then he turned and took Suzanne’s arm.

      ‘Come! The small salon is this way.’

      As they passed the room from which Mazzaro di Falcone had emerged, Suzanne glimpsed a high-ceilinged apartment, comfortably if sparsely furnished, with a wall of leatherbound books facing the door. But Pietro had already stopped outside an adjoining apartment, and as he pushed open double doors with a flourish, a young girl of perhaps ten years came rushing to greet him.

      ‘Pietro! Pietro!’ she cried excitedly, wrapping her arms around his middle, looking up into his face with wide-eyed delight. ‘I thought you were never coming!’

      Pietro bestowed a kiss on both the child’s cheeks, and then looked over her head at the elderly woman seated in an armchair by the screened marble fireplace. ‘Mamma!’ he spoke with the warmth to which Suzanne was accustomed. ‘Mamma, it is so good to see you again.’

      As Pietro went to receive his mother’s greeting, the child turned her attention to Suzanne, her brow furrowing with undisguised curiosity. She was a plain child, with the sallow complexion sometimes found in hotter climes, her straight black hair drawn unbecomingly back from her face in two stiff braids. And yet, when she had been greeting Pietro, animation had added warmth to her features, and it was then that Suzanne had guessed that she must be Mazzaro di Falcone’s daughter. Yet she had a neglected air, as if no one really took a great deal of interest in her, and certainly her clothes did not do justice to her slim little body.

      Deciding that it might be easier if she spoke first, Suzanne forced herself to smile and say: ‘Hello. My name is Suzanne. What’s yours?’

      Before the child could reply however, Signora Vitale’s voice rang out distinctly across the wide room: ‘Elena! Come here. At once.’

      There was something about the Italian word avanti which gave it a much terser sound than its English translation: ‘Come’. Elena obviously responded to it, and without more ado, skipped obediently across to where Pietro’s mother was sitting, leaving the outsider feeling very much alone in the doorway.

      This was the small salon, thought Suzanne in wonder, realising it was almost as big as the reception area of the hotel back in England. As