The Medici Lover. Anne Mather

legs out of bed and padded across to the long windows. She paused at the balcony doors, loath to emerge for fear of being seen in the filmy transparency of her nightgown. Had it been a dream, what she had seen last night? Had she really seen Mazzaro walking without sticks? Or had it all been wishful thinking on her part?

      In spite of the turmoil of her thoughts, nothing could spoil her delight in the view that confronted her. Stretching above the walls of the villa, the hillside was thick with larch and pine trees, a cloak of foliage reaching towards the snow-capped peaks beyond. Nearer at hand, she could see a waterfall cascading over an outcrop of rock to reappear as a stream further down the valley, and meadows bright with the yellow heads of dandelions.

      But it was the villa itself which really enchanted her, its stone walls honey-tinged in the sunlight. She could hear the fountain playing and longed to dip her fingers in its depths, its coolness like a trail of ice across her skin. She raised her shoulders in a gesture of supplication, encompassing the whole beauty of her surroundings. Then she turned determinedly back to the room.

      It was a relatively plain apartment, but as with the other rooms of the villa, the pattern of architecture was repeated. The bed was comparatively modern, although its head-board was intricately carved, and the silk sheets disguised a mattress which owed its comfort to modern technology. There were tall arched doors leading into an adjoining bathroom, which had to have been a new innovation, but the green-veined marble tiles blended into their surroundings.

      Suzanne took a shower in the sunken bath, deliberately cooling the water so that her skin tingled pleasurably and then she tackled the contents of her suitcases. The night before she had done little more than drape the crushable items over the back of a chair, and take out her nightgown and toiletries. Now she hung her clothes away in the capacious depths of a massively carved cabinet with a long oval mirror giving her back her reflection.

      It was difficult deciding what to wear. In the normal way, jeans and a shirt would have sufficed, but somehow the Villa Falcone demanded a less casual approach. Or was it just Signora Vitale? she wondered shrewdly. Certainly, the old lady had not approved of her slacks suit.

      With a frown, she buttoned a green shirt across her pointed breasts and stepped into a printed cotton skirt, that swung in pleats against bare slender legs. She refused to wear tights when it was so warm, and stepping into cork-soled sandals, she brushed vigorously at her straight hair. It swung in bleached strands about her shoulders, and as an added adornment, she looped a heavy gold medallion on its chain around her neck. She wore little make-up during the day. Just a light foundation to prevent her skin from shining, and mascara to add lustre to her already dark lashes.

      Before leaving the room, she approached the bed again and looked down at the rose still lying on the tray. She stretched out her hand towards it and then withdrew it again, quickly. Whatever game Mazzaro di Falcone was playing, she wanted no part of it, and the rose could be returned to its owner without her being involved. Even so, it troubled her that by his action, Mazzaro had disrupted the even composure she had always maintained, even in the face of Abdul Fezik’s pursuit, and made her more aware of him as a man than anyone else she had ever met. But it was ridiculous, she told herself severely, drawing in a jerky breath. She was making far too much of what to him had probably been nothing more than a mocking gesture to the romanticism of his race. If she hadn’t glimpsed him walking in the courtyard hours before she might not have thought anything about it.

      But she left the rose on the tray when she went downstairs.

      There was a curving marble staircase leading down into the main body of the hall, its ornate handrail an example of baroque ironwork. The night before, Suzanne had been able to see little of the beauty of this part of the villa, shrouded in darkness as it had been, but now she could see the domed ceiling overhead, and the round windows casting prisms of light in many colours over the mosaic tiling of the floor. The acoustics in the hall were such that she could even hear the sound of her cork-soled feet on the stair, and the rustle of her skirt against her legs.

      The magnificent doors at the front of the villa were closed at present, but she guessed that when the building was opened to the public, visitors would come in that way and get the full benefit from their first glimpse of that nave-like entrance.

      Tempted to linger and study the building in more detail, Suzanne walked determinedly across the hall and turned into the wing of the building occupied by the family. Perhaps later, she could ask Pietro if she might explore, but for the present she was a guest in the house and not a tourist.

      The doors to the small salon were closed, and she was hesitating about opening them, when she heard the sound of steel against marble and the dragging sound of feet being propelled with effort. She knew at once who it was, and her head jerked round nervously as Mazzaro di Falcone approached her along the gallery. This morning, the sombreness of his attire was relieved somewhat by a dark red shirt, but his pants were still uncompromisingly black.

      Seen in broad daylight, the scars on the right side of his face were a network of dry tissue, unhealthily white against the deeply tanned pigment of his skin. Suzanne’s eyes were drawn to them almost against her will, and she had to force herself to look away.

      ‘Good morning, Miss Hunt,’ he greeted her in English, inclining his head forward. ‘I trust you slept well.’

      Suzanne had to look at him then, but the bland green eyes revealed no trace of its being a barbed question. ‘I—it was very hot,’ she compromised. ‘But I was very comfortable, thank you, Count.’

      ‘That is good.’ Without removing his hands from the sticks, he gestured towards the doors of the room he had first emerged from the night before. ‘Perhaps you will join me for coffee? If you would open the doors …’

      It was a command, more than a request, and as Suzanne did not know her way about well enough to demur, she moved forward automatically and taking hold of the iron handles, swung the doors inward.

      The room beyond was booklined and comfortable, as she had seen in passing the night before, but with a square mahogany desk, presently untidy with files and papers, and leather chairs in keeping with its use as a study. Of all the rooms in the villa she had entered so far, it was the least aggressively impressive, and possessed a charm and intimacy lacking in those larger apartments.

      Mazzaro propelled himself into the room, and indicated that she should close the doors behind them. She did so reluctantly, impatient with herself unjustifiably for getting into such a position. Perhaps she should have stayed in her room until Pietro returned and came looking for her. But how could she have known that Mazzaro di Falcone would feel obliged to entertain her in Pietro’s absence?

      She closed the doors and leaned back against them for a moment, her eyes moving to the long windows which gave an uninterrupted view of the fountain in the courtyard. But as yet these glass doors were closed, and there was no escape that way.

      Mazzaro was regarding her with a disturbing scrutiny that increased her own feelings of unease, and she realised she had never encountered this kind of situation before. The conviction grew in her that she was to blame, that she was reading more into his behaviour because of her own peculiar reactions to him, which was ridiculous when she seriously thought about it. In the course of her work, she had met dozens of men, and many of them had shown her friendliness and admiration. She had met handsome men, rich men, charming men—men of all ages and nationalities; and it was positively ludicrous for her to feel this way about a middle-aged Italian count, who dragged himself around on two sticks and whose face would terrify small children.

      ‘Does my disfiguration repel you, Miss Hunt?’ Mazzaro asked now, and she guessed he had misread the emotions that played so revealingly across her face.

      ‘No,’ she said at once, colouring like a schoolgirl speaking to a superior. ‘Not at all.’

      ‘No?’ He sounded sceptical. ‘Yet you are reluctant to be alone with me, Miss Hunt.’

      His candour disconcerted her further. ‘No. I—why I was just wondering when Pietro would be back …’

      Mazzaro’s dark brows ascended. ‘Indeed.’ He gestured