Married Under The Italian Sun

‘My name is Vittorio Tazzini, and I used to own this place.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU?’ The word had an unflattering tone that came out before Angel could stop it.

‘Yes,’ he said, looking down at himself. ‘A scarecrow like me. This used to be my room, and I returned to search for something I left behind. I apologise for being here when the new padrona arrived. If I’d been warned, I’d have cleared out and not troubled you.’

She was disconcerted, not so much by his words as by the way his eyes flickered over her. There was nothing new in that. For years men had gazed at her with admiration, even frank lust, trying to strip her in their thoughts. She had thought she was bored by it, but it might have been better than the contempt in this man’s gaze.

‘There’s no need to be melodramatic,’ she said coolly.

‘Is it melodramatic to call you padrona? Isn’t that what you are? The new mistress to whom everyone will now defer? I’m merely recognising reality.’

‘No, you’re trying to make me feel uncomfortable, as though I should be ashamed of being here.’

‘It never occurred to me that you would feel ashamed of anything.’

‘Look, this won’t work. I’ve seen off sharper men than you.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Your very presence in this place is a triumph. But what will you do now you’re here? I’ll wager you haven’t given it a thought. Not a serious thought, anyway. But why should you care? Those huge alimony payments will take care of all problems.’

‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Angel said, her eyes beginning to sparkle with anger, ‘but I intend to make my own way. I understand the estate is profitable. Everyone assures me that Tazzini lemons are second to none.’

He regarded her sardonically.

‘So, you’ve heard about the lemons and now you think you know everything.’

‘No, but I know about limoncello.’

A grin spread over his face, suggestive of derision rather than amusement. It made her uneasy.

‘Truly,’ he said, ‘your knowledge is awesome. But how far does it go? For instance, what kind of lemons are grown in this place?’

‘What kind? Lemons are lemons, aren’t they?’

‘You instruct me. How foolish of me not to think of that.’

‘Now, look—’ she began hotly.

‘Lemons, as you so expertly say, are lemons. But are they Meyer lemons, Eureka lemons, Lisbon lemons?’

‘All right. I didn’t know there was more than one type,’ she said, facing him squarely.

‘No, and you don’t know which kind is the best for limoncello. In fact, you know nothing.’

‘Well, I’m not planning to tend them myself. I’ll employ someone who knows what to do. In fact, there must already be someone working here.’

His grin became a little wild.

‘You have nobody who can care for those lemons so that they’ll get the best price,’ he said flatly.

‘There are gardeners, aren’t there?’

‘There’s one. He’s a good workhorse, but he’s not an artist. You’ll have to explain everything to him.’

‘But surely there’s a head gardener, who doesn’t need to be have things explained?’

‘The only one who knows is me, and I’m out of here since you seized my home.’

‘You’re blaming me? You’ve got a nerve. Is it my fault you chose to sell?’

‘I did not—’ He stopped himself with a sharp breath. ‘Don’t trespass on that situation. You know nothing.’

‘Then don’t throw accusations at me. I didn’t seize your home—’

‘No, your husband did. But who ended up owning it?’

‘And that makes me a criminal, does it? I have no desire to “trespass on that situation” as you call it. I just want to take over my new home and settle in.’

He drew a sharp breath.

‘As you say,’ he said coldly. ‘Welcome to your home. I’ll inform your staff that you’re here.’

He walked out, followed by her glare. If there had been anything to throw, she would have thrown it.

She was furious with him for ruining the first special moments here. Everything had been peaceful and beautiful, until she’d walked in and found him waiting, almost as if trying to spring a trap for her.

It was no use telling herself that it had been pure accident. That was common sense, and she wasn’t in the mood for it.

In fact, she was annoyed with herself for acting like Angel at her most queenly and petulant. She’d believed that was part of the old life, left far behind. But years of being pampered and deferred to had left their mark, despite her best intentions.

I have not allowed Joe to turn me into a spoilt brat, she reassured herself. I have not.

Well, perhaps just a bit.

Angel strode to the other two windows and pushed the shutters wide open so that sunlight streamed in everywhere, like a benediction. Now she could look around the room, which was like no bedroom she had encountered before. Like the rest of the house that she had so far seen, the floor was covered in dark red flagstones. The bed was almost seven feet wide, with a carved walnut headboard and matching foot.

Trying it cautiously, she found that the mattress was firm almost to the point of hardness, but when she stretched out for a moment it was curiously comfortable. The lamp on the bedside table was defiantly old-fashioned, with a carved stand and a parchment shade.

There were two wardrobes, also of walnut, standing in the spaces between the windows. Ornate on the outside, they were basic on the inside, with rails and wire hangers, so unlike the padded satin hangers on which her elegant clothes normally hung. A large chest of drawers stood against one wall.

And that was it.

And yet she felt at home. The very starkness and simplicity of the room was peaceful.

Angel delved further into one of the wardrobes, realising how old it was, and how much in need of repair. The floor actually had a hole. Reaching into her bag, she took out a small torch that she carried everywhere and trained it on the hole. The light went right through to the floor, showing her something small and green.

Reaching under the wardrobe, she managed to grasp the object, which turned out to be an address book. Perhaps this was what he’d lost. He must have left it in a trouser pocket, from where it had fallen out of sight.