Love In Torment

But the next morning, true to his word, he phoned and sent flowers. Later he came round to the studio, saying how much he had missed her, and she locked all thoughts of Bianca away in the depths of her mind.

She showed him the latest project she was working on, a portrait of an industrialist for some élite boardroom.

‘He looks boring and pompous,’ Felipe told her, without meaning to offend.

‘He is,’ Gemma told him abruptly, and he swept her into his arms to kiss away her petulance.

‘You’re offended?’ he laughed.

‘Not at all. I paint what I see.’

‘Paint me.’

‘Never!’ She grinned. ‘I don’t do animal portraits!’ He growled at her neck then and they laughed and everything was suddenly all right. Later she cooked supper and he stayed all night, loving her till the small hours as if Bianca had never been part of the last two days. Gemma didn’t mention her; it would have been an intrusion on something so very special between them. There was only herself and Felipe and their love in the whole wide world…

She’d never seen him again after that. He’d left her at lunchtime, promising to call her later, but he hadn’t. The next day she had driven to the mews house in St John’s Wood, Felipe’s London home when he was in the country. She’d sat in the car and stared up at the house, just knowing it was empty. He’d gone and so had Bianca.

A week later had come the call from New York, but by then it was too late. Gemma had suffered enough.

Gemma glanced at her watch now and frowned. Her escort was late and she was restless and bored but there was little choice but to sit tight and wait. It was too hot to wander the streets of Caracas, and if she did venture out into the soporific heat she might miss Mike Anders, her father’s pilot, who was to fly has the last leg of her journey.

Gemma shivered. She mustn’t think of him as her father; he was a client, a Venezuelan oil man, nothing more, nothing less.

The phone purred and Gemma lifted it. ‘Thank you, I’ll be right down.’

She swung her leather satchel with her brushes and oils over her shoulder and wheeled her suitcase to the lifts. She’d faxed through her other requirements to the Villa Verde: an easel and several canvases. She didn’t know yet what sort of conditions she was expected to work under. A proper studio with the correct light was ideal but on these sort of assignments, in the client’s own home, she would have to make do.

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Soames…’ ‘Call me Gemma.’ She smiled at the young American pilot, who was cool, blond and sporty.

‘Gemma it is,’ he grinned back. ‘Pretty heavy schedule today, I’m afraid—that’s why I’m late. Flew de Navas out to Maracaibo last night and just got back this morning. One helluva problem out theremassive oil leak as they were loading one of the tankers. No doubt the ole man will sort it all out.’

‘He’s still there?’ Gemma frowned. She wanted to start as soon as possible, as she had other commissions waiting back in the UK.

‘Yeah, he won’t leave till it’s under control. Hey, don’t worry, be happy, plenty to keep you buzzing out at the ranch,’ he laughed, ushering her into a taxi to the airport. ‘Pool, horses, tennis, shooting; you name it, they got it. Hey, are you really going to paint the old man? Queer sort of a job for a woman, ain’t it?’

Gemma was glad of his company. Hadn’t Wordsworth waxed lyrical about the bliss of solitude? He’d obviously never been holed up in blistering Caracas trying not to think of people he’d rather forget. ‘They’ troubled her mind at this very moment in spite of Mike’s boisterous running commentary as they hurtled through the busy streets of Caracas. Agustªn would probably have a wife and a family. It was one of the arguments her mother had put up to try to stop her coming.

‘You’ll only hurt yourself when you meet his family. You can’t do it, Gemma. Leave things as they are.’

Gemma had shaken her head determinedly. ‘I can’t be hurt, Mother, not any more. I don’t know him, he’s a stranger to me but I have to go, more so now after what you’ve told me. He’s my father; I’m curious. Can’t you understand that?’

She had at last, but hadn’t given Gemma her blessing; that was too painful for her.

She still loves him, Gemma thought as Mike loaded her suitcase and satchel into the Lear jet, after twenty-six years and life with another man she still loves him. Somehow she understood.

The mountains beyond Caracas were enthralling, threatening and savage. Mike kept up his commentary, unknowingly diverting Gemma away from her own troubled thoughts. She talked herself into thinking it was a good thing Agustªn wouldn’t be there to meet her. She wasn’t ready yet, but would she ever be?

‘There she blows!’ Mike laughed, tapping the window to the left as they lost height and powered down over green plains, far lusher than Gemma had expected.

‘Quite a spread, isn’t it?’

Gemma nodded, mute with awe. Southfork paled into insignificance. This was how real oil barons lived. The Villa Verde was the centre piece of the massive hacienda. And was that a church, the white-washed building closest to the impressive villa? Bright blue caught her eye as they swung down low over the estate, bright blue of a pool shaded by palms and dark green cypresses.

There were cottages dotted around and Gemma wondered if they all belonged to the man whose portrait she had come to paint. It was more like a village than one man’s home. So maybe he had a large family, sons and daughters with their own families. Suddenly she didn’t want to be here, wished she had heeded her mother’s advice.

Registering her sudden look of concern Mike misinterpreted it. ‘Don’t worry,’ he laughed, unbuckling his seatbelt after they had landed smoothly on the airstrip far away from the hacienda, ‘you’re not expected to walk to the villa.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ Gemma smiled as Mike slid open the door and a furnace of heat assailed her. ‘It’s hotter than Caracas.’

‘Hell isn’t hotter than Caracas,’ Mike joked.

They walked to the hangar and Mike hauled her case into the back seat of an open-topped Chevrolet. ‘Hop in, and we’ll be there in no time.’

They were. Mike drew to a halt in front of the palatial stone steps at the front of the Villa Verde and Gemma slid out of her seat and stared up at the sprawling two-storey house. It was gleaming white, rough-plastered in some age-old traditional way, its roof capped with antique tiles of shiny green. The shutters at the windows were ornate and painted green to match the roof. The old villa looked cool and just a little imposing—or was it her ragged nerves that gave the impression of the world closing in around her?

A short, dark, middle-aged woman, clothed in the customary black of a widow, came out of the huge studded double doors of the house and stood waiting for Gemma.

‘Senorita Soames, I am happy to greet you. I am Maria.’ She smiled and put a hand out to Gemma, which she took. ‘You are tired, si? I show you your room and then you eat and rest.’ She turned to Mike as he strode into the huge reception hall with Gemma’s suitcase, his trainers squeaking on the highly polished terracotta floor tiles. ‘Christina, she wait in the kitchen for you. She miss you.’ Maria grinned and winked at Gemma.

Mike dropped Gemma’s suitcase at the foot of the great stone stairway with its wrought-iron banister of twisted vines coiling up to the upper floor. He turned and grinned at the two women. ‘Misses me, eh? And so she should.’ With that he disappeared down a long corridor, a definite spring in his step.

Maria laughed. ‘Love, eh? Is good, si? Christina is my daughter. She love the Americano. Come, I take you up. Pepe will bring the case.’

Gemma, clutching her precious satchel, followed Maria upstairs, gazing in awe at the huge paintings that hung from the rough-plastered walls. A lot of them were portraits, which Gemma promised herself she’d study more closely later. For the moment all she wanted to do was get unpacked and cool off, though the house was cool enough; pretty dark too, she noted. The windows were all narrow and some of them shuttered to keep out the heat of the sun. She wondered where she would be expected to work and hoped that wherever it was there was more light than was being allowed to filter in the vaulted hallway and the stairs.

It was a huge villa, much bigger inside than it appeared outside. It was almost medieval in its décor, the stark white walls hung with what looked like iron objects of torture but were probably antique farming implements. All it needed was a couple of strategically placed suits of armour and she would feel she was in a castle of the Middle Ages. Heavens! There they were, round the next corner. Gemma skirted them warily, suppressing a grin.

Her room was coolly furnished, the bed an ornate affair with carved nymphs twirling vines around their heads on the mahogany headboard. It was draped with a creamy lace bedspread and there were matching lace drapes at the two narrow windows. There were huge rugs on the stone floor, pale orange with Aztec designs in blues and cream. The furniture, deeply carved wardrobes and chests of drawers, were heavy and ponderous but not unpleasant to live with. The room was scented with roses, which was nice, though the vases were filled with exotic waxy orchids in vibrant blues which gave off no smell. A Caribbean fan throbbed dully above the bed.

‘It’s lovely,’ Gemma breathed, slipping her satchel from her shoulder. It wasn’t her taste in décor but she nevertheless acknowledged it to be a beautiful room. Her mother would have adored it.

‘The bathroom, too.’ Maria smiled proudly, opening a heavy wooden door across the room.

Gemma peered in to see a wealth of marble and gold dolphin taps and sparkling mirrors.

‘It’s perfect,’ she smiled, as a small, leathered Pepe delivered her suitcase to the room she would occupy till the portrait was finished.

‘I unpack for you,’ Maria said, stepping to the case as Pepe went out of the room.

‘No, Maria. Thank you, but I can manage.’ Gemma wanted to be alone, to get her emotions together. She was here, in her father’s house, and it all felt very strange.

‘I leave you, then. I bring food to the terrace when you are ready.’

Gemma stood by the window when she was alone and gazed down over the gardens at the back of the villa. Lush tropical gardens full of colour and brightness. Flagstoned paths trailed through beds of roses; no doubt where the perfume came from, Gemma mused, breathing deeply. The swimming-pool lay beyond a screen of cypresses. Gemma could see the gleam of blue through the dark green and longed to cool her travel-weary body. She turned to her suitcase—first things first…

She stood frozen in time, half turned away from the window. A figure stood in the doorway of the bedroom. A figure she knew so well, but the apparition was some cruel trick of the dim light, surely, accentuated by this sombre old villa. It moved, came towards her, and Gemma’s hand shot to her mouth to stem the half-scream that rose in her throat.

‘It’s not possible!’ she breathed at last as the apparition stopped in front of her.