another undercurrent flowing into the dark, turbulent river that made up her relationship with the Vittorias—and one Vittoria in particular. ‘There’s another girl, Claire, a friend of mine, and she is very efficient.’
‘I was not talking about efficiency,’ he said softly, ‘but being missed.’
She stared at him for a moment, her eyes wary, before saying, ‘Now look, Donato, I told you I’m not into playing games—’
‘And I am not into the game-playing either,’ he bit out savagely, all pretence at coolness gone. ‘Have you forgotten Lorenzo, Grace—have you? Because I can assure you the child has not forgotten you! Since my mother’s death it is your name that is constantly on his lips, your love that he is crying for as he refuses all comfort and solace. He was devastated when you left a year ago—’
‘Don’t you dare blame that on me,’ she spat angrily. ‘You know why I left; you made it impossible for me to stay.’
‘You did what you wanted to do.’ He had immediately regained control of himself, his voice icy and his face cold and blank. ‘You did not think it fitting to discuss your departure with me first; you simply walked away, did you not?’
‘You could have followed me,’ she said tightly, and it wasn’t until she said the words, voicing them aloud for the first time, that she realised she had never expected that he would do anything else but come after her, not in her heart of hearts. But he hadn’t. And the days had turned into weeks and the weeks into months and she had slowly died inside, the bitterness of his betrayal on top of everything else she had endured turning her love to ashes.
‘To do what?’ he asked flatly. ‘To begin once again the endless quarrels, the pain, the suffering? I thought you had suffered enough, that you wanted peace.’
‘I did; I do.’ He had cared so little that he had just let her go. The knowledge beat against her brain, making her voice die and her body go limp. And even now the telegram, the request that she attend Liliana’s funeral, had not been sent to her because he wanted to see her, because there was any faint spark of the love they had once shared left in that cold, cold heart. Lorenzo was upset and Donato had thought the boy would be comforted by her presence. It was as simple as that. Oh, she hated him—she did; she loathed, detested, hated him...
The rest of the journey—along winding roads which passed small villages spangled and pretty in the afternoon sun—was completed without further conversation, the atmosphere in the car thick and heavy and taut with a thousand words best left unsaid.
Grace felt ill with the raw emotion that had taken hold of her and was shocked beyond measure to find that Donato could still affect her so violently. She had hoped, wanted, needed to find herself immune to him, to have the assurance that that stage of her life—the Donato stage—was over and done with, that the post-mortems were finally completed. Indifference...that was what she had prayed for; she had wanted to be dispassionate and distant, unmoved by hatred and resentment and bitterness, at long last able to put the past to rest.
But now the instigator of all her pain was getting in the way... But no, that wasn’t quite fair, she corrected herself silently. They had been happy once, before—
Her mind slammed to a halt, recognising its own frailty. She couldn’t think of it now; she would break down in front of him and that would be the final humiliation. One minute, one hour, one day at a time; that was what she had told herself all those many, many months ago, and when she managed to keep to that she got through—just.
Nevertheless, as the powerful car ate up the miles and they entered the narrow streets of Sorrento she knew where her first visit had to be; she was being pulled there by something stronger than herself. The scent of lemon groves hung heavy in the air as they climbed into the hills towards Casa Pontina, and when they passed through the large wrought-iron gates into the Vittoria estate she found she was on the edge of her seat.
‘Can...can we go to the walled garden?’ Her voice was the merest whisper but he heard it, his head shooting round and his piercing black eyes fastening on her face.
‘I do not think this would be a good idea,’ he said quietly. ‘You are tired from the journey and Lorenzo is waiting—’
‘I don’t care.’ She glanced at him once before staring fixedly ahead again, but such was the look on her face that he said no more to her, leaning forward and sliding the glass partition aside before giving an order in swift Italian to Antonio.
The Vittoria gardens were huge, bursting with tropical trees and shrubs, cascade upon cascade of sweet-smelling flowers, smooth green lawns, hidden bowers and a fine orchard where orange, apricot, olive, almond, fig and banana trees all lived in harmony, but it was to the tiny, shadow-blotched walled garden that Antonio drove, its ancient walls mellow and sun-soaked and protected by a huge evergreen oak that provided welcome shade in the height of summer.
‘Grace?’ Donato caught her arm as she went to move past him after leaving the car, turning her to face him. ‘Would this not be better tomorrow?’ he asked softly, his eyes intent on hers.
‘Lorenzo won’t mind waiting a few minutes more—’
‘I was not thinking of Lorenzo.’ His voice had been too harsh and he took a deep breath before he spoke again. ‘I was thinking of you,’ he said flatly.
But she didn’t hear him, her eyes, mind and soul fixed on the high wooden gate at the top of the long slope that led from the drive, remembering how it had been that day in June, nearly two years ago, when she had been demented with grief.
Donato took her hand as they walked up the stone path and she let her fingers rest in his—she really couldn’t find the strength to fight him at that moment—and then he was opening the gate and she stepped into the sheltered confines of the walled garden, her stomach jumping into her throat.
‘It looks just the same,’ she said softly, and Donato nodded at her side.
‘Of course, nothing will be changed here.’
The ancient walls were brilliant in places with trailing purple, red and white bougainvillea, lemon-scented verbenas perfuming the air along with pink begonia and a whole host of other flowers. A small patch of lawn in the middle of the garden had a tinkling fountain at its centre, and several seats were dotted round the small enclosure alongside sweet-smelling shrubs and bushes specially chosen for their fragrance.
It was tranquil, peaceful, a sheltered oasis amidst the bustle of life that surrounded the Vittoria empire, and once Grace had been used to spending lazy hours in the ancient retreat—lazy and exquisitely happy hours.
They walked to the end of the garden now, where a little foot-high wall enclosed a slightly raised small rectangle of ground that was ablaze with tiny flowers, a headstone cut in the shape of a teddy bear bearing the inscription, ‘Precious memories of Paolo Donato Vittoria, aged six months, baby son of Donato and Grace. You have taken our hearts with you.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘GRACE! Grace!’ Lorenzo’s welcome was as ecstatic as his face as he caught sight of her, but in the next moment, as she gathered the thin ten-year-old child into her arms, he burst into a storm of weeping, stringy arms tight round her neck.
‘Hush, now, hush,’ she soothed softly, sitting down on one of the massive stone steps that led up to the studded front door and holding Lorenzo close against her, until the sobs racking the small frame lessened. ‘It’s all right, darling.’ What stupid things we say in moments like these, she thought silently as she nuzzled her chin into the small black head beneath hers. Lorenzo had just lost his beloved mother to whom he had been exceptionally close; of course it wasn’t all right. Nothing was all right in his small world.
‘I did not know if you would come.’ Lorenzo raised dark, tear-smudged eyes to her gentle gaze. ‘You have been away so long.’
‘I told you Grace would come, did I not?’ Donato asked over their heads, his voice soft. ‘And