CHAPTER FIVE
SALVATOREEASEDBACKin the driving seat, increased the throttle, and felt the familiar and always satisfying power of the superb performance of the car—an exclusive model from an exclusive Italian marque. Also satisfying was looking back on the week in Rome that had just passed.
Despite the second thoughts about what he was doing that had assailed him on their arrival, the reality had proved his tension unnecessary. It had gone well—triumphantly so. Achieving just what he’d intended. Announcing to the world—to Giavanna and her father—that Salvatore Luchesi was no longer a single man.
And achieving more than that, too.
His expression changed and his glance went fleetingly to the woman sitting in the passenger seat, absorbed, so it seemed, by looking out at the passing scenery and countryside as they drove towards Tuscany.
Lana had been surprisingly forbearing about Giavanna’s outrageous behaviour at the Duchessa’sfundraiser. And, he acknowledged, she had been wise to do so. Rome loved nothing more than scandal to feast on, and the tale of how Giavanna Fabrizzi had hurled a glass of champagne over his bride would have lost nothing in the retelling. Everyone liked a tasty morsel of gossip. Had Lana reacted with outrage and hysteria it would have made the situation ten times worse! But her cool dismissal, playing down the incident and writing it off with a show of sympathy for ‘teenage passion’ had, he admitted freely, been masterly.
He threw another glance at her. He could only see her profile, as she was still gazing interestedly out over the passing countryside. But her averted profile was as beautiful and elegant as her full profile or her full face. She was, it seemed, incapable of looking anything other than breathtakingly beautiful, with her finely carved features, striking looks and those amazing green eyes of hers...
Memory pierced him. Those emerald eyes gazing up at him, seemingly helpless to break away. His hand tilting her face to his. His mouth descending on those perfect lips of hers, tasting their sweetness. Like softest silk beneath his own.
Oh, it had been for show, all right, that kiss—but also more than that. Much more.
Anticipation rose in him. Rome had been full-on, every day spent socialising, with no time for each other at all. But now—ah, now it would be different. In the privacy of his palazzo he would have this most beautiful woman all to himself, away from gazing eyes.
Away from all eyes but his.
He allowed himself the luxury of one last glance at her profile, noting yet again its absolute perfection. Then he dragged his gaze back to the autostrada. It wasn’t wise to feast his eyes on her—not while he was driving.
Not yet.
But soon—enticingly soon.
The prospect was very pleasing.
His good mood increased and he accelerated towards their destination. His breathtakingly beautiful bride beside him.
Lana’s eyes widened—it was impossible that they should not. They’d just driven through a pair of impressive gilded iron gates set in a curtain wall, and crunched down a long, curving drive set between tall, pointed cedars, slowing down as Salvatore’s Tuscan palazzo came into view.
Her breath caught. It was magnificent! It was as if she’d stepped into a historical drama and at any moment people in full eighteenth-century rig would issue forth from the massive carved oak doors set in the centre of the golden stone frontage, with its huge sash windows and a balustrade around the roof.
‘Oh, my word!’ she breathed, her gaze riveted.
The massive front doors opened as Salvatore drew up, and an elderly, august-looking personage stepped through, followed by a middle-aged woman dressed in black.
‘Giuseppe is steward here—he has been with the family many years. The housekeeper is Signora Guardi, and other staff will become familiar to you in due course,’ Salvatore was murmuring. ‘Remember,’ he said, glancing back at her warningly, ‘they will treat you as the new mistress, but as they know how to run everything here to perfection, if they should consult you on any matter leave it to their discretion.’
Lana did not need reminding, and as she got out of the low-slung car she kept her expression guarded. Salvatore was welcomed with a benign greeting from Giuseppe and a respectful nod of the head from Signora Guardi. Then Salvatore was introducing her to them. She smiled, but stayed mindful both of her role and Salvatore’s warning. She might appear to be the chatelaine of this stately pile, but in reality she was no such thing.
Then he was taking her elbow, guiding her inside. The interior of the palazzo was as impressive as the exterior, with a wide, pilastered, marble-floored hall, off which a series of double-doored rooms opened on either side. At the far end was a double flight of stairs arcing around to both sides, leading to the upper floor.
Her bedroom, so it seemed, had been created to look out over the rear gardens, set with three windows and furnished with beautifully painted and stencilled white wood pieces, including a huge bed covered in an exquisitely embroidered white silk quilt. The walls were a very pale eau-de-nil, with the same delicate floral stencilling around the ceiling’s edge. Two crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the lustres echoed in table and bedside lamps.
Lana gazed around with open pleasure as a manservant brought in her luggage—which had been plentifully added to in Rome after several sorties to the designer boutiques of the Via dei Condotti at Salvatore’s behest. A maid was hovering, waiting to unpack. Lana let her do so, while she freshened up in the surprisingly modern en suite bathroom. When she emerged it was to hear the maid informing her politely that she was awaited downstairs.
Obediently, Lana headed down, to be ushered into a room opening off the long statue-lined central hall. It was a dining room, high-ceilinged and imposing, with oil paintings on the walls, but the long, polished mahogany table was not set for lunch. She was shown through French windows to a wide terrace beyond. There, under the shade of a huge sail-like parasol, a glass and iron table had been placed, laid for lunch, and Salvatore was standing beside it.
For once, however, Lana did not have eyes for him—only for the vista in front of her. They were, it seemed, to one side of the palazzo, and the gardens beyond the wide terrace were sunken, reached by a set of stone steps and dominated by a large ornamental stone pond, in the centre of which was a sculpted fountain trickling water. Potted bay trees and olive trees were around the perimeter, the whole space girded by a sun-baked wall. Several carved benches were dotted about, each flanked by smaller bays and olives. It was both ornate and minimalist in its impact.
‘The fountain is only turned on occasionally, to conserve water,’ Lana heard Salvatore say.
‘It’s absolutely beautiful,’ she said, taking the chair he was pulling back for her and seating himself at the head. ‘As is the whole place!’
‘It was mostly my mother’s creation—both the gardens and the interior,’ Salvatore told her. ‘She spent a great deal of time here. My father was usually elsewhere.’