‘You’re not going to answer me, are you?’
He compressed his lips, and she felt a battle raging in his mind, a choice being made. Before she could determine who was the victor, the car drew to a halt. She could just make out a street sign, an old mosaic attached to the building at the corner. Via Giulia, it said. She didn’t need to know anything about the street to know that it was expensive real estate. The buildings here were very old, beautifully maintained, with abundant greenery and splashes of colour bursting from gardens that were concealed by high walls.
He waited for her to step from the limousine, before gesturing to a dark wooden door, arched, nestled within a pale pink rendered wall.
‘This is Palazzo Centro,’ he said, pinning a series of numbers into a discreet electric pad. The door sprang open. He held it wide to allow Olivia to pass. Frustrated at having her question unanswered, she passed without looking at him, and was quickly overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of this place. She had expected something elegant, of course, but not rich with history like this. It felt as though it should have been a museum, and not a home.
‘You live here?’
‘When I’m in Rome, sì.’
‘Which is how often?’
The garden was very old, if the size of the trees was any indication. A water feature was set against one wall, creating the delightful sound of rain falling, and in the centre there was a bird bath, with little balls of moss floating on top. A marble path cut through the garden, towards a front door that was timber, with gold detail.
‘Most of the time. Perhaps three weeks out of four.’
‘And the rest of the time?’
‘Wherever I need to be.’ He didn’t need to push the door open. A housekeeper appeared, dressed in black, her hair worn in a low grey bun. ‘Signora Marazzi,this is my wife,Signora Giovanardi.’
The housekeeper did a double take. ‘Your wife?’ she clarified in Italian.
Luca nodded. ‘Please make her feel welcome when I am not home.’
‘Certo, certo.’The housekeeper stared at Luca and then gave the full force of her attention to Olivia, who was, by now, feeling a little self-conscious. The housekeeper’s scrutiny didn’t help. ‘But you are so beautiful.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Like a Caravaggio figure with your porcelain skin and luminescent eyes.’
Olivia squirmed under the extravagant praise, a lifetime of criticism impossible to shake off.
Luca reached for her hand. ‘We were married only two days ago and will want privacy. Would you see that the fridge is stocked before you leave, and ask the other staff to give us space?’
It seemed to call the housekeeper back to her duties. She blinked, smiling. ‘Certo. I will come back tomorrow afternoon, to see if lasignora needs anything.’
Luca jerked his head by way of thanks, and Olivia watched the interaction with amusement.
‘You know, that bordered on rude.’
He laughed. ‘Believe me, Signora Marazzi will be almost as pleased as my grandmother that I’ve remarried—even if it does prove to be temporary.’
She ignored the tightening in her stomach as his words foreshadowed the end to their ruse.
He guided her through the entrance hall with its vaulted ceilings and chandeliers to a lounge room that was surprisingly modern.
‘An electrical fire destroyed most of the house’s interior and the owners could not afford the repair. I bought it for a steal, salvaged what I could, but, for the most part, a total reconstruction was required.’
‘Oh, what a terrible shame,’ she murmured. And yet, as she looked around the room, the juxtaposition of the ancient stone walls and modern interior had a sort of magical property, as though the house was bridging the gap between new and old. ‘It’s very striking,’ she said sincerely.
‘It works.’
‘It reminds me of the fenice,’ she said, with a small smile. ‘A phoenix, risen from the ashes.’
He cocked a brow. ‘I suppose you are right. I have not thought of it like this before.’ His hands caught her hips, holding her still, his eyes probing, asking questions, wondering. She stared back, an open book.
‘There are many things written about me on the Internet. It doesn’t generally bother me. What strangers choose to opine about me or my family is more a reflection of them than me. And yet, the idea of you having read them, of you believing them, is strangely disconcerting.’
Her heart slammed into her ribs. ‘I didn’t say that I believe what I read.’
His lips formed a grimace. ‘Some of them are true.’