The Sicilian Duke's Demand

Antonio nodded. ‘He apparently arrived while we were at the wreck. He’s resting in his room.’

‘I’m looking forward to meeting him,’ Isobel said. She had only seen the noble-looking, white-bearded Duke of Mandalà in photographs, but his contribution to the arts had been legendary. The author of many scholarly books, he had also bestowed his vast wealth among several carefully selected museums and trusts, including the Berger Foundation. He had been away from the palazzo since before their arrival. ‘It’ll be a great honour for me.’

Antonio, a lean, dark-eyed man with a saturnine face, favoured her with a smile. ‘For all of us. We’re eating in the principal dining-room, by the way. I’m going to shower. See you at supper.’

Isobel made her way to her own room. It was a ravishing bedchamber that always made her sigh with delight as she entered it. There was no question that it was a woman’s room, and she had often wondered which languid duchess it had been arranged for. The pale-rose-coloured walls were hung with exquisite paintings, the eighteenth-century gilt-wood furniture was upholstered in violet satin, and the bed, an operatic production in itself, was a four-post affair in amaranth and mahogany, dressed in mountains of ivory voile. It had its own marble-balustraded balcony, which looked out over a grove of orange trees, so the rich, spicy scent of blossoms drifted up to her bed all night long.

Some more recent Duke of Mandalà had added an en suite bathroom, a gleaming symphony of white marble and gold taps, and it was here she now headed to wash off the salt of the day’s dive.

She stood under the warm rush of water, closing her eyes as she sluiced her long auburn hair. Alone with her own thoughts for the first time since that morning, Isobel allowed herself to remember what had happened to her. Not the edited version.

The real story.

How on earth had she allowed such a thing to happen to her? To be embraced by a total stranger on a rock, to be kissed on the mouth by him…It was humiliating in the extreme.

He was a very big, strong brute, she told herself. She had had no way of fighting back. She should just count herself lucky it hadn’t gone further. As with a thug like that, it might well have done.

But as she soaped the womanly curves of her body a more honest voice whispered that it hadn’t been that simple. Something very important had happened on that rock today.

He had been the most magnificent man she had ever seen, and she had wanted that embrace, had kissed him back, even as she’d fought with him. And what had happened to her then, in the matter of a few seconds, was something that had very seldom happened with Michael Wilensky.

Almost never, in fact.

Her rich, sophisticated New York City lover had not been able to do to her, with all his polish, what Poseidon had done to her with a single kiss.

And that had momentous implications. Doors were opening in her mind, each one leading into stranger and stranger rooms.

Maybe the reason she was so ‘cold and unresponsive’ had more to do with Michael Wilensky than with any problem in herself.

Maybe, for all her own polish and sophistication, it had taken a rough Sicilian brigand to unlock her sexuality.

Maybe she was, after all, the sort of woman she had always despised, the sort of woman who responded to the most brutish kind of man, the kind of man who would steal from an archaeological site, who would look at a strange woman, like what he saw, and take what he liked.

And maybe it had taken her until twenty-seven to learn all these things about herself.

She felt dizzy as she cupped her own neat breasts under the spray, remembering the rapture of that moment, the feeling deep inside her that had exploded into delight, just from one kiss.

‘Don’t be such a damned idiot.’

The cold voice was her own. The doors to those strange and exotic chambers in her mind slammed shut, one by one. She released her breasts and turned the cold tap on full. The stinging, icy needles brought her to her senses swiftly.

This wouldn’t do at all.

Oh, no.

It hadn’t happened. Not to her. That was some other woman out on that rock today. A siren lady who had nothing to do with her. Not Isobel Roche, the youngest PhD in the Berger Foundation, the Ice Princess of Archaeology.

Which reminded her that it was coming up for lunch-time in New York, and she was due to report back to her boss, Barbara Bristow, today. She gathered her notes of progress to report, information to impart and questions to ask, and, wrapped in a towel, made the call from her bedside phone.

Professor Barbara Bristow, a rather formidable woman in her seventies, had been one of the people chiefly responsible for Isobel’s prestigious appointment at the Berger. She was the foundation’s current Director. Her lifelong friendship with Isobel’s father, an authority on Roman architecture, had certainly helped, but Isobel also knew that Professor Bristow expected great things of her, and had already entrusted her with several important acquisitions and other missions for the foundation.

The first thing she had to report was the security problem.

‘I’m absolutely fine, Professor,’ she said, in answer to the immediate question. ‘He was scared off when the dive boat arrived. I don’t think he’ll be back—he seemed more of an opportunist, grabbing what he could find, rather than a systematic robber. There were dozens of coins in that pot and he only had one in his hand.’

‘The best one,’ Professor Bristow pointed out sharply. ‘He evidently knew what he was doing, Isobel. And these people can be very dangerous. Don’t tangle with him again. That’s an order!’

‘I understand.’

‘I don’t want to have to go to your father and explain how you’ve had your throat cut by a tomb robber. What did Antonio Zaccaria say?’

‘He’s spoken to the carabinieri and the Coastguard, and they’ve promised to keep an eye on the site. I’m also going to speak to the duke about it—apparently he’s arrived back in the palazzo and we’re going to have a formal supper with him.’

‘Excellent! Please give him my best wishes. It’s some years since we met. He is a wonderful source of information, Isobel. You can learn a lot from the old gentleman.’

‘I’ll be sure to pass on your good wishes, Professor. And I’ll email photos of the coins some time tomorrow.’

‘All right. Keep me posted. And buon appetito!’

Under the languorous eyes of the half-naked ladies in the rococo frames, Isobel dressed carefully for dinner. She wanted to look her best for the Duke of Mandalà. The old man’s health had been frail for years, but he was a major philanthropist, and an important figure to the Berger Foundation through his donations.

She looked at herself in the oval mirror. She had not come to Sicily equipped with a trunk of formal clothing, and this sleeveless amethyst silk top and black skirt were going to have to stand in place of a ruff and pearls. At least, she thought, tilting her head, the top showed off her creamy skin. She had piled her red-gold hair on the top of her head, emphasizing her long neck—Isobel was not a woman who felt obliged to disguise her height in order to pander to fragile male egos—and she was pleased that her bra flattered her breasts under the clingy top. She had never understood women who bought expensive clothes and cheap underwear.

The amethyst silk was shot through with crimson as the light caught it, bringing out the colour of her hair and eyes. She did not favour a lot of make-up—just some baby-pink gloss for her perfect, leaf-shaped mouth, and a touch of blusher on her high cheek-bones so she didn’t look too pale. The shimmering sound of the dinner-gong was rippling through the palazzo. She fastened black pearl drop earrings in her ears, kicked on black sandals and there she was—ready to rock and roll.

Up until now, they had eaten in the ‘small’ dining-room, which was actually a very grand room. None of them had been in the ‘big’ dining-room yet, and Isobel was interested to see just how big it was.

As she joined the others, staring around her, she could not help gasping. The big dining-room was not all that much bigger in sheer size; it was the scale of the furnishings that made it, in every sense, big.

Two enormous candelabra stood at the ends of the table, their dozens of flickering rose candles providing the only lighting. On each of the side walls, a huge Canaletto oil painting showed views of Venice. At the ends of the room were equally imposing studies of naked nymphs frolicking with ditto shepherds and gods that had to be by Rubens. Nobody else could paint women’s bottoms with such voluptuous delight.

There were just the four of them present—the old man had not as yet joined them—and Theo Makarios nudged her, looking upward as he fiddled with his tie. She followed his gaze. The baroque vaulted ceiling was painted with frescoes—naked angels and cherubim, this time, frolicking among clouds. Celestial bosoms and thighs winked naughtily from beneath feathery white wings.

‘I feel positively overdressed,’ she murmured.

The three men were all wearing jackets and ties, and looking very uncomfortable with it. Theo’s choice had been a red-spotted bow-tie, which he had badly mangled. Swiftly, she pulled it loose and tied it properly for him.

‘Thanks,’ he whispered.

David Franks picked up a fork and showed it to her. ‘Think it’s solid?’

It was gold, and looked to be eighteenth-century, like all the cutlery spread out on the snowy tablecloth. ‘No doubt about it,’ she replied. ‘The contents of this room are worth approximately thirty million dollars. Why would they compromise on cheap, gold-plated cutlery?’

Antonio Zaccaria smiled. Isobel stared around the room at the magnificent furniture, the marble statuary, the elaborate dining chairs. The wealth of the Dukes of Mandalà was legendary. So much beauty, so much great art, assembled to please one family. As someone who herself had been raised with money, she knew how the wealthy lived. But this—this was different.

The double doors at the other end of the room opened and the old butler, whom they had learned to call Turi, stepped in.

‘The Duke of Mandalà,’ he announced, in a cracked voice.

They all straightened up from whatever treasure they had been examining and faced the door expectantly.

The man who strolled in, however, was not the patrician figure with a white beard and horn-rimmed glasses, familiar to all of them from photographs.

Not even close.

This was a very tall, very well-built man who looked like a demigod in evening dress, and who could not have been more than thirty-five. His jet-black hair was immaculately cut and his face—surely the most beautiful male face Isobel had ever set eyes on—was clean-shaven and wore a tiger’s smile.

‘Please accept my apologies for my late arrival,’ he greeted them in a deep, husky voice, speaking perfect but accented English. ‘A bad habit of mine. I trust you have not been too incommoded by my absence. Signor Zaccaria, how do you do? And surely this is Theoharis Makarios, the famed numismatist?’

Theo mumbled a modest reply, flushing as the big man wrung his hand.

‘Which means that you must be David Franks, of Harvard University?’ their host continued, shaking David’s hand briskly. ‘I enjoyed your recent article on the Etruscan bronzes very much. I have some bronzes myself, which you may be interested to see.’ Finally, he turned to Isobel, who was watching the performance frozen and open-mouthed. Dancing blue eyes met hers with a jolt that shook her right down to her feet. ‘And thus, by a process of elimination, you must be Dr Isobel Roche,’ he informed her with a wicked grin. He bowed over her hand, brushing it with warm lips that were all too familiar to her.

Familiar because she no longer had any doubt—if there had ever been any in her heart—that this demigod in evening dress, clean-shaven and barbered as he was, could only be one man.

The man who had given her a golden coin in exchange for a searing kiss that very morning.

Her Poseidon.

CHAPTER THREE

AS THEY all took their seats—Isobel finding herself seated at Poseidon’s right hand—David stammered out, ‘Won’t the duke be joining us, after all?’

‘But, my dear fellow, I am the duke,’ Poseidon replied, with courteous surprise. ‘Ah—you were expecting my grandfather?’

‘Your grandfather?’ Isobel echoed hollowly.

He turned to her. His face was solemn, but those amazing eyes were full of laughter. ‘I do apologize yet again. A perfectly natural mistake. My beloved grandfather, Ruggiero, the twelfth Duke of Mandalà, died six months ago. I am Alessandro Massimiliano, the thirteenth duke. But my friends call me Alessandro.’

‘So it was you who asked us here?’ Theo said.

‘Oh, yes. As I have told you, my revered grandfather died just before Christmas. A fisherman spotted the wreck only a few weeks ago, and it was plainly a matter of urgency to excavate it as soon as possible, before the sea reclaims it.’ The butler had been filling all their glasses with champagne, and now he raised his glass in a toast. ‘Let us drink to my late grandfather. And may I add what an honour it is for me to host such a gathering of archaeological talent!’

They all raised their glasses and drank. But as the icy bubbles sank down her throat, Isobel’s mind was racing. Alessandro Mandalà.

Good God. Of course. Now that the beard and the long hair were gone, how familiar that film-star face was! Alessandro Mandalà, international art dealer, playboy, rogue, jet-setter, boyfriend of pop-stars and supermodels, the latest wild branch on the Mandalà family tree!

She dared not look at him, in case her eyes betrayed the thoughts that were racing through her mind.

Pity for the decent old philanthropist whose place had been taken by this rogue filled her. What an heir for a great man!

Hadn’t there been that huge scandal just last year? A marble torso he had sold to the Getty Museum for millions, which had turned out to be a fake?

And that other business, a flagrant liaison between him and a vampy rock singer at least ten years older than he was? High-octane media fuel, with lots of public fighting and kissing, splashed all over the tabloids?

And something just recently, a rumbling from the British Museum about some sculptures he had supplied them with, now suspected of having been stolen?

She caught David Franks’s eye, and knew he was thinking about exactly the same stories.

‘But tell me, Dr Roche,’ Alessandro Mandalà purred, laying a warm hand on the bare skin of her arm, making her jump and sending goose-flesh shivering up her spine, ‘how is the excavation going? Have you recovered any artefacts from the wreck?’

She forced herself to look into that beautiful face. He had shaved immaculately—she caught a hint of some costly cologne from his skin—and if he had been stunning as a bearded pirate that morning, he was ten times more so as the suave aristocrat. His eyebrows were thick and black, his nose straight, with flaring nostrils. His mouth was pure sin, passionate and mocking and totally erotic. ‘We’ve been able to recover quite a lot of pottery,’ she said. Her mouth was still dry with shock and she licked her lips. His warm blue eyes watched the quick movement of her pink tongue appreciatively. ‘And today—today we found a hoard of ancient coins in a jar.’

‘But how fascinating.’ His fingers were caressing her arm intimately. ‘Any gold coins among them?’ he asked innocently, cocking his head.

She almost choked on her champagne. She pulled her arm away from those caressing fingers. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. A rather nice gold Poseidon of Syracuse.’

‘Ah, one of my favourite coins,’ he replied, looking smug. ‘One could buy something really special with one of those—in ancient times.’

Isobel felt the colour rise into her pale cheeks. ‘It’s a valuable coin,’ she said tersely.

‘Perhaps you will give me a guided tour of the artefacts after supper?’

‘If you like.’ Her teeth clicked shut on the words. The hypocrite!

‘We had an intruder on the wreck this morning,’ Antonio Zaccaria said, oblivious to Isobel’s discomfiture. ‘He nearly made off with the gold coin, but Dr Roche confronted him and chased him off.’

Alessandro raised shocked eyebrows. ‘But how unpleasant. Some local mafioso, no doubt. Give me a description of the villain and we’ll see if we can track him down.’

‘I didn’t get a good look at him,’ she muttered. ‘He had long hair and a beard.’

‘Well, you showed great fortitude, Dr Roche. How exactly did you manage to—er—frighten this fellow away?’

By now her face was flaming, and she could sense the others looking at her curiously. He was teasing her deliberately, playing with her like a big cat. His expression was all concern, but those eyes held the hot blue memory of what had happened between them only hours earlier. ‘He heard the boat coming and left of his own accord,’ she replied thickly.

‘He didn’t hurt you in any way?’

‘No,’ she snapped, ‘but it was certainly one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life!’

He nodded gravely. ‘The perils of archaeology are great. One has to make many sacrifices—in order to preserve the historical record.’

She felt like throwing the champagne in his face. Luckily, Theo Makarios addressed their host.

‘You’re a dealer in antiquities, aren’t you, Duke?’

‘Oh, please call me Alessandro. I think we should be on first-name terms, don’t you? And, yes, I am an art dealer, for my sins.’

‘Something of a change in the family business,’ David put in meaningfully. He was a thin, earnest man, and always spoke very directly. ‘Your grandfather was a great conservator of the past. He dedicated his life to preserving treasures for future generations. Whereas you buy and sell them to the highest bidder.’

‘Are you making some point, my dear David?’ Alessandro purred, his eyelids lowering.

‘Yes. That your grandfather might not have approved of your career choices.’

‘But my grandfather and I loved one another dearly, I assure you,’ Alessandro replied easily. ‘There was no disapproval. In fact, my work grew out of his in a very real sense.’

‘Isn’t your work the opposite of his?’ Theo said cautiously. A Greek-American from New Jersey, he had the same integrity as David, but was more softly spoken. Isobel gave a silent cheer. Go get him, Theo, she thought. ‘Trafficking in antiquities doesn’t sound like something the late duke would have approved of. With the greatest respect.’

Alessandro laughed. ‘Trafficking? My friends, I think you have the wrong idea about my work. I deal only with top-level museums. I make a point never to sell to private collectors. I do not approve of treasures going into Swiss bank vaults, never to reappear. It is my heartfelt belief that beautiful things should be seen by everyone. Hence, my clients are bodies such as the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the British Museum, the Getty. Anyone who can afford the price of a ticket can see the things I sell.’

The servants were unobtrusively serving the first course, an antipasto of frutti di mare, crisp calamari, prawns and shrimps drizzled with lemon juice.

‘Speaking of the Getty,’ Isobel said, in a voice like crystal, ‘what is the status of the torso you sold them last year, Duke? Wasn’t there some question of its authenticity?’

‘A very sad story,’ he said huskily. But she could see he was quite unfazed by the question. ‘A great museum, a wonderful piece, some foolish outsiders raising irrational doubts—the investigations continue, of course, but I am sure I will be vindicated in time. My beloved grandfather raised me to have an unerring eye for what is genuine.’ He was looking deep into her eyes as he spoke. ‘And what is truly precious.’

She gulped, feeling her heart flutter. He was a rogue, but he knew how to flirt. ‘So you maintain the torso is genuine?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And the sculptures at the British Museum?’ Theo put in softly. ‘Some people are now saying they are stolen.’

‘Not stolen,’ the thirteenth Duke of Mandalà said firmly, attacking his antipasto with a gold fork. ‘Looted, my dear Theo.’

‘Looted?’

‘They come from a Third World country currently in the grip of a prolonged war. This country is also the possessor of great archaeological riches. The sculptures were looted by soldiers from one of the big museums. Luckily, they found their way into my hands.’

They had all stopped eating the delicious antipasto, eyes wide. David put his fork down with a clatter that made Isobel wince—gold cutlery meeting Sèvres crockery rather too sharply for safety. ‘Most dealers won’t even touch that kind of thing!’ he said angrily.

‘Of course not,’ Alessandro retorted. ‘That’s the trouble with this business. Too much hypocrisy, too much greed.’

Isobel almost gaped at the effrontery of this magnificent brute, purring about hypocrisy and greed as he devoured calamari off a golden fork! ‘Well, I’m glad you are free of those hindrances, Duke,’ she said scathingly.

‘Do I detect irony in that silvery voice?’ He smiled. ‘Someone has to pick up the pieces, my dear.’

‘That someone being you?’ David sneered.

‘If the world is lucky, it’s me.’ He nodded imperceptibly to the staff to clear the plates. ‘I make sure that when these items reach the so-called open market, as they invariably do, that they find their way to great institutions. The British Museum were fully aware of the provenance of those sculptures. They’re offering them sanctuary while the war rages in their homeland.’

‘And when the war ends, I suppose they’ll just give them back?’ Isobel said.

‘That’s not my business,’ he said dismissively. ‘I am just happy to have rescued them from the hands of avaricious private collectors. Or from being pulverised by a smart missile that wasn’t so smart.’

‘And, of course, you make a handsome profit in the process!’

‘Isn’t your own work paid, Isobel?’ he asked softly. ‘Sometimes my job calls for me to become a kind of search-and-rescue agency for orphaned treasures. You’re quite right to say that many other dealers won’t touch this stuff. That’s not because of their high ethics, dear heart. It’s because they’re too afraid of tarnishing their haloes.’

‘I don’t see a halo over your head,’ she retorted.

‘Quite right,’ he said seraphically. ‘My reputation is hopelessly blemished. I really don’t give a damn. In fact, in my business, it is a distinct advantage to be thought of as a scoundrel. It’s the perfect entrée for certain kinds of dealer.’ He grinned at her wickedly. She had never seen such perfect teeth. ‘And I don’t always make a profit. Sometimes my virtue is its own reward.’

The arrival of the main course, a magnificent roast, forestalled her reply. Alessandro carved the joint expertly, his razor-sharp carving knife sliding through the juicy meat.

‘You see,’ he went on, ‘if I don’t make sure those treasures end up in the world’s top institutions, they disappear for ever. The British Museum pieces, for example, are exquisite carvings in marble, a notoriously fragile material. The military gentlemen who were selling them had the bright idea to break them up and sell the fragments piecemeal. A head here, an arm there. You understand? They hoped to double their investment that way.’ He laughed heartily at their expressions. ‘I was in a position to dissuade them from this path and make sure the pieces reached the museum intact. Wouldn’t you say that history owes me a debt?’

‘Is that a true story?’ David asked. There was a grudging smile on his thin face and Isobel realized with a flash of real annoyance that even David was falling prey to this man’s monumental charm.

‘Absolutely,’ Alessandro said silkily as succulent slices of meat made their way onto Sèvres plates. ‘And I have stories better than that, believe me.’

And he proceeded, as Isobel sat in a seething silence, to tell two more. Tall tales, in which he himself emerged as the reluctant hero from hair-raising deals with looters or international smugglers. And the other three sat there with wide eyes, drinking all this rubbish in!