Modern Romance March 2019 5-8

He supposed there was an element of guilty pleasure, though mostly pleasure, in being able to stare at her unobserved. To study the curve of her cheek, the elegant arch of her brow and the pink bow of her mouth. He remembered how she tasted and wanted to taste her again. He imagined himself waking her up with a kiss.

Despite the Sleeping Beauty analogy, in his head there was nothing chaste or fairy-tale-like about the kiss, or her response! It involved warm pale limbs wrapping around him, sinking into...

‘Are we nearly there?’

Wrenched free of the sensual, erotic images, he clamped his lips tight over a strangled laugh, and watched her almost press her nose to the window.

They’d been there for at least ten minutes. The fertile land dotted with fig groves and larger stretches of vineyards belonged to his family.

But he knew what she meant.

‘We’ve just left the village.’ At the foot of the craggy outcrop that the Castello was built on, much of the village still belonged to the Greco estate. ‘Just wait a minute and you’ll see it.’

She followed the direction of his pointing finger and turned her head.

Beside her Ivo said, ‘About—now!’

He heard her breath catch; it was a common response to the first sight of his family home, but the awe on Flora’s face made him think of a child seeing a Christmas tree.

Flora realised a moment too late that the open-mouthed look was not the height of sophistication, or for that matter a good look on anyone except, perhaps, her travelling companion, who would look incredible no matter what.

At least this was an example of life’s unfairness that she could smile at, and she did smile as she shifted in her seat to face him.

‘It looks like something out of a fairy tale. The towers...’ Head shaking, she glanced back at the square stone towers at each of the four corner of the monumental building.

‘They were there a couple of hundred years before the actual Castello. There’s a view over the sea from up there, but it’s not bad from here either.’ He nodded past her and she turned again.

She’d been aware of the steep incline of the winding road but not the village, built on the edge of the water, it revealed or the glittering aquamarine sea scape it was set against.

Wow hardly seemed adequate—when he had spoken of Jamie’s heritage she had never imagined anything like this. On this scale the historic grandeur was intimidating. ‘So this is the Greco ancestral home.’

‘There have been Grecos here for centuries. This place’s fortunes followed ours, land sold, land bought back, disrepair and grandeur, but our family originally didn’t build the place, an ancestor won it in a card game, or so the story goes. A tale probably invented for the tourists.’

‘Have you always lived here?’

‘We lived here as children, but these days I have an apartment in Florence. It’s more convenient for when I’m in Italy, but I travel a great deal. I could give you a history but as an architect you’ll probably know more about it than me.’

‘I am an architect,’ she agreed, wondering absently if this was the wrong tense, or maybe, considering the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, to describe her as a scared architect would have been more appropriate. ‘Not an art historian.’ That said, she did recognise the massive double entrance that had come into view on top of an impressive flight of stone steps as a pretty incredible example of pure Renaissance.

The melding of styles over the years had given this place a unique look, in the same way the melding of genes over the years had given Ivo a unique look.

The thought drew her gaze towards the man whose genetic make-up had produced...well...perfection, and she found he was looking at her. He wasn’t smiling and there was something in his eyes that made her heart beat faster.

She lifted her chin in response to the silent challenge glittering in his eyes. ‘So what now?’

‘Now we get you and Jamie settled. I’m assuming that Salvatore will want to see you both.’

An invitation where non-attendance was not an option.

Her spiky, thick lashes half lowered, her plump lower lip caught between her teeth, her soft mutter of, ‘I can hardly wait,’ was obviously not as under her breath as she intended because he responded drily.

‘In order to avoid any misunderstandings, I should mention that my grandfather is not likely to get irony, or, for that matter, humour.’

‘Any more tips?’

‘Don’t overthink this, and don’t look so guilty.’

She silently tacked on and don’t throw up as she nodded to the uniformed figure holding the door open and slid out of the car.

A moment later Ivo joined her. He was carrying the car seat. She was actually grateful for the light pressure of the guiding hand in the small of her back as they approached the shallow flight of stone steps with the elaborate wrought-iron railings.

This was what Bruno had walked away from. Seeing it up close made her appreciate for the first time just how much he had turned his back on for the woman he loved, just what he had sacrificed.

She had thought that the home and business his parents had built was Jamie’s inheritance, preserving it had been her focus, but now she was here she realised that this was Jamie’s birthright too.

She glanced down at the baby sitting contentedly, his sun hat slightly askew on his dark curls, and experienced a moment of mind-clearing clarity.

Her chin lifted. Yes, she would fight to keep the business going, so that, unlike his father, Jamie would never have to choose. ‘None of this actually matters. Jamie’s true birthright is his parents’ love.’

She hadn’t been aware that she had voiced the realisation out loud until the pressure against her spine increased and Ivo’s deep-voiced cynicism, etched in every syllable, floated down to her, making her wince.

‘You put a high price on love.’

She was still blinking as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the more subdued light after the brilliant sunshine outside, when a man approached. Neat was the word that popped into her head when she saw him. Everything about him was precise, from his neatly trimmed beard to the parting in his slicked-back hair; she could have seen her reflection in his highly polished shoes.

‘Ramon.’

‘Sir.’ He greeted Ivo with a deferential tip of his head.

’Flora, this is Ramon, my grandfather’s major domo, who makes this place run like clockwork. Ramon, this is my fiancée, Ms Flora Henderson, and Jamie.’

‘Hello.’ The way he looked at the hand she had extended made Flora wonder if she had broken some sort of etiquette, but his smile was genial as he took it in a dry-handed grip.

‘If you’re here as an escort, Ramon, explain to my grandfather—’

‘Jamie needs feeding.’ Flora had been watching the baby push his chubby fist into his mouth. Experience told her they had about five minutes before the hungry wailing started.

‘There, you see, my grandfather will have to wait.’

The older man cleared his throat. ‘Of course.’ He nodded his head as three people appeared. They responded to instructions he delivered in his precise voice with lots of nods. ‘Actually, sir, I was hoping... The doctor is here and your grandfather has given him permission to speak with you.’

Flora felt Ivo’s splayed fingers tighten in the small of her back; her eyes went to his face. His features were still. Despite the lack of any discernible expression at all on his face, or maybe because of it, Flora sensed the emotions under the surface.

If everyone had a secret fear, she decided then that Ivo’s was anyone who suspected he was human.

‘You go,’ she said, drawing the attention of the older man to herself. ‘We’ll be fine.’ She stepped away from his supportive touch and curled her fingers around his on the handle of the baby carrier. ‘I can manage,’ she said and turned, while around them the rest of the luggage and baby paraphernalia was being carried up the stairs and along one of the wide galleries that ran around the upper floor perimeter, before vanishing.

‘I can manage,’ she repeated with another tug.

Ivo didn’t release his grip but he did put the carrier down on the floor. ‘Give us a moment, will you, Ramon?’

The other man moved away to a discreet distance.

Flora glanced over her shoulder towards him and, pitching her voice low, said softly, ‘I’m sorry.’

He arched a brow. ‘What for?’

‘That your grandfather is...’

‘What? Dying? Well, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Smile, cara, this might be good news for you. I know you were too polite to ask how long but this does looks promising for you, so fingers crossed.’

It wasn’t just the sneering intonation in his voice or the coldness in his eyes as they swept over her face, it was the fact that she hadn’t seen it coming. She focused on stopping the tears she felt pressing at the backs of her eyes and told herself it was ridiculous to feel this level of hurt.

‘Why are you being so hateful?’

He flinched inwardly at the unconscious dignity in her stance, but he ignored the guilt nudging his conscience and refused to even acknowledge the odd wrenching sensation in his chest as he looked down into the reproachful blue eyes that shimmered up at him, bright as jewels.

He gave a negligent shrug. ‘What can I say? They tell me it’s one of my talents.’

‘Odd. I get the impression you’re working hard at it.’ The bewilderment in her face was genuine. ‘Why are you pushing me away?’

Wishing the words unsaid, not even knowing where they had come from, Flora veiled her eyes as she pushed her way through a wave of cringing embarrassment by sheer force of will.

Pushing you away...! It was the sort of thing that people in a relationship said. She twisted the ring on her finger and reminded herself it was very much for show.

He flinched inwardly, then dealt with the direct hit the only way he could—he ignored it. ‘Ramon.’

The other man hurried over.

Flora was aware of Ivo saying something to him but it wasn’t until the dapper bearded figure reached for the baby carrier that Flora reacted. Possibly he was slow because he thought the request was beneath his pay grade, but Flora got there before him, tugging up the carrier in two hands and holding it against her front.

‘I can manage.’ Anger shimmered through her as she walked, stiff-backed, towards the staircase. A lot of things were uncertain but one thing she knew for sure: she was not going to waste her sympathy on Ivo Greco again, or imagine he was something he was not.

* * *

The doctor, actually two of them, stood outside his grandfather’s bedroom. One he recognised as Salvatore’s personal physician, the other was a stranger. If he’d had any doubts remaining, their professional expression, that blending of gravity and sympathy that all medics perfected, said it all.

Ivo took a deep breath and dragged a hand through his hair, banishing the lingering memory of the hurt in Flora’s eyes that had plagued him as he’d walked down the corridors feeling like a total heel.

What was the British saying? If the hat fits...

Well, it did, he decided, removing his hand from his hair, not bothering to smooth down the spikes. Flora’s only sin in this instance was being in the firing line when he had realised this wasn’t one of the old man’s games, he really was dying, and rather than admit even to himself that he cared, his reflex had been to hit out.

Obviously at one level he had known that it was a possibility that for once in his life his grandfather was being forthright, and he should have been prepared, but deep down he had never actually believed that Salvatore, who had always seemed so indestructible to him, was dying.

The irony was he hadn’t even known he was in denial until the moment he had heard the truth in Ramon’s voice.

This wasn’t just another of the old fox’s schemes. It was for real.

Not quite the classic case of the boy crying wolf but a toxic, twisted version of it.

‘He is waiting for you.’

Ivo never had responded well to authority, and this went double for the white-coated variety. He was not impressed by medical degrees. Men with more degrees than wall space had not stopped his damaged father killing himself or his mother dying. ‘And yet you are out here.’

‘We wanted to speak to you before you go inside. Actually, we wanted to speak to you much earlier, but we were constrained by your grandfather’s wishes.’

That would be right, Salvatore would always have the last word, even if that word was a dying word...‘Is it cancer?’

The men glanced at each other, then the one he didn’t recognise cleared his throat.

‘I’m afraid not.’

Afraid? What the hell could be worse than cancer? Ivo wondered.

‘Your grandfather has dementia.’

Ivo looked at him and laughed, not an amused sound. ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. My grandfather is as sharp as a tack. He can run rings around someone half his age, physically and mentally.’

‘Your grandfather can have long periods of lucidity.’

Meaning he doesn’t know where he is the rest of the time. The grinding pain pressing into his temples was no longer the beginning of a tension headache, it was full blown. Ivo looked coldly at the man who spoke before transferring his attention to the familiar face of the family doctor, who up to this point had seemed reasonably reliable.

‘I don’t know where you dug this joker up from, but I want a second opinion.’

The older man flushed and looked embarrassed as he sent an apologetic grimace to his colleague. ‘This is Professor Ranieri—’

Ivo arched a brow; the degree of reverence had only increased his antagonism. ‘Is that meant to mean something to me?’

The younger man stepped forward. ‘I’m a professor in neurodegenerative conditions and dementia, Mr Greco, and I am the second opinion.’ He flashed his colleague a look. ‘Or would I be correct in saying third is more accurate?’ The older man nodded unhappily. ‘I diagnosed your grandfather three months ago,’ he finished quietly.

‘He’s suspected it for some time,’ the older man added to back up his colleague. ‘When he finally consulted me, well, the tests were all conclusive.’

Ivo’s chest lifted, and he swallowed; his brain still refused to accept what he was being told. First Bruno and now Salvatore, a double whammy.

His family was vanishing.

He had not seen his brother for years, and he saw his grandfather as little as he could. Alone was the way he liked it, he reminded himself.

‘I would have known.’ He clung stubbornly to the belief because the option was believing what these men were saying.

‘Not necessarily, Mr Greco. People with dementia will hide their symptoms—even those closest to them don’t always notice. Some changes can be subtle.’

‘No.’ Ivo remained firm. ‘We spoke last week, he was... He called me Bruno...’ The recovered memory took on a new significance as he replayed highlights of the conversation in his head. Suddenly the clues were there, the minor errors evidence of his memory loss.

Ivo stood there breathing hard as his defences against the ugly truth disintegrated. He could no longer stop himself thinking of the tough old man with a razor-sharp brain losing part of himself and knowing it. It was the ultimate horror; fear clawed at his own belly just thinking about it.

Dio, Salvatore must have been desperate!

‘Look, we appreciate this is a lot to take in.’ The older man stepped forward to place a reassuring hand on Ivo’s arm but was stopped by a look from those dark, hooded eyes. ‘You’ll need time to digest and there will be questions. We are accepting your hospitality for the night, so whenever you’re ready?’

Ivo’s jaw tightened. ‘How about now?’

The older medic cleared his throat and adjusted the wire-framed spectacles perched on his nose. ‘Actually, I believe you are expected inside.’ He nodded towards the bedroom door. ‘We are here at the behest of your father’s lawyer.’

‘Rafe is here?’ Was he the last to know? Just how many people had known before he had?

‘You grandfather wishes, I believe, to sign over power of attorney to you. That is why we are here, to confirm that his mind is... That he is able to make such a decision with sound mind and without any external pressure.’

Ivo struggled to hide the devastating impact of the wave of shock that rose up inside him like swirling filthy flood water. ‘That is hardly urgent.’ Right now, his priority was learning all there was to know about what his grandfather was facing.

Knowledge was power. There was always an alternative; this wasn’t something that you meekly accepted.

It was the younger doctor who responded. ‘Can I be frank with you?’

Ivo said nothing, he just looked.

‘Right, well, tomorrow, Mr Greco,’ he said gently, ‘we might not be able to confirm that your grandfather has the mental capacity to make that decision. Time is running out, I’m afraid.’

CHAPTER NINE

IT WAS TWO hours before the lawyers, and Ramon who had acted as a witness, had the documents signed.

‘Well, that’s done.’

Ivo didn’t say anything.

‘So how does it feel, boy, to finally have the old man where you want him?’ Salvatore mocked.

Suddenly Ivo was angry, too angry for a moment to respond. ‘Is that what you think I am?’

‘No, it isn’t. I would be happier if you were. You’re soft, Bruno, you always were. You allow emotions to get in the way of good sense.’

Ivo’s anger dissolved as quickly as it had flashed. ‘I’m Ivo, Grandfather.’

The old man looked away. ‘What’s in a name...? I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want anyone to know, for anyone to know that Salvatore Greco is a feeble-minded dribbling idiot who needs feeding.’ His voice cracked.

Ivo turned away while his grandfather fought the tears that filled his eyes. He had never seen his grandfather cry. He was filled with a sense of helplessness he had never felt before.

‘You will not tell anyone. Swear to me, Ivo.’

Ivo turned back to face him. ‘I swear.’

‘Give me a little while longer before my enemies start celebrating. So, what is the child like?’

‘Jamie is a...nice baby.’

‘And you’re marrying the girl.’

Ivo shook his head. ‘No.’

‘I thought as much. You’re a devious devil. You get that from me. Is the baby like...his father?’

It wasn’t seeing his grandfather struggle to remember his grandson’s name, it was watching him try and disguise the fact that it felt like a body blow as a fresh stab of toxic guilt consumed him.

How could I not have seen this?

Ivo moved impulsively across the room to his grandfather’s side. ‘Grandfather—’

The old man held up his hands as though warding off danger, his lip curled in a snarl of distaste. ‘No soft stuff and sentiment. I’m not totally ga-ga yet.’

His expression blank, Ivo drew back.

‘That’s better. I think I’ll sleep. When does the boy arrive?’

‘They are already here.’

‘We will have dinner tomorrow, then.’ He gave a little chuckle and threw his grandson a knowing look. ‘Are you bedding her yet? Oh, my God, when you look down your nose at me you look just like my father. I was a major disappointment to him, you know, never good enough for him.’ His voice trailed away. ‘Too crude and vulgar.’

It was several minutes before Ivo realised he’d fallen asleep.

Ramon was waiting outside the door when he emerged. ‘He’s asleep,’ he said.

‘He tires easily.’

They exchanged a nod of understanding. Ivo took steps before the reality began to kick in; the entire empire was now his responsibility. The buck stopped with him.

* * *

The suite of rooms she had been allocated covered three floors, and had, as well as the master suite, two guest suites, a dining room, living room, kitchen, a kitchenette, a day nursery, a night nursery, lift access to the nannies’ rooms and one to the ground floor.

When asked was it suitable she gave a cheery smile and said, ‘Just like home.’

Nobody smiled at her joke but they did leave her in peace.

She focused on the immediate priorities. Bathing and feeding Jamie were top of the list, after which he’d immediately fallen asleep.

A hot shower was calling her. It was a relief to strip off her creased clothes and step into the shower after resisting the temptation of the massive antique copper bathtub. A long luxurious soak was for an occasion when Ivo was not likely to appear to bear her off to the awful interview with his grandfather.

When she walked back into the sitting room, wearing a soft robe from the bathroom, there were hot coffee and tea, tiny sandwiches and a selection of pastries on one of the tables.

She poured a black coffee, took a sip and, picking up one of the sandwiches, she went to the bedroom and walked over to one of the massive wardrobes. The scent coming from the lavender sachets that were hooked around the rail tickled her nostrils as she opened it. Someone had unpacked her clothes before she’d even reached the room and they looked pretty lost sitting there in the cavernous scented space.

Eating the rest of her sandwich, which was very good, she selected a dress similar in design to the creased one she had just taken off, though the neckline on this one was squarer and the fabric plain white with a discreet diamond pattern picked out in silver.

She fished out some fresh underwear and wriggled her way into it. It required a few contortions to reach the zip but once on she smoothed down the fabric and looked at herself in the mirror. She was playing a part. Did she look like the sort of woman a man like Ivo Greco proposed to?

The answer was quite obviously no, not when you considered the long-legged model types she’d seen hanging on him, quite literally in some instances, in the collection of photos available online for anyone interested enough to type in his name.

Now, if you were talking taking to bed...?

Fastening onto the unbidden thought came a flashback to that kiss, as her gaze drifted to the big bed that dominated the room. She walked across and laid her hand on the smooth, pristine silk quilt.

Through half-closed eyes she visualised two figures lying there, limbs entwined. She shook her head to clear the erotic, illicit hallucination. A shiver ran through her body as she lifted a hand to her lips, running her finger along the outline, her eyes half closed.

What was happening to her?

Her breath came shallow and uneven as she fought against the pressure exerted by the knot of tangled emotions, among them a yearning she didn’t want to acknowledge, all lodged behind her breastbone. It was as if that one kiss had released something inside her. Something she didn’t seem to have any control over.

She wandered across to the dressing table and picked up a silver-backed brush. Removing the pins that had held up her hair in the shower, she began to brush it, focusing on the long soothing strokes and not the depressing realisation that that kiss had been the most mind-blazingly erotic experience of her life. Which had to make her one of the saddest twenty-five-year-olds in the world.

How many twenty-five-year-old virgins were left in the world, outside convents?

‘You’re an anachronism, Flora...and yet,’ she told her mirror image, ‘you look quite normal.’ She waved the brush at the mirror. ‘Freckled, and very ginger, but normal.’

She brushed until her hair prickled with static, a fiery nimbus around her face.

And she could still taste that kiss.

With a small, angry cry of self-disgust she threw the brush across the room. It landed bang in the middle of the big bed.