brought to you. Until then, you would be advised to rest. An ordeal such as the one you experienced can produce delayed shock.’
Gina didn’t doubt it; she felt in the grip of it right now. She got to her feet, vitally aware of his eyes following her as she crossed to the door. Crispina answered her greeting smile with a somewhat tentative one of her own. She shook her head when Gina asked if she spoke English, which left the pair of them with very little to say as they climbed the grand staircase to the upper storey.
The bedroom to which she was shown was every bit as grand as the rest of the house, with glass doors opening onto a balcony that overlooked the magnificent view. The spacious en suite bathroom had fittings Gina was pretty sure were solid gold, the walls lined in mirror glass. She eyed her multireflection in wry acknowledgement of a less than pristine appearance. Clambering from a car halfway down a hole in the ground had left its mark in more ways then the one.
Back in the bedroom, she extracted the long envelope from her bag, and sat down on the bed edge to study the photograph afresh. Arms about each other, the young couple portrayed looked so blissfully happy, the girl’s fair skin and pale gold hair a total contrast to her partner’s Latin looks—both of them scarcely out of their teen years.
Gina had come across the photograph while browsing in the attic one rainy afternoon when she was fifteen. The accompanying marriage licence had tilted her world on its axis, the explanations reluctantly furnished by her mother when confronted with the evidence even more so.
Her mother and Giovanni Carandente had met as students at Oxford and had fallen madly in love. Knowing neither family would approve the match, they had married in secret, planning on taking their degrees before telling them. Her pregnancy had changed everything. Giovanni had set out to face his family with the news in person, only to meet his death in a road accident on the way to the airport. Two months later, with her parents still unaware of the truth, Beth had married her former boyfriend, John Redman, the two of them allowing everyone to believe that the baby was his.
Sitting here now, Gina went over the scene in her mind once again, recalling the anguish. Although she bore no facial resemblance, John Redman’s colouring had always lent credence to hers. She would never in a thousand years have suspected the truth.
Asked why she hadn’t attempted to contact the Carandentes herself, her mother had made a wry gesture. She knew nothing about them, she admitted, except that they lived in the town of Vernici in Tuscany. They had been the ones informed of Giovanni’s death not her. She had found out only on reading about the accident in the following day’s newspaper.
‘It was a terrible time,’ she acknowledged. ‘I hardly knew which way to turn. If it hadn’t been for your father—’
‘But he isn’t my father, is he?’ Gina said hollowly.
‘In every other way he is. He gave you his name—provided us both with a home and a good life. He’s a good man. The very best.’ Beth’s voice was tender. ‘I love him dearly.’
‘But not the way you loved Giovanni?’
Beth shook her head, her smile wry again. ‘No two loves are the same, darling. What Giovanni and I had was wonderful, but whether it would have lasted—well, who can tell?’ She hesitated before continuing. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, but can we keep it just between ourselves? John regards you as his own child. He’d be terribly upset if he knew that you knew you weren’t.’
Loving him the way she did herself, she’d had no inclination to tell him what she knew, either then or since, Gina reflected, but the knowledge couldn’t be wiped out. For years she had toyed with the idea of some day coming out here and searching for her forebears, only an idea was all it had been until now. She had three more weeks before she started the new job she hoped would rekindle the interest and ambition so lacking this last year or so. Once into that, her free time would be severely restricted.
It was coming up to six o’clock, she saw, glancing at her watch. She’d been sitting here for more than half an hour thinking about it all. The question of whether these Carandentes were of the same family line as her father still remained to be answered. The most direct way was to ask outright, of course, but she was somehow reluctant to do that.
A knock on the door signalled the arrival of her bags. Dinner, she was advised by Guido in fragmentary English, would be served at nine-thirty in the salon. The master requested that she join the family for prior refreshment on the terrace at nine.
Gina thanked the man, receiving a bare nod by way of return. It was obvious that her presence was not looked on with favour. As an old family retainer, he would naturally take Donata Carandente’s side in the matter of who was to blame for the accident, she supposed. It was possible that the rest of the staff would take the same attitude—although Crispina had shown no sign of it.
Whether through the delayed shock Lucius had spoken of, or simply the effects of a long day behind the wheel, the weariness overtaking her was not to be denied. It was doubtful if she’d sleep, but a couple of hours just resting would revive her for the evening to come. She would hate to nod off over the dinner table.
She took off her outer clothing before lying down on the silk bedspread, stretching out luxuriously beneath the spinning fan. So much nicer than functional air-conditioning, she thought, watching the moving blades. The soft, whirring sound was soporific in itself.
Lucius had said Donata was his younger sister. Were there other siblings? For him to be padrone, his father must be dead too, but perhaps there was still a mother alive. If these people really did turn out to be her father’s kith and kin, then she and Lucius could be cousins. She found the idea oddly displeasing.
Daylight had faded to a dim glimmer when she awoke. It was a relief to see there was still half an hour to go before she was expected to join the family on the terrace.
The sleep had refreshed her, the shower did an even better job, but no amount of revitalisation could make what was to come any easier. At some point this evening she had to bring up her father’s name and learn the truth. For peace of mind alone she needed to know her origins.
Having planned on staying at good hotels throughout her journey, she had packed clothes to suit most circumstances. Cut on the bias in deep blue silk jersey, the dress she picked out to wear to dinner skimmed her figure to finish on the knee. Teamed with a pair of high-heeled sandals, it should fit the bill, Gina reckoned.
A stroke or two of mascara along her lashes, a dash of lipstick, and she was ready to go. There hadn’t been time to put her hair up into the French pleat she would have preferred, but it would have to do. Thick and glossy, it fell in soft waves to her shoulders—the bane of her life when it came to drying after washing, but she could never bring herself to have it cut short.
Night was fast encroaching when she reached the wide, stone-balustered terrace, the lamps already lit. Of the five people gathered there, three were female, the family resemblance pronounced.
Lucius came forward to greet her as she hesitated on the threshold of the room through which she had emerged, the look in his eyes as he scanned her shapely length tensing muscle and sinew. He was making no secret of the fact that he found her as much of a draw as she had to admit she found him. A man who might well be her cousin, she reminded herself forcibly. A first cousin, even.
The prospect of a family relationship was hardly enhanced by Donata’s open hostility. Her sister, Ottavia, was around twenty-seven or eight and married to a man some few years older named Marcello Brizzi. Their response to the introduction was courteous enough on the surface, but it was apparent that
