PAINT ME A DREAM
By Serena Fairfax
Copyright ©2011 by Serena Fairfax
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The right of Serena Fairfax to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN: 978-0-9569748-6-0
Paint Me A Dream
Francesca saw instantly that the chair was too low to be comfortable for his height, his long legs encased in designer jeans jack-knifed against his jaw. Brushing back a strand of her straight, fine blonde hair, she hurried towards him from her tiny office at the rear of Craig Fine Arts - a Bond Street art gallery.
He was straight off a red-eye transatlantic flight. She hadn’t expected him until much later when, with her boss Alec Craig, the gallery’s founder, they would discuss business with him over a leisurely lunch. But he’s here now and far too early. Francesca steeled herself for the encounter.
‘Rafe Rostov.’ He uncoiled his lean, powerful body at six feet topping her by several inches. ‘I’m meeting with Alec Craig.’ The voice was a deep, eastern seaboard drawl and long forgotten echoes from the past rushing back reminded her how soft - almost seductive - it could sound. Francesca held out her hand.
‘Did you have a nice flight?’ she asked taking refuge in the usual pleasantries. Her level voice surprised her as her gaze met those piercing cobalt blue eyes that flickered appraisingly over her slim figure, registering the tender curve of the mouth below gypsy brown eyes, the clean line of chin and the soft colour in the high cheek bones.
Francesca kept her face composed but her body tensed with the bittersweet of reunion and her heart began to race wildly. She hadn’t set eyes on Rafe for nine years, since she was seventeen. But that gut wrenching feeling was back even though he’d altered considerably, his height now carried with easy assurance, the smart-casual designer wear that spoke of success - the ungainly youth now a lionised sophisticate whose paintings adorned the homes of Texan oil barons and discriminating international collectors.
‘Sure - that’s what you pay for and ought to get in first class! And it looks as if I’m gonna have an even nicer day,’ he grinned engagingly and raked fingers through that still unruly coal-black hair. ‘So you’re Alec’s assistant, Frankie. You’re the girl who’s been liaising with my New York agent. I guess I should have known.’ So he remembered, too. He paused and added gently, ‘you’ve a very short memory and I guess I’ve a very bad one. Let’s keep it that way, Frankie. Pardon me, I reckon you’re Francesca here.’
Francesca met his steady gaze. ‘Alec and I work together and yes, most people know me as Francesca Marsham...’
‘Marsham,’ he cut in. ‘Any links with Terence Marsham, the art critic?’
Francesca’s mouth curved into a delighted smile. ‘Of course - how nice. You’re bound to know Terence, my Dad’s cousin. I’m sure he’d love to see…’
‘I don’t remember your telling me all those years ago that you were related to that jerk.’ His tone sounded as if he’d make her pay for that. ‘Hell, to me he’s off limits. Now how come Alec’s not around?’
‘Mr Rostov-’ Francesca took refuge in formality.
‘Mr Rostov,’ Rafe mimicked her tone. ‘Heck, you English are so uptight. I’m still Rafe to you.’
‘Rafe,’ she repeated softly and just saying his name moved the past to the present. She said not unreasonably, ‘your agent said you wouldn’t be here before mid-day. Alec’s at an auction sale but he’ll be back shortly.’ She hoped Rafe would vanish until then. It wasn’t going to be easy having him hovering when there was still much for her to do in order to launch the gallery’s next mixed media show in a fortnight’s time at the end of April.
‘Meanwhile, perhaps some shopping?’ The suggestion was clumsy and uncharacteristically tactless as she fought the tide of old familiar feelings his appearance evoked.
‘Boy, if I go that sure will be the last you guys will see of me,’ he chided her softly. He leaned forward his eyes dropping to her breasts and settling on the delicate level brows and the rise of the slim throat.
That mustn’t happen. Over the past four years she’d worked with Alec, she’d built up a reputation for her diplomatic handling of their temperamental clientele, artists and customers alike. Those skills couldn’t desert her now.
‘I’m sorry - I didn’t mean it like that.’ Her tone was placatory the wide smile showing even white teeth.
Rafe shrugged, signalling he accepted her apology.
‘I’ll organise coffee for you,’ Francesca beckoned to Gary, the Cockney teenager employed by them under the government youth training scheme, ‘that I guarantee will be worth drinking,’ she added, a mischievous glint in her eyes forestalling the comment that she sensed he’d make, as did most Americans, about the inability of the British to brew a decent cup of coffee. ‘But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve some paperwork to see to, although do feel free to look around.’
Francesca returned to her desk but it wasn’t easy to forget that once they’d been good together. She sighed and turned to her laptop. Rafe’s American dealer had warned Alec that Rostov wasn’t the easiest of persons.
‘Show me an artist who is,’ Alec had retorted taking it all in his stride.
‘The guy’ll make you sweat,’ the dealer had confided when Alec signed up to the contract that appointed Craig Fine Arts as Rafe’s sole United Kingdom agent. ‘Rafe’s a hot shot and he’s wound up a fair number in the art world but boy, he’s brilliant and he, we and they know it.’
Unbidden, Francesca’s thoughts recalled that spring day in Florence when it had all begun, the playback magically recapturing the immediacy.
I’m up to here with culture, Francesca decided grimly, having spent the previous weeks in earnest pursuit of the noble and the beautiful. But there was more to Florence than the treasures of the Renaissance or the skulduggery of the Medici - there was high fashion, there was food, the wine, and best of all Italian men, whose opening remark was invariably E sposata? Are you married?’
A warm spring sun on her face encouraged her to linger along the smart Via de Tornabuoni, her eye caught by chic boutiques lining the street that she was too nervous to enter in the worn jeans and tee-shirt that hugged her skinny frame. She looped her large brown bag over her shoulder, bought the previous day from a shop in one of the tiny streets that led off the main square, drawn to it by the familiar smell of leather, where she was shown everything from wallets to tooled bookmarks. The city was a gem - a cool shady courtyard, glimpsed through a palazzo doorway, a street shrine - its oil lamp flickering, and flowing through the centre the muddy green Arno bordered by wide embankments. And all this funded by cousin Terence determined that she experience at first hand Florence’s phenomenal range of riches. Terence Marsham, whose contributions on art to a major national newspaper were read as much for their know-how as for their biting wit, was the same cousin Terence, who had gained a ferocious reputation for making or breaking a painter.
The breeze teased the silky strands of hair escaping from her long braided plait as she came in sight of the Ponte Veccio - the 300 year old bridge lined with unique goldsmiths and jewellers’ shops – that spanned the broad river. It was a favourite rendezvous with young Florentines and she often spent lazy hours there with a noisy gang of friends spearheaded by gregarious Sandro Camilli, a young post-graduate from a wealthy aristocratic family to whom Terence had given her an introduction. But for the past few weeks Sandro was incommunicado in the family villa as the deadline loomed for submission of his Masters dissertation.
She was good humouredly jostled as she peered at the ornate gems and craftwork in the windows, temptingly displayed. Her bag swung loosely from her shoulder and then it was ripped from her - a squirt in her eyes from a water pistol was followed by the sound of racing feet. It was all over in a flash, and she could do nothing but blink at two vanishing figures.
‘Hey! Alt al ladro - stop thief!’ He’d materialised from nowhere and gone in hot pursuit, then retraced his steps sensing the futility of giving chase - the muggers having sprinted into the warren of alleys that led away from the bridge.
‘I guess your bag and they have gone for good. Are you ok?’ he asked in English. Francesca was shaking, her legs felt wobbly, her shoulder throbbing where the assailant had wrenched it from her. She clutched blindly at the gangling figure in faded Levis and open-necked check shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, sunlight glinting on the dark chest hair and strong sun-tanned arms.
‘You can speak English!’ she burst out chokily into his chest, feeling miserably for her hanky that had vanished like the rest of her things.
'So can you.’ His eyes were teasing. ‘You are English, aren’t you?’
'You guessed right.’ She stifled a sob, blowing hard into tissues he had pressed into her hand. His arm went round her, strong and comforting, his hand gently stroking her hair.
‘Only-’ But he stopped himself and grinned broadly instead and Francesca wondered if he’d been about to say that only the English would walk along like her, a dangling bag an open invitation to be robbed.
‘C’mon, let’s get outta here.’ He took charge, his fingers gentle under her elbow as he steered her into the inner recesses of a cool, dark cafe. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that he was about twenty-three. Thick, undisciplined hair flopped across his forehead meeting large, long-lashed eyes below curved eyebrows, the lean face tapering to a firm chin.
‘What’s the damage?’ His probing gaze settled on her mouth as he stirred his cappuccino the milk froth topped with shredded chocolate.
Francesca spread her palms in a helpless gesture. ‘Everything’s gone.’
‘Hell, your passport, too?’
'That’s the one consolation. I left it in my lodgings.’ Francesca cheered up at the thought that she had, at least, was spared that. ‘The red tape I’d have had to navigate before the consul issued a replacement would’ve been horrendous.’
‘Praise be!’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling and thumped the table with his fist, making the crockery rattle. The colour mounted in her cheeks and her heart beat unevenly at his easy smile.
‘But I’ll have to call home for more money and they’re bound to ask how I’ve squandered it like a drunken sailor and I suppose I’ll have to admit I was mugged - oh what a mess and what a fuss they’ll make.’ Francesca sighed, fiddling with the elastic band of her plait.
‘I guess you can say folks are the same all the world round.’ He flashed her look of understanding. He scraped back his chair and rose to his feet. Permetta che mi presenti? - may I introduce myself?’ He grinned and bowed deeply from the waist. Rafe Rostov at your service.’
‘Frankie,’ she returned as he resumed his seat. He wasn’t to know she was fighting a private battle with her family for the right to be known by the name that she thought sounded more hip than Francesca. At least he’d know her as Frankie.
‘Are you staying long?’ he asked.
Francesca caught the candid interest in his voice and her heart raced. She explained she had enrolled on a six months Italian culture course that would end in three weeks. Rafe had been in Italy for the past nine months on an art scholarship and would soon be heading for Rome, on the last leg of his journey, before returning home.
‘No prizes for guessing where home is.’ He gave her a disarming grin, telling her that he lived in New York. ‘I was born and raised there.’ That he painted was obvious and she was sure that there was rather more than that behind an invisible barrier she hesitated to breach.
Rafe glanced at his watch. ‘Let’s grab a pizza?’ His eyes sought hers. There was vitality about him and she tried to drag her gaze away but it seemed to have a will of its own. Here was a cloud with a silver lining, she thought, exceeding her wildest expectations. He was gorgeous, but best of all was the mutuality of the instant magnetic attraction. Her well scrubbed, girlish face radiated happiness. Then her smile faded. ‘Sorry - I haven’t lire till I get back to my digs and can borrow from the signora.’ Bitter disappointment welled up in her as she saw her chances with him seemingly ebbing away.
‘Aw, forget it.’ He led the way out of the cafe. ‘Have it on me. I’m starving even if you aren’t.’ And Francesca, who had been given dire warnings about getting involved with strange men, threw caution to the winds and followed him into the sunlit street. His fingers brushed hers as they strolled along and gradually his hand slipped into hers, jolting her into recognition of his innate sensuousness. She was utterly bowled over.
‘Let’s have a crack at that,’ he suggested, and they crossed the road to an open air trattoria set with tables and chairs under brightly coloured umbrellas. In fluent Italian, which Francesca had still not managed to master, Rafe discussed the menu with a waiter. The smell of sun-ripened tomatoes and freshly cooked basil rose from steaming dishes as the waiter uncorked a bottle of light, red Chianti. Rafe was a lively companion with a wicked sense of humour that made her laugh till her sides ached. She was in the seventh heaven. Time passed only too quickly and Francesca felt a frisson of half horror, half pleasure, run down her spine when she realised she’d cut the seminar portentously entitled Italian Gardens Of The Renaissance. No way could that compete with Rafe.
Almost reluctantly they got to their feet and he settled the bill, delving deep into the pockets of his jeans. He pressed some notes into her hand.
‘Keep this – you’ll need it to tide you over,’ he said softly.
‘Rafe, I couldn’t, it’s far too much.’ She saw him hesitate momentarily, his face inexplicably vulnerable, but the expression was quickly gone and he curled her protesting fingers over it.
‘No, Frankie. You gotta take it,’ he insisted.
‘All right, then, but it’s just a loan.’
‘Done!’ He laughed and grabbed her hand. ‘See you back?’ and they dawdled along, oblivious to anyone else, in a world all their own.
‘You know Florence pretty well, don’t you?’ she remarked, as he pointed out quirky things. ‘Even Sandro, and he’s a Florentine, hasn’t your gifts of observation.’
‘Quite well for an American, you mean?’ he shot at her, his blue eyes unexpectedly sharp. ‘And who’s Sandro? No, don’t tell me - one of your classy friends. And you don’t think we Americans are capable of appreciating the beauties of Europe? We aren’t blind or stupid, you know. We may be a bit short on history or art ourselves, but that sure doesn’t mean we can’t like what’s elsewhere.’
His voice was gruff, reproving, and after his kindness, Francesca felt overcome by guilt. She flushed and said, her voice rising slightly, ‘you’re being touchy; you know that’s not what I mean-’
‘What do you mean then?’ he asked curtly, stopping suddenly and swinging her round by her shoulders to face him. He was close to her - so close she could hear the beating of his heart. The pressure of his thighs against hers, the touch of his hands on her shoulder blades made her senses reel. ‘Kiddo,’ he said levelly, ‘you lot don’t have a monopoly of appreciation of the beauties of the world.’
Something in his eyes checked her. His hand had fallen away with an involuntary gesture but his gaze had not - almost as if he were trying to read her thoughts. Then his manner became easier as if the sudden underlying surge of emotion had swept away whatever had been seething within him. They walked for a few moments in companionable silence, her fingers entwined in his.
‘This is it.’ Francesca pointed to a luxury apartment block. ‘The family I’m staying with occupy a first floor apartment.’
His face impassive, Rafe looked around as he accompanied her across the pink-veined marble floor of the ornate entrance hall with its Grecian columns, its profusion of plants and uniformed doorman. The heels of her leather pumps clattered on the hard, shiny surface of the stairs. She pressed the bell. ‘My keys were in my bag,’ she said ruefully.
Signora Garibaldi opened the door and looked at Rafe, intrigued, then glanced back at Francesca.
‘Rafe rescued me from a mugging,’ she began in halting Italian, fumbling for the right words. Rafe quietly cut in, allaying the older woman’s obvious concern in a fluent flow of colloquial Italian that had her clicking her tongue and waving her hands with horror. His command of the language quickly silenced whatever misgivings she had about the rangy young American Francesca had brought home.
Rafe stayed long enough to drink a cup of coffee, his eyes taking in the colour and textures of the obviously monied surroundings. He bade a formal goodbye to Signora Garibaldi.
‘Arrivederci Signora’ and Francesca saw that he’d won her over.
He turned to Francesca. ‘Ciao’ he said casually, and then hesitated. ‘Say maybe we can meet up tomorrow?’ His eyes burned, his body telling him how much he wanted her.
It was she could do to nod.
‘Great - twelve noon then - outside the Duomo.’ She smiled warmly at him and heard him take the stairs two at a time then crossed to the window to see him go, a tall, thin figure loping down the street until he reached the corner and turned his head towards her with a hand raised in salute.
***
She was ten minutes early, trying to look as if she wasn’t waiting for anyone - just another sightseer - caught up in the throng swarming round the marble faced Duomo - the ancient cathedral of Our Lady of the Flower. And he was early, too, almost swinging her off her feet as she dived into his arms. And that was the start of those idyllic weeks together that was crowned by a visit to Sicily.
They started the long haul down to the south at dawn, whilst it was still cool, the six of them in a battered estate car, Sandro, Rafe and Marco driving by rote, while Elisa, Francesca and Daniella slumbered. The going was smooth and soon they were boarding the ferry, sauntering along the deck, and drenched by the salt spray as they leaned against the rail. They watched the Neapolitan coastline fade out of sight as the ferry churned its way across the fast flowing waters of the straits of Messina. The sounds and smells of the Sicilian quayside caressed them with its colour and vitality and Francesca wished they could linger there. But they had more road to cover Sandro said and soon they were speeding away from the port. A few hours later they had reached the hilltop town of Taormina its steep winding roads bordered by hibiscus and bougainvillea.
‘At last!’ Sandro whooped as they swept through a massive iron-studded entrance gateway set in high walls into a large paved courtyard. A fountain splashed rainbows as the sun cast its rays over an ancient stone sundial half hidden by creeper.
‘Boy, what have you got here!’ Rafe muttered under his breath.
‘Come right in,’ Sandro jumped out and began to unload the luggage. Rafe hoisted his holdall and Francesca’s onto one shoulder and his hand reached for hers as they followed Sandro and the others into a cool, unexpectedly austere hall. Almost immediately a scowling, plump, dark eyed woman, dressed from head to toe in black emerged. She greeted Sandro with scant courtesy. A sharp exchange in Italian between them ensued that Francesca couldn’t follow but which, from the glances exchanged between Rafe and the others, had them worried.
‘Seems like Sandro isn’t expected and she’s giving him hell,’ Rafe explained out of the corner of his mouth.
Francesca looked aghast. ‘But it’s his home. Surely he has the right?’
‘She’s the dragon housekeeper, from the looks of things, and swings the lead. Sandro’s small fry and she’s not going to be messed about by him. Hold on...’
Sandro and the woman, her hands on her hips, were shouting at each other now. An old man in baggy pants holding gardening shears materialised and began to berate Sandro.
‘He’s outclassed, outnumbered now,’ Rafe mumbled.
But suddenly it seemed a truce was declared.
‘Got it. We’re allowed to stay provided we forage, cook and clean for ourselves,’ Rafe told her. They breathed a collective sigh of relief.
The housekeeper and the gardener hobbled away both still looking daggers at Sandro. He turned unabashed to his friends and grinned. ‘It’s ok. No problem. But what a price to pay! They’ve threatened to evict us if there’s any hanky panky. So we’ll have to behave like saints. I’ll show you where they’re putting us.’
They trooped after him. Francesca gazed round her room and gasped. The floor was of the whitest marble, the furniture highly polished and intricately hand-carved mahogany. Sandro flung open the slatted shutters that overlooked magnificently sculptured grounds where beyond lay a terrace overhanging the clear turquoise of the Ionian Sea.
Rafe slid his arm round Francesca’s waist and kissed the nape of her neck. ‘You know, I guess this was some kinda religious institution once. Maybe a monastery or a convent.’
Sandro nodded vigorously, ‘right first time, my friend. It was a fifteenth century Dominican monastery - but it has been in my family for generations. Your room, Francesca, was once a monk’s cell.’
Francesca laughed. ‘I bet they didn’t have creature comforts and modern plumbing!’
Rafe chimed in, ‘or a swimming pool – that’s it glinting over there, just behind that grove of orange trees.’
‘We installed that a few years ago, as it’s some distance from the beach up here. But we can take the cable car down to the sea front if you want. Rafe, alas, the deal is that we guys are located at the far end of the corridor! See you, soon Frankie.’
‘Say, just above her door is a fresco of St. Thomas Aquinas,’ Rafe remarked as he left. ‘I guess that’ll assist her meditation.’
‘And you’ll find St. Catherine with her wheel above yours. But I can’t see you martyring yourself.’ Sandro joked.
‘Hey it’s spooky here!’ Rafe commented to Francesca as he called her on his cell ‘phone.
‘But very romantic.’
‘Sure, but it’s a helluva trek getting anywhere in this place.’
It was true. The endless, high ceilinged corridors were richly decorated with monastery artefacts, hand carved wooden benches, and statues of saints in wall niches. There was the unmistakable smell of beeswax polish and the heady fragrance of freshly picked geraniums and white jasmine. Stone steps led down to a cloister garden with pebbled paths, fruit trees and flower beds burgeoning with bright blossoms and as the sound of a bell high in the belfry began to toll the hour, they descended to sun themselves by the pool. Rafe plunged into the water and swam a few lengths then pulling himself out flung himself down beside Francesca, as she sunbathed topless like the other girls. Nothing seemed more natural to her at that moment.
‘Hi, babe!’ He gave her a look which made the breath catch in her throat. He stretched out his hand his fingers brushing her nipples and her pulses hammered.
It was heaven and Francesca wished it would never end. A time of unforgettable images - white washed houses, winding, climbing alleyways, the smell of wild thyme and the distant tinkling of goats’ bells. Dozing in the crook of Rafe’s arm, they’d lie in the shade of a lemon tree.
‘How about us tackling Etna tomorrow?’ Sandro suggested as they sipped strong Sicilian coffee and nibbled sweet Sicilian pastries in one of the open air cafés that lined the Corso Umberto. They were lazily watching the world go by.
‘Done.’ It was unanimous.
The following afternoon they piled into a hired Land Rover. It was a hot, cloudless day. Francesca and Rafe sat together, their bodies touching, her head resting on his shoulder. The vehicle jerked over the uneven mountain road. The lower slopes of rich dark volcanic soil were rich in groves of citrus, olives, figs and almonds. Higher still, Francesca noticed, it was more wooded. The smell of pine resin and eucalyptus filled the air, orchards giving way to oak, pistachio and hazelnut. But everywhere there were black boulders and fields of calcified lava - grim reminders of past eruptions.
‘There’s no escaping the sense of hopelessness,’ Francesca found herself whispering to Rafe. Even the atmosphere had become oppressive.
Rafe nodded and squeezed her hand. ‘Nor the centuries old devastation from lava and ash.’
The Land Rover had now left behind the fertile slopes and began to labour as the going became rougher. The mountain side had become completely barren, devoid of trees and shrubs, covered only by a layer of black, hardened lava riddled with cavities that looked as if scooped out with a giant ladle.
The bleakness made her blood run cold. She nestled closed to Rafe. ‘It’s utterly desolate and...’ she broke off with a violent shudder, utterly bereft of words that could adequately describe her feelings.
The higher up the mountain they went, the colder it became. At last Sandro came to a halt. They donned the thick ski jackets and mountain boots they’d brought with them but which they’d scoffed at earlier that day.
‘It’s hard to imagine that only a few miles down at the foot of Etna people are sunning themselves on the beach,’ Rafe remarked with a broad grin.
Sandro zipped up his jacket and hurried them to a four wheel jeep.
‘Why the change?’ Rafe enquired.
‘We aren’t allowed to take the Land Rover to the summit as it lacks the obligatory radio control to communicate with base camp.’ A guide ran forward offering to escort them to the crater, but Sandro declined saying that he was all too familiar with the route.
‘Look over there.’ Francesca pointed to a jeep that was toiling towards the summit. ‘It’s just rounded that bend.’
Sandro let out the clutch. ‘That’s the penultimate tourist party of the day. And we’ve just made it. We’re the last that’s going to be allowed to set out this evening. And when we get down, we can celebrate there.’ He jerked his head towards a small trattoria.
The ascent was long and slow, winding over the bleakest and roughest terrain imaginable. It was eerily quiet - there was no bird song.
‘Look at those fume holes,’ shouted Sandro excitedly, pointing to pockets in the earth from which steam puffed gently.
Eventually, they had to disembark from the jeep as it was labouring, the going too steep and rough even for it. Rafe jumped out and swung Francesca down. ‘Isn’t that something!?’
The beauty of the mountain at dusk, lit by the rays of the setting sun, brought a lump to Francesca’s throat. And beneath the sun, suspended like a huge blood orange across the horizon, their shadows long, skinny, almost surrealist, fell across the mountain.
‘We have to walk the rest of the way,’ Sandro declared.
At first the girls kept pace with the men, but then the going became tougher and they began to lag behind. Elisa admitted she could take no more and retraced her steps to the jeep. Daniella and Francesca inched upwards, their shoes sliding on the uneven surface, displacing loose shards of black lava. The sense of isolation was forbidding.
‘There’s nothing to hang onto,’ Francesca gasped as she drew level with Rafe. ‘Not even the odd weed or blade of grass. It’s like what I always thought a lunar landscape looks like.’
They met the party of tourists on their way down, enthusing over the sights at the top. A man detached himself and ran over to Sandro, and whispered something in his ear.
Rafe pricked up his ears and translated for Francesca. ‘He’s saying come away, come away - don’t go any further. Etna has awoken. According to him, it’s unsafe at the crater. That’s why he didn't allow the party to stay up there as long as usual. He wants us to turn back.’
Sandro consulted the others but they decided to press on. ‘We haven’t travelled five hours not to see it,’ Marco protested firmly and they agreed.
The guide obviously didn’t care for their decision, but realising that he couldn’t dissuade them, shouted what sounded like abuse at Sandro, shrugged his shoulders and continued down with his companions.
The last one hundred yards was the worst. ‘I’ll never make it,’ Francesca muttered breathlessly to Rafe as she slithered along in his wake.
Then suddenly the ground flattened out and there just ahead was the crater. Clouds of steam belched out of it like a fast boiling kettle and on one flank the rock was sulphurous ochre, as if someone had seized a giant brush and slapped a coat of bright poster paint across it.
Clasping Rafe’s hand tightly she drew nearer. ‘It’s sinister, blood curdling,’ she managed at last. If Rafe hadn’t been with her, she would have fled. She glanced up at him. He stood motionless - a fascinated yet appalled expression on his face. Almost in unison, cameras were focussed and the spitting volcano captured in all its might and glory. Then, as if on cue, there were two muffled explosions, in quick succession.
‘Did you hear that?’ Rafe hollered.
It was more than they could ever have hoped for. Etna was putting on a show especially for them. Growing bolder they moved closer to the lip of the crater and peered down. But they could see nothing through the swirling fog of gas and water vapour.
‘Look! A fresh lava flow.’ Sandro exclaimed and Francesca looked down to see molten rock bubbling up and streaming thickly across like treacle. Then there was another bang, louder than before and they cheered, their voices dying to a whisper as pebbles followed by large chunks of rock, spewed up out of the mouth of the crater crashing indiscriminately around them.
‘Christ no!’ Sandro yelled. ‘Watch it! We’d better scram!’
Daniella shrieked and cowered. Marco, shaking like a leaf, threw a comforting arm round her shoulders.
Paralysed by fright, it was some minutes before they could collect themselves, their hands held over their heads.
Then Francesca gave a groan and slumped to the ground, clutching her head. The blow was by something hard and solid.
‘Honey, what is it? What’s wrong?’ Rafe crouched down beside her, hunching himself over her to shield her from the fallout, oblivious of his own safety.
‘C’mon.’ He whispered to Sandro. ‘She has been done by a rock. Let’s move it - fast.’ His tone meant business.
‘Babe – you’re gonna be ok,’ he whispered tenderly.
Francesca moaned and gingerly fingered her head. It was throbbing and she felt as if she was losing control.
‘There’s a nasty swelling above her right temple.’ Rafe said. He was still kneeling beside her and gripping her arm. He glanced at Marco and Daniella. ‘You guys had better beat it. Get help and be quick. Sandro and I will stay with Frankie.’
The emission from the volcano was becoming sporadic but it hadn’t entirely ceased and it continued to hiss and rumble ominously while vomiting stones and lava.
Marco nodded and grabbed Daniella’s hand and Francesca could hear their sliding feet as they made off as fast as they dared down the mountain side.
‘They’ll call up a rescue party from the jeep radio 'phone,’ Sandro said, a quaver in his voice.
It had become bitterly cold. Francesca began to shiver and she felt sick. At one stage she realised she must have blacked out for the next thing she heard was Sandro’s voice saying worriedly. ‘They’ve been gone a helluva long time. I’d have expected the rescue team to have reached us by now.’
Rafe held her hand tightly, whispering reassuringly in her ear.
Night had fallen and they huddled together for warmth and comfort.
‘Maybe I ought to go and see what’s keeping them,’ Sandro offered, biting his lip.
‘No.’ Rafe was firm. ‘I’ll need you to help me with Frankie. We’ll have to take her down ourselves if help doesn’t get here soon. Let’s give them thirty minutes then if nothing materialises we’ll get the hell outta here. We’ll die of exposure if we stay out in the open much longer.’ He squeezed her hand and her fingers weakly curled round his.
She must have blacked out again for the next thing she heard was the drone of a helicopter circling above the huddled trio. Then a babel of solicitous Italian voices as she was gently lifted onto a stretcher and covered by a woollen blanket.
‘Babe, we’re heading home.’ Rafe’s voice seemed a very long way away. He detached his hand. ‘Ok, I’m right with you.’
Inch by inch and with infinite care she was winched up into the hovering helicopter, its blades whirring. Rafe and Sandro followed wrapped in heavy red blankets. And then they were airborne, clattering swiftly away from the mountain which had almost claimed their lives. Francesca closed her eyes.
Rafe and Sandro, shivering uncontrollably, exchanged glances of mute relief.
Francesca awoke to find herself in hospital with a nurse in a starched blue uniform feeling her pulse. Rafe stood at the foot of the bed and smiled. ‘Frankie, you’re just great. They say you’ve suffered mild concussion. But no permanent injury. They want to keep you under observation for a couple more days before you’re discharged.’
She struggled into a sitting position and Rafe gently re-arranged the pillows at her back. ‘And the others - are they ok?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Everyone’s just great. Marco and Daniella made it back to the jeep as fast as they could and re-joined Elisa there. They tried to make contact with base camp via the radio ‘phone but it went dead. They wasted about an hour trying to get it to work. In the end they decided to drive back to base and that took forever in the dark as Marco lost the way. Eventually they made it. Base camp had expected us down hours earlier and was standing by. Air was alerted and a chopper scrambled.’
Francesca smiled weakly, ‘I’ve always wanted a ride in one! But what’s it with Sandro?’
Rafe grinned. ‘Poor guy - he hasn’t stopped flagellating himself. He’s devastated. He’s wondering how you’ll ever forgive him!’
And that moment, Sandro poked his head round the door, bearing the biggest bouquet Francesca had ever seen. He burst into Italian, his hands in a gesture of prayer.
Rafe clapped him on the back. ‘He says he’s informed your parents and they’ve made contact with the medical staff here who’ve said there’s absolutely no need for them to fly in as you’ll be as right as rain. But his folks are livid and demand that we return immediately to Florence the minute you’re fit enough to be moved.’
Sandro took her outstretched hand and covered it with kisses. His eyes were moist with emotion.
‘It wasn’t your fault. We all agreed to take on the monster, despite the guide’s warning. We’ve all been bloody silly,’ Francesca reassured him.
Sandro looked somewhat consoled as he bent to kiss her on both cheeks.
Francesca’s parents, who were doctors with an NGO in Africa, telephoned her daily as she lay in the private clinic. As expected, there were no complications and she was soon discharged. They were all whisked back to the Camilli villa in Florence where Sandro had to bear the brunt of a right going over by his parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts and various ancient retainers, the others were treated like royalty.
One evening Rafe returned to his cheap lodgings from a solitary day’s sketching in the countryside to take a call from his father urging him to get on the first flight home as his mother was critically ill. Almost beside himself with anxiety, Rafe tried to contact Francesca, who hadn’t yet replaced the cell ‘phone that had disappeared in the mugging, before he remembered that she’d joined the Garibaldis on a trip to Milan.
Rafe ripped out a sheet from his sketch pad, explaining why he’d been called away, how much he’d miss her and asking her to keep in touch. He signed off with a little drawing.
‘Sandro, give this to Frankie for me. I haven’t been able to contact her.’ He handed the sealed envelope to the Italian as the latter drew into the air terminal.
Sandro slipped it into an inner pocket of his summer jacket. ‘Of course I will, the moment she returns.’
‘Don’t forget, will you?’ Rafe said anxiously as Sandro helped him haul his luggage out of the boot.
‘Trust me,’ Sandro promised as they hurried to the check-in counter as the last call for Rafe’s flight was being announced. ‘But you can always email or call her.’
‘Not quite the same as an illustrated handwritten note,’ Rafe countered with a smile.
On his return to the car, Sandro carefully withdrew the letter from his pocket and wondered about the safest place for a billet doux, only too aware of his mother’s annoying habit of bundling his clothes off to the cleaners without his permission and without checking pockets. Rafe’s note mustn’t meet that fate. Behind him on the rear passenger seat lay a brand new pigskin briefcase. He snapped it open and stowing the letter deep in an inner pocket, twiddled the combination lock.
Francesca raced round to Rafe’s digs when she returned from Milan bursting to see him only to hear from the landlord that his lodger had left very suddenly for New York a few days earlier.
‘Are you sure?’ Francesca asked disbelieving.
The man nodded. ‘It was a great pity to see him go. He was like a son to us.’
‘Did he leave a message for me?’
The man shook his head and felt for her. ‘Sorry, signorina.’
Utterly bewildered, Francesca walked slowly away. How could Rafe have just abandoned her like that without so much as a word? It wasn’t like him. Sandro was bound to have news. He’d be in his old haunt in the cafe by the bridge.
Sandro jumped up when he saw her and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Where’s Rafe? What happened to him?’ she queried urgently.
Sandro looked away, not meeting her eye and feeling distinctly uncomfortable. He knows something, I’m sure of it, Francesca decided, but he’s not saying.
To his horror Sandro had forgotten where he’d put Rafe’s letter. He decided quite simply not to tell Francesca about it, hoping it would materialise before long when he’d hand it over with profuse apologies. There’d be no harm done - only a few days delay, he told himself. But in the meantime, he reasoned there was no point saying anything to her about it or that he had misplaced it. It would only upset her and she was sufficiently upset as it was. Rafe’s letter was bound to surface before long as he was leaving no stone unturned to search for it and then everything would be explained.
‘He’s flown back to New York. It was all very sudden. A sick relative I think. No, sorry I don’t know his address. I thought you did.’
Francesca shook her head, close to tears. She darted out of the café, brushing aside Sandro’s invitation to join him for a meal. Tears pricked the back of her eyelids. Rafe had deserted her. But why? She couldn’t have mistaken the look on his face on their last date when they promised to see each other again on her return from Milan, and even now she could feel the warmth of his gaze penetrating the thin material of her dress, a surge of longing aching through her. The swine. How could he have done this to me? Miserably she retraced her footsteps.
‘Anything for me?’ she asked Signora Garibaldi, hope re-visiting her heart. The heavy hall door closed behind her with a thud. The Signora’s English was non-existent - which was why Terence had sent Francesca to stay with her - so she couldn’t have known that the question concerned Rafe. But she probably guessed, groaned Francesca inwardly, for an expression of sympathy crossed the Italian woman’s face as she shook her head.
‘Non, non. But I’m off to visit a friend, why don’t you come with me?’
‘No, thanks,’ Francesca declined politely.
But Rafe did not call, write or email. Tears trickled down her cheeks as bitter disappointment mingled with incomprehension at his seemingly callous behaviour. She cried herself to sleep each night, waking red-eyed the next morning, and the last few days in Florence dragged by with such interminable slowness that she wasn’t sorry to say goodbye to the Garibaldis.
And no way would she let Rafe bug her again, she resolved, her mind jumping to the present. But it still puzzled her - that someone who’d shown generosity and solicitude could equally be ruthless and uncaring. It just goes to show one never actually knows a person.
She could hear Rafe prowling about as she checked the proofs of the catalogue for a forthcoming exhibition. Then a shadow was blocking the doorway and she glanced up to see him leaning against the lintel, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. That aura of untamed masculinity which had first drawn her to him still had the power spin her out of control despite her best intentions. Francesca felt herself beginning to blush as his gaze trailed over her taking in the rise and fall of her breasts through the light silk of her ivory coloured shirt.
‘Who’s the guy you’re showing now?’ His voice was low and interested.
‘It’s not – it’s a woman,’ Francesca corrected him gently as she hit the save button. ‘One of our up and coming.’
‘Is that so?’ He sounded impressed then added quietly ‘Judging by her work, I reckon she’s promising. And the gallery sure can spot a winner.’
Francesca smiled, knowing that the praise would please Alec. Rafe had changed out of all recognition, she realised, unable to reconcile this assured, confident man with the lanky American boy with whom she’d laughed and held hands in the shadow of the Pitti Palace.
‘There’s-’ Further conversation was interrupted by a customer enquiring the price of a pretty pastel drawing. After dealing with him, Francesca returned to her desk, applying herself to more paperwork. There was a rumble of voices and a quick deep laugh like a bark. Alec, a short, balding man in his mid-fifties, with amazing grey-green eyes put his head round the door. ‘Ready?’ His smile was warm. ‘You seem to have kept Rafe happy, with your usual flair.’
Francesca returned his smile. ‘No problem. I won’t be long.’ She took out her pocket comb and holding up the mirror of her powder compact, quickly combed the shoulder length hair, pinning the sides back in a deep curve. A sound made her look up.
‘Girl at her toilet,’ Rafe remarked his eyes holding hers intensely. She snapped her compact shut.
‘Do you usually intrude like this?’ There was a sharp note in her voice.
The dark curves of his eyebrows drew together, but his response was gentle. ‘Pardon me, but I guess if you’d wanted privacy you’d have gone in there,’ he indicated the ladies room. His knuckles brushed against the sheet of silk that fell to her shoulders. ‘Such improbably fair hair,’ he said irrelevantly. ‘Whaddya help it along with?’ A quick smile robbed the question of offence.
An artist’s eye, thought Francesca ruefully, deciding to accept it as a backhand compliment. ‘I don’t – it’s always been this colour.’
‘Yes, now you come to mention it, how could I forget?’ he mused, a faraway look in his eyes. He drew closer to her.
‘I’m waiting!’ Alec called.
Upon their arrival in the sombre oak-panelled dining room of the exclusive men’s club in St. James’s of which Alec was a member they plunged into business matters. Rafe was highly prized in America and one of its most highly paid artists. Now he was set to explode on the European art scene, spending the next six months in England preparing for a one man show in London with a series of pictures that the gallery, on Francesca’s suggestion, would call English Interlude.