From Humble Beginnings (Joe Steel) Page 8

  Feeling as though I’ve missed a beat, I say nothing to make her separate herself from me, even though it’s too damned hot to be linking on to anyone!

  “It was okay. Thanks for asking.” Not only am I not in the mood to talk, I’m not in the mood to watch her flutter her eyelashes at me.

  Okay, that sounds big-headed. But I get the feeling that Bigfoot could have walked through those gates and she’d have started flirting with him.

  Because that’s exactly what she’s doing.

  Smiling up at me, her gaze flickering between the pair ahead of us and up to my eyes. She’s tall and in a pair of wedges, is a few inches above my chin. I can flirt; it’s an easy way to manipulate people and there are times when it comes in very handy, but I’m not in the mood for it now. If anything, I’m in the mood to push her away and slouch into the car. A bit like a bratty kid, I need to sleep off my mood and considering it’s getting late, that shouldn’t be too long away.

  To the small questions she peppers me with as we walk out to the car, I manage to give equally small answers and for the moment, she seems content with that. Angelo reaches the car as I’m attempting to field yet another query and within two seconds, has unlocked the vehicle and settles Cass into the front seat, beside his own.

  Meaning I’m going to be sat with Clordina in the backseat for the trip.

  Great.

  Okay, her legs go up to her armpits and her tits are the size of melons and if I hadn’t just left a distressed Juliet behind, maybe, maybe I’d have been interested. What guy wouldn’t be? But as it is, I just keep seeing those tear-drenched eyes and each and every time that happens, my mood plummets.

  On top of that, she’s like a tarantula. Her arms always moving and coming into close contact with me, touching me. And Christ, we’ve only walked out of the terminal!

  Settling myself in the back seat, I roll my eyes as Clordina joins me, ensuring that as she takes a seat, the split in her skirt reveals a lengthy expanse of thigh. She settles in the middle of the back seat, almost as though someone else were due to get in with us. It means that I’m tucked against her and it’s the last place I want to be.

  “How long does it take to get to Bergamo?”

  Clordina answers for me as Angelo is still tackling the luggage. “It’s about a hundred kilometres away from here.”

  That doesn’t seem too bad. At least, it wouldn’t when the air conditioning kicks in. Angelo has started the ignition and hot air is blasting out of the vents. Once again regretting my sweater, I ruffle the sleeves to shove them up my forearms and immediately regret that as Clordina’s hands cover my wristwatch. “What a lovely watch.”

  In the dim overhead light, my eyes glance at her red talons and back towards her own gaze. “It was a present.”

  Once again, my dismissive answer isn’t enough to shut her up. “From who?”

  “My boss.”

  “That was kind of him, wasn’t it?” she murmurs. “What did you do to earn it?”

  “I found a thief in the company.”

  At my words, she tenses and turns towards me. “That was very clever of you,” she murmurs in a husky voice.

  Wondering if I’m being set up, I frown down at the fingers still entwining my wrist and work the joint out of her grasp. “I’m a very clever man,” I mock and turn away to stare out of the window.

  She tried. I’d give her that.

  Throughout the rest of the hour and a half journey, she kept on trying to entice me into a conversation, but I continued my vigil at the window. At my back, a vent gushed cool air and I relaxed into the leather seats, content to let Angelo drive me. Even if I wasn’t content about the level of attention he was bestowing upon Cass.

  Damning my lack of knowledge of Italian, out of the corner of my eye, I watched Cass chat and flirt with the driver. Seated diagonally to me, I had a perfect position to watch her flutter her lashes at him and coyly chat with her body as well as her tongue.

  Having never seen her so disarmed, I myself felt blown away. Usually armed to the teeth with a cast-iron control, to see her relaxed was almost peculiar. I felt discomforted by the insight.

  And also suspicious as well.

  A driver, I can understand. A translator too. But neither of us had requested escorts!

  It was with relief that we finally made it to a villa tucked into a river; Clordina told me was called the Brembo. They were cosseted by the Val Brembana and even in the darkness; I could tell that the views of the river would be magnificent. A slightly fusty smell permeated my nostrils, but there was a cooling breeze that made me sigh with pleasure as it curled about my body, cooling it down.

  Angelo soon disappeared after introducing us to the housekeeper, who was sporting a nasty bruise on her cheekbone, and bringing our luggage into the house. Clordina went soon after. Although, I didn’t escape entirely. She pressed two kisses to my cheeks in the Italian fashion, but call me paranoid; I’d swear I felt the slight trail of her tongue against my flesh.

  There were come-ons and there were come-ons, for Christ’s sake. The attention bestowed upon the pair of us by our translator and driver was grossly exaggerated. Call me suspicious, but if that was to soften us up for something, it failed majestically! If anything, it’s made me more cautious as well as wanting to find out what the pair of them are actually involved in. Because they have to be up to something, to behave the way they had.

  I’ve come across a lot of people in my line of work and no one has ever behaved the way that pair have done tonight.

  My suspicions are validated by that alone!

  And with Clordina offering herself on a plate… well, call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to do my own flirting! How I wanted and when I wanted. Especially not when I’ve a woman back home, who I hope is waiting for me.

  Calling her my girlfriend and proffering her up to Clordina to save me from her clutches seems like a smart idea, but the idea of being a boyfriend makes me grimace. It sounds so juvenile. So bloody gormless. In the end, I stay quiet, thankful when she blends into the background and departs a few minutes after Angelo, leaving Cas and I alone, in silence, on the veranda.

  “Signori, the dinner is ready to serve if you’d like to come in now?”

  With the cooling breeze from the river calming me, I’m reluctant to leave, but my stomach protests and I soon follow Cass into the house.

  After the Porsche Cayenne and the ‘uniform’ of the chauffeur, the house itself comes as no real surprise to me. Ornate, gilt, ormolu. Three words that sum it up. It’s a cross between a bordello and a rich man’s palace. The outside lights had shown a rather nice villa; square, tall, white with plenty of windows each with green shutters. Nothing remarkable outside of what had to be a beautiful view of the river and a pleasantly tended garden.

  Inside is where the interior decoration had exploded.

  The entry hall is bland in comparison to the dining hall, into which the battered cook shows us. The latter had been a mixture of cream walls with golden dado rails, a colour that matched the cornices and the edging on every single piece of wooden furniture within the vestibule. The console table to the side, a central circular table in the middle of the hall, even the picture frames and the trim on the staircase... all of it was golden.

  And yet, the dining room is worse!

  Here red reigns. It looks like red velvet on the walls, but I’m not even sure if that’s possible! The curtains curling around the patio doors that lead on to a well-illuminated terrace are scarlet red and on the walls, Christ reigns supreme. There are crucifixes all over the shop. The table is large and as expected, in the centre. A large heavy piece of mahogany, it’s carved to within an inch of its life and had the room not been so over the top, it might have made a grand focal point. Instead, it’s shrouded by religious artefacts. From crucifixes to pictures of deities and saints, I’m not sure if I’m eating in a dining room or in a church!

  At the head of the table, on the back wall, is a crucifix which
looks like solid gold to me and has to be the size of a reasonably large painting. In the overhead lights, which have red velvet shades, the gold gleams dully and makes me think that it truly is a precious metal.

  “If shit goes to shit, we could always flog that, Cass. That would stop us from going bankrupt!” I point at the golden crucifix and she grins, understanding my point. It’s only then that I realize she’s been absorbing it all with the same astonishment as I myself have!

  I also realize that I whispered the comment. Almost as though I wasn’t sure if the previous owner could hear me or if one of the carvings of Jesus on the cross would come to life and swat out my sorry existence for daring to swear in this place.

  My eyes darting about the furniture, I take a seat at the table and thank the housekeeper, Brigida, as she brings in two plates loaded with gnocchi in some kind of butter sauce. We both thank her and she departs, leaving us to enjoy our meal.

  “I wonder how she got the shiner.”

  Cass pulls a face. “It’s usually the husband, isn’t it?”

  And while she wasn’t wrong, I had a strange insight into Cas’ life there and then. That whole sentence seemed to sum up why she hadn’t married Bernard and didn’t mind Rebecca taking her place.

  Although, from her flirting in the car, I’d be hesitant in saying that Bernard and Cass were faithful to each other.

  I make no comment on my insight, because I could be completely wrong and I don’t entirely know where the epiphany came from. Silence seems to be appropriate, so I only say, “It’s a nasty bruise. She’s far too small to be enduring that sort of violence.” I’m not lying. Brigida has to be all of five feet and as skinny as a pigeon on Trafalgar Square. Although, with the food she just served us, I’m not sure how!

  “No. But there’s usually little we can do to help. She’s the cook too.”

  Frowning at Cass’ dismissal of domestic violence and her abrupt change of topic, I make a mental note to ask after Brigida and to see if her husband is the one beating her. “Is her husband on staff?”

  “Yes. He’s the gardener.”

  If he was behind the beating, then he wouldn’t have a job for much longer. I’ll see to that myself.

  Brigida bustles in again, removing our plates and replacing them with steaming bowls of pasta in a cream sauce alongside a heavy sponge cake, which she places in the centre of the table beside a decanter of sweating limoncello and a hot urn of black coffee as well as all the utensils we’d need to prevail ourselves of her spread.

  “If that is all, signori, then I will go to bed now. The hour is late.”

  Surprised at her level of English, I smile at her. “That’s fine. Thank you for a delicious meal. If the pasta is anything like the gnocchi, then we’re in for a treat.”

  She blushes, the rouge of her cheeks clashing with the vitriolic shade of purple clouding her eye and cheekbone. “Thank you. Buonanotte.”

  Cass stares at me with a raised brow and I glare at her, shrugging off her amusement. “You could have thanked her yourself!”

  At my chiding, she merely smiles. “Why? When you did it for me and so charmingly.”

  Ignoring her, I tuck into the cheesy pasta and proceeded to gorge on the cake, drizzling limoncello over it rather than take it as a liqueur.

  “It’s wonder you’re as skinny as you are,” Cass comments, after leaving half of her pasta and skipping over dessert to black coffee.

  “I work out. And I’m not skinny.”

  As a kid, I’d been skinny. All bones and lanky muscles. A beanpole had been overweight in comparison to me. I’d worked hard for my lean muscles and I still could eat whatever I wanted.

  As I finish my cake, I murmur, “You were flirting with the driver. Is that appropriate, do you think?”

  Cass raises her cup to her lips and sips at the hot brew. “He was flirting with me and I returned the favour.”

  “Don’t you think that’s odd?” As I ask the question, I pour myself a small cup of coffee. At that point, even if I have to endure Cass as a dining companion, I’m looking forward to the rest of my stay. I never cook for myself and having a talented woman like Brigida in the kitchen, my mouth is drooling at the thoughts of all the meals ahead of me.

  “No. Not really. I like to think I’m an attractive woman. . . ”

  There’s a sharpness to her tone that tells me I’ve inadvertently offended her. God, women can be so prickly. “I didn’t mean it that way,” I interrupt with a roll of my eyes. “I meant Clordina did exactly the same to me. Flirting. Excessively. Touching. Excessively. Uncomfortably so. I don’t trust it. Especially not when the pair of them came together; it’s like a battle tactic!”

  “I’m sure you’re being melodramatic. If a handsome man chats to me then I’m not churlish enough to ignore him. And Clordina was gorgeous! You’re only dating Juliet. That doesn’t mean you can’t talk to other women!” she mocks.

  Refusing to listen to her taunts, I stand, my chair scraping against the wooden floor. “If you want to be blind, then be blind. It will all go into my report regardless of whether you agree with me or not. Something weird is going on; they approached us as though they were escorts! Not employees!”

  “They’re Italian! They flirt. It’s what they do best.”

  “Yeah, well, pull the wool over your eyes if you want. I don’t like it. It stinks to me.”

  Strolling over to the terrace doors, I open them and walk towards the railing. Angelo and Clordina aren’t the only things that stink around here. There’s a fetid smell and it makes me rear back. Directly beneath the terrace is a small flower garden, which is illuminated and then the river. Wondering why the water stinks at this particular point, I happen to see a shadow in the midst of the gloom.

  “Oi! Who the hell are you?” I call out, noticing that the shadow is skulking away. Squinting, I watch as the figure steps into the vicinity of the flower garden and I finally get a good look at him. “This is private property.” Whether he understands me or not, I don’t know, but hopefully my tone tells him to piss off if he’s trespassing.

  “I know it is,” came the heavily accented voice. As the man nears, the stench comes too. “I work here. I’m Marco.”

  I blink as a man, looking suspiciously like a tramp appears out of the darkness. “In what capacity?” I demand, not refusing to take the man’s word as gospel.

  “I am the gardener and the driver.” The last was said sulkily.

  “I met the driver this evening. He brought me from the airport. He certainly wasn’t you.” As polished as Angelo was, I doubt he’d ever smelled as bad as this man had in his life! He probably took baths in his Armani aftershave.

  “No. I wasn’t allowed to collect you.”

  “Who said that?”

  “They forbidded me,” he answers and I don’t care that his grammar is appalling; I’m just relieved that he can make himself understood.

  “Who did?”

  “They did.”

  “They? Who are they?”

  “Them. The bosses,” came the retort.

  Before I could ask who the hell the bosses are, the man darts away into the shadows. I’m partly relieved. His smell was making my eyes water!

  “We’re the bosses,” I mutter under my breath, frowning in the direction of the man cum tramp cum gardener cum supposed driver.

  What’s that about then?

  Why is the usual driver, even as smelly as he is, forbidded, as he phrases it, from collecting us?

  My questions regarding Angelo and Clordina have just grown in number. And Cass can fancy the arse off Angelo as much as she wants, I’ve found something else that stinks and we’ve only been here a few hours. That really bodes well for the remainder of our stay, doesn’t it?

  And to make matters worse, they always say that things come in threes, don’t they?

  Chapter Six

  I’ve always hated flying. Being cooped up in a metal tin can, soaring through the sky in a machine that no one,
not even the pros know how the damned things stay up in the air, isn’t my idea of a good time. Give me a car or a boat. That’s my idea of fun. But more than anything, even the flight, I hate the day after. I’ve hardly crossed a dozen time zones but I still feel jetlagged. And I always do. It must be something to do with the air system on board; or the too-fast motion of arriving in one country after crossing seas and mountains doesn’t sit well with me.

  I’ve never been a morning person either, but today, waking up is harder than usual, dragging myself out of bed even more difficult. I’ve a slash on my cheek from yawning during shaving and the bastard won’t stop weeping, no matter how much toilet tissue I paste on to the wound.

  I’m not in the best of moods as I trudge down the stairs out of a bedroom that looks like a tart’s boudoir and head towards the equally depressing blood red dining room. Cass is already there and she’s a lot perkier than I am. But that wouldn’t be all that hard! Feeling like death warmed up in the face of executive vitality, it’s no wonder I come a cropper in the looks department.

  She’s reading a paper, la Repubblica, and just the sight of all that Italian gives me a headache. The idea of having to rely on Clordina as a translator is a nightmare. I might just have to stick to Cass’ side for the entire trip, because I’d only trust the Italian hottie as far I can throw her. She’s as deceptive as hell and that is only my first impression! The very notion of trusting her with private and confidential company information has me sinking to my seat with a groan.

  “You look like you had a rough night. What did you do after I went to bed?”

  “I slept!” My grouchy voice is rasped with early morning gravel. “I’m not a morning person.”

  “I’d never tell. Amazing how I didn’t realize that before though, huh?” she asks, slowly pushing the paper down to the table and starting to eat her breakfast again.

  Breakfast consists of a small bowl of fruit and a cup of coffee. Oh, and a yoghurt.