Her Dark Lies Page 5
“Welcome to Italy, Katie,” he says, opening his arms for a hug. Good thing, because Katie crashes straight into us, tackle hugging, knocking me back a few feet. Romulus takes a step toward me, but Jack calls out something guttural and the two dogs sit immediately, quivering, five feet away.
“I am so excited to be here. My gawd, look at this place. Are those wolves? Jeez, Compton. And you—” She spins me in a circle, then raises both of my arms out to the side, staring at my neck. “Aren’t you the radiant bride. Are those pearls you’re wearing?”
I feel the blush creep up my neck, probably making the pearls stand out even more. “A wedding gift from Jack. You like?”
Katie runs a finger along the necklace. “Yeah. They’ve gotta be worth a fortune.”
Ah, there it is, that embarrassing twinge I have anytime anyone mentions the obscene wealth of the Comptons. I have to get over it. I might have started off with nothing, but I will never be in that state again, thanks to Jack.
Katie, her sleeveless top showing off the edge of a new and not-so-discreet tattoo, stamps up and down the length of the courtyard in her floral Doc Martens, staring at the Villa. The last of the prestorm sun glimmers off the diamond stud in her nose.
“Nice shack, Compton.”
“I’ll let my father know you approve.”
The tension between them is back, damn it. “Any chance my parents and Harper were on the boat? I know they were planning to come from Rome tomorrow, but with the weather...”
“I didn’t see them. If Harper were on it, I’d have noticed. She’d have been taking pictures nonstop.”
I look to the billowing storm clouds.
“Jack, should we reach out to them? The hydrofoil won’t be able to manage the return trip with the storm, will it?”
“Don’t worry, darling. It will run until the storms arrive. We might get lucky and they hold off. Worse comes to worst, we’ll send the helicopter for them when the weather breaks.”
Katie can’t resist a teensy eye roll. “Yes, dahh-ling, don’t worry. They’ll find their way. I want to see inside this place, and then I want to sleep for a week. God, I hate jet lag. Compton, are you offering tours or are we supposed to stand out here in the courtyard?”
“Katie,” I start to scold, but Jack has other ideas.
“Actually, if you don’t mind getting yourself settled in, Katie, Claire and I need to sit down with my parents for a bit. And the lawyers.”
“Lawyers?” Katie asks, gathering her bags. “What did you do that you need lawyers?”
My heart kicks up a notch and I glance at Jack. I feel an answering squeeze—a warning.
Malcolm shot the intruder.
“It’s just wedding stuff. There are a number of hoops we have to jump through for the marriage to be legal here in Italy.”
Katie gives me a salacious wink. “Oh. Of course. Go sign your prenup. I’m going to drop my stuff, grab a bite and crash, so I’ll find you when I wake up. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I notice a tall, gray-haired, dark-eyed woman in a black silk top and slim black pants standing unobtrusively by the front door. Has she been waiting there all along, hidden in the shadows? Her voice is gently accented, calm and sweet. “I’d be happy to show Signorina Elderfield to her room, Signore Jack.”
“Thank you, Fatima. This is Claire, by the way.”
Fatima inclines her head graciously. “A pleasure to meet you, Signorina Claire. I have looked forward to this moment for many weeks.”
“The pleasure is mine, Fatima. And Claire is fine.”
“Let’s get a move on, ladies,” Jack says, overly cheerful. “Lots to do.”
Katie gives me a knowing look, clearly feeling dismissed. She steps carefully around the dogs and follows Fatima into the house. I hear her start chattering, asking about the Villa. I want to call after her, apologize for Jack’s brusqueness, reassure her, but stop myself. I love them both, but they must figure out their relationship; power struggles aren’t my thing.
Jack snaps his fingers and the dogs melt away around the side of the courtyard.
“Follow me, soon-to-be Mrs. Compton.”
It must be my imagination, but I swear his eyes linger on my throat, at the pearls draped there, before he offers me his arm.
The interior of Villa la Scogliera is as surprising as the exterior. I’ve seen pictures, of course, and the spreads in Condé Nast and Architectural Digest are well thumbed. Jack has shown me some from his childhood. We’ve lain in bed, his iPad between us, looking at the photos, historical and current.
I try to act cool, like I belong here, but nothing has properly prepared me for the actual splendor of the Villa.
The entry, through two massive olive wood doors, as wide as it is deep, has whitewashed limestone walls offset by a warm terracotta tile floor. Modern art stretches the length of the interior, elemental and striking. I itch to break free of Jack’s hand and step back, taking them in one by one. I spy a Pollock, a Mondrian. Joan Miró.
“Is that a Matisse?” I blurt.
Jack glances over his shoulder at the blue on white canvas we’ve just passed. “I think so. You’re the expert, darling. I know the painting in our bedroom is a de Kooning—I’ve heard mother talk about it with guests before. And there’s a Picasso somewhere around here, from when he and my grandfather were catting around. He painted it here, in the colony, and left it behind as thanks. Don’t worry, you have the rest of your life to take inventory of our family’s artwork.”
Our family.
I feel a bit faint. I’ve been in galleries worldwide. I’ve seen great art. I’ve met great artists. I’ve even made some great work of my own. But the knowledge that all of this will essentially belong to me one day is overwhelming.
I can’t help but wonder when I’m going to wake up from this dream of the handsome prince and his faraway castle, but for now, I satisfy myself with one last glance at the Matisse and keep walking.
At the far end of the house, at least thirty yards away, three sets of tall wooden French doors give the illusion of a wall of glass, and beyond, the lush emerald of the garden and aquamarine of the sea. I want to run to those doors, fling them open and scurry outside, capturing the colors on a canvas. I can see myself standing there already, grinding my pigments and blending, blending, blending, until my palette is ready, and I can capture the scene forever. I’m not much for plein air work, but this view might sway me out of my studio. My fingers actually twitch into the form I use when holding a paintbrush. It is so fresh and open, so welcoming. I shake my head in wonder.
“What?” Jack asks, looking at me curiously.
“Oh, you know. You can take the girl out of the country...”
“My little country mouse. Just you wait.”
“Seriously, it’s so much...happier than I expected. Especially since the outside is so old.”
“Oh, Claire. What were you expecting, cobwebs and a hunchback to greet us?”
“Well, maybe just the hunchback. Elliot could audition for the role. He’d be a shoe-in.”
He laughs, his head tipped back and throat moving with the effort, and I join in. There is nothing more joyous in my life than watching Jack laugh.
He finally gathers himself. “I told you my grandfather stayed in some Hollywood starlet’s Villa in Tuscany and came home full of ideas. He and my grandmother renovated the place back in the seventies. They wanted it to be open and airy, welcoming, a good place for kids to run and scream. We took advantage, trust me. The entire Villa was redone, but this is the most modern area and yes, I can see what you mean, the happiest space.”
“It has great energy. I can’t wait to explore every corner.”
“We will explore it all, darling, I promise. But for now, let me show you our room.”
10
Venus Calling
The staircase: thick semicircles of marble with a dove gray runner up the center. Columned on both sides, it sweeps up seventeen steps before the landing diverges into two formal curves, one left and one right. The banisters are made of dark polished wood and iron spindles. A balustrade runs the length of the hall above, the parapet giving a magnificent view of the foyer below. I halt, craning my neck backward to take it all in.
“Oh, wow.”
“You like?” Jack asks, smiling.
“I do.”
They make such a statement; I feel drawn to them. I can see a painting forming in my mind, swirls of gray, roiling in fury, limned in spectral white on the edges. There is a sense of the uncanny to this, of ghostly presences scurrying in our wake. A metaphorical ascent to the unknown. A foreboding journey. I’ll call the painting Cassandra.
We begin our own ascent. The six-feet-tall windows on the first landing show the sea. The thunderhead still crouches possessively over the mainland. In the distance, I see a bright fork of lightning. The labyrinth path leads away beneath us, and further still are the cottages.
I catch something out of the corner of my eye. A flash of white. The scarf I saw earlier? Is the mysterious cliff greeter now in the cottages?
“Jack?”
But it’s gone before he can say, “What, darling?”
“I thought I saw something—someone—in the cottages. The same white scarf from the cliff.”
He stares out the window, but there is nothing more to see. The scarf, and its wearer, are gone.
I laugh lightly.
“It must have been my imagination. I think the jet lag is setting in. Or my head is playing tricks on me. I thought I’d done so well resetting my body clock by getting up at 4:00 a.m. for the past week, but maybe I was wrong.”
“Oh, my poor girl. I’ve tired you out.” He kisses my forehead, and I try to shake off the eerie sense of lingering otherness that hangs about the landing.
“I’m sorry, Jack. The break-in—”
“Shh. It’s okay. I promise we’ll get everything sorted out.” He grins, trying to set me at ease, as always. “Come on. The sooner we get this meeting out of the way, the sooner you can crash.”
I’m not sure how he can just forget everything that happened. He’s a good compartmentalizer; I’m the opposite, I worry things to death, running them through my mind over and over.
“Stop. Please. I want to know who broke into our house. I want to know why.”
Jack tugs me up the staircase to the right. The hallway is tastefully lit, slate floors covered with a silk geometrical-patterned runner, marble tables that house a few elegant pieces, a few wooden armoires, and more art.
“We’ll know more soon. Karmen is handling things. She’ll be in touch as soon as she has answers. Trust me, darling. You’re safe. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
Karmen Harris is the head of Compton Security. Wherever Brice is, she is close by. And technically, the Crows work for her. That’s why she’s looking into the shooting, dealing with the police. It is her charge who shot the intruder.
I haven’t met her yet, but I know Jack thinks she’s smart and tough. I suppose this makes me feel better, but still, Karmen wasn’t the one staring down at the masked face of an intruder in her house.
“Okay?” he asks, smoothing my curls back from my face.
Be patient. Listen. Follow Jack’s lead.
I nod.
“Good. This takes us to the west wing, where our rooms are. Many of the pieces here are ancestral, from the Comptons who lived in England. I know you’ll enjoy familiarizing yourself with everything. There’s a catalog in the library, too, if you want to check it out.”
An austere white-haired man with a dark Mona Lisa smile and Jack’s eyes hangs in a lit niche of honor. Jack stops in front of it. “That’s my great-grandfather William. Lucian Freud painted that of him.”
Normally I would be examining every brushstroke—Freud is a favorite of mine—but I’m too tired. Everything feels so wrong. Strange. I am uncomfortable, and feel a wellspring of anxiety hovering, ready to pounce.
Maybe it’s the concussion. Or the scopolamine patch. They said that might make me dizzy. That must be it.
We wind down another hall, and Jack finally stops in front of a tall wooden door. It would look like any sixteenth-century castle door except for the biometric keypad to the right of the heavy iron handle.
Jack puts his fingers on the black screen, and there is an almost instantaneous click. He flings open the door to our bridal suite with a grin. “Welcome to our rooms, my darling.”
Staggeringly lovely, spacious, and decorated to perfection, “our rooms” is more of an apartment, consisting of three connected spaces—an expansive sitting area with couches, an office with a huge, battered wooden desk, and a master bedroom the size of our living room back home. We wander through and I see there is a half-naked statue in front of a long tapestry opposite the sumptuous bed. When will I ever stop being surprised by the Comptons’ earthiness?
He interrupts my thoughts with a gentle squeeze of my hand. “Darling? Do you like it?”
“I do, Jack. It’s perfect.”
“Legend has it one of the emperors had his lovers brought to this chamber. There used to be some sort of passageway down to the grotto. They would bring in the women by boat, then into the Villa through the tunnels. But the passageways have been walled off for centuries, now.”
I stop in front of the sculpture, similar in nature to Venus de Milo.
“Is this Venus?”
“It is. Venus Genetrix. Goddess of love, sex, beauty, and fertility.” He grins at that last, pats the sculpture on her truncated shoulder. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
The statue is missing a head, and arms, but yes, she is quite beautiful. The carving is impressive, you can tell how diaphanous her robes are, how they cling to her curves. Seduction. She is seduction personified.
“A replica, I hope?”
Jack glances at me oddly. “Goodness, no. My great-grandfather was friends with Paul Getty, he gave this to him in appreciation of some good deed. I would assume the Getty Museum has the replica, or whatever museum she’s currently been loaned to. Come see the view.”
Oh, great. Just what we need, a centuries-old sculpture in our bedroom. I’ll probably knock her over in the middle of the night on my way to the bathroom and shatter her into a million pieces.
I step around the statue cautiously and obediently follow him to the French doors leading to the terrace, which stretches around the corner to the living room access.
The terrace is remarkable; slate and wrought iron, it stretches across the width of the suite and curves around to the living room. A pergola provides shade and shelter to one quarter of the space. It even has a dining table and a stone fireplace on the western edge. The chairs and longues have deep cushions with gaily striped pillows. It’s meant for sunning, for reading, for loving. For us.
The vista is impressive. The steeple of the church rises to my left, and to my right...water, water everywhere. The sun peeking over the edge of the cliff casts gloriously long shadows across the beach, as if someone’s hand is perched above the island, open-fisted, fingers outstretched. The storm still lingers over the mainland as if it hasn’t made up its mind to advance across the water to the island yet.
I feel suddenly claustrophobic, isolated. All this water, the land too far away to reach.
&nb
sp; I am still alone, despite Jack’s presence beside me. I still am not sure about what happened. Who broke in? Why? Who did we kill?
There are things happening that are out of my control, and the thought sends a tight shiver through my body. I pretend to stifle a yawn as cover for lurching away from Jack’s hand, but if he notices, he laughs it off.
“Do you want to take a nap before the meeting?”
“It’s tempting. You need to rest, too.”
“No, I’m fine. I was in Europe all last week, remember? My body clock is already adjusted. Seriously, if you want to lie down, I can go check in with my parents and let you rest.”
My silence worries him, because Jack folds me into his arms again. “I’m sorry this has been such a strange couple of days.”
“Yes,” I murmur, pushing away my concerns, letting myself be comforted. Now that we’ve stopped moving, the adrenaline rush of our arrival is fading fast. I am suddenly so tired. I just want to crawl into the bed and sleep for a year.
“If you’re up to it, once we finish with the lawyers, and you’ve had a chance to catch your breath, I’d love to introduce you to my grandfather. Though if you’re not in the mood, I can push it off.”
Get it together, Hunter. Be strong. I tuck a stray hair behind my ear, straighten my spine.
“I’m fine, I promise. Would you rather we go talk to him now, before we go to the library?”
“We’ll do it after,” Jack says lightly. “I think he’s taking a walk. He usually does this time of day.”
As he says this, there is a ruckus from the hall. A woman’s voice, speaking in gentle Italian-accented English, cajoling. “Signore Compton, no, Signore Compton, not that way. They’re in the bridal suite.”
“Oh,” Jack stands straighter, brightening. “He’s back. Apparently, you do get to meet him now.”
I look to the sea again, to the billowing, blackening clouds, take a huge, deep breath through my nose, the salty air tinged with the heady scent of the spring flowers and lemon, then blow it out and go to Jack’s side to face my soon to be grandfather-in-law.