Indiscretions (28 page)

“You’re talking nonsense, Renata. Fabrizio’s not in the least bit interested in her that way. He says she’s good at her job, apparently she has a talent for whatever it is she does. Anyway, India was chasing after Aldo Montefiore. I put a stop to that, of course, for your sake! No, I’m quite sure you’re wrong about her.”

Renata cast a sly look at her older cousin. Marisa was an astute woman, but she was also too wrapped up in herself and her appearance. She tended to be dismissive of people who were outside her social comprehension—but men like her husband were not. And Fabrizio Paroli was an attractive, warm-blooded Neapolitan who’d worked his way up the ladder of success. India Haven was exactly the kind of girl who could topple the Paroli marriage. It was fun to goad Marisa from her self-satisfaction.

“Is Fabrizio totally faithful to you, then, Marisa?” Renata’s smile was teasing.

“Of course he is! Why are you asking me now?”

“Oh, just that if so, then he’s the only husband I know of who
is
faithful.”

“Renata, you know nothing of these things. Once I’ve got you safely married to Aldo Montefiore you’ll know what I’m talking about. A woman knows when her husband is faithful, believe me.” Marisa’s voice was confident, but she looked away, busying herself again in the newspapers.

Renata sipped her coffee, smiling. Had she succeeded in upsetting Marisa’s cool assumption that the world functioned only for her benefit? She didn’t know if there was anything between India and Fabrizio but, what the hell, she’d finally got to Marisa. She’d sown the seeds of suspicion very satisfactorily. It would be interesting to see what Marisa would do about it.

Passion had paid for the luxurious offices of Mario Tomasetti, private investigator.
Illicit
passion, that is. Mario preferred his luxury flamboyant—ankle-deep gray carpets, crystal chandeliers, scarlet leather chairs, low and deeply-buttoned, and his own vast swivel-chair of deep green suede. “It’s like the traffic lights,” he would say to his clients, “—red for stop is you, and green for go
for me.” Mario’s favorite possession was his unusual desk—a thirteenth-century oak tithe-table with a slot at one end where the long-ago serfs had paid their tithe money to the lord of the manor. It amused Mario to have his clients slip their hefty checks—always paid in advance, naturally—into the tithe slot to be collected later by his secretary.

Discretion was the nature of his activities if not his personal style, and the plush surroundings were meant to inform his clients that the services of Mario Tomasetti did not come cheaply. And yet he had more customers than he and his staff of thirty could handle. There was no doubt, he thought as he contemplated Marisa Paroli’s tight-lipped face, that passion paid very well—especially when you had a “sideline” like his.

“Here is a photograph.” Marisa placed a picture of India carefully on the table. “And here is one of my husband.”

Mario allowed his gaze to rest on them for the briefest moment but made no move to pick them up. Marisa looked at him uncertainly. Shouldn’t he study them? Ask her questions?

“If you need enlargements,” she suggested, “or the names of his favorite restaurants …”

Mario held up a small, plump hand decorated with an elaborate seal ring in some inky stone. “Say no more, signora, we have Signor Paroli’s office address, and the address of the apartment of Signorina Haven. It is all we need. Ah … perhaps there is one more thing. Your maiden name, signora?”

“My maiden name?” asked Marisa, astonished.

“Yes … just for the records. It’s a formality, signora, that is all.”

“Russardi,” said Marisa, taking out her checkbook.

“The Russardis of Milan and Turin?” Mario’s smile was filled with genuine warmth.

“Yes.” Marisa wrote her check and slid it across the table.

“Into the slot please, signora. I never involve myself in the financial transactions personally—this old tithe-table saves me from that. I prefer to consider myself more as a friend who wants to help out in a difficult situation.

A friend, thought Marisa with a shudder as Mario escorted her to the door, God forbid.

Mario sank into his green suede chair, his elbows resting on the arms, his fingers held in a little steeple in front of him. Russardi, eh? This could be a good one. Mario liked to think of himself as being in the espionage business—the James Bond of marital war games. He even dressed the part—though he was admittedly short. He wore sharp silk suits, burnished Rome shoes and expensive, custom-made shirts worn with slightly too much immaculate cuff showing. There was no doubt in his mind that he was better dressed than James; only, unlike James, he wasn’t averse to playing a double game when he felt it might be mutually profitable. And the Russardi-Paroli marriage should surely be profitable.

Mario had no hesitation at all in picking up the phone to speak with Fabrizio Paroli and stating that he had information in connection with his wife that he thought might interest Fabrizio. And at a meeting later that day he had no compunction at all in parting with the information that Marisa was employing him to investigate Fabrizio’s activities in relation to a Miss India Haven—after a certain large sum of money had been deposited in the worn groove of the tithe slot first, of course.

There was nothing as efficient for cooling a man’s ardor, thought India, as money. Or rather—
parting
with a lot of money. Not that Fabrizio was stingy—far from it. He paid her a generous salary, bought her expensive gifts—admittedly they were mostly of the intimate lingerie and
perfume sort—but there had also been the wonderful carpet that now covered the floor of her apartment, and various chairs and sofas from the showroom, and a case or two of good wine in the kitchen. Perhaps Fabrizio just wasn’t practical when it came to presents—and why should a lover be practical? India could find no answer to that, and she sank into a chair, staring moodily into space.

It was time to take stock of her life. Her affair with Fabrizio had been losing its savor even before that disastrous weekend at the country villa. Fabrizio had called the situation right. It had cost him a lot of money to keep the scandal and their names from hitting the papers. He had had to distribute a large amount of money to the police sergeant and the fund for the widows and orphans of the local
carabiniere
. And now there was this creepy private investigator sent to spy on them by Marisa. It was funny in a way, she supposed with a bitter smile, because what the man had said was that he was being paid by Marisa to keep an eye on their activities, and he intended to do exactly that. He would present Marisa with a detailed account of their movements at the end of the week; what he was offering was the opportunity for those movements to be perfectly innocent. After all, he’d added, what man doesn’t have a little affair—it doesn’t stop him loving his wife and family. The odd thing was that when Fabrizio had repeated his conversation to her, India had known that the private detective was right.

She kicked angrily at the luxurious rug with her bare foot, wondering what to do. It was obvious, she supposed, that things that couldn’t go forward came to a halt—and her romance with Fabrizio was at a halt. What Fabrizio had suggested was that they cool it a little, be discreet—just for a while, of course. Damn it! That was the problem with having an affair—it wasn’t in her nature to be discreet. When she was in love she wanted to
flaunt it, and when a man loved her she expected to be shown off to his friends, to arrive at restaurants on his arm and be greeted at parties as a couple. She just wasn’t cut out to be the other woman. Damn it again, though, she just wished it had been she who had said so! God knows, she’d been thinking about it for weeks now. The high-pitched ring of the telephone trilled through the apartment, startling her from her thoughts.

“Hello,” she snapped.

“India? Are you all right?”

It was Fabrizio.

“I’m all right—just worried, that’s all.”

“India,” said Fabrizio soothingly, “I don’t want you to worry. That’s why I’m calling. I’ve been trying to figure out how to make it easier for us both in the next few weeks and I remembered the Montefiore job. It’s a perfect opportunity for you to get out of town for a while.”

“Out of town? I’m not going to run away, Fabrizio, just because Marisa—”

“No, no, not
run away
. You don’t understand what I’m saying,
cara
, just listen will you? The Montefiores want to convert part of their palazzo into a hotel. They’re aiming for the up-market American tourist. Now, who would know better than you what that sort of traveler would need? The family want to preserve as much of the palazzo in its original state as possible while providing the necessary facilities. Unfortunately for them, in order to pay for this they are going to have to sell off some paintings and antiques. With your knowledge of the art market, India, you are perfect for the job. You can advise them on what they might sell and the possible prices. You can find out what they want to do, inspect the premises, and report back to me. I’ll need to know what structural alterations you consider necessary and I’ll want technical drawings of what you propose. Now,
cara
, what do you think? Can you handle it?”

“Handle it?” cried India, thrilled. “Fabrizio, you’re wonderful! Of course I can handle it, I can’t wait.”

“Good,
cara
, good. We shall meet in the morning, then, in the office, and I’ll brief you on the job. Plan to leave right after that, India. You will stay with the Montefiores at the palazzo. I think you’ll like them.”

The name sounded familiar, thought India.

“Is that Aldo Montefiore’s family?” she asked.

“Why, yes. Do you know them, then?”

India smiled, remembering Aldo’s rather battered attractive face. “Oh I met a member of the family once—a while ago.”

“Good,” said Fabrizio, satisfied that the plan was working out. “I’ll see you tomorrow then,
cara
. I must go now. Ciao.”

He rang off abruptly, leaving India with the receiver still cradled to her ear. She replaced it with a sigh, guessing that Marisa must have come in. It had happened before—but, she decided, her spirits rising, never again. Fabrizio had just handed her her freedom; she had a job to look forward to, her first real opportunity to do something on her own. It would be a challenge, and an exciting one. This is it, she told herself, dancing an excited little jig on Paroli’s beautiful showroom carpet. From now on I shall concentrate on my career. I shall be India Haven, interior design consultant, in charge of the conversion of the Palazzo Montefiore into a luxury hotel.

She dashed into her bedroom and hauled a suitcase from the closet. How long might she be—a couple of weeks? A month? Maybe even two? There hadn’t been time to ask Fabrizio, but she’d bet on at least a month. Would Aldo Montefiore be at the palazzo? she wondered. Wait a minute, though, he was supposed to marry money, wasn’t he? Marisa had warned her off him; she was reserving him for her cousin Renata. Well, then, that took care of that. She surely wasn’t going to escape from one
role as mistress only to jump into another. No, she was going to be a career girl, no more sexy black nighties and rendezvous for her. Firmly, she packed sensible country clothes, skirts, jeans, sweaters, a couple of good dresses for dinner, a trim, businesslike suit, silk shirts. And as a safety measure in case her resolve should be put to the test, her plainest underwear. After all, she thought with a grin as she closed the lid of the suitcase, how can a girl get herself seduced when she’s wearing pants with a Snoopy picture on the front?

15

The idyllic coral-stone villa overlooked the powdery pink curve of St. James Beach in the very best part of the island. From her usual early-morning position by its oval pool, Olympe could survey the beach of the smart hotel to the left and the scatter of neighboring villas to the right. Bendor couldn’t have chosen better. Apart from the fact that it was the most expensive villa on the island, it was the perfect gossip and meeting place—all you had to do was to take a stroll along the water’s edge, or even float gently in the silken blue sea just a little way offshore,
and you’d be bound to meet someone you knew, or someone who knew someone else you knew, or at the least someone
very
charming.

A smatter of conversation and the strains of a Gregorian chant on the hi-fi signaled that the rest of the house party was up. Bendor had a passion for Gregorian music and the sound of that monkish singing was driving them all crazy—especially at this time in the morning. Stretching lazily, Olympe flung on the man’s white evening shirt she always wore as a beach cover-up, and strolled through the gardens to the terrace. There were a dozen guests, almost equally divided in sexes. The girls were youngish, late twenties, and ranged from very attractive to beautiful. The men were older, well held together, some attractive—and all rich. Bendor had no friends who weren’t rich, it was a policy of his. He’d never been poor and considered the poor boring rather than unfortunate.

Pitchers of chilled orange juice and cups of thick strong coffee were being downed rapidly, along with slices of fresh fruits—papaya, mango, melon—the perfect breakfast.