The Vendetta (18 page)

She stared into his eyes, and she thought his steely expression softened a little. But then he rose abruptly and paced to the window. He stood with his back to her and fingered the silk panel. It was so clearly a move to set distance between them that her stomach clenched and she felt dizzy.

She thought he wasn’t going to answer her, even though he’d promised. She let out the breath she’d been holding and rubbed her forehead, startled when he began speaking in a voice stripped of every emotion.

“We were at the beach. Nags Head, North Carolina. My mother is American. She came to Rome to study art.” He flicked her a glance over his shoulder. “Much like you.”

He walked to the sideboard, picked up the picture. “The way she tells it, all her life she wanted to paint, to create. She was fortunate because her family had the means to assist her dream.” He put the frame back and leaned a hip against the table, crossing his arms over his chest.

“After a few months of art classes and study, she met my father, another artist, at the Galleria d’Arte Moderna. His family had once been wealthy, but when she met him all that was left of the patrimony was this villa. That didn't matter to my mother, though. She wasn’t a snob. Her parents knew she went to the Galleria every day to look at the paintings, copy the techniques. To learn. What her parents didn't know was that also she went there to see my father. Over her parent’s objections, they were married. Six months after the wedding, I was born.”

“
Six
months?”

Nick nodded and shrugged a shoulder. “Yes, she hadn’t left her parents much choice. We lived in Rome. My parents created their art and, in addition, my father supported us with odd jobs, mostly security work. We took summer vacations in the United States to see my grandparents, my mother’s family. I went to school. When I was ten, my father took a job as a guard for a private collection. I was—”

His lips pressed into a tight line, but then he took a breath and continued. “I was not doing well in school, getting into fights, so he took the job for extra money to send me to the American school in Rome.” Nick paused. Lisa’s hands balled into fists in her lap. She knew this was not going to end happily.

“Then one night three men walked into the palazzo where my father was guard with knives under their coats.”

“Oh, God, Nick.”

He looked at her directly, unemotionally, and she saw the iron control he’d imposed to get through this story. “They tied up the owner and threatened him. Then they proceeded to loot the palazzo of four of its most valuable pieces. They…” His voice faded, and his eyes grew distant.

She approached him and touched his hand. He looked down at her, his eyes swirling with anguish, quickly veiled by his long lashes. He pulled away from her and cleared his throat.

“They stole a line drawing by Picasso, a still life by Matisse, and two self-portraits by Rembrandt Van Rijn.” He continued, “My father tried to stop them, and he was stabbed from behind. They left him to bleed to death.”

Tears sprang to Lisa’s eyes, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to hold them back.

“We stayed in Rome for about two more years after he died, but my mother became…frail and unstable. I was too young to take care of her properly. My grandparents eventually came and took us to live with them in the United States.”

He stopped and Lisa waited for more, trying to sort through this calm recitation of facts. When he didn’t continue she asked, “Did the police ever find out who did it?”

“No.”

She absorbed that and the fact that he had stopped his story at the point when they left Italy.

“And the Rembrandts. Is one of those the one Gran has in her safe?”

He met her eyes. “Not just one. She has them both.”

She felt her eyes widen and her stomach roil at that, but there was one more detail she needed to find out.

“What about your copies?” She gestured to the dining room wall.

His mouth lifted a little. “My mother was an art student in the days when they let you paint the masters. Sort of up close and personally. The copies are the by-products of what you could call on-the-job training.”

Lisa got up from her chair at the table and walked up to one of the paintings to study it closer. A Renoir, for God’s sake, complete with signature. “They look to me like the genuine article.” She turned back to Nick. “She’s very good.”

His gaze moved over a Gainsborough-like portrait. She was surprised when he smiled a genuine smile. “Yes.”

“Did she do any original paintings? Anything of her own? With this kind of talent she must have her own vision.” Lisa stepped up to study the next painting, a still life in the style of the seventeenth century Dutch school.

When there was no response from Nick, Lisa turned to look at him. He shrugged again and went to fetch his water glass from the table. “To my knowledge there are no original paintings signed by Miriam Carnavale in existence. Or Miriam Charteris for that matter. Her body of painted work is what you see here and some in the barn. Copies all. She is more well known for her sculpture now.”

Lisa collapsed into one of the chairs. “Your mother is Miriam
Charteris
?”

“Yes.” He ducked his head slightly. “The sculpture I bought for you has always been one of my favorites.”

Fury washed over her. How dare he? She knew he’d married her for the Rembrandt, but to have played her for a fool all along? To have withheld such information about his
mother
on their very first meeting? She clenched her fists and stood up to face him.

“Is this all a game to you, Nick? You dole out little pieces of information like pennies to a beggar and then call yourself generous? I am sorry your father was killed. I can only imagine the devastation that caused in your life, but it doesn’t give you the right to play games with mine.”

He took a step toward her, face white, eyes narrowed. “Lisa, it’s not like that.”

“Oh, really? What is it like then, Nick? Tell me, because I’m having a hard time putting a positive spin on this one. It’s clear to me you want that Rembrandt, and I’ve been trying to understand why. But what I don’t understand is the how. What is it? A little emotional blackmail, a minor marriage of convenience, and it’s done? Oh, and if you manage to get a little booty on the side, well then, shoot the bonus.”

“Er, hello?”

Lisa whipped around at the sound of a woman’s voice. There, in the doorway, as if they had conjured her by their conversation, stood a woman Lisa recognized from art magazines and news clippings as Miriam Charteris. Lisa’s mouth dropped open, and the three of them stood there for a moment in tableau-like stillness. Then Nick stepped forward to greet his mother with a kiss on the cheek.

“Mama.” Nick turned, and his mother stepped into the room. “I would like you to meet Lisa Schumacher Carnavale. My wife.”

It was Miriam’s turn to look shocked. But the woman displayed exceptional manners by offering her hand and a smile. “I’m very sorry to intrude. I’ve returned unexpectedly early from a trip to Japan.”

“Oh, I…I mean it’s your house and…I’m just…I…” Lisa squeezed her eyes shut for a second, trying to gather herself. She opened her eyes and cast a glance at Nick. His face gave absolutely nothing away. As usual.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Miriam. “It is very nice to meet you. I’ll just…ah…go.” Lisa clutched the robe around her neck. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. Then she fled.

Chapter Twelve

Lisa scanned her room for forgotten items. It hadn’t taken her long to pack. She was good at packing, almost a professional. More problematic than the packing had been the bed. The bedding had been tousled and tangled with Nick’s spicy scent, a sock or two, an errant cufflink. The whole gigantic four-poster mess had served to remind her forcefully of Nick’s slow, hot hands and whispered caresses. And her pleading responses.

She pressed her lips into a firm line. The bed was neutral territory now. Not a ripple marred the silk coverlet. Looking at it, she was surprised at the perfection she had achieved considering the tears that had obscured her view of the pillows and blankets. She shook her head. She was a fool to cry over a man who had married her for a painting.

A knock at her bedroom door broke through her thoughts, and she had to steel herself to answer it. She knew it wasn’t Nick. She’d heard him tear out of the drive on his Moto Guzzi shortly after she had gone upstairs. Which meant it could only be Miriam Charteris.

Lisa opened the door. Nick’s mother was a gorgeous redhead. Her skin was slightly freckled and relatively unlined. She met Lisa’s gaze directly, matching her height. When Lisa invited her in, she stepped into the room and looked around with interest. Lisa saw her glance at the bed and then the suitcases by the door. Ah, now she saw Nick in his mother. It was in the elegant gestures, self-contained manner, and careful observation skills. And in the wide, generous shape of their mouths.

“You must be thinking that Nick doesn’t look much like me.”

“No, actually I was noting the amazing resemblance.”

“Oh, well.” The woman’s hands fluttered a bit, finally settling on the back of the vanity chair.

“I’ve made tea,” said Miriam. “Would you like some before you go?”

So, Nick’s mother had processed the significance of those suitcases by the door.

“I don’t think…that is, I want to be gone before Nick returns, Ms. Charteris.”

“Oh, please. Call me Miriam. And you have plenty of time. When he takes off on that motorcycle, he rarely returns before dark. That’s not for several hours.”

Lisa still hesitated. “I was going to call a taxi.”

“Nonsense. When we finish with our tea, I can drive you into Lucca in my car. I assume you are taking the train back?”

Lisa nodded. She understood where Nick got his sense of purpose.

Lisa trailed Nick’s mother down through the villa to a small sitting room. A traditional tea tray sat between two wing chairs. Lisa’s new mother-in-law calmly seated herself and gestured for Lisa to do the same.

Miriam offered a plate of pastries. “They’re quite good. I picked them up on my way in from town.”

Lisa’s stomach objected, and she shook her head.

When they were settled with their cups Miriam said, “I never imagined Nick would marry.”

“He was forced into this situation, unfortunately.”

“My dear, I don’t believe that for a minute. Nick made his own choices. That’s very clear.”

Lisa shifted uncomfortably.

Miriam began pouring tea. “I was so sorry to hear about your grandmother. The art world has lost an amazing patroness.”

“Thank you.” Lisa mumbled, miserable. She accepted the cup and plunked three sugar cubes into the hot liquid. Lisa could feel Miriam’s gaze on her, as if she were considering carefully the impact of her next words.

Abruptly, Nick’s mother stood. Lisa gaped, looking up at her.

“Will you come with me?” Miriam asked. “I need to show you something. Maybe it will help make things easier…well, maybe not. But I would like to show it to you, in any case.”

Lisa drew her lips into a thin line. She didn’t think she could bear much more emotional upheaval and still keep her cool. “If it’s Nick’s ‘Please Touch’ museum, don’t bother. I’ve already—”

Miriam laughed, a lovely lighthearted sound. “His ‘Please Touch’ museum.” She laughed again. “Yes, that’s a perfect name. And it’s interesting that he showed it to you. But no, this is something else.”

Lisa followed Miriam down the hall. “Lord, this is such a drafty old place. My late husband’s family has owned it for centuries, but unfortunately, they let it go to rack and ruin in the past thirty years or so. Nick has done much to restore the essentials, but it’s a continuing process.”

They passed several doors, all bedrooms under wraps. It gave the place an eerie feel of unused stillness that Lisa had not noticed previously. When she had been wrapped up in Nick.

“Ah, here we are.” Miriam opened a door and stepped through to another large bedroom. A four-poster bed dominated the center of the room, and there were few other furnishings. An elaborately carved stone mantle took up the wall opposite the bed, and two large paintings dominated the walls to the left and right of the fireplace.

“This was the master bedroom that my husband and I shared when Niccolo was a young boy. The
letto matrimoniale
.” Miriam gestured to the large bed. “I heard Nick tell you that there were none of my original paintings still in existence, but he is wrong. Although perhaps not to his knowledge. I don’t believe he has been in this room since his father was killed.” She turned to Lisa. “Has he told you of his father’s death?”

“A little,” Lisa replied. “I know his father was murdered during a robbery, but not much else.”

Miriam nodded, then strode to the far wall, gesturing to the mantle. “Perhaps Nick has forgotten these. Maybe purposefully, willfully forgotten them.” Miriam flicked a switch and a small spotlight illuminated the two paintings over the large fireplace.

Lisa gasped. It was a portrait of Nick, but no…not Nick. The hair was too light, the face more rounded.

“His father,” said Miriam.

The man in the painting stood at an easel, a paintbrush in his hand and his back to the room. The artist had captured him looking over his shoulder. The style reminded her of the Renoir she had perused in the dining room, the large brush strokes blended together to give an overall impression of a strong, capable man full of love and laughter. And across from it was a portrait of Miriam herself and a small boy—Nick!—painted in a very different style, bolder, smoother, with a level of detail that aped the Old Masters. Lisa gasped as she realized that the painting opposite was reproduced on the easel in the portrait of Nick’s father.

“You said Nick gave you the bare facts of the night of his father’s death. But the full story is much more complicated.” The older woman hesitated, looking at the portrait of herself and her young son. She turned to Lisa with a look of determination and said, “Now that I have shown you these, perhaps we can finish that cup of tea?”