Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) (40 page)

“Yes, madonna.”

She closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of the wilting bouquet. “Thank you, Giovanni,” she said quietly. “That will be all.”

“There is one thing more, madonna.”

“Yes?” She looked up with hope springing inside her.

“I am to be your guard.”

“My guard.” The hope died away, completely.

“With my life. This is a privilege I had not expected. It gives me great pleasure, and honor.”

What could she say to him while he stood before her with such unassuming pride, such readiness to serve. It was impossible to tell him she didn’t want or need him, that she preferred the guard she had had before and wanted him back.

She forced her cold lips to curve, at least a little. “Thank you, Giovanni.”

“It is nothing, madonna.”

Nothing, and everything. Violet felt as if her breath, her life had been cut off. As the young gardener turned and began to walk away, a thought occurred to her. “Giovanni!”

He whirled at once, returning with quick steps. “I always come when you call.”

Violet paused at the fervency of his tone. She could spare no thought for it, however. She said, “The signor, he gave you his instructions — when?”

“Last evening it was, before nightfall.”

“I see. Thank you again,” she whispered.

Giovanni went away then, though not without several frowning glances over his shoulder. Violet carried the bouquet with her to a chair beneath the grape arbor. She lowered herself into it, placing the flowers on her lap. She touched them with careful fingers while tears rose slowly to sting her eyes.

The forget-me-nots, for True Love.

The ivy, for Fidelity.

The marigolds, for Grief.

The dandelions, for an Oracle.

It was a message of its own kind, their own kind.

Allain was gone, had decided, perhaps, to leave to keep her safe after all. Or else for some reason that she might understand, but could not accept.

Just as she understood, but could not accept, his message.

He loved her.

He would love her unto death and would never love another.

He grieved at the parting.

Whether he would return, only the gods knew. And they would not tell.

JOLETTA PUT DOWN VIOLET’S JOURNAL
, which she had been studying, and walked into the hotel bathroom. She leaned close to look at herself in the mirror over the lavatory. Her eyes were indisputably brown, much like Violet’s had been, also like those of her mother and her father both, as far as that went. Mimi’s eyes had been gray. Natalie’s eyes were gray-blue, but perhaps more on the gray side. Timothy’s eyes were hazel.

Gilbert Fossier had had hazel eyes. Allain Massari’s had been gray.

None of which really counted for anything, since Mimi had married a distant Fossier cousin, a man descended from Gilbert’s younger brother, whom Violet had mentioned in the journal. At least everyone had always thought Mimi and her husband, whom they called Pop, were distant cousins.

Mimi must have known it wasn’t so.

Or perhaps not. Violet had not seemed too certain herself which man was the father of her child.

It was difficult for Joletta to think of her ancestors as hiding secrets or living with mistakes. They had for so many years just been names on the family tree, almost legendary figures.

Joletta had always had the idea that Violet and Gilbert’s trip to Europe had been a typical grand tour, a sort of last hurrah before such extravagant gestures were ended by the Civil War. There had never seemed to be anything particularly unusual about it, never been any hint of scandal or suggestion that it might have greatly affected their lives afterward, except for the acquisition by Violet of the famous perfume. All Joletta had ever known, all she had ever heard mentioned, was that Gilbert and Violet had spent two years traveling and returned home with a baby girl.

Rone was already gone. He had showered and left the room early, well over two hours before. He had tried to move quietly, thinking she was asleep. Joletta had lain with her back to him and her eyes closed until she had the room to herself. She had reached for the journal then to be certain it was all there, that it was safe. Leafing through the pages, her attention had been snared by the entries concerning the early days of Violet’s pregnancy.

She wondered what Rone made of it all. She was beginning to have a few ideas based on her knowledge of history, but they were too nebulous to be useful. She would like to see if Rone had come up with anything.

He would not finish the small portion he still had left to read. She intended to make certain the journal went into her shoulder bag right now, and stayed there. Rone must have taken it out the day before; there was no other way he could have had it to read last night. Somehow, with the upsets of the day, she had failed to notice.

With the journal safely tucked away, she returned to the bathroom to shower. Afterward, she pulled her hair back in a simple wooden clasp and applied a bare minimum of makeup. She didn’t feel like fussing; besides, there was something about the clear light of Italy and the natural air of the Italians that made anything more seem too contrived.

Taking a T-shirt and cotton knit skirt in periwinkle blue from her suitcase, she tossed them on the bed. Her gaze rested a moment on the pillow that still bore the indentation of Rone’s head. She looked quickly away.

She had been afraid he would expect to continue as they had begun when she joined him in the big bed the night before. He had not. It seemed that he had an unexpected appreciation for her moods, or else he had felt something less than passionate toward her himself, after seeing her with Caesar. He had kept to his own side of the bed.

As she skimmed into her clothes Joletta considered the situation between Violet and Allain once more. They had been so close, what they felt had been so certain, so fervent. How much of it had really been love, she wondered, and how much simple sexual attraction?

They had been lucky, those two, she thought. People in their time period had not been troubled by such considerations. They had accepted everything they felt as part of a whole. They hadn’t analyzed their relationships to death, hadn’t questioned their dependency on the person they loved, or fought it.

There was an affecting innocence about the passion that existed between them. It was pure in its way, untainted by decadent Freudian intimations or the constant bombardment of sexual innuendo from the media. There was sanctity in it, a whole other spiritual dimension that had been lost in the present day with its minute tracking of sexual arousal and response and its preoccupation with personal pleasure.

Joletta’s reflections scattered as a knock came on the door. Assuming it was either Rone or the maid ready to clean the room, she moved to pull it open.

“Hi,” the young man who stood there said. He lounged at ease with his hands in the pockets of his chinos and a grin of satisfaction on his face.

“Timothy!” Surprise and the pleasure of seeing a familiar face in a strange place made her reach out to hug him before she went on. “Where did you come from?”

“Corsica. Got in last night,” he said, returning the hug with enthusiasm. He stepped back, sweeping the sandy blond hair out of his eyes with a hasty gesture. “You had breakfast? Natalie said I’d never catch up with you here at the hotel, but I bet her a twenty I would.”

They made their way to the hotel dining room for the usual continental fare. The rolls and croissants with butter and jam were already on the tables, along with carafes of hot coffee and hot milk. By the time they served themselves the coffee, he had told her how he had got bored with sunning and sailing and looking at ruins and decided to see how she and Natalie were doing with the perfume. He felt he ought at least to show an interest.

“So, any luck?” he asked as he took a healthy bite of his croissant.

His directness, after Natalie’s pretension, was refreshing. Joletta gave him an unvarnished answer.

He nodded as he swallowed. “Didn’t think so. It’s a lost cause, if you ask me. Tell you what I’d do if it was me; I’d just amble around and have a good time.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been doing that,” Joletta answered.

“I mean, really. What’s the big deal, anyway?” he said reasonably. “How different can a perfume be? I don’t see why we didn’t just get our heads together, take something out of Mimi’s stock, and tell this Camors woman here’s the old family recipe. I mean, who’s going to know the difference?”

“Lara Camors, if she has much of a perfumer’s nose.”

He shrugged. “If you say so. You could always say the smell was off because some flavor wasn’t available anymore, something like that.”

“That won’t help me if I decide to keep the shop open. There are women in New Orleans who have been using Violet’s perfume for decades, and I can guarantee you they would know if it wasn’t the same.”

“Well, something may have to be done if things don’t look up pretty soon. Mother is fit to be tied. You’d think she was going to become a bag lady if this deal doesn’t go through.”

“I can just see that,” Joletta said with a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Me too.” His face turned gloomy after a moment. “She’s threatening to cut my allowance and send me out looking for one of those terrible things called a J-O-B. She gets like that when the budget gets out of whack.”

Joletta tilted her head. “Would that be so terrible, joining the rest of us in the work force?”

“I don’t know, maybe not if I had been trained for anything. Trouble is, I never did the college bit. Mother couldn’t decide what I should do, finally said I made a better beach bum than anything else.”

“She wasn’t, by any chance, the one who suggested you might cut short your beach time and come help Natalie check up on me?”

His thin skin showed a flush of color. “You know how she does — or maybe you don’t. She never really said I was to come, just talked and talked until I got the hint.”

Joletta sipped her coffee before she said, “I can’t believe the money is that important to her.”

“You have no idea. Folding cash.
Dinaro. Argent.
We always need it. We are expensive people, my mother and her children. It’s a strain keeping up with the folks who have it in buckets.” He gave a low laugh. “Poor Natalie may even have to get married again. She won’t like that. Or maybe she will, depending on the man. She had a good prospect cornered this morning.”

“Did she? Here in Venice?”

He nodded as he swallowed hot coffee. “The CEO of the Camors cosmetic conglomerate, actually the son of the woman who owns it. Natalie had a breakfast date with him at the Cipriani, where she’s putting up.”

“Did she?” Joletta said dryly. The Hotel Cipriani was not cheap by any standard. It was also interesting that someone from Camors was in Venice just now.

“That’s how I knew you’d be free.” Timothy looked at her, his gaze a little apologetic, as he took another roll.

“Oh?” Joletta considered putting apricot jam on her croissant, but decided against it.

“My darling sister seemed to think it was a coup of sorts; she was as pleased with herself as a biker with a new Harley. The guy had been hot for you, but she nailed him.”

Joletta looked up. “For me?”

“So she said. Actually, he’s just your type, I’d say; straight as they come, all-American, manners coming out his ears. Great boss, so they say: super-efficient and even creative; oversees his own in-house advertising and promotion. It’s a shame, but all’s fair in love, war, and business.”

Joletta put down her roll. Suddenly she had no appetite. Her voice sounded hoarse and not quite steady, as she said, “This CEO, what is his name?”

“Now let me think,” Timothy said, chewing slowly. “Something a mile long that fairly shouts Four Hundred family. Adamson, I think it was, with a third or fourth or fifth tacked on maybe.”

“You’re sure?” she asked, though she already knew there was no mistake.

“Oh, yeah,” Timothy said. “Tyrone Adamson, that’s him.”

Sickness rose inside her. She swallowed hard against it; still, it brought gooseflesh to her arms and a sudden chill around her heart.