Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [126]
“Ciao, Marisa, Renata. Thank you for bringing the children. You don’t know how much good it does me to have them around. It wakes this old place up.”
“I should make the most of the peace and quiet while you can,” said Marisa as they walked into the house. “When the conversion is complete and it becomes a hotel, you might find it busier than you’d like.”
“But I shall enjoy it,” replied Paola. “I’m sure these old palazzi must have been run like hotels when they were first built—otherwise why have so many rooms? Fabrizio, you know that India is doing a splendid job. Aldo says you should be proud of her.”
Marisa’s ears pricked up, and she glanced sharply at Fabrizio.
“I’m glad to have the chance to see what progress has been made,” he replied calmly.
“And where is Aldo?” Marisa settled herself on a chair in the salon, watching critically as the young village girl who was helping out for the weekend carried in a laden coffee tray. Feeling Marisa’s eyes on her the girl put down the heavy tray shakily, spilling a drop of coffee onto the immaculate linen napkins. Blushing, she excused herself and departed. “You’ll have to get these village girls properly trained, Paola,” she remarked, flicking at the stain. “Your guests will expect the best.”
“I don’t doubt, Marisa, that my paying guests will find the local people who work for us charming and friendly as well as very willing. If I remember from my last visit to New York years ago, it will make a nice change for them.”
Why, wondered Paola, did Marisa always cause that sense of unease in people? She seemed to have a positive talent for it.
“You didn’t tell us where Aldo was,” reminded Renata.
“He went into Naples this morning. He should be back in time for lunch. India went too. Wait, I believe I hear a car now.”
“Was Aldo in Naples with India, then?” asked Renata jealously.
“India went to pick up another guest, her sister. …”
India’s familiar Americanized Italian accent came from the hall as she spoke to the man who was bringing in the luggage, and Marisa looked toward the door expectantly. Now she would know—India’s face when she saw Fabrizio so unexpectedly would tell the truth.
India strode into the salon, her sister behind her, stopping abruptly as she saw them—Renata and Marisa, and Fabrizio.
“Mama, Mama.” Giorgio pushed past India, laughing as he struggled to keep a hold on the squirming puppy in his hands. “Look, Mama, look what I’ve got.”
India bent to help Giorgio with the puppy and the moment was lost.
Damn, thought Marisa. Oh, damn it.
“Take the puppy back to the kitchen, Giorgio,” she commanded. “It doesn’t belong in here.”
“But, Mama—”
“At once, Giorgio.”
“I’ll go with you.” Fabrizio took the puppy from his son, smiling hello to India.
“How are you?” He kissed her on the cheek. “Is everything going well?”
“Yes, yes … very well. Fabrizio, I’m glad you’re here. There are one or two points Aldo made that we should discuss.”
“Fine. After lunch, then.”
Paris waited, wicker cat basket in her arms, to be introduced. In her simple jacket and skirt that were obviously not new, she had a striking, casual chic that Marisa would have paid dearly to achieve. And with the wild haircut and jutting cheekbones Paris was, thought Marisa, astonishingly beautiful. Now, this she could have considered a rival!
India introduced her sister.
“Contessa, may I present my sister. Marisa, this is Paris.” Marisa and she kissed the air at the side of each other’s face. “And I remember Renata from your party. What a surprise to find you all here—and the children.”
“Yes. Quite a surprise, I should think.” Marisa eyed Paris up and down and couldn’t fault her. “Then you must be the fashion designer,” she said. “I read about your show in the papers. Too bad it was at the same time as Mitsoko’s. Was that the reason it didn’t succeed?”
India felt herself blushing for Paris. Marisa was such a bitch!
“If one chooses to think so,” replied Paris evenly.
“Well, I assure you that whatever you designed, it couldn