A Face To Die For (45 page)

The whole set-up nowadays was a busy hive of industry under the excellent design and production management of Jules and Lynda. Despite keeping my own finger on the pulse, as it were, I also knew I could rely on their control of things at all times.

To my delight, the Cruise and
Solar
swimwear collection was deemed a huge hit by the trade; production was running smoothly and working in exceptionally well with the main collection. I had an enormous spread in
Vogue
, photographed by an up and coming photographer called Peter Johnston. He'd originally come to my notice as Jake Sinclair's prodigy. Jake himself had surprised everyone by deciding to retire from the London scene to go to live in a remote castle he'd inherited in the Scottish highlands.

P J, as the new photographer was mostly known, had thus slipped comfortably into Jake's shoes as one of the most sought after fashion photographers in the business. In no time, he and Holly were romantically linked and currently considered hot news. To my immense delight this perpetuated the name
Silk Wrappings
all the more from the newspaper and magazine coverage they generated. It worked well in my favour and once more perfume sales rocketed.

*

It's often struck me as odd how life has uncanny ways of answering questions, even when you're least expecting it.

One evening, after a pleasant supper with Oliver, I was returning upstairs to my flat and as I opened the front door I was greeted by the phone ringing. Just as I was about to lift the receiver it stopped. Not particularly worried, I knew whoever it was would probably try again so I ran my bath and prepared for bed.

I'd been in bed only ten minutes when the phone rang again. It was Lynda.

'Sorry to bother you, Annabel, but has Luigi's sister managed to get hold of you?'

'Maria? No. Why?’ Unless that was her ringing off earlier, I thought

'Well, she telephoned here after you left this afternoon. So I gave her your flat number to try, explaining that you're spending longer in town these days. Actually I got the impression from her that it was quite urgent.'

'Thanks, Lynda, I'll call her back.'

After first trying her Milan number I was told by a servant that she was in Sicily. Eventually I got her. 'So sorry I missed your call, Maria. How are you? Is everything all right?'

'Actually no, not really.’ Her voice quivered ‘I think you should know Vito was killed earlier today.'

'My God! How?'

'His car blew up, just as he was driving off from the villa. They think it was a bomb. Gina and he had just had a nasty argument; otherwise she too would have been in the car.'

'That's dreadful, Maria! But what on earth was a bomb doing in Vito's car? It wasn't Mafia, was it?'

I'd had to ask the question. The vague similarity to Luigi's death and now, with Vito's car being involved again, begged the question to be answered.

'I take a risk saying this,' she whispered, 'but I think it probably was. I believe Vito had connections you see. Gina often hinted at it anyway. Now you will, of course, think as I do, that when Luigi was killed it possibly should have been Vito?' I could tell Maria was on the verge of tears again.

'You could be right,' I said, forcing my own voice to stay calm. 'I never dared to even think about it much before, Maria, but such thoughts did go through my mind after Luigi’s death.'

'No one dared talk about it here at the time either, Annabel. But I think many people had thoughts that Luigi's crash was not
just
an accident. Now, I feel quite sure about it. I am so sorry to have to remind you of it all again. But you understand I had let you know about Vito?'

'Of course, and I am
so
sorry. Please give Gina my condolences. I'll write of course, and send flowers. Do you know about the funeral yet?'

The mere thought of
another
funeral to attend horrified me.

'No, although I think it is likely to be next week, here in Palermo,' replied Maria.

My mind was swimming, my thoughts racing as I fought back tears. I had to somehow get things straight in my head. If Vito had been killed by a bomb exploding in his car - put there by the Mafia - then it was quite logical to assume that Luigi could been killed in Vito's car, possibly by some exploding device originally meant for Vito!

My mind whisked back to the horror of last summer’s events. The so-called eyewitness had stated he’d come round the bend in the road as the car burst into flames. Of course, a bomb could just as easily have caused that, as well as the brakes failing because they’d been tampered with?

Suppose the eyewitness had
also
been part of the plot - a Mafia plant - to cloud the issue with his statement? Dear God, I couldn't bear to think of any of it.

That night, as I battled with my emotions and thoughts, sleep would not come. I wanted to scream out to the world that I knew now that the Mafia had probably killed my darling Luigi. But what was the use? It wouldn't bring him back.

CHAPTER 33

The Mafia and its evil doings was something I could not become involved with. At least Maria's news had satisfied my earlier, vague curiosity about any Mafia connections in the family as well as a few questions that had sometimes niggled at me following Luigi's untimely death.

My disgust at the way the Mafia rules in Italy and how it manages to get away with so much crime decided me. I would excuse myself from attending Vito's funeral. Anyway, my feelings were still too raw. I couldn't cope with facing the whole family again.

In spite of my sympathy for them in their grief, I had to distance myself from them for the time being. It was the only way for me to put the horror of Luigi's death behind me once and for all. Attending would only bring it all back again, and why should I put myself through the agony once more? The family would understand.

*

Over the next few months, life slowly settled into a delightful pattern. Most days after work, I would return to Oliver's flat to spend half an hour or so cuddling and playing with Emma before she was put in her cot by Sarah for the night. She was growing into a gorgeous baby, dark and beautiful like her mother. I was getting quite expert now at changing the occasional nappy and giving her a bottle.

Oliver sometimes arrived home just as I was doing it and he even expressed once how naturally I had taken to tending to the baby. Nobody could have been more surprised than I to find how easily I had slotted into this semi-maternal role.

The unique scent of Emma's tiny dark head nuzzled over my shoulder as I cuddled or winded her gave me infinite pleasure. Holding her anytime was, I decided, the nearest thing to heaven-sent bliss. I couldn’t remember ever experiencing such joy, especially now all my earlier aversion to such things had been dispelled. At last I had some idea how a mother must feel toward her child.

One afternoon, I decided to finish work early in order to get back in time to give Emma her evening bath, under Sarah's supervision of course. I'd always arrived in too late before. By now Sarah and I had become quite good friends and she welcomed the feminine love and attention I could afford little Emma in her own mother's absence. She knew all about my close friendship with Kate and Oliver and of my own inability to have children.

'Just like this,' she instructed me, showing me how to cradle Emma's head and shoulders above the water with one hand and gently scoop the water over her with the other. All the while, Emma gurgled away happily, kicking her chubby legs. Then lifting her out and cocooning her in the soft white towel, I laid her on the changing mat to dry all her little 'nooks and crannies', as Sarah liked to call them.

Gently rubbing her hair dry, I was drawn to a dark brownish pink mark of about an inch in length at the back of her head, just above the neck hairline. It was crescent shaped. My God! I'd seen that same birthmark before! My heart raced.

'Do babies often have birthmarks, Sarah?' I asked casually. Basically, I was ignorant of such things. 'And will it fade?'

Sarah gently ran her finger gently over the mark. 'Many babies have these marks. It's nothing unusual, and some fade. But if it's an inherited birthmark sometimes they do stay. This one is quite dark so it might not fade completely, but it won't be a problem. Covered by her hair it will hardly be noticed, especially when her hair gets longer.'

I rolled Emma over to dress her and the infant gurgled and blew bubbles at me.

Another question had unexpectedly been answered, but instead of shock, this one now filled me with incredible joy.

As I took the little pink pearl brush and tenderly coaxed Emma's hair on top of her head into a little cocks-comb, I noted also the prominent shape of her hairline as it swept back off her little forehead. Her dark, almost purple eyes gazed up at me. My heart thumping, I glanced at Sarah.

'What colour eyes do you think she'll have? I know they often change as they grow out of babyhood.'

'In my experience, this colour always ends up a very dark brown. But of course her daddy has brown eyes and I always say brown eyes predominate,' said Sarah, buttoning the lacy matinee cardigan over Emma's nightie.

But Oliver's eyes are more hazel, I thought. Emma's would probably be a good deal darker. Everything matched. Instantly I knew the truth. This darling child could now, in a way, be more my child than I ever dreamed might be possible. And, as I gave Emma her bottle while Sarah cleared away the bath things, my mind mulled over all that had now been revealed.

If Kate and Luigi had been together in her room and had sex that night before the crash… and according to Gina they probably had, then this precious little child must be Luigi's and not Oliver's. That would also account for her undersize at birth.

'Very small even for a three week prem,' the baby unit sister had said that first day I'd looked at her in the incubator. And now seeing the birthmark, and the distinctive hairline… I knew that Luigi had had the same shaped birthmark at the back of his head, and when I'd dressed Maria's hair after she'd fractured her wrist skiing, I'd noticed she also had an identical one.

'The curse mark of the Garibaldis,' Maria had laughingly called it when I'd casually mentioned it at the time.

The more I thought about it, the more ecstatic I felt. I wanted to sing out for joy, knowing that although I could never have been able to have Luigi's child, Kate had done it for me. Of course, looking back it was obvious. The four weeks in Italy, resting and eating so well had boosted her health a good deal. She would probably never have been able to conceive a month earlier, when she thought she had. Yet another reason to believe she had probably conceived that night in Sicily.

I was convinced now that although Kate could never have foreseen how things would turn out, she had borne Luigi's child for me. Clearly she had convinced herself, for obvious reasons, that the child was Oliver's. But had she ever had any doubts, I wondered?

I was positive now who the child's real father was, the rest didn't matter any more. This way Emma meant more than ever to me now, more than I could have dreamed. Of course Oliver must never know. No one must. It was my secret, which I would take to my grave.

As I sat musing over things, gazing blissfully down at Luigi's beautiful daughter, Oliver came in and stood by me.

'What a perfect picture the pair of you make. Sarah tells me you progressed to bathing her tonight. Well done!' His hand brushed my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. 'We must set the christening date. And of course you will be number one godmother. Let's discuss it over dinner tonight. I've booked a table at Quaglino's for eight-thirty.'

*

After a wonderful meal, over which it was decided to arrange the christening for one month hence, we arrived back at Oliver's flat.

'Can I just look in on Emma before I go on up to my flat? I love watching her sleep. It'll seal this perfect night for me,' I said happily.

Oliver caught my hand, pulling me near and, turning it over, he kissed the palm.

'You know I can think of a much more exciting way to seal the evening,' he whispered huskily. 'I think we might both be ready for it now, don't you?' His eyes gazed into mine. 'I can't honestly say what can ever develop between us, Annabel. But we've always had the perfect understanding and I value our friendship more than any other. I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am for all you've done, and still do for Emma and me. She couldn't wish for a better substitute mother and that's what you truly are. I can see the love pouring out of you for her.'

'I do love her, Oliver, almost as if she were my own child...'

'I know you do, and I love you for that. Let's just take things a step at a time, shall we? All I know is that at this moment, I would very much like to make love to you. How do you feel?'

I smiled, a divine longing surging through me. 'Why not? The perfect way to end the perfect day, if you ask me.'

'I
am
asking you,' he replied, with a cheeky grin.