Anne Mather - The Autumn Of The Witch

Pietro banged his fist on the table. ‘Santino, can’t you see the girl is innocent? She’s only concerned for her father, that’s all. Is that so unusual? Wouldn’t you expect Lucia to do the same for you—’

Santino’s cold eyes surveyed his assistant. ‘I have told you before, Pietro, not to get involved. You speak like a lovesick fool. No one is in any doubt as to your motives for behaving like this, so be silent! I care not for your mawkish sensitivity!’

Pietro’s tanned cheeks turned red and Stephanie felt embarrassed for him. ‘If you’ll excuse me—’ she began, but Santino silenced her with a cold stare.

‘Wait!’ he commanded. ‘I have not finished, and I am not used to having to repeat myself.’ He glanced at Pietro. ‘You mentioned Lucia, Pietro. Might one ask why?’

Pietro shook his head. ‘Just as a comparison,’ he said defensively.

‘Hmnn.’ Santino put his cigar between his teeth as he poured himself some more champagne, raising his eyebrows when Stephanie put her hand over her glass preventing him from refilling it. ‘Maybe, Pietro, your comparison has given me the ghost of an idea.’

Pietro shrugged indifferently. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes.’ Santino took his cigar out of his mouth and savoured a mouthful of the sparkling liquid from his glass. ‘Yes, indeed.’ He ran a long finger round the rim of his glass. ‘You yourself said that Lucia needed someone.’

Pietro’s brows drew together and he stared at Santino in astonishment. His mouth fell open and he gazed at his employer as though he could not believe his hearing. Then he gave a short mirthless laugh. ‘You can’t mean—’ he shook his head in a stupefied way – ‘you don’t seriously imagine that – that Stephanie—’ He raised his hands in an involuntary gesture. ‘What game is this, Santino?’

Santino regarded Pietro tolerantly. ‘No game, Pietro.’ Stephanie, who had been listening to this interchange with a rising sense of apprehension, felt a feeling akin to panic invade her system. There was about the Sicilian a disturbingly bland air of provocation, and while as yet she had no idea what he was suggesting she sensed it boded no good for her. And who was this woman, Lucia, that Pietro had mentioned? Was she his wife? His sister? His daughter, perhaps? She racked her brain trying to remember what her father had told her about Santino Ventura. Had he said he was married? She couldn’t honestly recall.

Now Santino’s attention was focused on herself and she felt her cheeks begin to burn under that appraising scrutiny. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, tipping his head insolently to one side. ‘You may do very well, signorina .’

Stephanie took a deep breath. ‘Very well for what, signor ?’

Santino stubbed out the cigar. ‘I have a daughter, signorina . Her mother is dead and she is but four years of age. She requires a companion, a young companion, to whom she can turn in times of trouble. It is difficult to find anyone suitable in Sicily. Young girls marry and old women grow tired. Besides, it pleases me that she should learn English and I think you as her teacher would do very well.’

Stephanie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the ludicrousness of his suggestion. She stared at him incredulously, amazed that he should imagine he could sit there and calmly issue instructions that she should become companion to his daughter. How dared he imagine that she would even consider such a proposition? She shook her head. Whatever women were like in Sicily, certainly he was mistaken if he thought he could command an English girl in this way.

‘Signor Ventura,’ she said at last, speaking very clearly and very carefully, ‘I don’t think I have understood you aright.’ She wet her lips with her tongue tentatively. ‘I do not recall at any time during this conversation that I have intimated that I might require another occupation to the one I have now.’ She tried to relax her features, but they persisted in remaining taut. ‘Besides which, I might add, you are the last person I would accept employment from.’

Santino let her finish, lighting another cigar with annoying deliberation. ‘My dear Miss McMaster,’ he said, at the end, ‘if you have not understood my proposition then that is my fault. As to whether you accept it or otherwise, I would suggest you consider its terms very carefully before refusing.’

Stephanie pressed her lips together. ‘Obviously I have not understood you,’ she said in a tight little voice. ‘What else is there?’

Santino inhaled on his cigar. ‘Your father needs money. You said so yourself. I am considering preparing a contract in which I guarantee your father sufficient funds to modernize and expand his airline on the understanding that the concessions granted to W.A.A. should also be granted to Western International. I shall not interfere in his management, providing he accepts the conditions. I do not intend that he should be competing with W.I. but rather running an additional service for a different clientele.’

Stephanie felt weak all over. An awful trembling sickness had invaded her stomach and she hardly heard Pietro’s angry remonstrance or Santino’s cool rejoinder. All that possessed her mind and body was the realization that she was being given the chance to give her father back his self-respect and remove once and for all the threats Jennifer was presently holding over him. But at what cost to her?

The colour seemed to be draining from her face and Pietro, noticing her pallor, snatched up the wine glass and held it to her lips. The bubbling liquid revived her and she sank back in her chair, gripping the edge of the table tightly.

‘Are you all right?’ Pietro was all concern, drawing his chair round to hers, regarding her with tender solicitude.

Stephanie managed to nod, the vaguely ruthless expression on Santino Ventura’s face arousing her more strongly than the wine. With determination, she straightened her shoulders and said: ‘Could I have a cigarette, please?’

Pietro put one into her hand and flicked his lighter while Santino watched them closely, and then when Stephanie had inhaled rather jerkily several times, he said: ‘If you have recovered from your vapours, do you think we could continue?’

‘Santino, for God’s sake—’ Pietro clenched his fists.

Santino gave an impatient gesture. ‘If you cannot be quiet, Pietro, you must leave us. This matter concerns only Signorina McMaster and myself.’

Pietro pressed his lips together mutinously, but he made no move to go and Stephanie felt relieved. Somehow she did not feel capable of coping with this man alone.

Gathering her composure, she said faintly: ‘You would finance W.A.A. if I agree to become your daughter’s companion?’

‘Something like that,’ replied Santino expressionlessly.

Stephanie shook her head bewilderedly, glancing helplessly at Pietro. But he merely gave an involuntary gesture which could have meant anything and she realized she could expect little assistance from him. He was completely under the other man’s dominance.

‘But surely,’ she exclaimed, making a final bid for sanity, ‘you could finance my father and employ an agency to find you a companion for your daughter! Good heavens, I should imagine there are dozens of English girls who would jump at the chance of living in Sicily.’

‘I have made my proposition, signorina .’ Santino was without emotion. There was no way of appealing to him.

Stephanie spread her hands. ‘But how could I come to Sicily?’ she exclaimed.

‘That is what you must ask yourself, signorina .’

‘But you don’t understand, signor ; I – I have a job here, I work in a hospital! I can’t just leave it like that!’