Stately cypress groves provided a lush green counterpoint to the rolling fields of Tuscany, and with the sun burning low in a cobalt sky Savannah wondered if there might be enough beauty here to distract her from her main obsession—but her main obsession turned at that moment to speak to her.
‘We’ll be arriving at the palazzo at the perfect time.’
‘Sunset,’ Savannah guessed. A thrill of excitement overtook her fear that Ethan had not forgotten or forgiven her for the earlier misunderstanding. As the light faded his face was in shadow, so she couldn’t see his expression to gauge his mood, but there was something here that had lifted it—his palazzo, she suspected. Following the direction in which he was looking she searched hungrily for her first sight of the building. The sky was a vibrant palette of tangerine and violet so dramatic, so stunningly beautiful, she had butterflies in her stomach at the thought of what might come next. She could sense Ethan was also buzzing with expectation, and try as he might to be stern all the time, an attractive crease had appeared in his face. He’d softened just a little. Now if he could only soften a little more and smile at her that would be a gift—the only gift she wanted.
‘When we cross the river, you’ll see the palazzo in this direction.’
As Ethan pointed towards the shadowy purple hills, she sat bolt upright, tense with expectation.
‘I don’t want you to miss the approach,’ he said, seeing her interest. ‘It’s quite spectacular.’
‘I won’t,’ she assured him as anticipation fluttered in her stomach. Something told her that this was one of those precious moments that would mean something all her life and must be cherished.
She was only half right, Savannah discovered. When it came into view the palazzo exceeded her expectations so far it took her breath away. Rising like something out of a legend from the mist was a winding road and an old stone bridge, and then the towering walls. A glittering snake of water travelled beneath the bridge, and as they crossed it she thought the restless eddies were like mirrored scales carrying the sun-fire to the sea.
‘Now you understand why the palazzo got its name.’
Even Ethan couldn’t quite keep the excitement from his voice.
‘Understatement,’ she breathed. The turreted spread of the Palazzo dei Tramonti Dorati appeared framed in fire, and even her fertile imagination hadn’t come close to doing it justice. This wasn’t the Gothic horror she’d feared Ethan might inhabit, but a palace of light, built from pink stone that might have been sugar-rock. Glowing warm beneath the red-streaked sky, it couldn’t have appeared more welcoming.
‘What do you think?’ Ethan prompted.
Savannah was surprised her opinion mattered to him, and the thought touched her immensely—though she mustn’t read too much into it, she reminded herself. ‘I
think it’s stunning,’ she told him honestly. ‘The colour of the stone is extraordinary.’
‘Pink?’
The touch of irony in his voice made her smile. Were they connecting at last? Just a little, maybe? But she wasn’t going to push it. ‘You must admit, it’s unusual,’ she said, trying to sound grown up about it, though the prospect of staying in a pink palace, and one as beautiful as this, would have excited anyone.
‘The stone is pink because millions of years ago this whole valley was a deep marine-gulf,’ Ethan explained. ‘The pink hue is due to the millions of tiny shells and fossils locked in the rocks.’
‘What a magical explanation.’ And romantic, Savannah mused as Ethan settled back to enjoy the last leg of the journey. He might fight as hard as he could to keep his distance from her, but he had brought her to one of the most romantic places on earth. Ethan might shun everything pink or soft or feminine, but he’d let his guard down by showing her his palazzo. ‘The Palace of the Golden Sunset,’ she murmured happily as the limousine made a smooth transition from slick tarmac to the winding cobbled streets.
‘Can you see the fragments of the original walls?’ Ethan said, turning towards her again.
His enthusiasm was framed in a scholarly tone, but he was clearly determined to share this with her, and he didn’t need to tell her how much he loved his palazzo when she could feel his passion like a warm cloak embracing her. ‘Yes, I see them,’ she said, pressing her face to the window. In some places there was little more than raised ground to show where the original walls must have stood, but at others she could see what remained of them. They looked like blackened silhouettes pointing crooked fingers towards the blazing sky.
‘Much of the structure dates from medieval times,’ Ethan continued.
Like the thinking of its master? Savannah wondered. What would it take to have Ethan see her as a grown woman rather than as a singing sensation recently signed to his record label? And was she sure she wanted him to think about her that way? Wasn’t it safer to remain as she was—a ward under his protection?
It was beyond the scope of Savannah’s imagination to conjure up the consequences of attracting the sexual attentions of a man like Ethan, and as the limousine slowed to pass beneath a narrow stone archway she told herself how lucky it was that this was only destined to be a short stay. Any longer and she’d definitely fall in love with him.
The paparazzi would soon find another story and she’d be able to return home. But if she was so confident about that, why was she wracked by shivers of anticipation at the prospect of staying with Ethan?
Because she was tired, Savannah told herself firmly. Who could blame her for feeling uncomfortable with what lay ahead when she was pinned into a dress that felt more like a medieval torture-device than a couture gown?
‘This gateway is called the Porta Monteguzzo.’
She paid attention as Ethan distracted her, and was about to answer him when, embarrassingly, her stomach growled.
‘Hungry?’ he prompted.
‘I’m starving,’ Savannah admitted, wondering when she had last eaten. And did she dare to eat when another crumb of food on her hips meant she would definitely pop out of Madame’s gown and she had no clothes of her own to wear yet? ‘Porta Monteguzzo,’ she repeated, both in an attempt to distract herself from hunger pangs and to try again to master the musical Italian language. ‘Doesn’t “guzzo” mean “food”, in Italian?’
‘You’re thinking of gusto, perhaps?’