A Chance Encounter (St. John Series Book 10) Page 8

  “Just a scratch, Signora Russo.”

  The sly smile that came to Signora Russo’s face caused the hairs on the back of Oliver’s neck to prickle with warning. He decided it was time to leave the company of the two married women before they got the notion of another type of relationship in their minds. He enjoyed women; however, he did not want to enjoy the company of married women or the daughters they wanted to pawn off on some poor unsuspecting sap.

  Oliver gave a polite bow. “Well, I will leave you to your tea. So nice to meet you both.”

  “Good day, Signore St. John,” Sandra replied as she watched Oliver bow and then leave.

  Nichole kept the smile on her face, watching Oliver leave as she sipped her tea. “You will have to replace that tea set. Lucio will be upset if I tell him you broke another. He is already demanding that I end my friendship with you because of your volatile temper.”

  Sandra continued to glower at her friend as she plopped back down in her seat. “Tell him it is because of your stupidity.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. If you had not mentioned Antonio’s love for his whore, then my temper would have remained in check.”

  Nichole did not answer; instead, she nodded in Oliver’s direction. “He seems to be having issues with Signore Henshaw’s boat.”

  Sandra glanced Oliver’s direction in time to see him grab his vest from the grass and go inside the house.

  Nichole answered, “He was running something along the top, and his hand slipped when you broke my tea set.”

  “So he was listening to our conversation.”

  “You were yelling.”

  “It was your fault.”

  “So you keep saying. Now, tell me about what you have planned.”

  “Planned?”

  Nichole sighed. “Yes, Sandra. I saw it in your eyes. You want him for Angela. It would be a fine pairing. The question is, how do you plan to get the two to meet?”

  A twinkle of something akin to evilness flashed in Sandra’s eyes. “Leave that to me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Entering the back of the house, Oliver found himself in the kitchen. A scowl pulled down Oliver’s features as he looked at his hand. The wound was still bleeding and ached like a son-of-a-bitch. The cause of the injury was his own stupidity. Well, curiosity. If the neighbors had not been arguing, then he would not have been inclined to listen. Sometimes useful information came about from unexpected situations. He knew that Martin’s neighbors owned a vineyard, and shipping wine could be a very lucrative business. But instead of hearing about wine, he overheard an argument about Antonio Russo having a mistress. That could be beneficial if the need arose.

  “That needs medical attention,” Geneva said from the doorway.

  “I know.”

  Geneva approached Oliver, took his hand, and tsked her tongue. “What happened?”

  “Lack of observation on my part and dull tools on your husband’s.”

  Geneva nodded her head with knowing. “You have been working on Martin’s boat.”

  “I have.”

  “Did you at least have some success?” she asked, releasing Oliver’s hand.

  “Some.”

  “Good. I want that log gone before the termites decide to take residence in it and my home. Follow me.”

  Oliver followed his friend’s beautiful wife from the kitchen to the sitting room beside Martin’s study. It was warm and welcoming with tall windows and cream-colored furnishings. She motioned towards a leather chair as she approached a hutch, opening a drawer.

  “Have a seat and place your hand upon the end table.” She turned with a kit in her hand along with several bandages. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  Cocking her head to the right, she asked, “Are you going to tell me if it was worth it?”

  “If what was worth what?”

  Geneva rolled her eyes and approached the opposite seat. She placed the kit down along with a pitcher of water and held her hand out to Oliver to take his injured hand. “Was your injury worth listening to those two old bats argue?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Oh, come now. I heard them in my bedroom.” She took a piece of cloth and dipped it into the pitcher. Wringing out the excess water, she took Oliver’s hand and gently began cleaning the injury.

  “When did you arrive home? I thought you and Martin were visiting some friends.”

  “We were.” An impish smile pulled her lips. “My stomach became upset while I there. I excused myself and came home. Martin stayed to visit a while longer.”

  “He didn’t leave with you?” Oliver was surprised. Martin appeared to be devoted to Geneva.

  “He wanted to, but I insisted he stay. Once home, I decided to rest but heard arguing.”

  “They were rather loud.”

  Geneva snorted. “They always are. I wish they would discuss something of importance. Instead, it is always the same thing. How Signora Russo is desperate to find her daughters husbands.”

  “Well, this time they were discussing Signore Russo’s mistress.”

  Geneva stopped tending to Oliver’s wound, her eyes now wide with curiosity. “I always heard rumors he had a mistress that caused a hardship between the two.”

  “He apparently had a child by his mistress.”

  “Really?” She drew her brows together and chewed her lower lip. “Wonder where that child is now?”

  Oliver shook his head. “I did not hear that part.”

  “Interesting,” Geneva mumbled. Releasing Oliver’s hand, she turned her attention to the medical kit, and she rummaged around. Removing a vial of salve, she opened the jar. Placing her fingers in the bottle, she removed an ample amount of the white balm and applied it to Oliver’s injury, causing a hiss of pain to leave him.

  “This stings a bit,” Geneva said, her mind still distracted by the information.

  “Thanks for the warning—after the fact,” Oliver growled.

  Geneva ignored the barb and began wrapping his hand with a clean white cloth. “So he has a child. Wonder how old?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She tied a knot in the cloth but did not release Oliver’s hand. “I have to find out.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? It would benefit Martin, of course. That kind of information. Why, Russo would never bother us.”

  “Depends on the man. He simply may not care.”

  “I knew you would eventually try to work your wiles upon my wife,” Martin said from the doorway, his shoulder casually resting against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “What?” Geneva said, turning to face her husband yet still holding onto Oliver’s injured hand.

  “Have you gone mad?” Oliver asked.

  Martin nodded his head in their direction as he pushed his shoulder away from the doorway. “I should have known there was a reason for your sudden departure from our friends’ house. I come home to find the two of you holding hands.”

  “Oh!” Geneva said, releasing Oliver’s hand. “Distraction. You see, he cut his hand upon that blasted log you insist on keeping.”

  Martin looked at Oliver and noticed the blood upon Oliver’s shirt sleeve. “Egad. Is it bad?” His voice was now laced with concern.

  “No. I cut it worse slicing a chicken.”

  Geneva ignored the current conversation and started her own. “Did you know that Russo has a child by a lover?”

  Martin glanced at his wife as he lifted a brow. “What?”

  “Russo? He has an illegitimate child. Did you know that? Do you know who?”

  Martin shook his head. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Oliver overheard Nichole and Sandra discussing Antonio having a lover who had a child.”

  At Martin’s continued blank expression, Geneva continued. “You truly didn’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Interesting,” Geneva mumbled as she stood. “We must find out. Informati
on like that could keep Russo off your back.”

  “Geneva?” Martin said, a warning note in his voice. “If you play with fire, you will get burned. Digging around in Russo’s affairs will only cause more hardship from him. Leave it.”

  “But Martin!”

  “I said leave it alone, Geneva.”

  “Fine,” Geneva snapped, plopping down upon the settee.

  Martin turned his attention to Oliver. “Now, your hand.”

  “Your tools are dull,” Oliver said. “No worries. Just a scratch. I had worse when we broke your bedroom window trying to sneak back into the house after visiting that brothel. Remember?”

  “Brothel?” Geneva repeated, pivoting to view Martin, ire in her voice.

  “Thank you, Oliver,” Martin spoke with disdain.

  Oliver grinned unrepentantly. “My pleasure.”

  “Brothel?” Geneva said again, her voice rising.

  “My love,” Martin spoke. “That was long before I met you.”

  “It was three years ago,” Oliver added. “When you last visited.”

  “Three years?” Geneva shrieked. “You said that was business!”

  “Shut up, Oliver,” Martin growled.

  Oliver’s unapologetic grin only increased.

  “It was longer than three years,” Martin defended. “It was many years ago, just before I left the Caribbean to travel to England.”

  “And how many other brothels have you visited?” Geneva crossed her arms over her chest as she lowered her eyes.

  “None since I first laid eyes upon you.”

  Geneva snorted in disbelief.

  “Geneva, my love, you are the only woman in my life. You know this. Besides, have you forgotten what I told you about Oliver?”

  “Remind me.”

  “What did you say about me?” Oliver asked.

  Martin ignored his friend as he addressed his wife. “Oliver is like a leprechaun. He loves to play tricks and keep mischief afoot.”

  “I do, don’t I.” Oliver boasted. “More so when Owen is about.”

  Geneva’s pout was still present.

  “No other woman holds interest for me since I met you,” Martin sweet-talked.

  “And how many did you visit after meeting me?”

  Oliver’s unrepentant grin widened even more—if possible. “Yes, Martin? How many?”

  “Shut it, Oliver. You have helped enough today with my marriage. We have been invited to dinner by Augustus Marino. His family owns and operates a furniture store. To be precise, they build the furniture that is sold in their stores. It is the finest in all of Italy. It would be worth our while to see if we can conduct a business transaction with them.” Martin gave Oliver a scornful glance. “Too bad your brother, Michael, is not here. That slick-tongued devil could get Marino to use Emerald Shipping with just a nod of his head.”

  “Are you saying my older brother is a better salesman than you?”

  “I have been trying for years to get their business. Instead, they use East India. Perhaps with Robert St. John’s son present, they may be more apt to listen to my proposal. That is, if you can keep that uncanny knack for mischief out of his home. He has three charming, promiscuous daughters. So I suggest you behave or we will never get a contract with the man.”

  Oliver placed his right hand to his chest. “You wound me, Martin. Truly. I would never dream of bedding the daughter of a man with whom we are trying to conduct business until after the contract has been signed.”

  Martin snorted with derision.

  Oliver held up his bandaged hand. “Besides, I am presently injured.”

  “Like that has stopped you before. You are randier than any of your brothers ever dreamed of being.”

  “Not true. Michael was. But his philandering ways have subsided since he married that spirited American. But I will take the compliment.”

  Martin sighed and shook his head. “Stephano Mortilini will be there as well. His family owns the largest vineyard in all of Italy.”

  “Stephano Mortilini?” Geneva repeated. A delighted glint came to her eyes. “I bet Lucio and Nichole are livid! They believe their wine is far superior to Mortilini’s.”

  “I am certain they are. They will be even more livid when they learn that they are not invited to this little soiree. Now, I have arranged for a bath to be drawn for us all. We leave in a few hours.”

  “I am not going,” Geneva huffed, thrusting her lower lip out in a pout.

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  Martin turned his attention to his wife. Approaching her, he knelt down in front and placed a hand upon hers. “Geneva, my love. I have never thought of another woman since meeting you. You are my moon and stars. I would never do anything to jeopardize this marriage. I have never done anything to jeopardize this marriage since meeting you. And, no, I have never been with another since meeting you.”

  “You swear?”

  “I swear it.”

  She smiled and placed her palm upon Martin’s cheek. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. But if you make us late for this dinner, I might think twice about it.”

  She rolled her eyes and pushed his chest, causing him to fall backward and stood. “You are incorrigible!”

  She left the room in a swirl of tan silk.

  “I think you pissed her off,” Oliver said as he watched Geneva leave.

  “It is her Italian blood, my friend. She’ll cool off.” A positively wicked grin came to Martin. “And if not, then I suggest you find another place to sleep tonight for she can get loud.”

  “Great. I do not need to hear the two of you copulate tonight. Just give me a nod if I need to find other lodgings for the night.”

  Martin laughed. “My friend, that is why I placed you on the opposite side of the house.”

  Madelena held in the desire to run as she left the alley where she and Oliver were hiding. Rounding a corner, she slipped down another and waited for Oliver to leave. When he exited, she placed her hand to her lips as she watched him depart. Her insides were still trembling, and she feared that her knees would buckle. Never had she dreamt that a kiss could affect one as such. Her racing heart began to slow, and the tingling in her loins eased. Placing her head against the building, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. If only she could find a man like that to take her away, then she need not worry about marrying Drakos. But, alas, that was not life. Life was cruel. Oliver was a fleeting idea, and Miles was her reality.

  Pushing away from the wall, she exited the alley and made her way through the city. Mindlessly ambling, her thoughts returned to the devastating news her father had given her. She knew her mother was behind the marriage. It was Sandra’s way of ridding herself of Madelena once and for all. For the life of her, Madelena could not fathom why her mother detested her so. She was always loving to her other sisters, yet to Madelena, she was cold and frigid. Not one kind word had Sandra ever spoken to her. Not one kind act. Even when Madelena was ill, she could hear Sandra mumble how she wished Madelena would die. When she questioned Sandra about the words, Sandra would not answer, only give her a scathing glance. Even Madelena’s tears did not sway Sandra’s hatred.

  In time, Madelena’s heart grew cold towards her mother. What love she had was stripped away by Sandra’s animosity. But she did have her father. Antonio always loved Madelena more than her other sisters, and it did not go unnoticed by anyone. Madelena was known throughout their circles as Antonio Russo’s favorite daughter. Those who knew of her parentage gave her the same treatment as they did royalty. She knew it was because they feared her father. He was a powerful man and used his power for his benefit. Yet, those who did not know of her parentage treated her with kindness and respect. The people along the docks were ignorant of her lineage, and she did not mind. The bakers and peddlers would greet her with a friendly hello. They would converse about their day and the goods sold, comparing the sales of the day. They would then part ways until it
was time to work again.

  How Madelena longed to live her days selling her baskets. Of walking along the docks asking others to purchase her goods. She worked hard on her baskets, spending hours upon hours perfecting them. The visitors who purchased them would look for her upon their return in order to buy more, praising the quality and craftsmanship of her work. Even French soldiers admired her work and had purchased several. The grasses she used were hard to come by. They grew in the swampy areas, and she could only pick them during certain times of the year. Too soon and they would rot. Too late and they would be brittle. The old black lady who lived at the edge of the town taught her that. Madelena was not even certain of the woman’s true name. Everyone just called her Rosie. Rosie taught Madelena when to pick the grasses, how to dry them properly, and how to weave the baskets. Rosie’s old boney fingers worked magic as she wove, and she taught Madelena the craft. There was much to learn; however, Rosie never taught Madelena everything she knew. She died before she could pass along all her knowledge. So Madelena did what she could and taught herself how to create the small flowers upon the handles. Perhaps one day, she would meet another Rosie who could teach her more, but until then, what she knew would suffice.

  She wasn’t certain how long she wandered but knew it was a while for the path she traversed was a long one. But somehow, she had made her way home. Madelena stopped before her house and glanced at the stucco structure. It was a beautiful three-story home with red shutters and a red clay roof. A multitude of colorful flowers were planted around the house along with several large trees. In the summer the lush, green grass adorning the lawn was kept in check by two goats—Ramsey and Eula.

  Rounding the house, Madelena glanced down at her dress. A damp ring still encircled the lower half of her dress. How would she explain this?

  Entering the back of the home, she was stopped by her mother. Sandra’s eyes ran the length of Madelena.

  “Where have you been, and why are you wet?” Sandra spoke with scorn.

  Madelena sighed. She was in no mood to deal with her mother. “I went for a walk.”

  “You were supposed to be with your father. He was home hours ago. When you did not return, he grew worried and went in search of you.”