‘I’ll be sure to pass on your good wishes, Professor. And I’ll email photos of the coins some time tomorrow.’
‘All right. Keep me posted. And buon appetito!’
Under the languorous eyes of the half-naked ladies in the rococo frames, Isobel dressed carefully for dinner. She wanted to look her best for the Duke of Mandalà. The old man’s health had been frail for years, but he was a major philanthropist, and an important figure to the Berger Foundation through his donations.
She looked at herself in the oval mirror. She had not come to Sicily equipped with a trunk of formal clothing, and this sleeveless amethyst silk top and black skirt were going to have to stand in place of a ruff and pearls. At least, she thought, tilting her head, the top showed off her creamy skin. She had piled her red-gold hair on the top of her head, emphasizing her long neck—Isobel was not a woman who felt obliged to disguise her height in order to pander to fragile male egos—and she was pleased that her bra flattered her breasts under the clingy top. She had never understood women who bought expensive clothes and cheap underwear.
The amethyst silk was shot through with crimson as the light caught it, bringing out the colour of her hair and eyes. She did not favour a lot of make-up—just some baby-pink gloss for her perfect, leaf-shaped mouth, and a touch of blusher on her high cheek-bones so she didn’t look too pale. The shimmering sound of the dinner-gong was rippling through the palazzo. She fastened black pearl drop earrings in her ears, kicked on black sandals and there she was—ready to rock and roll.
Up until now, they had eaten in the ‘small’ dining-room, which was actually a very grand room. None of them had been in the ‘big’ dining-room yet, and Isobel was interested to see just how big it was.
As she joined the others, staring around her, she could not help gasping. The big dining-room was not all that much bigger in sheer size; it was the scale of the furnishings that made it, in every sense, big.
Two enormous candelabra stood at the ends of the table, their dozens of flickering rose candles providing the only lighting. On each of the side walls, a huge Canaletto oil painting showed views of Venice. At the ends of the room were equally imposing studies of naked nymphs frolicking with ditto shepherds and gods that had to be by Rubens. Nobody else could paint women’s bottoms with such voluptuous delight.
There were just the four of them present—the old man had not as yet joined them—and Theo Makarios nudged her, looking upward as he fiddled with his tie. She followed his gaze. The baroque vaulted ceiling was painted with frescoes—naked angels and cherubim, this time, frolicking among clouds. Celestial bosoms and thighs winked naughtily from beneath feathery white wings.
‘I feel positively overdressed,’ she murmured.
The three men were all wearing jackets and ties, and looking very uncomfortable with it. Theo’s choice had been a red-spotted bow-tie, which he had badly mangled. Swiftly, she pulled it loose and tied it properly for him.
‘Thanks,’ he whispered.
David Franks picked up a fork and showed it to her. ‘Think it’s solid?’
It was gold, and looked to be eighteenth-century, like all the cutlery spread out on the snowy tablecloth. ‘No doubt about it,’ she replied. ‘The contents of this room are worth approximately thirty million dollars. Why would they compromise on cheap, gold-plated cutlery?’
Antonio Zaccaria smiled. Isobel stared around the room at the magnificent furniture, the marble statuary, the elaborate dining chairs. The wealth of the Dukes of Mandalà was legendary. So much beauty, so much great art, assembled to please one family. As someone who herself had been raised with money, she knew how the wealthy lived. But this—this was different.
The double doors at the other end of the room opened and the old butler, whom they had learned to call Turi, stepped in.
‘The Duke of Mandalà,’ he announced, in a cracked voice.
They all straightened up from whatever treasure they had been examining and faced the door expectantly.
The man who strolled in, however, was not the patrician figure with a white beard and horn-rimmed glasses, familiar to all of them from photographs.
Not even close.
This was a very tall, very well-built man who looked like a demigod in evening dress, and who could not have been more than thirty-five. His jet-black hair was immaculately cut and his face—surely the most beautiful male face Isobel had ever set eyes on—was clean-shaven and wore a tiger’s smile.
‘Please accept my apologies for my late arrival,’ he greeted them in a deep, husky voice, speaking perfect but accented English. ‘A bad habit of mine. I trust you have not been too incommoded by my absence. Signor Zaccaria, how do you do? And surely this is Theoharis Makarios, the famed numismatist?’
Theo mumbled a modest reply, flushing as the big man wrung his hand.
‘Which means that you must be David Franks, of Harvard University?’ their host continued, shaking David’s hand briskly. ‘I enjoyed your recent article on the Etruscan bronzes very much. I have some bronzes myself, which you may be interested to see.’ Finally, he turned to Isobel, who was watching the performance frozen and open-mouthed. Dancing blue eyes met hers with a jolt that shook her right down to her feet. ‘And thus, by a process of elimination, you must be Dr Isobel Roche,’ he informed her with a wicked grin. He bowed over her hand, brushing it with warm lips that were all too familiar to her.
Familiar because she no longer had any doubt—if there had ever been any in her heart—that this demigod in evening dress, clean-shaven and barbered as he was, could only be one man.
The man who had given her a golden coin in exchange for a searing kiss that very morning.
Her Poseidon.
CHAPTER THREE
AS THEY all took their seats—Isobel finding herself seated at Poseidon’s right hand—David stammered out, ‘Won’t the duke be joining us, after all?’
‘But, my dear fellow, I am the duke,’ Poseidon replied, with courteous surprise. ‘Ah—you were expecting my grandfather?’
‘Your grandfather?’ Isobel echoed hollowly.
He turned to her. His face was solemn, but those amazing eyes were full of laughter. ‘I do apologize yet again. A perfectly natural mistake. My beloved grandfather, Ruggiero, the twelfth Duke of Mandalà, died six months ago. I am Alessandro Massimiliano, the thirteenth duke. But my friends call me Alessandro.’
‘So it was you who asked us here?’ Theo said.
‘Oh, yes. As I have told you, my revered grandfather died just before Christmas. A fisherman spotted the wreck only a few weeks ago, and it was plainly a matter of urgency to excavate it as soon as possible, before the sea reclaims it.’ The butler had been filling all their glasses with champagne, and now he raised his glass in a toast. ‘Let us drink to my late grandfather. And may I add what an honour it is for me to host such a gathering of archaeological talent!’
They all raised their glasses and drank. But as the icy bubbles sank down her throat, Isobel’s mind was racing. Alessandro Mandalà.
Good God. Of course. Now that the beard and the long hair were gone, how familiar that film-star face was! Alessandro Mandalà, international art dealer, playboy, rogue, jet-setter, boyfriend of pop-stars and supermodels, the latest wild branch on the Mandalà family tree!
She dared not look at him, in case her eyes betrayed the thoughts that were racing through her mind.
Pity for the decent old philanthropist whose place had been taken by this rogue filled her. What an heir for a great man!
Hadn’t there been that huge scandal just last year? A marble torso he had sold to the Getty Museum for millions, which had turned out