Season of Storms by Susanna Kearsley Page A

columns and fountains and—”
    “Dennis,” Rupert cut in, puffing nearly as much as I was, “if you didn’t waste all your breath complaining, you’d find it easier to walk.”
    “Oh, I’ve got plenty of breath,” Den assured him. “That isn’t a problem.”
    I couldn’t help smiling, even in the midst of my exertions. I couldn’t think of any situation in which Den would cease to talk. Perhaps in sleep, but even then he most likely muttered and tossed in his bed, restless. He was not a quiet man.
    I, on the other hand, couldn’t have spoken a word if I’d wanted to. My body needed every bit of oxygen to keep my muscles moving, propelling me up the long drive like an automaton . . . left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, each step crunching on the gravel. I kept my head purposely down, focussing not on the way ahead but on the patch of gravel just in front of my feet—a much more attainable goal.
    Even with the shoulder strap taking the brunt of the weight, my suitcase handle had raised blisters on my palms that stung whenever I shifted my grip, which I had to do rather often because my hands perspired and slipped. And my eyes stung as well from the sweat that had plastered my hair to my temples and neck.
    I knew, from my limited, low-angled view of the flowering shrubs and ornate column bases I was passing, that we were walking through a place of beauty. Now and then I saw the feet of a statue resting in the trailing greenery and was tempted to look higher, but I didn’t dare for fear I’d lose my footing. I’d be living here for several months, I told myself. Plenty of time to admire the scenery later. For now, all I wanted was to get up to the house and climb into a bath.
    Behind me, Den stopped walking. “Jesus Christ!”
    I lifted my head then to look, and wished that I hadn’t. I sagged at the sight of the steps—a seemingly endless flight of them, ten feet wide and gleaming white, that angled steeply upwards, barring our way to the house like some cruel architectural joke. Even the lions that stood at its entrance appeared to be laughing.
    It might have been the heat, or simple tiredness, but I nearly broke down at that point. And I might have disgraced myself entirely by dissolving in tears at the foot of the steps if I hadn’t just then heard the sure, certain sound of someone coming down to meet us. Looking up through blurring eyes I saw the outline of a man, a young man, lean and dark and moving swiftly, with an athlete’s grace. Halfway down he waved and called out, “Thought you might need help with those. It’s a bloody long way up.” An English voice, precise and very RADA.
    I blinked away my unshed tears and watched with curiosity as Nicholas Rutherford came closer. I’d seen photographs, of course, but never the man in person. He was not as tall as I’d expected, but I didn’t imagine most women would notice his height—it was his face that so entranced them, with its cleanly cut features and laugh lines and soul-searching eyes. And whereas we looked hot and straggly and were on the point of collapse, he looked cool and crisply pressed and managed the final few steps without apparent effort, smoking a cigarette.
    “God, what happened to you lot?” He looked us up and down, amused. “Did Giancarlo make you get out and push, or something?”
    “We walked,” said Den.
    “Walked? From where?”
    “From town. Giancarlo, if that’s who was supposed to meet our train at Desenzano, never showed. We had to take a bus.”
    Rupert pointed out that we had rung the house. “But apparently your phones aren’t working.”
    “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said Nicholas, smoothing his hair with one hand in what I would learn was an habitual gesture of his. “It’s a bit of a madhouse around here today. One of the maids didn’t turn up for work, and that seems to have thrown everything off. Maddy and I even had to go down into town for our lunch—we’ve only just got