Desire Has No Mercy

by Violet Winspear

  'I know what you're thinking.' Rome gave her an amused look. 'Posh wine glasses with peasant soup bowls, eh? Maybe it's a combination which typifies the Italian, com his lusty appetite with his eye for beauty. Go to the opera at La Scala and you will see Italians as enthralled by Tosca as by the salami in their sandwiches.'

  'Italian opera is very schmaltzy,' she said.

  'So is Tristan und Isolde, and the Liebestod.'

  'Do you go often?'

  'Occasionally to the San Carlo, if I'm in a romantic mood.' He raised his wine glass and studied the wine through the patterns in the crystal. 'This is called a Lacrima Cristi, the tears of Christ, and the grapes for it are grown on the slopes of Vesuvius. You have to admit, Julia, that we Italians have a flair for drama.'

  'I'd be the last to deny it.' She took a sip of the wine, which had a creamy, slightly biting sweetness. 'Not that I've ever known many.'

  'Then knowing me will be quite an education for you, mia.' He broke bread and bit into it with his firm white teeth.

  'You lived in the States all those years,' she said wonderingly, 'and yet no one would take you for anything but an Italian. You've reverted to type absolutely and could have been born here rather than there.'

  'We invariably spoke Italian and ate this kind of food. I attended Mass each Sunday with my mother—not that I pretend to be religious in the sense that I abide by all the rules of our church. Maybe I enjoyed the ritual.'

  'You must surely believe in hellfire and damnation,' she murmured.

  He narrowed his eyes at her and the candle flames made a frame of shadows about the boldness of his face. 'Meaning?'

  'Well, you aren't exactly sinless, are you, Rome? Unless, of course, you go to confession.'

  'I do go, on occasion.'

  'When you're feeling in a guilty mood?'

  He made no reply but just looked at her across the candlelit table, while in the silvered garden the cigales chirred in the cypress and ilex, and the blue trees as he had called them.

  'You're a pagan,' she said. 'You feel no guilt about me, do you?'

  'None,' he agreed shamelessly. 'I'd have hated my own guts had I left you to go and have an instrument used on your body. There are men who do that, but I have a sense of responsibility. Grant me that at least, donna mia.'

  'You have a sense of ownership,' she retorted. 'Tell me, Rome, what makes you so sure I'm having your baby?'

  'Of course it's mine!'

  'Can any man say that with total certainty?'

  'I can say it because I know you, Julia.'

  'You knew me as a child, but we met in Naples as adults.'

  'I was adult,' he tipped wine into his mouth, 'but you were just a more grown-up version of the little girl. You were quite innocent.'

  'Yes, until I met you I was innocent,' she agreed. 'When I returned to New York I was a different person—and Paul was there.'

  Rome laid down his soup spoon very carefully and she saw the candle flames reflected in his grey eyes, intensifying their dangerous beauty. His lashes and eyebrows looked night-dark in contrast, and Julia felt the heavy beating of her heart as he raked those eyes over her face, her neck, down over the velvet-covered curve of her breast.

  'The child is mine,' he grated. 'That effete friend of yours could only get excited over a Monet water-lily—if he found a woman in his arms he wouldn't know what to do with her. He'd probably start to lecture on Byzantine fruit bowls!'

  'Oh, very amusing, Rome. Will you laugh when the baby arrives with blond hair, I wonder?'

  'Stop this nonsense, Julia.' His voice had developed an edge. 'I've only to touch you to know I'm the man who's made you pregnant. If I took you in my arms right now I'd feel that instinctive response of your flesh—oh yes, my dear, it happens and I feel it, whether you like it or not. It's a bond you can't easily snap with your lying little teeth. Part of me is there inside you, so stop pretending you ever slept with any man but me!'

  'You're getting quite het up, Rome.' Julia moved her fingers up and down the stem of her wine glass and inside her she felt the pleasure of teasing him; of perhaps shaking him out of his self-confidence. 'You aren't really all that certain, are you? You know American girls are more liberated than Italians because you lived in the States where you danced with them and dated them. The only thing Italian about me is your name—'

  'This has gone far enough!' He leaned across the table angrily and in so doing knocked one of the lighted candles out of the socket of its silver stick. The candle fell in Julia's direction and the flame caught the lace cloth and ran towards the opening of her sleeve, not actually touching her but causing her to give a cry of fear. Instantly Rome had snatched up the water jug and flung the contents over the flames and unavoidably into Julia's lap. She felt the wetness soaking through the velvet as she scrambled out of her chair and stood shaking her skirt.

  The dining-table was now a shambles and as Rome thrust away from it one of the Versalini goblets fell to the ground and there was a sound of shattered glass.

  'Santo Dio, are you all right?' He didn't even glance at the breakage but caught hold of Julia's arm, raising it so he could examine her skin.

  'I'm wet,' she rejoined. 'Ugh, nothing feels quite so awful as wet velvet! And just look at the table!'

  Giovanni arrived at that precise moment carrying their second course, and when he saw the state of the table he nearly dropped the tray.

  'It's all right,' Rome placated, 'I knocked over a candle and set light to the cloth. I've made something of a mess and the signora has to change her clothes. We'll go upstairs, Giovanni. Bring the food and the wine and we'll finish our dinner there.'

  'Si, signore.' The manservant was doing his utmost to look impassive. 'A wine glass has been broken, one that you valued.'

  'My own clumsiness was at fault.' Rome shrugged. 'Stop pulling faces, Julia. You have many changes of dress upstairs.'

  'Ugh!' She was trying to hold the heavy wetness of the velvet away from her legs, and with an abrupt laugh Rome lifted her into his arms and carried her from the terrazza.

  'Damn you!' She punched his shoulder in a flash of temper and a residue of fright. 'Did you have to throw half the water over me? I bet you did it on purpose!'

  'I had to act quickly, cara. You could have been burned.'

  'It was your fault,' she said stormily.

  'You were the one who started the contretemps. You set out to annoy me and you know it, Julia.'

  Up the stairs he strode with her, carrying her as effortlessly as if she were a small girl instead of a grown woman. In striking his shoulder she had felt the smooth hardness of the muscle, a Latin of innate toughness who had probably learned how to fight at one of the East Side gymnasiums; who could probably swim like a fish and play a hard game of baseball.

  In every sort of way their lives had been different, and yet here they were together… they were man and wife, and the full impact struck at Julia as he lowered her to her feet in the bedroom he had every right to share with her.

  She felt the invasive fear and shyness as she looked at him, so big and dark in the silvery bedroom, his black hair disordered on his brow and a slight quirk to his mouth.

  'Come, you must change out of this damp dress before you catch a chill.' His fingers touched the clasp of the jewelled belt and she backed away from him.

  'I—I can manage, thank you.' Julia waited for him to turn his back, but he obviously had no such intention and with a flushed face and a resentful nervousness she unclasped the belt and sought with a shaky hand the zip fastening at the back of the dress.

  'Let me do that.' He came behind her and right down her backbone she was aware of his bigness as he slid open the zip until the velvet loosened around her. He gave it a push and it fell around her ankles and she was vulnerably exposed for his eyes in her satin slip. It was damp as well and would have to come off, and even as she gave a tormented little shiver he pulled the straps off her shoulders so the garment also slid to her feet. Now sh
e stood there in only her bra and panties, feeling the heavy beat of her heart as he deliberately turned her to face him, his hands warm upon the smooth skin of her upper arms.

  'I'm your husband,' he said softly. 'You mustn't be shy of me, cara. I have the right to see you like this.'

  'I—I want my robe.' She tried to pull away from him, but she hadn't a fraction of his strength and could only gasp helplessly when he drew her against him and buried his warm lips against her neck.

  'Come e bella,' he murmured. 'You can't know how sweet and soft and inviting you are! I want you—'

  'No—please!' She struggled in his arms. 'Giovanni will be arriving any minute w-with our dinner—'

  'I'm hungry for you, carissima. I want to take you to bed —I want the scent of you, the feel of your hair, those throbbing little cries—ah, it was good—you know it was good!'

  'It was bad—hateful,' she breathed. 'You made me—'

  'Yes, I made you, but tonight will be different. You won't fight me so I have to hurt you, you will relax and let me love your sweet silky—ah, God, don't shake like that, as if I'm some ugly monster who has hold of you!'

  'You're ugly to me—'

  'Santo Dio!' He thrust her away so she stumbled. His eyes blazed in his tense face. 'If I were Naples born I'd slap your face and throw you on that bed. I'd really show you what it's like to be forced—when that happens, my dear, there are no preliminaries but plenty of pain. Do you want that? Will that really give you a reason to hate me?'

  'I already have sufficient reason.' She snatched at her robe and struggled into it. 'If I cried out that last time it was because you hurt me.'

  'Not that much, my dear Julia. I'm a shade too experienced not to know the difference—that's right, tie that sash in knots and cover up your body or you might let loose the beast again. What's the real matter, Julia, is it me or yourself that you're afraid of?'

  She scorned to answer him, and with a shrug he went and sprawled in the peacock-back chair. Julia smoothed her hair as Giovanni tapped on the door.

  'I've laid the table in the adjoining room, signore.' Giovanni kept his gaze politely averted from Julia in her negligee. 'Cosenza made a pot of coffee in case the signora had need of a cup.'

  'Splendido.' Rome lounged to his feet and cast a lazily insolent look over Julia. 'Cosenza is a woman of feelings— well, my dear, shall we go and proceed with our dinner?'

  Julia preceded him into the salone, lit by ruby-shaded lamps, the table in front of the lounger laid out with their meal. It all looked very intimate and cosy, but stirred up in Julia feelings that were far from cosy.

  'We shan't require any further service tonight, Giovanni.' Rome smiled as he gazed around the salone. 'Thank your wife for her efforts on our behalf.',

  'You are both more than welcome, signore.' Giovanni glanced at Julia. 'Buona notte, signora.'

  'Goodnight,' she said. 'I'm sorry your beautifully arranged table on the terrazza was spoiled. I suppose the wine glass was broken beyond repair?'

  'Si, signora.' Giovanni spread his hands regretfully. 'Such a pity, but crystal of that quality shatters into fragments if dropped and there is nothing to be done.'

  'Che disastro!' Rome laughed. 'It's only an object and I daresay it can be replaced. There are other things of far more value, and I'd smash a dozen Versalinis rather than see an inch of soft skin burned.'

  Julia felt the rise of heat under her skin, for his voice dwelt on the words and made her relive the feel of his hands on her body. What was inanimate could never mean as much to Rome as something that was warm and living to his touch, and as she took a seat on the lounger she gathered the flimsy protection of her robe closely around her. The salone door closed behind Giovanni and she was alone with her husband, who before sitting down beside her took off his tie and opened the collar of his silk shirt. It was the casual action of a man making himself comfortable in his home, but nothing that Rome did in Julia's presence seemed ordinary. Nothing about Rome Demario was ordinary.

  'Shall we have some of that coffee?' Julia felt the give of the lounger as he sat down.

  She gave him a withering look as she picked up the pot and filled the cups. He took his scalding dark with a spoonful of brown sugar, but indicated with a flick of his finger that she add cream to hers. Julia was tempted to oppose him, except that she liked her coffee sweet and creamy.

  'Ah, this room is really rather charming.' He glanced around him with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. 'When I first bought the villa it was much neglected and I didn't bother too much about the upper rooms because my mother couldn't manage the stairs and had her apartment on the ground floor. I'm pleased with the look of these rooms. The colour schemes have worked out well.'

  His eyes met Julia's over the rim of his coffee cup. 'Don't you agree?'

  'Yes,' she said indifferently. 'You like to think you do everything with style, don't you, signore?'

  'Don't you think that I do, carina?' He gave a brief laugh.

  'No, perhaps you don't—I'm the upstart from the East Side who dared to pull you off the pedestal where you were just a charming image of a woman. I made you face the fact that there's more to being a woman than poise and politeness and the sweet charity of your company. Your Park Avenue clique might be satisfied with that kind of companionship, but it won't satisfy me. I don't intend to have a sweet piece of ice for a wife, and you'll melt, Julia, one way or another.'

  'Would you like to take a bet on it, Rome?' His self-assurance seemed to curl across her skin like the tip of a lash. 'You're a gambling man, so a bet with such long odds should appeal to you.'

  'The odds aren't all that long, my dear.' His smile was taunting. 'There is one formula in this life that no scientist has been able to mix in a test tube, and that's the magnetism that brings a man and woman together. Fight it, deny it, and try to suppress it, but when I touch you, just here on your inner arm, you feel it elsewhere, don't you—just as I do?'

  Julia jerked her arm from the insinuation of his hand up the butterfly sleeves of her robe. 'Don't confuse my reactions with those of your numerous girl-friends,' she said coldly.

  'I wouldn't dream of doing so. They were never the challenge that you are, madonna. They never had your defiant green eyes and your hair that I know to be naturally that colour and texture, nor your virginal shrinking.' He softly laughed as his eyes moved over her hair and down her figure. 'You have my baby in you, and yet you still manage to look as if you had never been touched.'

  'You haven't touched my heart, Rome, so perhaps that's the reason.'

  'Always you have an answer, haven't you, Julia?' His lip quirked as he started to eat his dinner, beautifully cooked pheasant meat and sweet corn, with potatoes which had been perfectly baked. Everything of the best, Julia thought, as she ate the food. A superb cook in his kitchen, a manservant who served him as if he were a scion of the nobility, and a house whose fundamental charm he had gradually restored until it was probably worth three times what he had paid for it.

  He was without doubt a shrewd, clever and ruthless man, and it gave her a curiously helpless feeling that she could no longer find in him the boy outside the French windows who watched her dance in her rose-coloured dress and buckled shoes. There was no trace of him in the Roman nose, the lean and darkly defined jaw, deeply clefted at the centre of his chin. Yet that night in Naples she had known who he was from the moment she set eyes on him. She had walked into his casino and their eyes had met beneath the glitter of the chandeliers above the gaming tables and for an instant time had stood still… briefly, between one heartbeat and another, they had been boy and girl again, that very last time on the terrace of her grandmother's house.

  'Come, eat up your dinner,' he said, as she dawdled, lost in her thoughts. 'It's good for you, and remember you have two to feed.'

  'I don't forget it for a minute,' she flashed back at him. 'It really gives you a kick, doesn't it, to have humiliated me! When did the vendetta begin, Rome? That day long ago wh
en I felt sorry for the boy on the outside looking in? I was only a child. I didn't know about the snobbery of people and the stupid distinctions they make because someone has a few more dollars in the bank. I was as much a victim of my background as you were of yours, so why use me to revenge yourself on the system? Don't you do enough of that at the casino when you watch the rich losing their dollars at your tables? That's why you run a casino, isn't it? You know you could do other things, that you have the shrewd mentality to make any sort of business a success.'

  'Is that what you'd like, Julia, a respectable businessman for a husband?'

  'What I'd like is not to have you for a husband at all!'

  'Too bad, my dear. Will you have a few more potatoes and a spoonful of corn? You don't need to worry about your figure.'

  'You—I could kill you!' Reluctantly she laughed at his impudence, and at the unavoidable fact that daily her appetite seemed to increase and she knew it was due to her pregnancy. 'This darned child of yours is going to be monstrously big, damn you!'

  'That's the Julia I know and love,' he mocked, placing crisp baked potatoes on her plate and two large spoonfuls of the glistening corn. 'It's going to be a boy and we shall name him Lorenzo Sebastian after both our fathers. Mmm, sounds quite effective, don't you agree?'

  'I may be carrying a huge girl, who will have great flat feet and your nose, Romeo.'

  He stared at her a moment and then gave a laugh. 'I like it when you make a joke, donna mia.'

  'You think I'm joking?' Julia ran her eyes over his handsome face. 'I have Dutch ancestors and my grandmother was a big woman, and it isn't always the case that children resemble their father. What would you do, Rome, if I produced for you a plain pudding of a daughter?'

  'Love her,' he said quietly. 'I'm Italian and we care for our children whether they are pretty or plain.'

  'That doesn't go for women where you're concerned, does it, Rome? You like them to be decorative, and I—I wish to heaven I'd come to your casino with my hair in a scarf and wearing trousers! You wouldn't have given me a second look!'