The Italian's Love-Child

by Sharon Kendrick

  She sucked in a sharp, instinctive breath of excitement when she saw where the postcard was from.

  Roma.

  The photo was unusual and bizarre—it showed a sculpture of two boys and a rather threatening and grotesque animal.

  She didn’t need to turn it over to know who it was from; she knew only one person who was there. And she didn’t need to see his name signed at the bottom to recognise the writing, because somehow she had guessed that he would write like that.

  Like a schoolgirl with a crush, she let her gaze drift longingly over his handwriting, like someone discovering a lover’s body for the first time. In black ink, it curved sensuously across the card, like a snake.

  It said: ‘I expect you know the cherished legend that Rome was founded by Romulus—here is a photo of him with his twin brother Remus, suckling on a she-wolf! Any time you’re in Rome, then please look me up. It was good to see you. Luca.’

  And his phone number.

  Eve read it and re-read it, her heart beating fast, feeling ridiculously and excessively pleased while trying to tell herself she shouldn’t. It was only a postcard, for heaven’s sake! And there was no way she would ever ring him.

  But she propped the card against the kitchen window, with the backdrop of the sea behind it, and she looked at it, and smiled, because that simple and civilised communication made her able to put that whole passionate yet unsatisfactory scene out of her mind.

  But Luca couldn’t get her out of his mind, though he did his level best to—that was when he wasn’t incredulously checking his phone messages.

  She hadn’t rung him!

  He shook his head in slight disbelief. Did she not realise the intense honour…? He frowned. No. Honour would be too strong a word, and so would privilege—but he wondered just what Miss Eve Peters would say if she realised that he never gave his phone number out to a woman he had only just met!

  He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower, standing beneath the punishing jets of water with a grim kind of anticipation. Maybe she was playing hard to get. He smiled as he reached for the shampoo. Give her until the end of the week, and she would be bound to ring.

  Eve was just setting off for her car when one of the production assistants stopped her. ‘Eve—a man rang for you.’

  ‘Did he say who he was?’

  The production assistant assumed the expression of someone who had been dieting successfully all week, only to be offered a large cream cake minutes before she was due to be weighed. She was getting married in a month, Eve remembered. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, well—thanks, anyway. If it was important, I expect he’ll ring again.’

  ‘He was…’ the assistant gulped ‘…foreign.’

  Annoyingly, Eve’s heart went pat-a-pat, then missed a beat completely. ‘Oh?’ she said, with just the right amount of studied casualness.

  ‘Italian, I think,’ the assistant continued. ‘He sounded absolutely gorgeous! All deep and accented and sexy. You know what they say about a come-to-bed voice? Well, he must have been the man who invented it! Who is he?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ replied Eve airily, feeling a brief pang of sympathy for the girl’s fiancé. ‘And it irritates the hell out of me, when someone doesn’t bother to leave their name!’

  Which wasn’t quite true. What was irritating the hell out of her was her irrational response to the fact that it had undoubtedly been Luca. What was he doing, ringing her? Ringing her at work, too!

  And would he ring again? At home? Until she reminded herself that he didn’t have her number. But she was in no doubt that someone like Luca could always get hold of a woman’s number…

  It had been many years since Eve had made excuses to hang around the house, hoping that someone might call her, and she hated it almost as much as she couldn’t seem to stop herself from doing it. Every time the phone rang she jumped like a startled rabbit, but it was never him.

  Finally, frustrated with herself—and with him, though she wasn’t quite sure why—she went round to see Kesi and ended up staying for afternoon tea. And it was predictably typical that when she arrived home the red light on her answering machine was winking at her provocatively.

  With trembling fingers, she clicked the button and his deep, dark, rich Italian voice began to speak. Just like him, she thought as she listened. Deep and dark and rich.

  ‘Eve? I find that business brings me to London next week. How would you like to meet for dinner?’ A tinge of amusement entered the voice. ‘An early dinner, of course—leaving you plenty of time to get home for your allotted hours of sleep. Ring me.’

  She was appalled to find herself replaying it four times, while silently wondering whether or not to return his call, even while, deep down, she knew with unerring certainty that she would be unable to resist.

  But she left it for three days, even though the self-restraint it took nearly killed her. And when she finally got round to it, she had to field her way past a very aloof-sounding secretary who, once she had switched from Italian to perfect, seamless English, sounded very doubtful as to whether Signor Cardelli would wish to be disturbed.

  Clearly Signor Cardelli would.

  ‘Luca?’ said Eve tentatively, wishing that she could rewind the time clock and never have dialled the wretched number.

  Luca felt his body instinctively tense. So the strega had made him wait, had she? He couldn’t remember ever having had to wait for anything in his life.

  ‘Eve?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me! I got your message.’

  ‘Good.’ He waited. Now let her see how it felt.

  Eve clutched the telephone tightly. Damn him! ‘About dinner.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  She felt like slamming the phone down, and realised that might be overacting by just a tad. Did she want to have dinner with him, or not? Well, yes and no.

  Luca’s eyes narrowed. Did she always make it this difficult for men? And then he remembered the way she had been in his arms. They had been so close to going up to her bedroom, and… The tension increased. ‘Would you like to have dinner with me, Eve?’ he questioned silkily.

  Yet another defining moment. Her life seemed to be full of them, and Luca Cardelli always seemed to have something to do with them. Eve swallowed. Pretend you’re live on camera. Give him a briskly pleasant, take-it-or-leave-it attitude. It would be so much easier if she could just leave it, if the thought of not seeing him again didn’t seem as if her world would then take on a rather dull and monochrome appearance.

  ‘That would be lovely. When?’

  She was making it sound as though she had been invited to tea with a maiden aunt!

  ‘I arrive on Friday evening,’ he said coolly. ‘So how about Saturday?’

  She supposed that she could pretend to be busy—but what would be the point in playing games if the outcome would only make her miserable?

  ‘Saturday sounds good,’ she said evenly, but her heart had started racing.

  ‘Excellent. I’ll ring you when I’m in England. Ciao, bella.’

  Eve found herself staring at the handset, to realise that he had hung up. Her mouth had dried with pure excitement, which quickly changed into another emotion she didn’t quite recognise and wasn’t up to analysing because there was only one thought dominating her mind right then.

  Dinner on Saturday. An early dinner so that she could get back in plenty of time for the early night necessary for her early start.

  But she didn’t work on Sundays. She knew that and he knew that.

  Sunday was her lie-in day.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE hotel was one of those modern, quietly expensive places which often seemed to be featured in glossy magazines and were a million miles away from the featureless anonymity of the large chains.

  Eve walked into a foyer painted a deep, dark navy with shiny wood floors and expensive-looking rugs. She had to look hard for the reception desk, which was clearly designed not to look like a reception
desk. It was half hidden by vases of clashing scarlet and violet flowers and the sleek blonde who eventually gave her a smile looked as if she should be modelling in a glossy magazine herself.

  She guessed that this was one of those exclusive places, so hip and cool that it was almost icy, and she shivered at the thought of what she was about to do. Although, as she reminded herself fiercely—she didn’t have to do anything. Not if she didn’t want to.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said the blonde.

  ‘Um…’ Oh, for heaven’s sake—when did she last preface a question with the word, ‘um’? ‘I’m meeting Mr Luca Cardelli here at six.’

  The blonde’s cool face didn’t flicker. ‘Signor Cardelli,’ she corrected, ‘should be here—’

  ‘Any minute now,’ came the honeyed tumble of his words and Eve’s mouth dried as she turned round to see him emerging from the lift. ‘Hello, Eve.’

  He looked, she thought rather desperately, utterly ravishing—in a dark linen suit, and a blue silk shirt which was unbuttoned at the neck, showing a tantalising glimpse of olive skin and the arrowing of dark hair.

  ‘Luca,’ she said, her voice very low. She forced a smile. ‘Hello.’

  He narrowed his eyes. This was not the behaviour of a woman who wanted him to make love to her. In fact, she looked as though she were dancing on pieces of broken glass. Did that mean she was nervous, and if so—wasn’t that rather endearing? At least it showed him a chink in her sophisticated armour.

  He smiled and moved forward, kissing her on each cheek, his hands on her shoulders, continental style, and Eve felt herself relax slightly. Anyone would think she was a timid little mouse of a thing, with no experience of men whatsoever!

  But as she breathed in some subtle, heavenly aftershave he was wearing, and felt the faint rasp of his chin against her cheek, it struck her that she felt completely naïve and inexperienced. Why, give her a plate of prawns and she would probably drop them all over him!

  ‘You look wonderful,’ he murmured. More than wonderful—though distinctly understated. Some floaty little silk skirt and a soft, pink sweater, which moulded itself to her perfect breasts. A pair of high suede boots and her hair caught in a plait and tied at the end with a pink ribbon. It was both sexy and yet wholesome and it had the effect of making him want her even more.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Shall we go and eat?’ He glanced briefly at his watch. ‘What time do you have to leave?’

  ‘Oh, well, I can decide later,’ she prevaricated. She met the look of curiosity in his eyes. ‘That is—um, there’s a train at nine-thirty.’ Which wasn’t answering his question at all, and she had said ‘um’ again!

  ‘We could eat here, if you like. Or find somewhere local?’

  Oh, heavens. Normally sure and decisive, she suddenly felt a quivering mass of uncertainty, until something happened which made her get real. Maybe it was the fleeting side-glance which the sleek blonde at Reception sent her, as if she would give anything to be in Eve’s shoes.

  Enjoy this, she told herself. Just enjoy it. ‘What’s the food like here?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ He glanced around. ‘My secretary booked it for me—it’s a little—antiseptic for my taste. But there’s a sushi bar around the corner—do you like sushi?’

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘Come on, then.’

  Outside, the whirr of traffic and the people walking made Eve feel more relaxed, and the sushi bar was gorgeous.

  ‘I think this restaurant might have been designed by a feng shui expert,’ she commented as they were shown to a low table, next to a blurred and restful painting.

  ‘Because you have to be a contortionist to sit down?’

  She smiled. ‘Don’t you think it has a rather restful air about it?’

  Restful?

  He thought that he could have been given some long sleeping draught and he still would have felt the constant heat of desire, but maybe that was because he had been on a knife-edge of delightful anticipation and uncertainty all week. And uncertainty could be a heady emotion—as if you had discovered some new and delicious food you had not realised existed.

  Like a natural predator finding itself in undiscovered terrain, he narrowed his eyes and handed her the menu as the waitress hovered.

  ‘Shall we order?’

  They discussed the menu together, but Eve might as well have been selecting sawdust and treacle for all the notice she took of the food which began to arrive, on stark, square plates, pretty as individual pictures. She did her level best to eat it, determined to act as normally as if she were out with any attractive man, and not one who seemed to have the power to reduce her to a kind of melting jelly with just one hard, brief smile and one glitter of those brilliant, yet unfathomable dark eyes.

  She sipped her wine and felt about seventeen, and just hoped to goodness that the face she presented was calm and serene.

  Luca leaned back in his seat. ‘So tell me how you came to be a television star.’

  ‘Presenter,’ she corrected immediately and caught his look of mocking question and smiled. ‘I know I’m a bit defensive, but the job comes with so much baggage that it’s almost instinctive.’

  ‘People wanting to know you for the wrong reasons?’ he guessed.

  ‘Something like that.’ She sipped at her wine. ‘I expect you’ve been a victim of it yourself.’

  ‘Never a victim, cara,’ he murmured. ‘And it is not a word I would have associated with you. So tell me about it.’

  She loved the way he curled his tongue around the word ‘cara’ and found herself, bizarrely, wishing that he would speak to her in Italian, even though she barely knew more than a few words of the language. ‘I did a degree in meteorology at university. The weather had always fascinated me, but when you grow up in a place where so much is determined by it, it seemed kind of natural. Then the local station was looking for a weathergirl, and I applied for the job, without really thinking I’d get it.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Oh, because I wasn’t blonde and busty—and most of the other candidates were!’

  ‘Yet they chose you,’ he observed softly.

  ‘Yes, they did—it seemed that they weren’t looking for a pneumatic blonde, but someone who actually knew what they were talking about, and the viewers seemed to like me. Then the regular presenter left to have a baby, and the next thing I knew they were asking me to fill in for her—temporarily, at first. But they asked me to stay on, and I did, and that was nearly three years ago, which is actually quite a long time in television.’

  ‘And you like it?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes, I do—though sometimes it doesn’t really seem a serious job, something that matters, like being a brain surgeon. But I’m aware that I’m lucky to have it—and realistic to know that it won’t last for ever. Television jobs rarely do.’

  ‘And when it ends?’

  She met his eyes, and shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘So you have no other ambitions, other than what you do now?’

  Eve twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers, wary of how much to tell him. But why be a closed book? What would be the point? ‘Oh, well, one day I hope to have children, of course.’

  He nodded, noting the ‘of course’, but also her omission of the normal progression of falling in love with a man and marrying him first, but he knew that women were shy of talking of such things, for fear that men would think them needy.

  Eve felt exposed. She had done all the talking, and he very little. ‘What about you? Did you set out to become the owner of a bank?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone does that.’ He shrugged. ‘I set out to become successful, and somehow it never seemed successful enough. There was always a new challenge, a new obstacle to be overcome and, once I had overcome it, something else to move on to.’

  ‘So now you own a bank, does that mean you’ve stopped moving on?’

  ‘Oh, no. There’s always something else to achieve.
’

  He stopped speaking abruptly and something about the suddenly wary look in his eyes told her that he had already said more than he was comfortable with.

  ‘I see,’ she said slowly, but she thought how restless and nomadic it made him sound. It should have had the effect of distancing her but she found that she wanted to reach her fingertips out and play them along the silken surface of his skin.

  He could feel the tension surrounding them as palpably as if it had been a third person sitting with them at the table. Would she play games with him tonight? he wondered.

  ‘Shall I get the bill?’

  Something about the way he was looking at her was making her heart pound so loudly that it was as if an entire percussion section had taken up residence in her head. Mutely, she nodded, excusing herself to make her way to the bathroom where she splashed cold water on her wrists, as if hoping that the icy temperature might dull the fevered glitter of her eyes, but to no avail.

  They walked out into the darkened street and he turned to her as her hair gleamed like liquid gold beneath the street-lamp. ‘Do you want to catch that train?’

  She heard a taxi pass them, and she thought of this passing her by. She looked up at him, aware of what hinged on her answer. She looked up into his face and in that moment her heart turned over. ‘No.’

  He smiled as he bent his head and kissed her in the street. He told himself that he would not have done the same in Rome, where curious eyes would have registered that Luca Cardelli was behaving in a way which would have distorted the image of his cool persona for ever. But that here in London, it was anonymous. And yet it was more than that. She had captivated him, with her cool, intelligent eyes, the way she had made him wait. For a man used to having whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it, it had proved a powerful aphrodisiac. And he could not wait any longer to kiss her again.