by Carrie Elks
Sam released her arms, stepping back. When she looked up at his face it had turned suddenly impassive, betraying no hint of the smile that had been on his lips moments before. ‘You should go then,’ he told her, turning around and walking across the living room. ‘I’ve got things to do anyway.’
Cesca stared at him, her right hand rubbing at her left wrist where he’d held her only moments before. She frowned, her brows knitting together, as she tried to work out why she felt so completely disoriented.
‘What the hell just happened?’ she asked herself, shaking her head as she heard the library door slam.
Sam was on a hunt for phone reception. Carrying his iPhone in his outstretched hand, he kept his eyes glued to the bars on the screen as he climbed up the hill behind the villa, heading for the highest point of the estate. A week without being able to call anybody or – God forbid – check the Internet had been more than enough for him. It was now that he realised how reliant he was on the damn chunk of plastic and metal he carried everywhere.
He wanted to know if the worst had happened. Before leaving LA, his lawyer had assured him he had things covered. But Serena was slippery, and she’d shown herself to be an excellent liar. He didn’t trust her as far as he could throw this phone.
If only he’d realised that a few months ago.
This part of the garden was overgrown and wild, with huge bushes and trees obscuring him as he climbed his way up the earthen hill. Reaching the highest point, a bar on his cell began to blink, and he held his breath as he waited to see if it connected with his carrier.
Sinking onto a rock, he sat down and looked out over the lake. He’d forgotten how beautiful it was here. As a child he’d taken his mother’s ancestral home for granted, more interested in swimming and splashing in the water than anything else. But after years of being surrounded by concrete and artifice, Italy was like a balm to his soul.
It felt real.
A splash came from the lake, and he glanced over. It was too dark to be able to make much out from the private beach belonging to the villa. He knew Cesca was down there – with whatever his name was – maybe he should go down to make sure everything was OK. But then, he wasn’t ready for anybody else to know he was here, not even a neighbour who was intent on spending time with his housekeeper. No, better to stay here, under the radar.
Growing up, Sam had learned to become a chameleon, able to change himself to fit in with any situation. He was a half-Italian, half-American boy living in London, and part of him felt like he didn’t belong anywhere. Sam’s relationship with his father didn’t help. Foster had always been larger than life, his loud voice silencing all others around him, his charisma sucking everything in like a black hole. The younger Sam had been desperate to earn his attention, bringing home school prizes, swimming badges and A-grade papers, but nothing seemed to impress his father, at least nothing that Sam could do.
On a good day, Sam would grudgingly accept that a large proportion of his success came from his ‘daddy issues’ – or his ‘Family of Origin’ issues, as his shrink defined it. But even now, six years after he’d learned the truth about Foster, there was still a huge part of Sam that still wanted to win his respect. All the acclaim he’d earned through his acting, the SAG nominations, the critical success, none of that could replace the thing he’d yearned for the most.
His phone managed to pick up a signal, and started to vibrate wildly, concurrent pings ringing out as dozens of messages downloaded at once. After almost seven days without connecting, a deluge of apps were filling up as texts and emails, instant messages and Twitter all vied for his attention. His throat tightened as he looked at the screen again, his index finger hovering over the glass. Where should he start? The emails would be long, possibly ranty, the voicemails would be too difficult to listen to. The messages, though shorter, would still be enough to make him want to throw his phone away all over again. Avoidance was always his natural inclination.
Switching his phone off without reading the messages, he slipped it into the pocket of his shorts. He wasn’t ready to read them yet, he didn’t want to know if the story had broken. He stood up, stretching his legs to lengthen his muscles as they complained about his sudden movement. Running a hand through his hair he looked out across the lake again, questions shooting through his brain like dying stars.
How long was he going to stay here? He had no idea.
What was he going to do about Serena Sloane and her betrayal? He had no idea.
Why, if he was hiding from his family, had he chosen this place to run to? Especially when his past seemed to have caught up with him, in the form of a petite fireball who was making it her personal mission to make his life as uncomfortable as possible. Sam’s lips twitched at that question. Cesca annoyed the hell out of him, that was for sure, but there was also something about her that amused him, drew him in. The adrenalin that shot through him after every confrontation was a reminder he was alive.
Reaching for the nearest tree trunk, he began his descent back to the villa, avoiding rocks and roots, the soles of his shoes kicking up the dirt. Nearing the formal part of the gardens, he could hear sounds drifting up from the lake, the occasional laugh and conversation carrying up on the wind.
He didn’t like the idea of a stranger being so close. Maybe he should talk to Cesca, forbid her from meeting this neighbour again. After all, it was the Carltons who paid her wages, surely she should follow his wishes if he said them out loud?
Another splash, louder this time, followed by a tinkling giggle. Sam curled his hands into fists, a flash of anger unexpectedly shooting through him.
He was definitely going to have words with her.
10
We are such stuff as dreams are made on
– The Tempest
‘You need to do it like this,’ Cesca said, picking up another flat stone from the beach. Curling her arm towards her, she held the stone tightly for a moment, before flicking her forearm back out, watching the pebble skim across the surface of the lake six, seven, eight times.
Shaking his head, Cristiano picked another stone up, then attempted to mimic her movements. It disappeared beneath the lake with a loud splash, causing Cesca to collapse into a fit of laughter.
‘There’s no need to be rude.’ Though his words were tight, his eyes flashed with amusement.
‘I always thought it was girls who couldn’t throw, not boys. I’m sure this little lesson is supposed to be the other way round,’ she said.
‘Are you questioning my masculinity?’ Cristiano asked. His face was flushed from the cheese and red wine. They’d both indulged a little too freely, resulting in Cesca feeling a rush of drunkenness every time she bent down.
She shook her head, feeling the dizziness again. ‘Not at all, I’m just questioning your throwing skills. Didn’t you learn to do this when you were a kid?’
‘I grew up in the city, there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to throw stones,’ he told her, reaching out and taking a lock of her hair between his fingers. For some reason the gesture confused her, made her feel uncomfortable. She shuffled her feet, kicking at the shingle beneath her sandals.
She laughed again, but this time to disguise her embarrassment. ‘I grew up in the city, too. But throwing stones is a rite of passage. I feel as though you’ve missed out on an important development milestone.’ She stepped back, her hair pulling away from his hold. She sensed his frown, but couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes. Cesca had never been very good at flirting, not even after a few glasses of the red stuff. She always felt slightly awkward whenever she sensed a man’s interest in her, as if she couldn’t work out what they wanted.
‘You have a very beautiful laugh,’ he told her. Though he kept his distance this time, Cesca felt a shot of warmth in her veins. Who didn’t like being told something like that?
‘You’ve been drinking too much.’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled again. ‘You’re not very good at accepting compl
iments, are you? I’ve found that with English women before. It’s as though you’re brought up believing the worst about yourself.’
She tipped her head to the side, pondering his words. ‘Are Italian girls brought up any differently?’
It was his turn to laugh, deep and low. ‘Being a man, I can’t say from experience. But I can tell you my sister was always complimented, always loved. Girls in this country grow up knowing there’s beauty in every size, every shape, and every shade of hair. Women are worshipped here in Italy, not criticised.’ His voice was soft as he spoke, his stare intense. Cesca could feel her heart start to race.
‘That sounds like a lovely way to grow up.’
‘I was taught from the earliest age to show women respect and adoration. It begins with our mothers, of course, but then we learn to appreciate the femininity that surrounds us as we get older. It makes me sad when women don’t understand their beauty and power. Especially one as lovely as you.’
Was it possible to be seduced by words alone? Cesca wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the wine again, sending shivers down her spine. Making her skin fizz and pop as if she’d just been doused in soda.
Her voice was raw when she spoke again. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ That was the best she could do. After a lifetime of turning away from compliments about her looks, she couldn’t change overnight.
‘It’s a start.’ He gave her a soft smile. ‘But if you’re going to spend time with me, you’ll have to learn to accept compliments all the time. A girl like you deserves them.’ His blue-eyed stare seemed to pierce her, and again she could feel the embarrassment suffusing her. He poured another glass of red and she accepted it gratefully, pleased to have something to do other than try to hide her red cheeks.
‘Shall we change the subject?’ he asked, clearly noticing her self-consciousness. ‘Why don’t you tell me what brought you to Italy? You said you were here on a working holiday.’ He took her hand, helping her to sit down on the soft shingle. He climbed down beside her, stretching his feet out until his bare toes touched the softly lapping water. Cesca did the same, though her legs were shorter, and the lake was still almost a foot away from her pink painted toenails.
‘I was offered a job. The people who own the villa – the Carltons – they’re friends of my godfather.’
‘That was nice of them to give you a job. Have you known them long?’
‘I’ve never met them,’ she told him. ‘Hugh, that’s my godfather, he’s in the theatre industry, just like Mr Carlton. They’ve run in the same circles for years, I think. And when I lost my job Hugh suggested this one, he thought I needed to get out of London.’
‘Because of the weather?’ Cristiano asked.
His question made her laugh. ‘No, not the weather. In fact it was very nice the last time I was there. It’s just I’d been having a bit of a bad time and he thought getting away would be good for me.’ Way to play things down. ‘A bit of a bad time’ didn’t really capture the lows of the last six years.
His features softened with concern. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Would it be wrong of me to ask what sort of bad time?’
Cesca was torn. This wasn’t the sort of conversation she had with just anybody. ‘I used to be a writer,’ she finally said, her voice quiet. ‘But then something happened and I had this terrible block. It made me get very low and depressed, and I couldn’t snap out of it.’ If this had been a real first date, and not some holiday conversation with a handsome neighbour, maybe she’d have glossed over her problems, and pretend to be all sweetness and light.
Thank goodness this wasn’t a first date then.
‘I knew there was something about you.’ He leaned closer. She could smell the woody fragrance of his cologne. ‘You have this lost look about you that makes me want to know more. It’s very enticing.’
He was close enough for Cesca to feel his breath against her cheek. Her heart almost stopped beating in her chest. She felt frozen to the ground. Was he going to kiss her? More importantly, did she want him to? He was very handsome, after all, and wasn’t afraid to show his interest in her. Something was missing, though, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
‘Can I kiss you?’ She felt his words brush against her skin. He cupped her neck with his hand, his fingers curling around her nape. It was only when she felt the softness of his lips brushing hers that she realised it wasn’t a question. It was a statement of intent.
Cesca closed her eyes, feeling his hand pulling her closer, his lips pressing harder against her mouth. She waited for that familiar warmth, for the butterflies, for that desperate need to kiss him back. Waited and waited.
But it didn’t come.
Feeling her lips pull down into a frown, Cristiano pulled away, releasing his hold on her neck. He was frowning, too, still staring at her, his mouth red from her lipstick and the red wine.
‘Was that too much?’ he asked, concerned. ‘Too soon? I’m sorry that I read you wrong.’
She shook her head, still confused by her own reaction. ‘No . . . I mean yes . . . I don’t know. I’m so sorry, you took me by surprise.’
What had he been expecting – for Cesca to throw herself at him?
‘It’s OK,’ he reassured her. ‘You need more time, I understand that. The best things in life don’t need to be rushed.’
In spite of his words, she still felt embarrassed, and found herself scrambling to her feet, standing up on the pebbled ground. ‘I think I’m just tired. It’s been a long day, and I should get some sleep.’
Cristiano followed suit, standing beside her. His smile remained painted on. ‘Of course. Can I walk you to your villa?’
A flash of alarm shot through her. She could only imagine what Sam would say if she rocked up to the house with Cristiano. ‘Oh no, I can go on my own. It’s too far for you.’
His brows knitted together. ‘It’s only next door.’
‘Honestly, I’ll be fine. The owners, they’re very private, they don’t like strangers coming onto the property.’ Seeing his expression, she began to backtrack. ‘Not that you’re a stranger, of course. Well, not to me. But they don’t know you, and I’ve promised to take good care of the house.’
Cristiano chuckled. ‘Please don’t worry, I get it. People guard their privacy very closely here, I can understand that. But I would like to ask a favour, if I can. Will you meet with me again soon? Perhaps we can go out for dinner together. There are a few restaurants around here I’d like to try.’
A long, slow breath escaped from Cesca’s lips. ‘That sounds nice.’
His smile was big. ‘Perfect. I’ll make some plans and let you know.’
Cesca nodded her agreement. ‘Good night, Cristiano.’ She turned, walking along the private beach to the fence that separated Cristiano’s side from the Carltons’, putting her foot on the lowest rung to climb over the top.
It was only when she fell flat on her face on the other side that she realised just how drunk she was.
*
Sam had forgotten how much he loved to read. It was the first time in years he’d held any written document in his hand that wasn’t a movie script, a contract or one of those goddamned magazines, and he had to admit it felt good. This was why he’d come here, after all, to find solitude and space, enough time to breathe, to think, to be someone other than the man Hollywood expected him to be.
He closed his eyes, letting the old, leather-bound copy of A Room With a View fall back against his chest, dust rising from its pages and tickling his nose. The warm night air caressed his skin as it breezed through the open window, as gentle as a lover’s touch. It had been a long time since he’d been able to doze in silence, without the sounds of LA, or the buzzing of his thoughts constantly interrupting his dreams, but for those few minutes something strangely akin to peace seemed to drift over him.
Gone were the voices in his head telling him he was all wrong. Even the loudest of them – Foster’s voice – stayed silent for a while. And for one
blissful hour he managed to sleep deeply, his body relaxed and loose as he dreamed on the library chair.
A loud crash woke him, and it was as though all his circuits were switched on at once. He half stood, the book falling onto the floor, trying to work out the origin of the noise.
It was dark in the library. He must have switched off the side lamp before drifting off, and only the faraway lights from the other side of the lake were left to do battle with the blackness. He blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. There was a scratching coming from the hallway, like a cat running its claws down a wall. Not that there were any cats in the villa, Foster couldn’t stand them. He wasn’t a man for being at one with nature.
The noise started again, echoing through the library. Stretching his muscles, Sam cocked his head to one side. It really did sound like an animal.
It was only a few steps to the doorway. A few more until he made it into the hall, the murkiness of night following him in, though a lamp glowing in the living room tinted the air with a pale yellow glow. Cesca was kneeling in front of him, her bare knees and feet bracing her against the floor as she desperately tried to scoop up the contents of the hall table, which lay crookedly on the marble tiles.
‘Need some help?’ he asked drily.
Cesca’s eyes were wide, her face was flushed pink. Biting her lip, she shook her head, resuming her desperate tidying. The way she kept missing the papers and pens as she swiped reminded him of a toddler learning fine motor skills.
Sam knelt down next to her, taking the papers from her hands. ‘It’s late,’ he told her. ‘You can tidy this tomorrow when the light is better.’ He wasn’t sure why he was being easy on her, not after everything that had happened in the past few days. Maybe it was the way her hands were shaking, or the shallow breaths that had to fight to escape her lips.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, more worried this time. It wasn’t like Cesca not to have an immediate snarky reply. ‘Are you in pain?’ He reached out for her arm, scanning her body for signs of injury. It must have hurt like hell if the heavy table had fallen on any part of her.