by Liz Fielding
‘Nice Sarah Gratton. Sweet Sarah Gratton. Did you surrender without a fight? Give in? Did you actually care about this man?’ he asked. Goading her, wanting to see what she really felt.
‘Yes! Of course I cared—’
‘How much? Did you throw yourself between them, fight tooth and nail? Or maybe you tucked them up in bed. Took them cocoa …’
‘Stop it!’ She looked confused rather than distressed. ‘I cared, of course I did, but—’
‘But nothing. Be angry. Curse his name. Insult her. You know you want to.’ He leaned forward until he was within an inch of her ear. ‘I promise I won’t tell.’
He was rewarded with another tiny snort. ‘It is true,’ she whispered, ‘that she could lose a few pounds.’
Not so much a growl as a mew.
Whatever she was, she wasn’t a natural tigress. More a kitten. Or not as much in love as she thought.
Or maybe she was just a damned good actress.
She’d certainly got his attention. And, for the moment, he was more than happy to play along.
‘Lose weight? Well, that’s not going to happen,’ he said, still a breath away from her ear. ‘Not if she’s pregnant.’
There was a moment of shocked silence and then her hand flew to her mouth as an explosion of laughter bubbled out, like fizz released from a shaken bottle.
You couldn’t fake that and, as if to prove it there were tears in her eyes by the time she’d managed to control herself.
He handed her a napkin and she dabbed at them.
‘You are outrageous,’ she gasped when she could catch her breath.
‘But I made you laugh. Which is far better than keeping your feelings under lock and key.’ Talk about do as I say, not what I do …
‘I suppose …’
‘Far more satisfying than being nice.’
‘Yes,’ she said, with rather more conviction, and he wondered how long she’d had those feelings corked up inside her. Not that he cared, he told himself. Except that being hurt could tip you off the rails, skew your sense of self-worth, leave you vulnerable to suggestions that under normal circumstances you wouldn’t consider. Easy prey for the unscrupulous.
Alone in a strange city, she could easily have met someone who’d spotted an opportunity. Taken advantage of her loneliness.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘thrown off course on life’s journey, you find yourself in Rome.’ He nodded as Graziella appeared, indicating that they’d finished. ‘Have you been here long?’
‘Um …’
Sarah, still struggling with the reality of laughing at Louise, the fact that she was talking about what had happened to a man she had met no more than an hour ago, was relieved at the interruption.
She hadn’t even told Pippa about Tom and Louise.
‘Grazie. Squisito,’ she said, risking her limited Italian as she smiled up at the woman clearing the table.
‘Prego, signora.’ There was a lot more, but she was lost after ‘signora’. That was the problem with practising sentences in the privacy of your own apartment. The replies never matched the ones in the phrasebook, or sounded like the ones on the CD.
‘She was telling you what she’s bringing next,’ Matteo translated when she’d gone. ‘Pasta in a cream and mushroom sauce. Chicken baked with rosemary. A salad of some kind. Cheese. Fruit.’
Her groan was half pleasure, half torture. ‘I’ll never get used to eating so much at lunchtime.’
‘I don’t eat like this during the week when I’m in Rome—’ Monday till Friday? She crushed a tiny flutter at the thought ‘—but it is the weekend. And in the country you have to relax, take time to live well. Eat, sleep when it’s hot, take a walk through the vineyard when the sun has gone down.’
‘It sounds blissful.’ It was all too easy to imagine walking with Matteo as he checked the progress of the grapes. His hand ready to steady her if she stumbled as the dusk deepened. ‘Unfortunately, I have a train to catch.’
‘But you have seen so little of the area,’ he protested. ‘Enjoy your lunch. Rest this afternoon. I’ll give you a tour of Isola del Serrone this evening. The vineyard, the river, the village. Everything that your friend has told you about. I will drive you back to Rome.’ He paused. ‘Or you could stay until tomorrow.’
The flutter became a tremor of something more like panic. They had been flirting, she may even have been indulging in a fantasy rerun of that kiss. But she’d been fooling herself.
This was too fast. She was not ready. No way …
‘That’s very kind of you—’
He turned away as the pasta arrived, clearly assuming the matter was settled. Graziella tutted at the small amount she took.
‘Mi spiace …’ She turned to Matteo. ‘Please, explain that if she wants me to eat everything it’s going to have to be small portions.’
He translated and, as her ear strained to catch the words, she said, ‘That doesn’t sound anything like the Italian on my CDs.’
‘It won’t. Locally, we use an ancient dialect. It was spoken by the Volci who lived here long before the Romans.’
‘And you still speak it?’
‘I told you. We’ve been here a long time.’ He picked up a peppermill. ‘Pepper?’
‘A little, thank you.’
‘So,’ he said, as they dug into the creamy pasta, ‘you didn’t tell me how long you have been in Rome.’
‘A month, give or take a few days.’
‘And you are enjoying it?’
‘Great job. Great apartment. What’s not to like?’ she said simply.
‘You have a job?’ he asked, clearly astonished.
‘Of course.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound so surprised, but since you don’t speak Italian …’
‘I’m teaching at an English language school in Rome. Maternity cover.’
It was clearly not what he’d been expecting if the barely perceptible pause, an instinctive lift to his brows was anything to go by. But he was swift to recover.
‘History,’ he said. ‘I recall that you have a degree in History.’
‘It feels a bit like taking coals to Newcastle, to be honest,’ she said. Then, because he clearly hadn’t a clue what she was talking about, ‘They used to mine vast quantities of the stuff in Newcastle. It’s a saying.’
‘Of course. I understand. But your degree is in Modern History.’
‘I’ve become pretty familiar with the Tudors, since they’re part of the curriculum. But not a Roman in sight,’ she admitted.
‘Are you enjoying it?’
‘Yes, I am.’ Which was true. The job. Rome.
‘But you must miss your family. Friends.’
‘They are a telephone call away. We exchange emails, photographs.’ As if to make the point, she picked up her phone and dropped it in her bag. ‘Chat on Skype.’
‘It’s not the same,’ he pointed out. ‘A computer can’t give you a hug.’
She laughed. ‘No, that’s true.’ And you had to like a man who understood the need for a hug now and then. ‘But I always wanted to travel.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘I talked about doing a gap year, before university, but in the end I decided to be sensible, get the degree and the PGCE over and done with first, then travel.’ Sensible Sarah. ‘I had all the brochures, was deciding where I’d go, what I’d do, when the dream job came up. Too good to miss and when I met Tom on my first day it seemed like fate …’
‘Everything set fair until he ran into the boulder.’
And she smiled again, not because she didn’t still have the bruises, but what was the point in poking at them to see how much they hurt? It was over. It had been over from the moment Louise had walked into the staffroom. Forget the teeth and claws. Why would she fight for a man who had never looked at her the way he’d looked at Louise? As if he’d been felled.
Being mean was pointless. Louise had the kind of voluptuous figure that any man would swoon over. But Matteo had made her la
ugh about it. Who would have guessed that was ever going to happen?
‘This seemed like a good moment to go back to the beginning,’ she said. ‘I signed up with an agency which recruits teachers for overseas jobs, got a reference so good from my Headmaster that I suspect he couldn’t wait to be rid of me.’ She pulled a face. ‘It’s tricky when you all work together.’
‘A decent man would have left.’
‘He did, but he’s head of sport. The kids love him. And I’m the one who always wanted to travel.’
‘You left so that he could return to his job?’ He grinned. ‘I take it all back. You are not nice, Sarah Gratton.’
‘Excuse me?’ How much “nicer” could a woman get?
‘Every day this man goes to work he will know he has you to thank for his job. And so will Louise. She won’t be able to stand it. Sooner or later she’ll insist he changes his job and he’ll blame her. It’s positively Machiavellian.’
‘No!’
The chicken, golden-skinned and scented with rosemary, arrived at that moment, giving her a moment to gather herself.
It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.
Could it?
Did that warm glow come from knowing she’d done the right thing? Or was that no more than self-righteous cant?
How many times had she imagined Tom walking down the corridors, seeing her everywhere the way she’d seen him? Missing her? Realising what a mistake he’d made?
Matteo dressed a green salad. Topped up her glass.
‘No need to look so distraught, Sarah. You didn’t twist his arm. The choice was his.’
‘He loved his job.’
‘So did you.’
‘Yes, I did. But right now I’m picking up my life plan, taking the first step on my journey around the world,’ she said.
‘You are happy?’
Right now? At this minute? With the sun slanting through the heavily laden vines overhead. The soft murmur of insects, the scent of warm earth and Matteo di Serrone teasing her, making her laugh.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m happy.’
He glanced across the table, holding her fixed in the power of his dark eyes as he said, ‘Then let me say that I’m very glad you started your journey in Rome, Sarah.’
And she found herself saying, ‘So am I.’
The chicken was amazing, a melting dollop of dolcelatte could not be denied, but she finally begged for mercy when he offered her a peach.
‘Enough. No more.’
‘You must have something. A pear? A plum?’ Then, in apparent desperation, ‘A grape?’
She laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed as much.
‘No,’ she declared. ‘Not even a grape.’ But, refusing to take no for an answer, Matteo reached up and plucked a huge dark grape from a bunch growing above his head. Held it close enough to her lips for her to smell the sweetness.
‘Resistance is futile,’ he said and she felt herself sliding into temptation.
Everything today had been about the senses.
Vivid colour, the scent of herbs and the sunbaked earth. The touch of a man’s lips for the first time in months.
Languorous in the still heat of the early afternoon, lulled by the faint hum of drowsy insects, mesmerised by Matteo’s dark eyes gleaming softly in the shade, urging her to this one last pleasure, she leaned forward the inch required to take the grape, closing her lips around it. Around the tips of his fingers.
The grape exploded on her tongue, the juice dribbling over her lips, over his fingers. And it seemed the most natural thing in the world to lick it up …
CHAPTER FIVE
ITALIAN FOR BEGINNERS
I could make you drool, describing in minute detail the home-baked focaccia stuck with rosemary, the antipasto, pasta al funghi, baked chicken, formaggio that I had for lunch as the guest of a man whose family has lived in this area for centuries. Who still speaks a dialect older than Latin.
Tall, dark and seductively charming. How easy it is to be seduced by laughter. By hot, dark eyes and a smile that steals your senses under the warm Italian sun …
‘SARAH …’ She jerked, blinked.
Matteo’s hand was on her arm and he was looking at her with concern. ‘I’m sorry. I was afraid you were going to fall.’
‘Fall?’
‘You closed your eyes for a moment. The heat, a glass of wine …’
What? No! She’d only had half a glass. Maybe three-quarters, but her head was clear. She could still taste the sweetness of the grape juice, the warm dry saltiness of his skin as she licked it from his fingers …
Oh, right. Got it.
She might not have fallen asleep, but she’d behaved like an idiot and he was doing his best to save them both from embarrassment.
‘I’m sorry. I should never drink at lunchtime,’ she said, hoping that he’d put her flush down to the wine, the heat as she grabbed the convenient excuse. ‘Half a glass of wine and I’m done for the afternoon.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re in the country. Eat. Relax …’
‘There’s relaxed and then there’s falling asleep with your face in your food,’ she said, doing her best to make a joke of it.
‘There’s a good reason why everything shuts down in the afternoon,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘Graziella will show you where you can rest.’
‘No. Thank you.’
She was not sleepy. On the contrary, she was buzzing with adrenalin, her skin so sensitive that the slight movement of air as he stood up made her go all goose bumpy.
She’d lost track of time when he’d kissed her on the path. And now this. It was too weird and she had to go before she did something really stupid.
‘Lunch was wonderful, Matteo, but I really do have to go.’
‘Of course.’ He didn’t press her to stay and who could blame him? ‘If that is your wish.’ He eased her chair back, helped her to her feet. His touch on her elbow was electric and she practically catapulted out of the chair. ‘I cannot, however, allow you to take the train by yourself.’
‘Oh?’ she said, dangerously. He’d given her lunch and now thought he owned her?
‘If you will not wait for me to drive you back this evening—’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured him.
‘—then perhaps you would do me a small favour and allow Bella’s driver to take you to Rome,’ he continued, as if she hadn’t interrupted.
‘Bella? But I thought you said she wasn’t here?’
He gave a little nod as if she’d confirmed something for him.
‘She isn’t. Stephano acted as a decoy. With sufficient bribery, my brother does a passable impersonation of his cousin. I came with him.’ He shrugged. ‘Largely, I have to admit, to ensure that he didn’t simply drive straight to his student digs. I wanted them well away from Rome.’
‘Stephano dressed up as his cousin?’ She grinned despite her annoyance. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘You did say that he is beautiful. In a scarf, dark glasses, with a coat thrown over his shoulders he can get away with it as long as he keeps his chin well down and his hands hidden.’
‘The coat was a bribe?’
‘A favourite from Valentino. He had to twist her arm very firmly before she would part with it.’
‘I’ll bet. And it explains the fact that he appeared to be wearing lipstick.’
‘He had to make it from the street to the car with a mob of photographers only feet away. Don’t worry,’ he said, quickly, ‘you won’t have to face that. The car is under cover, invisible to even the longest range lenses. And it has tinted windows.’
‘So why will they fall for it? Follow me?’
‘Bella is a city girl and she loves publicity. She rarely hides from the press, which is why she gets away with it on the rare occasions she plays fast and loose with them. Her entourage will follow and you’ll not only be doing me a favour, but the entire village will thank you.’
‘Oh? Will I
get a statue, too?’
‘Maybe a plaque.’ He watched as she shouldered her bag, picked up her hat. ‘Are you sure you have to go? You’ve hardly seen anything.’
‘I’ve seen enough.’ She would have liked to have seen the plaque in the church, pay her respects. Walk where Lex had walked, but she’d discovered what had become of Lucia. It was enough. ‘I have what I came for,’ she said. ‘A lot more. Thank you for a wonderful lunch, Matteo. And thank Graziella for me.’
‘It is done.’ Then, since there was nothing more to be said, he led the way across the garden to a garage block on the far side of the house.
The driver opened the door, but when she didn’t immediately climb aboard, he moved away, sliding behind the wheel. Leaving them alone.
For a moment neither of them moved, as if unable to decide quite how to part. A handshake seemed too formal. A kiss, even on the cheek, too dangerous.
She opted for the handshake. ‘Goodbye, Matteo.’
He took her hand, held it for a moment. ‘Quando veniamo a contatto di ancora …’
He released her hand, held the door for her. Whatever he’d said, he clearly did not expect an answer and she climbed aboard. There was a soft thunk as the door closed behind her and, before she had turned to pull down the seat belt, the car was gliding out of the garage.
She turned to look back as it sped along a road that skirted the vineyard and caught a glimpse of Matteo standing exactly where she’d left him.
What on earth was she doing?
He’d invited her to stay …
The road dipped. Man and house disappeared from sight and she sat back, fastened the seat belt as they approached high wrought-iron gates where scooters and motorbikes were already revving up.
There was a flurry of flashes as they swept through, but she scarcely noticed. She was too busy regretting her flight. Wishing that, for once, she’d had the courage to take the risk instead of grabbing the safe option.
She’d always played it safe. Done the sensible thing.
She’d talked herself out of the gap year, grabbing the safe job in her home town. Clung to the nest instead of spreading her wings. Fallen in love with the first man who’d made her heart beat faster.