A Life Sublime

by Billy London

  “You should tell Gina to be nicer to me,” Nick said once he could control his laughter. “We’ve only been married two minutes.”

  “What are you cheating at?”

  “It’s a very strong word. Misused.” They pulled up outside Belinda’s home. “Here we are. I’ll speak to you later.”

  With another kiss to her cheek, he helped her out of the car then sped off into the distance. Something dodgy was definitely going on. Maybe a slap or two with a wooden fufu spoon would do it. Beating worked in her day. No reason it wouldn’t help now.

  Chapter Twelve

  Enough with the waiting business. If Belinda was going to reject him, she could do so to his face. His ego told him it was unlikely, because he wasn’t used to not getting his own way. He sent a text to Paul to thank him for letting him know Belinda had a day off and said he would go and see her.

  Don’t chase her off was the theme of the flurry of text messages he received from the immediate Da Canavezes in London within five minutes of his text to Paul. They had all obviously done some sort of group report and now he was being told off by a bunch of pups. He sent a group text in return. Do you not all have things to do? The silence was most telling. Sitting back in the car, he directed his driver to Thornton Heath. There would be no admission of nerves or concern that Belinda may use something worryingly fatal to beat against his head. She had asked for space, and she’d had plenty. He’d missed her. Desperately.

  There was no room outside Belinda’s home for the Bentley and normally displeasure would have set in and a few cars may have been seriously damaged. However, time was of the essence. The car was double parked in front of her house and Massimo swiftly exited the vehicle.

  He knocked on the door once and adjusted his tie. Belinda’s head poked around the door and her eyes widened as soon as she took all of him in, glasses on a chain around her neck clattering against the door.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I would like to take you out for the evening.”

  Funny how he thought his memories had deceived him, the fantasy of a romance abroad had given Belinda a near angelic glow. But it was still there, right to the glint in her dark eyes. “What for?”

  Massimo heard himself laughing before he could stop. “To have a nice time, perhaps?”

  “And you think I don’t have anything else to do other than what you want?”

  “If you are busy, I can make alternative arrangements for your friend or whomever it is you are seeing.” His offer was in all seriousness. Whoever it was would just have to wait another day, just as he had to wait.

  Belinda’s eyes flared with fire. “I don’t want to change my plans.”

  “May I come in? Your neighbour seems to have a very close eye on me.”

  “God’s sake. All right, fine, come in.” She stepped to the side, allowing him to enter before closing it behind him. She pointed him in the direction of some floral patterned chairs. “What’s so important that I have to change my plans for you?”

  He didn’t take the seat she obviously expected him to, but instead cupped her cheek. A joy welled within him to be near her, touching her again. “Have you missed me at all?”

  “No,” she replied in utter defiance, moving his hand away and planting her fists on her generous hips. “When someone says something to you, when I say something to you, you should pay attention. I told you. Give me some time and now you are on my doorstep all dressed up and telling me what to do. I don’t say these things for my own good. Besides, what would you have done if I was at work?”

  “Paul told me otherwise.”

  Her mouth tightened in irritation. “That sneaky so and so. He’s so naughty.”

  “I would apply the same to the other three as well.” Massimo added. “Bella, I have tickets to the opera. I know you asked for space, but I also did not want you to have any doubts about my intentions.”

  Belinda clasped her hands together, looking almost desperate. “I think you want something that will disappoint you.”

  “I have been disappointed every minute I have not spoken to you or seen you. Let us go out. There will be beautiful music, we will not be allowed to talk until the interval and I shall buy you ice cream.”

  She was thinking about it, he thought, hope rising in him that his words had touched her. “I haven’t got anything to wear!” she burst out suddenly. He grinned. She was coming with him.

  “Wear what you did to the wedding. It does not matter, the opera house here is not as formal as it is in Italy.”

  Belinda gave a growl of disapproval, “This is the last time this happens. I don’t like surprises.”

  “I understand.”

  She turned abruptly and disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door with a bang. His phone gave another bleep. Nicholas. I’ve literally just got married. Don’t upset my wife trying to get one for yourself.

  Which meant said wife had given him an earful. The warning was to preserve Belinda as much as it was to tell him off about his daughter-in-law. It brought a smile to his lips to think just how much his family had embraced Belinda.

  He heard a yelp and a cluttering from the bedroom and shoving his phone into his jacket pocket he rushed through the door to see an oak edged drawer on the floor. “What happened?” he asked.

  She waved a hand in dismissal. “I’m all right, I just dropped it. Out you go.”

  His eyes fell on what the drawer had contained and he lost the breath from his lungs. It was a rainbow pile of underwear that was nothing less than an Agent ProvocateurTM catalogue. “Who are these for?” he asked, his voice barely above a croak.

  Belinda gave a start. “What?”

  “Who are these for?” Massimo demanded again, his eyes unable to comprehend the sheer amount of frothy confections of ruffles, gossamer and lace. His heart was racing in his throat, straining at his scar, the thought of his conservative Belinda squirreling away sexy pieces of lingerie arousing him more than humanly possible.

  “Me,” she answered blankly. He raised both eyebrows and a damson blush took over her dark skin. “Me! Just me!”

  “Belinda…”

  “I’ve got no one else to wear them for,” she grumbled, effectively answering his question and extinguishing an immediate flame of jealousy. “And before you ask any other silly questions I don’t know why I’ve kept them. Now if you want us to go, get out so I can get dressed. Ewuradzi.”

  Oh God, he was having palpitations, images of his woman in various states of dress, with pieces of her seductive lingerie beneath those tantalizing layers. He had been content to believe his sexual desire had been extinguished long before Mary Alice died, but it was burning him now. Damn the opera, damn everything else but her.

  “Wear them for me,” he offered, his voice a husky whisper.

  “Pardon?” she squeaked.

  “Pick one, any one and wear it. For me. Wear one every time you see me. They are no use to you in a drawer.”

  “But I’m…”

  “No excuses.” He glanced at his watch. “Five minutes and the car must leave or we will miss the performance.”

  “We’ve had one already,” Belinda said archly. “All right! Go away for five minutes and let me put on some decent clothes! Irritating man!”

  He smiled in satisfaction and turned back into the living room sitting down and resting his ankle on his opposite knee. The trembling in his limbs saw him rearrange himself to not betray just how badly affected he was. Maybe he was having the ‘late mid-life crisis’ Paul said he was going through. Or maybe this was God’s way of punishing him by bringing him close to a coronary at the mere thought of loving that glorious woman.

  Belinda finally emerged from her bedroom, wearing a cream silk shirt which rounded those wonderful breasts of hers and high waist trousers in a fluid black. She had a short deep plum jacket on her arm, a plum coloured bag on her shoulder. “Now can we go?”

  He slowly got to his feet and stood in front of her.
She was wearing a creamy, rich perfume and the same deep plum of her jacket framed her lips. With excruciating slowness, he ran the palms of his hands over the clasp of her bra beneath the silk, down to her bottom. Underneath the satin of her trousers he could feel ruffles. Sweet saints preserve him, she was going to drive him to sectioning. The knowledge of what she was wearing would torture him throughout the three hour opera.

  “Who said you could touch?” she demanded, only the hitch in her tone giving her away.

  “You did not stop me.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Do you believe me when I say you are a very beautiful woman?”

  “Of course. I’ve seen myself, I look good!”

  Laughing, he allowed himself the barest touch of his lips to hers and warm amber flavour flowed onto his tongue. “We must leave now.”

  “All this trouble, this thing better be good.”

  “You are an elegant woman and this is a very elegant opera. You will enjoy it, but not as much as you will enjoy me.”

  She gave him a short sharp slap on the arm. “You are a bad man.”

  “I am trying to convince you otherwise,” he said softly, taking her hand and leading her from the flat, hoping that the power of the Royal Opera HouseTM would go some ways to helping him.

  For all her protestations, Belinda felt ridiculously happy to be sitting in the back of Massimo’s BentleyTM, being driven like royalty to the opera. He had her hand clutched in his, resting on his meaty thigh.

  “What’s this opera about?”

  He lifted her knuckles to his mouth. “A woman choosing society’s rules over her own feelings. The devastation of loss. How irreplaceable true love really is.”

  “Sounds depressing,” Belinda frowned.

  “It is Verdi. There are uplifting moments, but the moral is there.”

  “I’m wondering why you didn’t pick something nice. What’s that one with the Figaro bit?”

  “That is the Barber of Seville. The Marriage of Figaro was showing earlier. But I am not a fan of Mozart.”

  “Because he’s not Italian?”

  “That has much to do with it,” he said with a grin. She started to laugh, the horrendous weeks of living off her memories fading in the warmth of his touch.

  He placed a box in her lap. “The children wanted you to have these.”

  Releasing his hand, she gave a frown. “Why are they buying me gifts?”

  “It is in case you cannot see.”

  She opened the box to a pair of binoculars. They were gorgeous. “This isn’t proper gold is it?”

  “Possibly, but they are antique. A souvenir for today, if you will.”

  Humbled and embarrassed by their sweetness, and most likely manipulation, Belinda asked, “Who bought them?”

  “All of them. But I believe Nicholas wrote a note.”

  Under the glasses was a fibrous piece of card. It felt like parchment. On it, Nick had written in his bold, slashed hand, Mina, no hurry. The world looks better at a distance. Love Nick.

  “They’re too old to call Child Social Services if I beat them, aren’t they?” Belinda said through her teeth. Honestly. They were all impossible.

  Massimo leaned over to read the note and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “After everything I have done for him? Ungrateful boy.”

  The BentleyTM pulled up by the cobbled pavings of Covent Garden Market. Massimo swiftly got out of the car to help her out. He led her through the decadent foyer of the Royal Opera HouseTM, where they were greeted by an usher who walked them down various corridors. Belinda’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “We’ve got a box?”

  “All to ourselves.” He sat her down first, then took the seat next to her arranging a thick tartan blanket over her knees. Champagne was popped and poured into a glass for her.

  “If you start this way, you know you have to carry on,” she warned. He sent her a grin of complete assurance.

  “Only the best for you, Bella.”

  The performance began and the view from the box was incredible, not that alone but the music touched her to the depths, in places she thought had dried out and cobwebbed over in the years. Before the last bars of Di sprezzo segno had even finished, Belinda was on her feet along with the rest of the house, clapping as if her life depended on it. She turned to Massimo with a beaming face. “This is fabulous!”

  “It is Italian. Of course it is!”

  “False pride,” she drawled.

  “Patriotism not nepotism,” he corrected, pressing a light kiss to her lips. Someone below gave a wolf whistle.

  “Quiet in the cheap seats!” Belinda snapped to a roar of laughter. Massimo told her to stay put while he brought her a programme, a CD of the music and the promised ice cream.

  “Toffee apple flavour,” he presented them with a flourish.

  She frowned at him. “Aren’t you making things unreal again?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This isn’t every day, taking me out to somewhere like this.”

  “No, but think of it as a culmination of every day I have not seen you. We can sit in your living room for you to knit socks for your coming grandchild, if you prefer.”

  “I. Do. Not. Knit!”

  Massimo started to laugh. “Naturally. I have made myself clear. It is you who needs to take the step forward to every day or not at all.”

  Not at all was not going to happen. She had Gina, Paul, Nick and Sofia to think about, unashamedly wicked as they were. She couldn’t bear to spend time like this with Massimo and go back to that emptiness again. The past few weeks were enough to convince her that she desperately wanted him in her life, but it would come at a price. Anything good always did. “Why does it have to be such an extreme? All or nothing?”

  He looked at her for a long minute as the house lights dimmed for the third act. “You know why.”

  Oh. Dear. God.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Watching her out of the corner of his eye, Massimo knew she wasn’t at all paying attention to the last act for a good thirty minutes. She was thinking on what he had said. Good! The opera would be of help. Violette’s final days in the absence of Alfredo’s love would move his sweet Belinda. The soprano tonight was in her element. Belinda’s heart would be tearing right about now.

  He glanced over and saw tears on her face. Without a word he handed her a silk handkerchief, knowing that this production demanded nothing less than tears he’d brought several with him. She took the handkerchief, held his hand with her other and didn’t let go until the curtain fell. Clapping furiously, Belinda gazed at him with glistening eyes, mouthing a thank you. She didn’t ever need to thank him for wanting her by his side. All she needed to do was to tell him she wanted the same.

  Massimo helped her into her jacket and folded the opera glasses back into their box. He held out his hand to her, her presents tucked into a ROH bag and over her arm. She took it and gripped his hand with her own. Unhurriedly, they followed the other patrons out of the theatre, spilling out into Covent Garden.

  “Would you like me to take you home, Mrs. Afriyie?”

  Belinda looked up at him, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Instinct kept him on his feet, or surely the shock of not only the exhibitionism of her actions but the actual kiss itself would have toppled him to the floor. She caught him by surprise, the same way she’d done in the Tyrrhenian Sea.

  He tasted toffee apple, champagne and the promise of so much that they could have together. His strength came from desire to hold her tighter, taste more of her, to never let her go again. The chattering of people faded, the music from surrounding bars, the rumbling of taxis evaporated. All that remained was Belinda. He broke the kiss first.

  “Was that yes?”

  “Take me home with you,” she insisted.

  No hesitation, you should know, he warned himself. “All or nothing Bella?”

  “All,” she replied without waiting a beat. A smile partly hid how smeared her lipstick was
now. “Do you have food?”

  He laughed, cradling her against him. “Yes, I do. Plenty. Come, I will make sure you are well fed.”

  He didn’t really sleep. How could he? Every now and then waking and falling into a light doze, he’d open his eyes to make sure she was still there. Not that he could be blamed, he’d spent an unreasonable amount of time imagining this, it wasn’t a stretch for him to think he was hallucinating and rather than returning to his home, Belinda had gone to her own place. But she hadn’t. She had gone home with him. Expectant and hungry. He’d had a meal prepared for them which only required a brief reheating.

  Just as he’d cleared the plates away, Belinda started to strip. First the jacket, then the silk blouse and finally the trousers, revealing the purple, ruffled panties he’d challenged her to wear. “Where’s your bedroom?” she’d asked mildly. Plates long forgotten, he bodily lifted her into his arms and carried her there before she could change her mind. And it was as glorious as every minute they’d been together in Italy, probably more so for their separation.

  His fingers traced with wonder over her arm and along her spine. He palmed the curves of her ample bottom only to do the same to her breasts, the large orbs spilling over his fingers. Light began to drift into his bedroom when desire over took him. With a strong hand curling into her thigh, he hooked her leg over his own, a thrill chasing through his stomach as his cock slid over the creamy wetness of her pussy. She murmured, hovering between dreams and consciousness, only to push back against him, seeking more without saying a word. He surged into her, his whole body drenched with a shudder at the grip of her inner walls on his cock. Slipping his arms tightly around her, he moved within her, slow steady strokes to savour every sensation. He buried his face in her neck and breathed deeply. It felt incredible even more so when her moans coincided with each thrust.

  Lowering his arms to her waist, he kept her firmly in place as his body drove on automatic, going harder, her ass cushioning the intensity of his movements. He felt the tremors of her orgasm long before his own seized every muscle in his body. Belinda turned over with a laughing smile. “You’re a very good alarm clock. Can you do that again at eight?”