One Night In Collection

by Various Authors

  ‘Your turn, I think.’ She was looking at him over the rim of her champagne glass. He reached over for the bottle and topped it up, more to distract him from his unsettling thoughts than because she needed it.

  ‘Where did you learn to dance like that?’

  She slanted him a wicked glance from under sooty eyelashes. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you danced last night,’ he replied gruffly, not wanting to let his mind take him back there. Focus.

  She sighed, suddenly sad. ‘I was training to be a ballet dancer, but I had a problem with the bones in my ankle. There was a weakness—the doctors didn’t know why. I had an operation, which was successful enough, but I had to give up ballet. Pole dancing was a substitute. It uses lots of the same skills, the same muscles and strength in the legs but doesn’t involve too much pressure on the feet.’

  He leaned over and picked up her foot, tracing his thumb over the inch-long scar on the inside of her ankle, frowning in the gathering dusk as he steeled himself to ask the question that was forming on his lips. This could be the key.

  It was business.

  ‘Where did you do your ballet training?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ She shook her head seriously. ‘My turn. Favourite food.’

  ‘Hmm …’ he said, wondering why he felt a tingle of relief. ‘Difficult. Food is wonderful. Can be wonderful,’ he corrected himself. ‘The food when I was growing up was appalling. But now I love dark, bitter chocolate, and figs, and really good bread, and Parma ham, and these …’ He picked up a langoustine and put it in his mouth. ‘I can’t choose just one.’

  ‘And, let me guess, you feel the same about your women too?’ she said lightly, taking a sip of champagne.

  ‘Absolutely. Now, my question. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty. No—twenty-one.’

  Topping up his own glass, he paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘It’s my birthday. Today,’ she said quietly.

  Contrition sliced through him like a razor. Benedetto Gesù, here he was playing mind games with her when she should be with her friends, having a party, celebrating. Twenty-one. Bloody, bloody hell.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He got up stiffly and packed away the box that had contained the prawns and the mayonnaise.

  ‘Why?’ Her voice was leaden.

  ‘I’ve kept you from your friends. That was wrong. You should have said; I would never have suggested—’

  ‘It’s all right. I hadn’t planned to do anything. I don’t like birthdays much. So this …’ she looked around at the beach, the candles, him … ‘this is … nice. Now,’ she added hastily, desperately trying to rekindle the relaxed mood, ‘my question. Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

  He stopped what he was doing and suddenly went very still.

  ‘No. Not that I know of. Except that I—Sort of.’

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Great. Very articulate. What the hell was wrong with him all of a sudden? He had started this stupid thing for completely practical reasons. This was work. Just answer her questions and choose your own very carefully, he berated himself. Concentrate.

  ‘Angelo?’

  She was standing behind him, a little distance away. He turned. In the dim light her small heart-shaped face was full of anxiety. ‘Tell me …’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ he said harshly, taking out a package of fragrant bread and a covered dish containing artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes and olives glistening in oil. ‘I don’t know who my parents are. I was handed in at a convent somewhere in the South of France when I was a few hours old. From there I was taken to the foundling orphanage in Milan. They called me Angelo because I had blond hair, like an angel—’ his voice was heavy with sarcasm, thinly disguising the hurt ‘—and gave me the surname Emiliani because St Jerome Emiliani is the patron saint of abandoned children.’

  There was a small silence, filled by the silky rustle of the sea.

  ‘You have no idea who your parents were?’

  He hesitated, thinking of the ruby and diamond earring he kept in a box in his safe. The Paris jeweller he had shown it to had been able to tell him it was made by Cartier in 1922 and was almost certainly unique. From that information it would probably have been possible to discover the name of the original purchaser, but he hadn’t done so. It would tell him either that his mother was some rich aristocrat who valued her family name above the welfare of her child, or that she was a common thief. Of the two, he would definitely have chosen the latter.

  ‘No. I was wrapped in a shawl made of cashmere and there was a pretty expensive piece of jewellery tucked inside, so I assume my mother wasn’t pushed for money,’ he said acidly. ‘My guess is she was from one of those backgrounds where an illegitimate child would have meant exclusion from all the best parties of the season.’

  He waited for her to say what people always said. I’m sorry. Stupid, inadequate words that would mean he would have to smile and say, It’s fine. But the silence stretched and deepened.

  ‘Children live such terrible lives,’ she whispered. ‘I think we forget, as adults, how awful it can be to be helpless, and alone, and at the mercy of things you can’t control.’

  ‘Was your life awful?’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But … nothing. You said you had “sort of” brothers and sisters. The other children in the orphanage?’

  He gritted his teeth. Gesù. How the hell had he come to find himself talking about this? Never, not once in the last twelve years, had he uttered a single word about Lucia to anybody. But to deny her now would be an intolerable betrayal.

  ‘One in particular,’ he said curtly. ‘A little girl called Lucia.’

  Anna said nothing, just waited quietly for him to go on. God, he thought bleakly, why couldn’t she just make it easier for him and fill the gap with inane chatter like any other woman would? He swallowed.

  ‘She wasn’t my real sister, of course, but she got very attached to me. I was sixteen, and she used to ask if she could come and live with me when I was old enough to leave, and if I could adopt her as my sister. I promised I would. It was what first motivated me to earn money—so I could get her out of there.’

  He balled his hands into fists and with iron self-control held back the emotion that threatened to choke him. Glancing up, he could see the shimmer of tears in her dark eyes and almost succumbed. He stood up and, picking up a pebble from the sand, hurled it down towards the incoming tide.

  ‘Anyway. She died. She had an asthma attack in the night. I wasn’t there at the time and no one else heard. She was only three.’

  For a long moment he stood, his back towards her, his shoulders tense. Then he turned and sat back down beside her, his emotions tightly reined in again, and managed a grim smile. ‘So. My question, I think. Which do you prefer? Strawberries or grapes?’

  Lying back on the rug, Anna sighed with contentment as Angelo packed the boxes back into the picnic basket.

  If only she could freeze time, right here, for ever.

  They had shared the food, taking it from each other’s fingers, until there was nothing left but a few strawberries, and she felt replete.

  Leaving only the more primeval hunger at the top of her thighs to be satisfied.

  Her eyelids fluttered open a little; she wondered where Angelo was. Through the soft darkness she could just make out the outline of his broad shoulders down by the water’s edge, and she felt her heart lurch as she watched him.

  Tonight had been heaven. But tomorrow would be hell.

  No. Don’t think about it. Don’t do what you always do and spoil it, don’t push him away to try to defend yourself from getting hurt. This is your one chance, your one night. Savour every moment.

  She got up and stretched, then began to walk down the beach towards him. The champagne and food had made her sleepy and languid, but there was a slow-burning need within her to be near him, to feel and taste and smell the sc
ent of him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Washing the oil off my hands. I don’t want to leave fingermarks all over you.’ He straightened up. ‘Look what I found.’

  He held out his hand and uncurled his fingers. Lying on his palm was a small pale shell, hinged in the middle, the two halves making a perfect heart shape.

  ‘Oh,’ she breathed, ‘it’s so pretty, so delicate.’

  His eyes burned into hers as he took the shell and slipped it into the breast pocket of the shirt she was wearing. His hands were wet with salt water and icy drops fell on to the thin fabric, soaking through and making her gasp. Instantly she felt her nipple harden and as he took his hand away it brushed against his hot skin.

  His face, inches from hers, was unreadable in the darkness, but above the whisper of the waves she thought she heard him moan quietly. The tiny sound tipped her over the edge into the yawning chasm of her desire. She was aware of her fingers, twisting themselves into the soft fabric of his T-shirt, pulling him to her, her lips seeking his, a soft pleading sound escaping her as they found his, and parted.

  ‘No.’

  The word brought her up short.

  Angelo pulled away.

  ‘Not like that. Not this time …’ With something that felt like tenderness, he scooped her up in his arms and started to carry her back up the beach. His breathing was laboured, his voice low and grave as he set her gently down.

  ‘No fighting this time. This time I want you to relax, to take it slowly …’

  ‘God, Angelo …’ her words were like a sob ‘… I don’t know if I can … I want you so …’

  He stopped her by planting a gossamer-light kiss on her lips.

  ‘Shh … just relax … trust me…’

  And with wonderful, agonizing, exquisite care he began to undo the buttons of her shirt. Looking upwards, Anna gazed in silent rapture at the infinite heavens, the vast, complicated miracle of the constellations, until, quivering with ecstasy and violent longing, her eyes slid out of focus and she was aware of nothing but her own private paradise.

  CHAPTER TEN

  IT WAS in the violet hour before dawn that Anna awoke.

  Opening her eyes slowly, she saw the stars fading above her in a lavender sky and heard the distant sigh of the sea. Her cheeks felt cold, but beneath the blanket Angelo’s body was wrapped around hers, warming her, shielding her from the chill morning air. For a second she closed her eyes and savoured the feeling of his arms around her, his long thighs tucked beneath her knees, his chest, reassuringly solid, rising and falling steadily against the curve of her back.

  He had slept with her.

  A tiny glow of joy flickered somewhere in the darkness of her heart. When she had gone, in the bleak days and nights—the bleak years—that lay ahead, she would always have that. It wasn’t much, but it was something that she had shared with him that he had given no one else.

  She half regretted that she had slept at all, but in the afterglow of their lovemaking she had been exhausted. And it was a final giving, one last intimacy after all that their bodies had shared with each other.

  She looked down. His hand lay, fingers loosely curled across one of her bare breasts. She let her gaze linger on his long fingers, the well-shaped nails with their narrow crescent moons at the base, the fine gold-tinged skin. There was a tiny scar between his index and middle fingers, a fine line of white against the sun-bronzed flesh, and she wondered how he’d got it.

  Her throat ached with unshed tears.

  All the things she would never know about him. How many nights like last night would it take to have all those questions answered?

  Closing her eyes, she steeled herself to inch her body away from his. It went against every instinct she possessed, but then she remembered what he had said last night.

  It could be worse … You might be some spoilt little rich girl with a title and a trust fund.

  She stood up unsteadily, clenching her hands into fists and pressing them to her temples as the tears spilled down her cheeks. She had no alternative but to leave. He would find out about her sooner or later, and she couldn’t face the contempt in his face when he did. This might feel as if she were cutting out her own heart with a pair of nail scissors, but at least she would walk away with the memory of something perfect.

  She shivered and, not trusting herself to look down on his sleeping face, gathered up the clothes they had discarded last night. She put on the shirt again, and bit her lip. If she was going to make her own way to the ferry terminal on the island she was going to need something a bit less revealing to wear.

  Hesitantly she picked up his jeans. They were well-washed and soft and, although they dwarfed her slim hips, she quickly threaded the sequinned scarf through the belt loops and pulled them in to her waist, turning up the legs to mid-calf.

  His mobile phone was in the back pocket. She took it out and placed it gently on top of the picnic basket where he would see it.

  It was getting lighter. Soon the air would lose its haze of purple secrecy and become tinged with the soft pink of the new day. Hugging her arms around her, Anna looked out to sea, where Angelo’s yacht slept serenely on the smooth water, its glass surfaces reflecting the rosy glow of the sky to the east. There was no reason for her to go back there; she had left nothing behind. Except her heart, and that didn’t belong to her any more anyway.

  A few metres beyond where they had slept the soft white sand gave way to the hard, smooth, tide-washed beach. Impulsively she walked towards it and, picking up a shell, bent to write a message for him. Tears splashed from her eyes and disappeared into the sand, leaving no mark.

  She couldn’t help herself from walking back to the rug and looking down on him. He looked young, not so very much different from that lonely boy in the orphanage, his blond hair tousled, his beautiful mouth slightly open, his dark lashes sweeping down over his cheeks.

  Inhaling brokenly, she tried to stifle the sobs that tore through her and turned away to stumble blindly across the sand.

  At the top of the dune she looked back, but the view was veiled behind a mist of tears.

  The island was tiny and Anna knew she wouldn’t have far to walk before she reached the little ferry port back to the mainland. It had been inhabited solely by the monks who had lived there since the fifth century; she felt no fear walking on her own through the shadowy forests of pine and eucalyptus in the hazy mist of the early morning.

  In fact she felt nothing. She simply concentrated on putting one bare foot in front of the other, and the details of what she would do next. Arrive at Cannes. Go back to the GreenPlanet camp to pick up the few things she had left there. Take a bus to Nice. Book a flight home.

  The feeling would come later.

  Angelo woke with a start and sat up, instantly alert.

  The beach was empty in the clear grey early morning light, the slight indentation in the sand where she had slept beside him cold. Anna was gone.

  Swiftly he pulled on his boxer shorts and looked around for the rest of his clothes. The T-shirt he had worn was lying on the sand a little way off where Anna had thrown it last night, but there was no sign of his jeans. Swearing savagely, he stood up and, seeing the writing in the sand, swore again.

  THANK YOU

  Gesù, she had taken his clothes and slipped away in the night, leaving a message saying thank you? She may as well have left a ‘with compliments’ slip and a mint on the pillow, the cold-hearted bitch. The shell that she had used to write in the sand was lying where she had dropped it, and beside it he noticed the prints left by her small feet.

  With another muffled curse, he picked up the shell and hurled it along the beach, then stood motionless for a moment.

  He had had the best night’s sleep he could remember having for years. But he had broken his own golden rule and had ended up paying the price.

  He had left himself vulnerable, and she had exploited that.

  Bitch.

  It had taken l
ess than half an hour to reach the little ferry port, but by the time she got there Anna was exhausted with the effort of not thinking about Angelo. It had taken every ounce of willpower she had to keep her mind focused on the practical details of the day ahead, and a ruthlessness she didn’t know she had to banish the images that kept flickering in front of her mind’s eye like some masochistic internal slide-show. Angelo laughing, Angelo’s broad bare shoulders as she’d looked down on them in the villa, Angelo sleeping.

  It was that last image that was the most haunting.

  Her bare feet were sore from the rough unmade island roads, bloodied where pine needles had pierced them. She didn’t feel it, but when she arrived at the port and discovered that the first ferry back to the mainland didn’t leave until midday, that was when she almost gave way to tears. The thought of waiting there, of Angelo coming to find her and confronting her, filled her with panic.

  But the thought of waiting there and him not coming to find her was even worse.

  In the end she was spared the torment. Salvation came in the form of two monks from the monastery, arriving in a battered old pick-up truck with crates of wine and honey in the back. These were the products which the monastery produced for sale, and were to be transported in their boat over to the mainland. Seeing Anna’s ill-fitting clothes and tear-stained face, they agreed to take her across with them without hesitation.

  ‘Est-ce que vous bien, ma petite?’ one of them asked quietly and looking into his kindly, serene face she was filled with resolve.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied with fierce determination. ‘I’m going to be fine.’

  Catching the bus that went along the coast road past the château was worse. She had arrived at the same time as the first of the day’s tourists, pristine in fresh summer dresses and neatly pressed shorts, and was aware of their eyes on her obviously borrowed clothes. It was a relief to disembark at the gates of the château and escape their curious glances and whispered speculation.

  The GreenPlanet camp was still sleeping. Wincing at the noise, Anna unzipped the entrance to her tent. Her belongings were pretty much as she had left them, and she was relieved to see that someone had brought her things back from the beach the other night. Fliss’s dress was there, folded on her rucksack in a slither of silk, alongside her little Indian bag. Rummaging in it, she found her mobile phone and squinted at the screen in the unearthly green light filtering through the canvas.