by Daphne Clair
‘You can’t carry me!’
‘I already did, last night.’
‘Going down, though…’
‘Hold tight. I promise I won’t drop you.’
He made the journey step by step, and she hooked her arms about his neck and tried not to notice the dark sweep of his lashes, the lean outline of his face. He hadn’t shaved this morning and there was a fuzzy shadow on his skin. Tantalisingly, she knew what it would feel like against her cheek…
He wasn’t wearing his tie or jacket and the two top buttons of his shirt were open. Roxane knew the taste and texture of his skin there too, and the way intriguing little curls of chest hair tickled her palm when she stroked him.
She closed her eyes to shut out the temptation to touch, only to be assailed by other sensations—the feel of his arms holding her so securely, hard and warm yet gentle about her shoulders and under her knees, the solid wall of his chest, and the slightly salty, musky scent of him, overlaid with fresh soap. He must have washed in the downstairs washroom built into the big old laundry.
He reached the foot of the stairs and continued into the living room, placing her on the couch before he went back for the crutches.
‘I’ve made your next icepack,’ he told her. ‘I’ll bring it in, then strap the ankle again.’
He sat on the couch with her foot propped on his knee, the icepack wrapped in a towel as he held it to her abused ankle.
Last night’s dreams floated into her consciousness, and she kept her gaze rigidly fixed on her foot.
He could hardly find any erotic thrill in the bruised, swollen flesh obscuring her ankle bone, and the bulky wrapping about the bag of crushed ice that was probably freezing his hands.
Grimacing, she said, ‘It’s not a pretty sight.’
‘It’s not ugly.’ Zito glanced up. ‘Just…pathetic.’
The last thing she wanted to be was pathetic. ‘I hate this,’ she muttered. ‘Being nurse-maided by you.’
‘It’s necessary.’ He paused, holding the pack about her ankle with both hands. ‘Do you hate it from me in particular, or being nursed in general?’
‘Both.’
‘Look on it as the penance for my sins,’ he suggested. ‘You were blaming me for all your troubles last night. And I admit to feeling some guilt for this.’
His sidelong grin invited her to laugh with him. Reluctantly, she allowed the shadow of a smile to touch her lips. ‘I won’t argue about that.’
He bandaged her foot again and placed a soft pillow under it on the end of the couch, kneeling to gauge the height. ‘As high as your heart,’ he murmured.
She couldn’t help noticing that it was on a level with his heart too.
He picked up the crutches that lay on the floor, and looked at her sternly. ‘If I go out for a while, will you promise not to move?’
‘I’m not stupid, Zito. I’ll move if I have to,’ she retorted, the tilt of her chin defying him. ‘You’re not my keeper.’
She knew he was quite capable of taking away the crutches. Sharply, she said, ‘And I’ll do it with or without those!’
His lips tightened, but he stepped forward and propped the crutches against the couch.
‘Thank you.’
He gave her an exasperated look. ‘I hope you have the sense not to use them simply to prove your point.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll go to my hotel and change, then bring a few things back here.’
‘There’s no need to come back. I’m sure you have stuff to do, people to see.’
‘I don’t see anyone else around to help,’ he said. ‘It’s the weekend. I have no pressing engagements.’
‘I do have friends. One of them would come if I needed someone.’
‘And would you call on them?’ Without waiting for an answer, he added, ‘What are you so scared of, Roxane?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ But she found she couldn’t look at him.
After a moment he said, ‘I’ll be back in an hour or so. Can I bring the phone to you in case someone calls? And something to read? Or we could switch on the TV?’
‘I have a mobile phone,’ she said, ‘in my bag. The answer service will give that number to anyone who calls. And I need to make calls of my own.’
He brought her bag and she took out a hardback notebook and pen as well as her phone. Then he fetched the newspaper from the gate for her, put her current library book within reach on the coffee table, and left with her spare key in his pocket.
Roxane skimmed the newspaper, trying to take some interest in what was happening in the world. But recent events in her own little world kept getting in the way.
She’d persuaded herself that she could live apart from Zito, made a life that was interesting and fulfilling without him. Now she could see how she’d fooled herself. No one and nothing had ever made her feel so alive, so aware of every sensation that life had to offer.
Everything seemed more colourful, more exciting, more real.
It was the way she’d felt when she first met him. And look what that led to, she warned herself. Don’t fall into that trap again.
Maybe there was no trap. Zito hadn’t told her he wanted her back.
The realisation brought a piercing sorrow, so that she caught her breath and had to press a hand to her midriff. The newspaper slid from her hands and spread itself on the floor.
‘You fool!’ she castigated herself aloud. She had no reason to feel hurt. As Zito had reminded her, she was the one who had ended their marriage, walked out on him.
She needed to think about something else. It wasn’t too early to make phone calls. That was something that she didn’t have to stand up for.
Zito returned carrying a flight bag and a large plastic shopping bag, and wearing casual slacks and a T-shirt. He looked terrific as always, Roxane noted with something like despair.
‘I’ll put these away,’ he said, ‘and then make some coffee? You should take more pills too. I’ll bring them.’
‘Thanks.’ The treacherous leap of delight at the sight of him simply refused to be dismissed. She bent her head to the notebook in her lap, an excuse to hide her expression.
When he’d gone she hunched down on the couch and put the open book over her face, giving a stifled moan into the pages. This was going to be sweet torture. How long did he intend to stay?
She heard him go upstairs and the creak of the spare room floor overhead.
A welcome indignation filtered through her unwarranted euphoria. She hadn’t invited him here; he’d just taken charge as he was in the habit of doing, making assumptions about her needs and brushing aside her every objection.
But the really galling thing was that she’d let him.
Time to make a stand. Literally. She struggled off the sofa, grabbed the wretched crutches and made her way to the kitchen. When Zito came down again she had coffee on and was sitting at the table with her foot propped on a chair while the percolator gurgled and spat.
Her defiant look dared him to object, and he returned it with one of such adult indulgence that she wanted to snarl, but he said nothing, denying her the chance.
She let him pour, and then he sat opposite her, still saying nothing, until she was compelled to break the silence. ‘You didn’t tell me how your family’s been doing.’
He contemplated her for a second or two, clearly doubting her interest. ‘My parents are well,’ he said finally. ‘My grandfather misses you.’
‘I miss him, too.’ She suffered a pang at the thought of the old man who had always been kind to her.
‘You never even wrote to him.’ His tone censured her.
She had forced herself to make a clean break, afraid that maintaining any link with his family would be an excuse to keep vicariously in contact with Zito. Besides, the old man had no secrets from his grandson. ‘I was afraid he’d try to persuade me to come back.’ A partial truth.
‘If he had,’ Zito said measuringly, ‘do you think I’d have taken you back?’
Roxane’s heart shrank. Her cheeks turned cold at the unexpected, deadly thrust, and it was with an effort that she was able to speak. ‘The question didn’t arise.’ She hoped her voice sounded indifferent, but was afraid it was only reed-thin. ‘Are your sisters all right?’
‘Marina’s new baby is a little girl—six months old now, and already bossing her brothers. Angelita has her hands full with her three. Zara’s in Europe, visiting our Italian relatives.’
‘And Serena?’ Serena, the youngest, was closest to Roxane’s own age and they’d got on well, sometimes gossiping and giggling like a couple of school-girls while Zito looked on with a lazy smile, his eyes filled with affection for them both.
‘Serena’s married.’
‘To Norrie?’ Serena had been seeing Norrie since her university days.
Zito nodded. ‘Norrie, yes.’
‘He’s nice. They’ll suit each other.’
‘You sound quite the expert. What makes you think so?’
It was another barb, but Roxane decided to ignore it. ‘They were good friends. I remember them laughing a lot together. And they’re almost the same age.’ She could plant a barb or two herself.
‘Didn’t we laugh together?’ Zito asked her.
‘Sometimes.’ Roxane sipped her coffee. ‘But more often you were laughing at me.’
He put down his cup with a clatter. ‘That’s not true!’
‘You thought it was funny that I wasn’t accustomed to having money to burn, that I couldn’t bring myself to spend thousands on a dress, and when I panicked at the idea of cooking for business dinner parties.’
At the time his laughter hadn’t seemed cruel, and she had been relieved when he explained that Deloras chefs would take care of the catering. But in hindsight she felt he’d been patronising. ‘You even…’
‘What?’ he demanded as she paused there, thinking better of what she’d been going to say. ‘I even…what?’
She looked down, then up again, holding his eyes. ‘You even thought it amusing that I was a virgin. You laughed when we were…on our honeymoon…’
His black brows drew together. ‘Roxane—’ his voice grated hoarsely ‘—that is definitely untrue. I tried to keep our lovemaking light-hearted because I knew you’d be nervous. I wanted to make your first time easy and natural, help you to relax so you wouldn’t find it frightening or painful, but I was thrilled—and frankly terrified—when you told me.’
Her cup poised halfway to her mouth, she stared at him. ‘Terrified?’
‘I was deathly afraid of hurting you, perhaps putting you off sex altogether.’
‘Well, you didn’t.’ The words were out before she could stop them.
Zito smiled. ‘That was soon obvious. You were so eager and yet so innocent. If I laughed then it was with relief and…joy. Utter joy—in you, in your courage and your generosity and your sweet, unforgettable passion.’
His deep voice had lowered even further. Sitting at her small, painted kitchen table in the bright light of morning, she could feel again the invisible sparks that seemed to dance over her skin, the heaviness of her limbs and the warm shivers of pleasurable anticipation that his tender preparation had created on their wedding night. She could almost imagine herself back in the sumptuous bedroom of the exclusive tropical island lodge where they’d spent twelve lazy, passion-filled days and nights.
There had been joy for her too. A joy that had lasted much longer than those twelve days. And yet…
Dismayingly, tears stung her eyes. She lifted her coffee cup to her mouth to hide them. When she replaced the cup on the table she kept her eyes cast down. ‘I was a girl then. All that mattered to me was being in love.’
‘What are you saying? That when you fell out of love, you were no longer interested in marriage?’
She flickered a look at him. Fell out of love? That hadn’t happened. ‘I’m saying there’s more than sex to being married.’
‘This is a new insight? Congratulations. You should share it with the world.’
Forgetting her damaged ankle, Roxane pushed her chair away from the table and half rose. ‘If you’re going to sneer at me—’
Her foot tangled with the chair leg and she stumbled, inadvertently putting weight on the sprained ankle. A stabbing pain forced a choked cry from her, even as Zito’s chair went flying and he lunged to catch her and steady her.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asked urgently.
One arm was about her waist and the other hand clamped firmly just above her elbow. Her face was against his shirt, his scent filling her nostrils. Her ankle throbbed, and she gritted her teeth and thumped a closed fist against his chest. ‘Damn you!’ She hit him again, knowing her weak blows had no effect. ‘This is all your fault!’
He held her close, and she felt him rub his cheek against her hair. ‘I know, I know,’ he soothed, ‘carissima.’
The endearment was another indication of his Italian heritage, although for him it was a second language, spoken, he’d laughingly told her, with an Australian accent. Not a strong one, she guessed—he’d been sent to an exclusive boys’ school and taught to speak ‘standard’ English that to the casual listener betrayed neither his ancestry nor his birthplace. But he’d called Italian the language of love, one that he had used in their most intimate, private moments.
Roxane closed her eyes. All she wanted to do was rest against him and let him stroke her and look after her. Not to be alone any more.
Oh, no. No.
‘No!’ She pushed away from him, only to find that she had to rely on his support before she could reach her crutches. ‘Don’t!’
He arched a brow at her. ‘I thought you were enjoying it.’
‘I wasn’t!’ She adjusted the crutches and moved clumsily away from him. ‘I hurt my ankle and I needed something to lean on.’
‘Any time,’ he murmured. ‘I enjoyed it.’
‘If you want a clinging vine,’ she said tartly, ‘go find someone else. I’m not prepared to fill the role any more.’
‘What makes you think I wanted a clinging vine?’
‘You made it pretty obvious.’ She swung toward the door. ‘I’m going to put my foot up again.’
After a moment he said, ‘I’ll bring you a pain-killer.’
‘I don’t need it, and I don’t need your help.’
He didn’t follow, and she heard him running the tap as she propped her foot on the end of the couch and sank against the cushions, fiercely trying to ignore the guilty knowledge that she’d been ungracious and unreasonable, even rude.
She made another business call and then picked up the library book, attempting to lose herself in the fast-moving tale of love and mystery.
It was a while before Zito reappeared, and she pretended to be absorbed in her reading.
He had bought proper cold packs and cooled them in the freezer. He fastened them inside a towel about her ankle and replaced her foot on the cushion. ‘Can I get you anything else?’ he asked her.
‘Nothing. If you have something to do…?’
He shook his head, standing with his hands in his pockets, just a few feet from her. Even when she returned to her book she could feel him looking at her. She flicked over a page.
‘Is it good?’ he asked her.
‘Yes.’ It wasn’t the author’s fault that she was hardly taking in any of the story. ‘I’ve finished with the newspaper for now, if you’d like to read it.’
He stooped and gathered it up from the floor, and although she averted her eyes Roxane was conscious of him taking a seat in one of the armchairs, apparently settling there, but she knew that he hadn’t opened the newspaper.
She looked up to see him studying her, his hand loosely clasping the paper.
‘You don’t feel like reading?’ she inquired politely.
‘Never less,’ he admitted. ‘But don’t let me disturb you.’
Roxane bit her lip. Of course he was disturbing her. It was hopeless trying to concentrate
while he sat there silently.
‘I have tapes and CDs,’ she offered in desperation, ‘if you’d like some music.’
He smiled, a faint, sardonic curving of his lips. ‘And if I don’t like?’
Roxane shrugged. ‘Up to you.’ Ostentatiously she turned back to her book.
When he got up every nerve tightened. A big hand deliberately removed the book from her grasp, and she looked up into the depths of his fathomless dark eyes.
‘Stop hiding, Roxane,’ he said impatiently. ‘You know we have to talk.’
CHAPTER SIX
RESENTMENT stirred Roxane’s blood and stiffened her muscles. ‘I don’t have to do anything you tell me,’ she said. ‘Not any more.’ All the times she’d tried to talk to him, only to have him turn aside her anxieties with laughter, and still her protests with kisses…
‘For God’s sake!’ he said. ‘Will you stop treating me as if I’m some Victorian tyrant.’
‘Then stop acting like one,’ she snapped right back at him. ‘And give me my book.’
He looked as though he would rather have hurled it across the room. Instead he dropped it into her lap.
‘Is the ankle painful?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Not very, as long as I don’t move it.’
‘Then that isn’t what’s making you so bad-tempered.’
‘You are making me bad-tempered,’ she told him, ‘just by being here.’
‘I had noticed. Why?’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ she muttered.
‘As obvious as the reason you left me? Call me thick, but I still haven’t figured it out. You seem to have seen me as a cross between Bluebeard and Attila the Hun.’
‘I don’t recall any locked room full of murdered ex-wives,’ she conceded with some sarcasm. ‘Although that mansion you bought was certainly big enough.’
‘I have a large family,’ he reminded her. ‘You agreed we should have a place where we could bring everyone together without crowding.’
She hadn’t argued, it was true. She’d even looked forward to it. An only child herself, she had revelled in the noisy, often drop-of-a-hat gatherings that Zito’s relatives had welcomed her to.