“I’ve been wanting to do that again ever since I kissed you the day of the funeral.”
Involuntarily she raised her fingers to her lips and touched them as if to reassure herself the kiss was real.
“Are you playing with me Luca? Because if you are, please don’t.”
He put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her to him: all needs of his own disappeared under the surprising weight of Isabella’s own apparent need.
He inhaled her scent, her hair and kissed her head gently before he laid his cheek there. They stayed like that for long minutes with only the accompaniment of the birds and the river. It seemed to Luca that, rather than forgetting his past, it had crept up on him without him realizing. Visiting his old home, being with the woman he’d fallen in love with all those years ago, he’d discovered not only a woman still hurting, but also a man whose pain was undiminished.
Then she moved under his touch as if startled to find herself there and pulled away. She turned from him and wiped her arm across her eyes, again like an awkward child.
“I want to be by myself now.”
He nodded. He understood because he felt the same. She remained still, so very alone, with her back to him. Then she turned to face him and he saw the utter vulnerability in her eyes.
“Tell me, Luca, just one thing before I go. You’ve been avoiding saying it directly. But I need to know. Why are you here? What made you return? Was it me?”
He knew what she wanted to hear. But he couldn’t lie, no matter how deep her need. “I’m here because my grandmother asked me to be here for you. She asked me to hire you for the job. She needed to know that you and your sisters would be cared for. Would be safe.”
Isabella didn’t understand at first. His eyes still held hers with a fierce passion, but the words told her something different.
“Oh.” She stepped back. It seemed such a useless thing to say but she could think of nothing else.
“I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you wanted.”
She shrugged. “How would you know what I want? No, it’s the truth I want and it seems you’ve told me that. That’s all I need to know.”
She began to walk away.
“Wait. Just wait a while and we’ll talk.”
“No.” She gazed up at the leafy canopy above which clouds gathered blocking out the sun, then back to the path that led to the castello. “It looks like rain and, besides, I’ve work to do. That’s why you brought me here isn’t it?”
“I'll see you tomorrow, then. At Nonna’s.”
She nodded without turning back to him. The sooner the better. She couldn’t endure much more of his humiliation. One moment she thought he wanted her and the next? It was nothing but a game to him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Luca sat in the ancient wood-paneled library, shifting the pieces of paper desultorily around his desk, and wondering what the hell had happened to him in a few short days to destroy his sense of purpose. He no longer knew what he wanted; he no longer knew what he was doing. There was only one thing clear: he couldn’t be with Isabella and not want her. He had to get Nonna’s last request over and done with and then they could go their separate ways.
He sighed and opened the desk drawer to get the key to the house. Instead his fingers closed over the handful of photographs he'd removed from his grandmother's tin chest. He rubbed his thumbs against the edges of one, flattening the creases. It was of Isabella, at about eleven years of age, relaxed and smiling mischievously at the camera, at his grandmother. It was a smile he'd never seen, not even when he’d been her lover.
He pulled out the second photograph. She must have been a few years older—perhaps thirteen—the smile had gone and the eyes were full of distrust. What the hell had happened to wipe that beautiful smile from her face?
He frowned as he placed the photographs back in the drawer. Then he shrugged. Different photographs, different emotions, different ages. He was reading too much into it. He dropped the photographs, picked up the old key and slammed the drawer closed.
She was early for her meeting with Luca at his grandmother’s house.
As she waited for him in the shade of a chestnut tree, she watched him approach, phone clamped to his ear. She was about to step out from under the overhanging branches of the tree when she paused, arrested by the quiet tone of his voice. With her, he could be playful, flirtatious, angry, frustrated, but his voice always held a sense of power. But he sounded positively gentle as he farewelled his “carina” on the other end of the phone.
Then it suddenly dawned on her. Of course. Presumably he’d put his life on hold while he carried out his grandmother’s wishes. So what, or who, had he left behind? Someone who inspired a gentleness that she’d never inspired, that much she knew. The thought twisted in her gut.
She stepped out into the harsh sunshine. It was none of her business. He was only here, now, with her in order to carry out his grandmother’s wishes that she be provided for. No other reason.
“Isabella!” He pushed the phone hastily into his back pocket, turned the key in the lock and pushed open the heavy door.
“After you.”
Isabella bit her lip and gripped her handbag more tightly, the leather straps feeling slippery in her hands.
“I could have done this alone.”
“It's something we have to do together. We have no choice.”
She swallowed and stepped into the stone-flagged hallway. A wall of dry heat hit her. She tried to take a deep breath but somehow it stuck in her throat and she coughed. She stood stock still in the ancient hallway, stunned by the familiar smell of polished wood and drying herbs, of past activities that would never happen again. Over-riding the blend of fragrances was the hot, dusty smell of a closed house and a sense of grief because everything was the same except Nonna was no longer there. The familiar associations now pointed to a large, gaping, empty hole.
With her emotions spinning since Luca’s arrival, this blast of sadness nearly undid her. She breathed deeply of the hot dry air in an effort at control and continued purposefully down to the sunny kitchen, where the old lady had spent most of her time. Luca followed close behind.
It was even hotter in there. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. She looked around, trying to ground herself in the external.
Her favorite painting—a simple, sunny still life of a vase of flowers—still hung on the chimney breast; the pendulum wall clock still ticked away the minutes and hours and the kettle still stood on the range, waiting. Her eyes fell to the wood-framed easy chair, whose homemade floral cushions were faded from the sun. It was Nonna's chair, above which now nothing moved but dust motes.
She turned to find Luca leaning against the wall looking around. As his eyes completed their search of the small room with its traditional furniture and old-fashioned kitchen fittings they rested on her and she knew his thoughts as if he’d uttered them.
“It’s just a room now, isn’t it?”
“Si.” His footsteps rang loudly around the room that was full of things and yet felt so empty. “I came after the funeral and could still imagine she was here.”
“Perhaps she was?”
“A fanciful idea for you, Isabella.”
She shrugged. “It just feels so strange. The last time I was here, I was with her.” She paused, remembering Luca’s hastily abbreviated phone call and the anger and resentment she’d felt at his absence during the last few days of Nonna’s life surged once more through her body. “Where were you then, Luca, when she needed you?”
“I was in hospital. Nonna knew about it. We said our goodbyes in Florence when she was in hospital.”
She frowned. “I didn’t know. She didn’t say anything.”
“I didn’t want her to. Some things are private.”
She turned away at the reminder that she now meant nothing to him.
“Of course. Are you well now?”
He smiled. “Perfectly.” He paused briefly as if conside
ring whether or not to elaborate. “I’ll tell you about it some time, but not now. Not today.”
“There’s no need. It’s your private business, as you say.” She clasped the bag straps until the ridge of stitching dug into her hand, and looked around assessingly at the paintwork on the window frames, at the lime-wash on the walls, at anything impersonal that would ground her once more in the world around her.
“It's all in good order. I'm sure the real estate agent will have no problem selling it.” She jumped as his hand rested on her shoulder. She hadn't known he was so close.
“Isabella, I have no intention of selling this house.”
The strength drained out of her. She wanted to cry. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing emerged. She turned and tried to move away but his hand gripped her shoulder. She could have tugged away. She could have slapped away his hand. But her feet seemed bolted to the floor. All she could do was shake her head.
“Then what the hell is this all about?” She drew in a shuddering breath.
“You know what it’s about. Nonna wanted it. She didn’t know I wasn’t going to sell. She wanted us here, together.” He shook his head. “There’s no understanding her. There never was.”
“So, what are you going to do with it. Are you going to redevelop?” She turned to him then, back on familiar ground. “Do you want ideas?”
There was a long pause during which the rush of energy ebbed away under the onslaught of a gaze that revealed nothing of his thoughts. He shrugged carelessly. “Why not.” He walked over to the kitchen and leaned back against the cupboards, they pressed inwards with his weight. There was something so relaxed about his stance that she had no doubt it was something he’d done thousands of times over the years, perhaps while he talked to his grandmother while she cooked. “OK. Tell me what you think about the kitchen.”
She forced herself to concentrate. Her eyes glossed over the wood-fired oven, the source of so many loaves of crusty bread, so many dinners. “Depends. For anyone who'd want a real kitchen, yes, of course, it's satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory.” The soft tone of the repeated word struck a loud note inside her. What was he doing?
“You know it is. It's perfectly fine. It can cater for a small family or large gatherings.”
“Or, rather, Nonna could.”
She looked down to avoid his gaze. “Yes. Nonna could.”
He sighed heavily. “She told me you were a frequent visitor here after I left home for university."
“I must have been about thirteen when I first came.” She swept a finger across the top of the stove and rubbed the dust between her fingers. She continued to focus on her fingers even though the fine grey dust was no longer there. “My father didn't like me coming to the village. But I used to sneak away to see Nonna.” She glanced up at Luca warily.
“Of course. She was a loving woman. When I came to her as a boy I was doing what you’re doing now—going through the motions, day by day.”
“You’re mistaken. That’s not what I’m doing.”
He shrugged. “I was. I was just waiting and hoping I would come out the other side.”
“And you did survive. Because of your grandmother.”
“Only because of her: her belief in me, her love for me. Tell me, Isabella, who do you have?”
Startled, she walked to the centre of the room and straightened the bowl at the centre of the well-worn oak table that contained the miscellaneous pieces—paper-clips, coins, curled-up stamps and a beautiful glass button—that all kitchens seem to collect.
“I don’t need anyone. If I did, then of course I have my sisters.”
“Your sisters, for whom you care so much. I hope they’re grateful for your sacrifice. What are they doing at the moment?”
“Portia’s at University and Karina is in her last year at college. I employ their old nanny to keep an eye on them. They’re probably old enough to care for themselves, but I worry about them.”
“Of course you do. You always have. But, you know, I bet they’re having fun, going out, flirting, being young. While you waste your life away worrying about them, doing everything for them.”
“It’s not like that. They’re my responsibility.”
“It seems everything is your responsibility. And, you know? It’s not, Isabella. It’s not.”
“Luca.” Her voice was quiet and restrained and polite. “I think perhaps we’ve fulfilled Nonna’s wish now, don’t you?”
He looked away as if defeated. When he raised his gaze to hers once more he appeared weary and withdrawn. “Just tell me if there’s anything you want here. A keepsake maybe?”
Her eyes shot straight to the painting. His gaze followed hers. “The painting? It's worthless. A local artist I think.”
She walked over to it. Her fingers rose to touch but stopped, half way.
“I've always loved it.”
“You want it?”
“I'd like it very much.”
Her interest seemed to have stirred his own and he looked up at her with a piercing gaze.
“It’s yours. But what do you see in it?”
She opened her mouth to speak but no words emerged. Instead her eyes searched the familiar shapes and shades of the painting. Every brushstroke, every highlight had been ingrained on her since she—a child in a woman’s body—had started seeking out the comfort of her old nurse. And she wanted to release herself to the balm of that comfort now. It wasn’t just a colorful painting of a vase of flowers, it was a device that took away her pain.
“I see forgetfulness.”
“Forgetfulness? Is that the way to move forward? To forget the past? You need to move on, Isabella and I don’t think forgetting is going to help you.”
Anger sparked inside her. “What right have you, Luca? What right have you to try to bring up the past?”
“The right of an old friend.”
Tears of rage sprung to her eyes at the epithet that was a pale shadow of what she felt for him. Even now.
“That’s it. I’m off.” She picked up her bag and took one step, but he was beside her in an instant, his hand firm on her arm. She looked down at it, feeling the anger, the impatience, the passion mounting with each passing second. “Take you hand away.” Her voice was trembling.
“No.”
“Why?’
“Because you keep running away. This will be the third time you’ve run from me, from your past. And how’s that working for you, hey Isabella? Is that making life easier for you. Don’t you think it’s about time you faced up to things?”
She flung his hand away and turned on him furiously, her whole body shaking with rage and something more.
“You want me to open up to you, hey? How dare you Luca? How dare you come back here after all these years and make these demands of me? You use Nonna’s wishes as an excuse to try to break me down—”
He threw his hands in the air. “Hey, I’m not trying to—”
“Don’t deny it. You think it all so simple. You think you know me; you think you have an idea of what is going on inside me and you have none. None!”
“It doesn’t take a genius to see you won’t face things, to see you keep running from your past, keep reinforcing those barriers.”
“You say I have barriers. What about yours? At least I know mine exist. You’re not even aware of why you’re doing this.” She hesitated briefly at the sudden look of bewilderment on his face. “I do. What you want is to play with me.” She was so close, his breath was hot upon her face. A muscle in his jaw flickered with tension, his lips were suddenly next to hers. Energy sparked through every vein in her body, through every nerve cell and across her hot skin.
Before she even knew what she was doing she’d plunged her fingers roughly into his hair and around the back of his head until she held him in a firm grip. She pulled his mouth to hers, pressing her lips against his with all the passion that ferocious longing—and just as ferocious denial—could bring. She captured his
mouth with one swift flick of her tongue against his lips.
It was as if she’d lit the touch paper to an explosion. His lust ignited—as strong and primitive as her own—and he took control, demanded it. His tongue slid against hers, pushing into her mouth and pushing away all thought; his fingers dug into the sweat-slicked small of her back; her hands pulled him hard against her.
Their mouths moved against each other’s in a kiss that held no tenderness, only a savage desperation. His pressure against her body was too much and she stumbled back against the kitchen table, a chair falling over with a clatter.
She briefly felt the ridge of the table hard against her bottom before his hands slipped between her and the table, creating a buffer against which he leaned as she lay back flat on the table, pulling him down on top of her.
The bowl, and all its contents, went flying. It smashed on the floor, but they were both too far beyond reach to respond. There was only each other, held against each other. And, still there was too much separation.
He ground his body against hers and she lifted her hips to his. Her hands pushed up under his shirt, seeking a connection with the taut muscles that shifted under her touch as his body sought satisfaction. His hands slid down the sides of her tight-fitting dress and up her bare legs until the tight dress prevented any further progress.
He grunted with frustration as her hands pushed under the belt of his jeans, pulling him tighter to her as the soles of her feet rubbed against his legs.
But her dress was too tight; there was no room to move.
Frustrated and breathless they broke their kiss. Slowly reality inserted itself between them, and the sound of the prolonged spinning of a coin seemed preternaturally loud before it settled with a clatter. They both looked across at the pieces that lay scattered over the floor, including the beautiful glass button that lay shattered on the hard tiles.
Their faces and bodies were so close and yet the distance had never felt greater. She closed her eyes against the destruction and shook her head. “No.” Her voice was almost too soft to be heard, too soft to be a word. He tried to collect her in his arms again but she wriggled from under his embrace. “No.” Stronger, this time. She needed that distance; she couldn’t have it any other way. She’d do anything to protect herself. Even lie. “Is this what you wanted? Is this what you really wanted? A quick fuck on the kitchen table?”
Seduced by the Italian Page 6