In the Italian's Sights

by Helen Brooks

  ‘Every man’s dream,’ he murmured lazily, ‘to dine with two beautiful women. Come and have a drink.’

  Somehow Cherry’s legs carried her across the room to sit beside Sophia on one of the sofas. Vittorio was wearing beautifully cut black trousers and a snow-white shirt open at the throat, and he looked sensational. He was the kind of man it was difficult to imagine had once been a small boy, but no doubt he’d had every little girl for miles around madly in love with him. When they’d been handing out sex appeal Vittorio must have stood in line twice. And then some.

  ‘Another cocktail, Cherry?’ he asked silkily. ‘I think you spilt most of the one by the pool. Or perhaps you would prefer wine or a sherry?’

  So he had noticed her ignominious flight earlier. And of course he had to let her know. Cherry’s chin came up, and in spite of her pink cheeks her voice was as thin as steel as she said, ‘I don’t care for cocktails. Wine would be fine.’ She nodded to the open bottle on the coffee table in front of him. ‘Whatever you’re having.’

  He bent forward and poured a good measure of the deep red wine into one of the two waiting glasses, handing it to her before filling the other glass with an equal measure of wine and lemonade which he passed to Sophia. His sister grimaced. ‘For goodness’ sake, I am nearly seventeen, Vittorio. When are you going to start treating me as an adult rather than a child?’

  Ignoring Sophia, he smiled at Cherry. ‘You have everything you need in your room?’

  She had just taken a sip of the wine and almost choked as the grey gaze fastened on her, swallowing hard before she said, ‘Yes, thank you,’ with studied politeness.

  He nodded, settling back in his chair and stretching his long legs in front of him. She had caught a whiff of clean, sharp aftershave as he’d handed her the wine, and now his maleness seemed to cross the space between them and surround her, making it difficult to breathe.

  She was unutterably glad when Margherita appeared in the doorway in the next moment, the housekeeper’s face impassive when she said, ‘Dinner is ready, Signor Carella.’

  ‘Thank you, Margherita. We’ll bring our drinks through.’

  The dining room was as gorgeous as the rest of the house; an enormous table in exquisite multi-coloured Indian wood was a thing of beauty all by itself, and complemented by the colour scheme of pale buttery yellow and warm ochre which gave an air of tranquillity to the surroundings. The lighting was subdued, the soft muslin drapes at the open windows were moving gently in the warm evening breeze, and the bowl of freshly cut roses in the centre of the table perfumed the air with their sweetness. In any other circumstances it would have been a magical place to sit and chat and savour food and wine. As it was, Cherry’s nerves were stretched as tight as piano wire.

  Rosa and Gilda appeared with the first course—antipasto, which consisted of a small plate of olives, cold meats and anchovies—standing behind Vittorio, who was seated at the head of the table while he gave thanks for the meal, and then serving the food quickly and efficiently.

  Sophia tucked in with gusto. Apparently the events which were going to unfold in a few short hours hadn’t affected her appetite, Cherry thought wryly. She glanced at Vittorio, who was still blissfully unaware of the bomb about to be dropped in his orderly, controlled world, and found his eyes were waiting for her. Her stomach fluttered nervously.

  ‘Eat,’ he said softly, ‘or Margherita will think you do not appreciate her food, which would be taken as a great insult.’

  Before Sophia had come into her room she had been feeling quite hungry. Now it was an effort to pick up her cutlery. Nevertheless, once she began eating she found the food delicious, the sharp contrasts in taste awakening her tastebuds.

  The next course was soup with little shapes of pasta in it which Vittorio informed her were orecchiette. ‘Little ears, in English,’ he said with a smile. ‘Puglia is a rich agricultural landscape, as I am sure you have noticed, and as such the local produce provides a cuisine which is among the best in Italy. The abundant wheatfields and the closeness of the coast mean we feast well; food is very important to us. Is this not right, Sophia?’ he added, including his sister in the conversation.

  Sophia nodded. ‘Try some of Margherita’s bread, Cherry,’ she offered, passing the basket to her. ‘She makes it with black olives, onions and tomato, and our own olive oil.’

  The bread was mouth-wateringly good. The best she’d tasted.

  At this point in the meal Cherry made up her mind to forget about what was to come and enjoy her dinner. Margherita was clearly a fantastic cook, the wine was like nectar from the gods, and Vittorio had apparently decided to put the incident by the pool behind him and metamorphosed into the perfect host, amusing and attentive, with a dry wit that had her spluttering into her glass more than once.

  The condemned man—or in this case woman—ate a hearty meal, Cherry told herself, as she gazed with delight at the main course of carpaccio—paper-thin slices of fillet steak garnished with fresh egg mayonnaise and finely slivered Parmesan. It tasted as good as it looked. She thought she had eaten well since she had arrived in Italy, but nothing measured up to Margherita’s cooking. Scary she might be, but hey, so what?

  ‘You eat like an Italian.’ Vittorio’s voice was soft and his voice had a rich smoky tinge to it as he held her eyes, which made her shiver inside.

  To combat her reaction to him, she made her voice light when she said, ‘I take it that is a good thing?’

  ‘Of course. Italians know how to enjoy the good things in life, si? Life is a gift and not to be wasted. Not even for a moment. There are many pleasures to keep the heart glad, and some are even free.’

  His eyes danced, and Cherry just knew he was thinking of their kiss, but this time she refused to blush. Doggedly, she said, ‘Food has to be paid for, surely?’

  ‘Si, this is true. But a lovely sunset, the feel of cold water on hot skin, walking on a deserted beach at the start of a new day, looking at a beautiful woman—these things are free, are they not? And there are many more.’

  ‘Try telling that to the millions of people who live out their lives in concrete jungles called cities with maybe a couple of weeks’ holiday somewhere hot.’

  She hadn’t intended to be confrontational, but somehow it had come out that way. Now it had, though, she didn’t intend to apologise, and she looked at Vittorio defiantly.

  Vittorio looked back from under his long thick eyelashes. She couldn’t read a thing in his inscrutable expression, and had no idea if she’d offended him or not, but forced herself to look back calmly.

  ‘Rome is a city, but I would not call it a concrete jungle,’ he said gently. ‘Nor Paris, not even London. There are many fine buildings in your capital—squares, parks, places of interest and beauty. Of course there will always be ghettos in every country. It is unfortunate, but while man’s greed triumphs over poverty this will be so. Many governments are infected with the virus of dishonesty, and power corrupts, but still the human spirit can find release if it chooses to.’

  She stared at him. Not only had the conversation suddenly become very serious, but she felt she’d been well and truly put in her place by an expert. Which maybe she should have expected.

  Sophia must have thought so too, and clearly didn’t intend to stay around for an argument to develop. She stood up, dropping her linen napkin on the table as she said, ‘I have the headache, Vittorio. I think I will go to bed. I am sorry, Cherry, but I shall see you at breakfast, si?’

  Aware Vittorio’s sister was trying to deflect an altercation purely because she didn’t want anything to spoil her plans, Cherry forced a smile. ‘Yes, of course.’ They both knew she was going to see Sophia before that, if Santo reacted as Sophia expected and came to the house to speak to Vittorio.

  ‘You are not staying for dessert?’ There was a note of amazement in Vittorio’s voice. It was clear his sister had a sweet tooth. ‘It is your favourite.’

  ‘No. Buonanotte, Cherry.’ Sophia walk
ed behind Vittorio’s chair, ostensibly to kiss her brother on the cheek but at the same time giving Cherry a meaningful look. ‘Buonanotte, Vittorio.’ And with that she made a hurried escape.

  As Sophia left the room the two maids bustled in to remove the dirty dishes and serve dessert. This consisted of caramel oranges and home-made ice cream, along with a plate of cheeses including two local ones—canestrato pugliese, a hard sheeps’ milk cheese, and burrata, a creamy cheese within a cheese, surrounded by a ‘skin’ of mozzarella—both of which Cherry had tried before and liked. But suddenly she couldn’t eat another thing. It had been one thing to agree to Sophia’s pleading that she break the news to Vittorio in the safety of her bedroom, quite another with Vittorio in front of her. Her heart seemed to want to leap out of her body, and she was glad she was sitting down as her legs had turned to jelly.

  ‘Have I grown horns?’ he murmured softly.

  ‘What?’ Too late she realised she was staring at him. Hastily she tried to school her features into a more acceptable expression. Not the best start to a difficult conversation.

  ‘Just because Sophia has left the room, I am not about to leap on you and have my wicked way.’ He smiled, but it didn’t reach the slate-grey eyes. ‘You are quite safe, mia piccola.’

  Shocked, she gathered her wits. ‘I know that,’ she said tightly. ‘I was just thinking, that’s all.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt, but I think it wise not to enquire further. I have the feeling my ego would be more bruised than it is already.’ He waved a bronzed hand at her dish of caramel oranges and ice cream. ‘Eat your dessert. Margherita will be bringing coffee shortly, and then you can run away again.’

  It was the ‘again’ that did it. Glaring at him, she stiffened. ‘You really are the most arrogant man I’ve ever met.’

  ‘I prefer that to mediocrity,’ he said mildly.

  Impossible man. Impossible situation. ‘I was thinking about you—but not in the way you mean.’ In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘I have to talk to you about something.’

  ‘Si? And this something turns your face to one of fear and alarm? This is not good.’ He looked at her intently. ‘You are a criminal running from the law? Is that it? Or maybe you are here to—how you say?—case the joint? Is that right?’ There was amusement in his voice. ‘Relax, Cherry. Whatever it is you wish to say, it cannot be so bad.’

  She returned his stare mutely, inwardly cursing her weakness in agreeing to Sophia’s ridiculous demand.

  He had been eating as they talked. Now he pushed his empty dish away from him, saying, ‘You are not going to eat your oranges? Not even a bite or two?’

  ‘No. No, thank you.’ At the moment they’d choke her.

  ‘Then we will have this so important conversazione over coffee on the veranda, si?’

  Before she could object, he had stood up and moved round the table to draw her chair away. Taking her arm, he led her through the dining room’s French windows and out on to a balcony which ran along the side of the house. It held several comfy chairs and sofas, along with low tables on which citronella candles were burning, presumably to keep away troublesome insects.

  Cherry made sure she seated herself in one of the chairs rather than the more intimate sofas. She saw Vittorio’s black eyebrows quirk but he said nothing, sitting down opposite her just as Rosa came through the French doors. The maid said something in Italian, to which he answered, ‘Si, Rosa. Grazie,’ before turning to her and saying, ‘The coffee will be here in a few moments.’

  Cherry nodded stiffly. She wished it was this time yesterday. A week ago. A month ago. She had accepted this man’s hospitality, swum in his pool, eaten his food and drunk his wine, and now she was about to repay his kindness with the sort of news she wouldn’t have wanted to spring on her worst enemy. Whatever way you looked at it, it was a bum deal.

  Before she could speak, Vittorio said softly, ‘Look at the sky, mia piccola. It is aflame with stars and glowing with the colours of celestial bodies—a night when starlight throws long shadows on the gardens and the countryside, and makes strange apparitions out of the trees, the buildings and us. A night which reminds us how small and insignificant we are and how timeless is the past and the future.’

  Cherry didn’t look at the night sky. She looked at Vittorio. And in that moment she knew she was attracted to this handsome, autocratic stranger in a way she had never been attracted to a man before. She had known it from the moment she laid eyes on him, which was why she had fought it so ferociously.

  The shadows had carved dark hollows in the male bone structure, but his eyes were glittering granite as he looked into the heavens. And then he turned to her, a self-disparaging smile on his face as he murmured, ‘But I digress. What is it you wish to tell me, Cherry from England?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHERRY was always to remember the next few minutes. They would be burnt into the very fabric of her soul. Rosa stepping through the doors with the coffee. Vittorio pouring her a cup of the rich dark liquid with its fragrant aroma. The scent of the candles and the sudden cry of a startled bird disturbed in its refuge for the night. They all led up to the moment his gaze held hers and he said again, ‘Well? What is it?’ as he lifted his cup to his lips.

  There was a faint ringing in her ears, but she knew she just had to say it, baldly and with no lead-up, or she would lose her nerve. ‘It’s about Sophia. The reason she has been so difficult for the last month or so—’

  ‘Multiply that by twelve and you are about there,’ he interrupted sardonically.

  ‘She is expecting a baby, Vittorio.’

  She actually felt the earth shudder on its axis. There followed a moment of complete stillness.

  ‘What did you say?’ His voice was flat—curiously flat.

  ‘She and Santo—It wasn’t his fault, not really—That is, Sophia said—’

  ‘What did Sophia say, Cherry?’

  His face frightened her. ‘She is petrified, Vittorio. She hasn’t even told Santo yet, and she insisted it was her fault. She persuaded him. He didn’t really want to—’

  An explosive few words in Italian followed and Cherry was glad she couldn’t speak the language. She stared at him, her eyes huge in her white face, and found it actually pained her to see the agony and an almost boyish vulnerability distorting the hard handsome face.

  He stood up, and she said quickly, ‘She isn’t here. She’s gone to see Santo. To tell him about—about the baby.’

  He stared down at her, an avenging monochrome in the thick twilight in which stars twinkled above them and all nature seemed hushed and sleepy. It wasn’t right to receive such devastating news on a beautiful night like this one, she thought inconsequentially. This was a night for sweet dreams.

  After what seemed an eternity, he sat down again. ‘Sophia asked you, a stranger, to tell me about her condition?’ His voice was icy. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘She—she thought that was best.’

  ‘For whom?’ The cold voice was scathing.

  ‘Actually for you, as well as her and Santo,’ Cherry said honestly. ‘She thought you might do something you’d regret in the first moments of knowing and she was seeking to avoid confrontation. I—I think she and Santo are going to come here in a little while to talk to you.’

  ‘Then there will indeed be a confrontation.’ His deep voice was low but with a piercing intensity that brought her heart into her throat. ‘Rest assured on that.’

  She stared at him helplessly, wondering what to say, and then decided she had nothing to lose in stating the truth. ‘If you hurt Santo you will lose Sophia for ever. You know that, don’t you? Your nephew or niece too. She loves him, Vittorio. She wants nothing more in life than to be his wife and the mother of his child. That’s the way it is.’

  ‘Do not speak to me of how it is. What do you know? Before this day you had not even met Sophia,’ he bit out furiously, his voice shaking with the force of his emotion.

  ‘I know that, but
sometimes a stranger sees things much more clearly simply because they are a stranger and not involved. She knows exactly what she wants and it’s not a finishing school.’

  ‘She is a child.’

  ‘No, she isn’t.’

  It was foolish to argue Sophia’s case, she knew that, so why was she doing it? Tomorrow she’d be gone from this house and she would never see Vittorio or Sophia again. The best thing she could do was make her excuses right now and go to bed, let Vittorio do as he saw fit. But if he lost Sophia he would regret it for the rest of his life and it would change him. She didn’t know how she had come by the knowledge, but she was sure of it. Deep fires ran in Vittorio and he would love or hate in equal measure.

  ‘Sophia isn’t a child,’ she repeated earnestly, ‘and it’s essential you see that right now before it’s too late. She wanted to belong to Santo, she orchestrated the event, and although she obviously didn’t think she would get pregnant she’s nevertheless delighted about it. I’m sorry if that cuts through your picture of your sister, but it’s the truth. She was always going to get married one day, Vittorio. It’s just happened sooner than expected.’

  ‘She will not marry Santo,’ he growled. ‘Her life would be one of hard work from dawn to dusk. It is not what my parents would have wished for Sophia.’

  ‘Or perhaps it’s not what you would wish for her?’ She couldn’t believe her temerity, and by the look on Vittorio’s face neither could he. ‘But she is a person in her own right, a flesh-and-blood human being, not a possession, and she has chosen her own road. For right or wrong.’

  ‘And if it is wrong?’ he ground out bitterly.

  ‘Then all you can do is be there for her.

  As she spoke she thought it was almost as though she was talking to a parent about a wayward child, and in a way she supposed it was. Vittorio had brought Sophia up, he had sacrificed his own plans and dreams for her when he had let Caterina go, and he had been both mother and father to his sister for a long time. On top of that he had the burden of trying to fulfil what he imagined his parents would have wanted for their only daughter.