In the Italian's Sights

by Helen Brooks

  On the eve of the wedding, after a traditional luncheon at Santo’s home, where both families had got together for a kind of informal rehearsal and to discuss any last little hiccups, and then an afternoon spent supervising the decoration of the marquee, the construction of the carousel and the stage for the folk dance troupe and band in the grounds of the villa, Sophia requested a dinner tray in her room—leaving Cherry and Vittorio to eat alone.

  Cherry couldn’t describe how she felt even to herself. A secret part of her had hoped Vittorio would ask her to stay a while longer, and although her answer would have to have been no, she’d wanted him to ask anyway.

  She hadn’t slept well for days—waking very early before it was light and prowling about her room like a caged tigress, full of a restless, nervous energy that made it impossible to rest.

  Vittorio had taken her to a festival the week before, where Italy’s national folk dance, the Tarantella, had been performed, and as she had watched the couples dancing in whirling circles, accompanied by quick-beat music on a mandolin, the frenetic pace had touched something deep inside. She knew the story of the dance—that in the fifteenth century local peasant women in the town of Taranto had supposedly been bitten by tarantula spiders and infected with tarantism, believed to be a poisonous venom that could only leave the body by profuse sweating.

  She might not have been bitten by a spider, she’d thought wretchedly, as the dance had reached hysteria level, but the infection she was suffering from was even more deadly, and if she could have rid herself of it by dancing until she dropped, she would. If nothing else she might have been able to sleep at night if she was exhausted to the point of collapse.

  When she walked into the dining room Vittorio was waiting for her, an opened bottle of wine in front of him. Her breath caught at the sight of him. It always did. He didn’t even have to touch her for her insides to tighten and begin to tremble.

  Forcing a smile, she sat down in the chair he’d pulled out for her and accepted the glass of wine he placed in her hand. ‘To tomorrow,’ she said, pleased at how light her voice sounded, considering she was dying inside. ‘Sophia and Santo.’

  ‘Sophia and Santo.’ He touched her glass with his. ‘And you too. Your help has been invaluable.’

  He was wearing a dark grey shirt, unbuttoned at the throat so a couple of inches of hairy chest showed, and black trousers—a vision of tempting male beauty—and his virile sex appeal had never been so potent. Controlling a rush of emotion that had her wanting to throw herself into his arms and kiss him to heaven and back, Cherry took a big gulp of wine. It helped her to say, fairly evenly, ‘Not at all. I’ve enjoyed myself. It isn’t often a girl gets to be so involved in a wedding that isn’t her own, and thanks to you I’ve seen more of Puglia than I ever would have done by myself.’

  ‘To be honest, so have I. I think when one is born in a place it is easy to grow blasé, but seeing it all through your eyes has been enchanting. You are enchanting,’ he finished huskily.

  But not enchanting enough. For an awful moment she thought she had said the words out loud, but when his face didn’t change she pulled herself together. This is the last fence, the last furlong—call it what you will, she told herself grimly. She’d get through it with style. It was second nature for Italian males to flirt and give flowery compliments to any woman from sixteen to ninety. She could handle this. She’d been handling it for weeks, hadn’t she?

  Maybe, but her departure from the Carella estate and from Vittorio hadn’t been imminent, an unhelpful little voice reminded her. They had talked often in the last few weeks. Several times she had shared more than she’d intended, and certainly more than she had been comfortable with about her life thus far, and Vittorio had seemed to open up too, sharing the difficulties and pitfalls involved in not only having to take over a business and financial empire when his parents had died so unexpectedly, but bringing up a baby sister.

  She had lived in an emotional maelstrom—one day thinking they were getting on really well and that maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to think of her as different from the other women he had known, and then other days plunged into turmoil when he remained distant and almost cold, particularly when they were alone, like now. But tonight he wasn’t cold. She swallowed hard. Tonight desire was plain to read on the hard, handsome face.

  If only she wasn’t feeling sexual arousal such as she’d never felt before she’d be in a better position to keep a cool head. This sort of sexual desire was something she had read about but never envisaged feeling herself. In fact she had doubted if it really existed. Fool, she labelled herself silently. It existed, all right.

  ‘Cherry? Is anything wrong?’ His voice was soft, warm, and she became aware his eyes were stroking her face.

  She shivered, she couldn’t help it, but passed off the reaction by saying quickly, ‘Someone walked over my grave.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ He clearly hadn’t heard what she supposed was a very English expression and looked quite alarmed.

  In explaining to him a kind of normality was restored, but she was wishing now she had mentioned her intention to leave the day after tomorrow before. It was only courtesy, when all was said and done, and more than that it stated that she knew how things were, that she expected nothing from him. Ever since Caterina had spat her poison she had wondered, just now and again, if Vittorio thought she was out to get herself a rich Italian husband. In the early days he had been so cynical about the women who were paraded before him with hopeful mothers in the background. Oh, she didn’t know what made him tick, she admitted helplessly. She didn’t know what he was thinking, feeling. The man was an enigma.

  Their last dinner together wasn’t as she’d imagined it would be. It was her fault, she acknowledged miserably. By the time Gilda brought in the dessert the tense atmosphere was so strong the air practically vibrated. From being relaxed and sexy, Vittorio had changed to warily cool—but then her monosyllabic responses and taut body language sent a message no man could ignore.

  He waited until Gilda had served the coffee and left them before he spoke. ‘OK, Cherry,’ he said quietly. ‘Now I know something is wrong. What is the matter?’

  ‘Nothing. Not really.’ She summoned every ounce of courage she possessed. ‘I just thought you ought to know I’m leaving the morning after the wedding. I’ve arranged for a hire car to be delivered at eleven o’clock. I thought the night before might be a late one for everyone.’

  His eyes never left her, but they changed from smoky grey to almost black. ‘Why?’ he asked, in an ultra-reasonable tone that boded trouble.

  Reminding herself that he had proved over the last few weeks that he could take or leave her—and he’d decided to leave her—she said quietly, ‘The reason I’m saying at Casa Carella won’t exist any more. Sophia will be a married woman. It’s time I continued with my holiday.’

  ‘Your holiday?’ The words were a mini-explosion, and he must have realised this, because his tone was very controlled when he next spoke. ‘I did not realise that you were so anxious to leave.’

  That was so unfair. Righteous indignation steeled her voice. ‘It’s not a question of that.’

  ‘No? Then what is it a question of?’

  ‘I arrived on your doorstep by accident and you were kind enough to help me. I’m aware of that.’

  ‘Stop making yourself sound like a stray cat,’ he said, with unforgivable scorn.

  Caught on the raw, she drew in a deep breath. ‘I agreed to stay and help Sophia because I wanted to. No one put a gun to my head. I’m not saying that. But it wouldn’t be right for me to stay on once Sophia is married. You will want to get on with your life, and I intend to get on with mine.’

  ‘And if I want you to stay? What then?’

  She gazed at him stonily. She was glad he was so angry. It was helping her say what needed to be said. ‘I am not going to be a notch on you bedpost, Vittorio. I’ve made that clear all along.’

  ‘So you a
re running away back to England and perhaps to this Liam? Is he the reason you do not want to stay with me? Maybe you are hoping he will invite you back into his bed?’

  Now she was as angry as he was. After all she had told him, all she’d shared, he dared to say that? ‘I was never in his bed,’ she said icily. ‘I’ve never been in anyone’s bed, and I am certainly not going to start with you—so why don’t you just click your fingers and get one of the women who I’m sure are lining up to take their turn?’

  He searched her face, and then shook his head in what looked like bewilderment. ‘Why are we arguing?’ He reached forward, taking her hand before she could snatch it away. ‘It has been good, these last weeks, has it not? And it could be better. I want you, mia piccola. I have never wanted a woman more or waited for one so long, believe me.’

  She believed him about the waiting. She could imagine most women fell into his arms like ripe plums and considered themselves fortunate to be there. She took another deep breath and let it out evenly. She doubted she could make him understand, but she had to try. ‘It has to be about more than wanting for me, Vittorio,’ she said quietly, her anger doused by the knowledge that they really were worlds apart.

  He stared at her. ‘But you do want me.’ It was a statement, not a question, but she answered it anyway.

  ‘Yes, I want you,’ she said, even more quietly. ‘But not just for a week or a month or even a year or two.’ There—she had said it. Caterina’s words were ringing in her ears—he might think she was trying to ensnare him, as so many other women had done—but she couldn’t help that. ‘And I know you don’t want that,’ she added quickly. ‘Not with me. Perhaps not with anyone.’

  ‘You do not trust me? You do not think I would be good to you?’

  She gently extricated her hand from his warm fingers. ‘You know what I am saying, Vittorio, but for the record I do trust you. I trust that you are honest in your dealings with women, with me. You made no promises, guaranteed nothing.’

  ‘This is not true.’ Suddenly he was angry again. ‘I said I would wait until you were ready, did I not? We both know I could have taken you many times over the last weeks if that was all I wanted.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t have done that because you are a man, not an animal—a good man.’ She was trembling inside, her face tense. She hadn’t wanted it to end like this. Perhaps she should just have quietly slipped away the morning after the wedding and left a letter explaining why? But that would have been cowardly, and whatever else she was, she was not a coward. ‘And, like you just said, you knew I wasn’t ready for a brief affair before we both moved on. I’ll never be ready because I wouldn’t be able to give myself without it meaning the world. That’s how I’m made.’

  ‘You are saying you are going to walk away without giving us a chance?’ He leaned back in his chair, dark red colour slashing his cheekbones. ‘Then I do not consider this feeling you say you have for me worth anything.’

  It was below the belt, and it hurt, but she wasn’t going to let him get away with not facing facts. ‘The “feeling” is love, Vittorio, whether you believe in it or not, and chance doesn’t come into it. If I stayed it would be for ever for me, whether we remained together or whether we parted. I would always be yours, in here.’ She touched her chest above her heart. ‘The difference is if I leave now I will be able to get on with my life and still function. One day this might even seem like a beautiful dream. If I stayed you would destroy me. I’m not prepared to sacrifice myself, I guess, or let what’s between us now become messy and tangled and dark. Me always wanting more and knowing you’re incapable of giving it. You feeling hemmed in—trapped, even. And then the parting. In a few months, a year, whatever. Me…’ She shook her head, unable to find words as to how she’d feel. ‘And you—guilty, angry, ashamed. Because, like I said, you are a good man.’

  ‘And so you are going to leave? Just like that?’

  His expression was dumbfounded. Cherry got the feeling that women didn’t walk away from Vittorio Carella. It was always the other way round.

  She couldn’t do this any more. ‘Just like that,’ she agreed softly. As though it wouldn’t be the hardest thing she had ever done.

  When she rose to her feet she half expected he would try to stop her, by word or action, but there was nothing—no reaction on his part. He simply watched her with dark brooding eyes as she walked out of the room.

  She had just opened the door to her room when he bounded up the stairs. She turned to face him, her heart pounding.

  ‘If I said I would marry you, what then?’ he ground out as he reached her.

  For a moment hope flared. But only for a moment. In all her wildest fantasies—and she had fantasised about Vittorio asking her to marry him many times, fool that she was—she had never imagined the proposal would be in the form of a challenge, flung at her as though he were throwing down the gauntlet to an adversary.

  She looked at him. A long, straight look. ‘Then I would tell you to think again,’ she said coolly.

  He frowned, crossing his arms. ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning such a marriage would be a disaster. A piece of paper and a wedding band doesn’t make a marriage, Vittorio. Nothing would be different to what I said downstairs except you would feel trapped earlier rather than later—don’t you see? Don’t you understand anything of what I’ve been saying? I want what you can’t give. Not just your body. I want it all. Love, togetherness, children, grandchildren. I want someone who will love me when my body isn’t so young any more, who will stand shoulder to shoulder with me against the rest of the world if necessary, who will face joy and sorrow and whatever comes our way holding my hand—’ She stopped, breathless and on the verge of tears, telling herself she was not going to cry. It would be the final humiliation.

  He swore softly. ‘Why can’t you be like other women?’ he growled. ‘Why do you have to make this so complicated?’

  He pulled her into his arms before she could protest, crushing her against his hard frame with her hands imprisoned against his chest. As his lips fastened on hers they held a fierce hunger that was stronger than ever before, made up of desire and anger. The intensity of it took her aback, and she stiffened in his embrace before the heat of his passion kindled the inevitable response and she relaxed against him with a low moan.

  As he felt her yield he made a sound deep in his throat of satisfaction, his tongue searching the sweetness of her mouth, and, unable to resist, she allowed him to penetrate its inner depths. His hands curved round her waist, moulding her against him so closely she could scarcely breathe. His lips were doing indescribable things to her senses, and a slow sweet throb was beginning in the core of her that had her pressing against him even as her mind was screaming at her to stop.

  His hands slid down the length of her body to cup her buttocks and he began to move her against his hardness, firmly, slowly, erotically, with a languorous rhythm that made her ache.

  She barely noticed that he had moved her into the room and shut the door, and in spite of all she had said, all she knew, she felt no panic, only a desire to get closer and closer to the man she loved. His thighs were hard against hers and his heart was pounding like a sledgehammer as they swayed together in the dark room, her hands moving as hungrily as his over the hard planes and powerful muscles of the male body.

  She felt him shudder in pleasure and felt a wild exultation, accepting his hands, his mouth, with no thought of drawing back. No thought of anything besides Vittorio.

  When they fell on the bed she was beneath him, but his mouth hadn’t left hers for one moment. She felt his hands on the skirt of her dress and the silky material obeyed him instantly, moving up her body so the full length of her tanned slim legs was exposed. As he touched her thighs she was galvanised with such blistering sensation that she arched beneath him in an action as old as time—an action that begged for total fulfilment.

  When he drew back from her she couldn’t believe it at first. For a
moment or two she thought he was divesting himself of his clothes, but he was strangely still, his breathing as ragged and sharp as her own, and when she lifted her arms to pull him back to her he slid off the bed, standing tall and dark in the shadowed room.

  It was another few moments before he spoke, and by then she had regained enough sense to pull down her dress and sit up, trembling uncontrollably. He had stopped. Why, why had he stopped?

  As though in answer to her unspoken thoughts, he said, ‘I will not have you like this.’ Despite everything, his voice was steady and controlled, with just the faintest tremor betraying the desire which still had him in its grip. ‘I did not mean for this to happen when I came up the stairs. You must believe that. I had no intention of taking your will captive.’

  Her brain wouldn’t compute at first. She stared at him, blinking, absolutely shattered and utterly bereft. ‘I—I don’t understand,’ she whispered at last.

  ‘I promised myself weeks ago that I would not rush you.’ He shook his head, whether in annoyance at himself or her she couldn’t tell. ‘Your innocence is a terrible weapon, do you know that?’ he murmured grimly. ‘But, no, of course you do not. That is the problem. You do not play games or act the coquette.’

  She had no idea of what he was talking about. All she knew was that he had stopped making love to her. That he was able to control this sexual attraction he had for her to the end. She was that unimportant. She was going to cry, and it would be the final humiliation if he saw.

  Somehow she pulled herself together enough to whisper, ‘Will you go now? Please.’

  ‘Cherry—’

  ‘Please.’

  And he went. He walked across the room, opened the door and left. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared across the dark expanse, unable to believe for a moment that he had really walked out.

  And then the tears came.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN