by Sara Wood
‘I have realised,’ he said slowly in an emotion-choked voice, ‘what I really want.’
She didn’t dare ask what that might be. She was incapable of speech anyway. He stood up, his bulk at once threatening as he came to loom over her, his eyes burning feverishly.
His hand tilted her chin so that she was forced to look at him and she quailed at the intensity of his gaze, shrinking back from the shafts of stabbing pain that slid like knives through her vulnerable body.
He had her, she thought miserably. Wherever he wanted her.
Vittore sat on the bed and stroked her face. She saw that he trembled and gave a whimper of fear.
‘Don’t you know me well enough yet to realise that I won’t hurt you?’ he said softly. ‘Haven’t I behaved honourably towards you?’
Verity nodded dumbly.
‘I have burned for you from the moment I first saw you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I think you felt the same. Tell me something, Verity. Will you be upset to leave Lio here?’
Again she nodded, her face utterly tragic.
‘And he would miss you badly.’
A swallow. More nods. A stifled sob, a tear or two and the tremble of her treacherous mouth betrayed her deep distress.
‘You could stay.’
She blinked, unsure she’d heard the barely audible whisper. ‘Stay?’
It was Vittore’s turn to nod.
‘As your mistress,’ she muttered bitterly, turning away in such misery that the tears ran in silver rivers down her face.
‘No.’ He took her chin in his hand again and made her look up. Gently he wiped her wet-lashed eyes and cheeks with a tissue from a box by the side of her bed.
‘As Lio’s nanny?’ she mumbled resentfully. It was out of the question. She’d still end up in Vittore’s bed.
Then he kissed her eyes and kissed her mouth so tenderly that she burst into tears again.
‘Hush, Verity,’ he crooned. ‘I want you to listen carefully. I want you to stay…’ He licked his lips as though he was finding his next words difficult to articulate. ‘To stay…’
He made a huge effort, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for an unpleasant duty.
‘As my wife,’ he rasped.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SPASMS of pain tore into her. She was speechless. This was his solution. He wanted Lio—and would even marry to ensure that he secured his son’s love!
Aghast, she covered her face with her hands. Hadn’t he done that before? Didn’t he know from past experience that if he married for convenience instead of necessity that he’d create a hell for all of them?
‘I want—’ he began roughly.
‘I know what you want.’ Suddenly ice-cold and composed, she met his eyes. ‘And you can forget it.’
He looked grim. Tense and hard-jawed as if he was being forced to accept a terrorist as his bride. It appalled her that he was prepared to repeat his mistake. And it also told her the strength of his feelings for Lio.
‘I would never marry for anything other than love,’ she said harshly. ‘The answer is no. You don’t need to sacrifice yourself anyway. I’ve already decided that Lio should live here. I will help you all I can to encourage him to love you. I think it’s in both our interests that I leave as soon as possible. You’ve made it very difficult for me to stay.’
‘Not marriage, then. But we could be lovers—’
Her hand dismissed his husky whisper contemptuously. ‘I want a life of my own,’ she said icily. ‘Not as your handmaiden and nanny! You know I want to be with Lio—but not at the cost of my life, my self-respect! I want what all women want—a loving husband and my own children. The answer is still no. Don’t insult me by pursuing your own relentless agenda! I have rights! I have needs! And now,’ she said with intense passion, her violet eyes almost black with determination, ‘I will do everything I can to free myself of you and this place so I can get back to England and pick up the threads of my life! Get out of my room, Vittore. You’ll have your precious son. I’ll make sure of that. Now go. I need my sleep.’
Without a word, he rose and walked out. She sat there, staring into space, desperately unhappy that she’d been offered marriage by the man she loved—and had been forced to turn him down.
She could see how Linda had been tempted by the wonderful lifestyle, and how her sister had assumed that her beauty and Vittore’s good looks would ensure a fairy tale marriage.
For a fraction of a second, Verity had actually visualised her wedding day. Had seen herself gazing into Vittore’s eyes and had been tempted to accept his proposal. She loved him so much that she’d thought he might grow to love her too. But then reality had set in.
He would resent her. Might even fall in love, really in love, with someone else and he’d be deeply unhappy tied to her. She couldn’t do that to him—she loved him too much.
‘Oh, drat and botheration!’ she growled. ‘When am I ever going to get a decent night’s sleep in this house?’
Her plans were working. Gritting her teeth, she had explained them to Vittore. At first he’d refused, but when she’d explained coldly that it was the only way for her to be free in the quickest possible time, he’d grudgingly agreed.
And so, in front of Lio, she and Vittore held hands and cuddled and laughed together—ironically just what Vittore had planned himself. But this time she was in control. Well, almost, and whenever Lio was not looking they would separate and an Ice Age would descend between them.
Lio was calling his father ‘Papa’ often now. He didn’t rush for Verity’s arms when Vittore came close. Once or twice, father and son had played in the sandpit together while Verity remained a short distance away.
The final breakthrough came when she suggested that a child of Lio’s age might be brought in, and that Vittore could play with this child, thus making Lio jealous.
Vittore had selected the English son of one of his friends in Amalfi, a child almost three years old he’d already taken on treats and who greeted him with satisfying enthusiasm.
Verity watched Lio struggling with his longing to be whirled around like an aeroplane too. He looked back at her and she smiled encouragingly, then deliberately transferred her beaming gaze to Vittore and little Max.
She held her breath when Lio toddled over and stood just clear of the squealing ‘aeroplane’. Vittore brought Max in to land and hugged him.
‘Me!’ demanded Lio crossly.
She saw Vittore swallow, ached at the glistening of his eyes when he turned to his son and held out his hands. Her breathing stopped. Lio’s blue eyes were enormous with apprehension. And then he held out his hands too and was being swept into the air, squealing with delight as he dipped and swooped in dizzying circles.
Verity wiped the tears from her eyes. Not long now, she thought, love and anguish numbing her body. Soon she’d leave. It would be better for them both if she did. They’d be able to form a deeper relationship with one another.
The aeroplane landed. And Vittore gathered his son into his arms, his dark head buried in Lio’s small neck. Father and son. Together at last.
The poignant scene overwhelmed her with emotion. Tears fell so fast that she could hardly see when the three of them scampered off to the small climbing frame.
It must have been hard for Vittore, remembering to cuddle Max as much as Lio, but he managed. And the joy, the sheer shining radiance of Vittore’s face, stabbed such sharp, agonising grief in her loving heart that she had to wrap her arms around herself or cry aloud with the pain.
When she joined in the game of chase, Lio’s laughter and the sight of his white-blond head eagerly bobbing after Vittore just made her desperate to scoop him up and hold him close. But she didn’t. And knew then, really knew, how desperately it must have hurt Vittore when he was estranged from his beloved child.
Over dinner, he was exuberant, talking huskily of his pleasure, his gratitude.
‘I’ll never forget what you’ve done,’ he said in a chok
ed voice.
‘I am very happy for you,’ she said tenderly.
He frowned and looked down at his plate, absently pushing strawberries around with his fork.
‘Verity,’ he started.
‘Sorry. I’m bushed. I’m going to bed. Excuse me,’ she said quietly. She couldn’t stand any more. Her emotions were in rags.
‘Of course.’ Politely he stood, but still avoided her gaze and for that she was thankful.
One look from those happy eyes, filled with future plans for his son, would have had her in floods of tears.
Listlessly she struggled up to her room. Flung her clothes anyhow on the floor. Gave her teeth a perfunctory scrub and washed her face. What was she wearing makeup for, anyway? The dash of lipstick and mascara were hardly necessary. Vittore didn’t care what she looked like—why should she?
Still in her underwear, she was standing in the middle of her room, staring into space when there was a knock on her door.
‘Yes?’ she answered wearily.
The door opened and before she could protest, Vittore’s arms were around her, his lips on hers, the fluid rivers of Italian flowing over her and weakening every bone in her body.
But she managed to go rigid. To push him away. To glare and say, ‘Get out!’ in tones so fierce that she startled herself.
‘You don’t understand—’ he croaked.
‘Oh, yes I do.’ Her teeth clenched. Every muscle was tensed to straining point. And her anger and misery spilled out in a sudden volcanic explosion. ‘You’ve had a happy day and I’m glad for you and Lio!’ she raged. ‘But you’re not topping it off with a celebration in my bed with my body! Leave me alone! Find your own woman. Ask Bianca—’
‘She’s not interested in men!’
‘What did you say?’ asked Verity in astonishment.
‘Oh, hell,’ he muttered. ‘It’s her business. I hadn’t intended…’ He drew himself up, cold and remote, his expression pinched. ‘You made me say that,’ he growled. ‘I never like to gossip. But now you know. She’s in love with Sofia. They’re setting up home together. I apologise for disturbing you,’ he said with icy politeness. ‘I thought…’ He turned away and strode to the door. ‘Never mind. I won’t bother you again. Goodnight.’
The days passed slowly for Verity. To her joy and pain, Lio became confident and assured, secure in his father’s devotion and love.
Now it was Vittore who read the bedtime story, who ensured that Lio was warm enough on the cooler days, always well fed and that he knew how to behave.
For several days now, she’d hardly seen Lio at all. This had been her suggestion, to see if he missed her and became upset. Apparently he and his father had been so busy building sandcastles and netting fish and paddling in the warm sea that her absence hadn’t been noticed.
That was how it must be. Soon she would leave and Lio must not miss her.
But secretly she followed them, taking photographs. Vittore. Lio. She loved them both so dearly.
Vittore and Lio laughing as they splashed one another in the paddling pool. Lio holding Vittore’s hands and walking up his father’s body then somersaulting backwards. The two of them dozing sleepily beneath the peach tree, Lio with an ice-cream moustache, a small dab of chocolate on Vittore’s nose where the affectionate Lio had kissed him.
Tender, poignant photographs that needed a steady hand and often didn’t get that. Shots of the house. Of Honesty earnest and engrossed, spraying her precious cuttings.
Verity’s heart was so full of love and pain that it hurt. But the good news was that the wall of love that surrounded Lio had changed him into a happy, sunny little boy again.
It touched her heart that he shyly welcomed strangers instead of hiding from them, terrified. And so the villagers were able to indulge him at last. She watched from a short distance as Lio was shown special delights.
The baker’s new-born kittens. A bird, carved by the carpenter, that flapped its wings and opened its beak when Lio pushed it along, his beatific smile enchanting everyone he showed it to. Starfish and octopus in the fishermen’s nets, paper aeroplanes to chase after along the beach, the art of building sandcastles and watching the sea fill the moat he’d dug with his father.
The wonderfully exciting world of a child. These discoveries that Lio made so gleefully would continue. But she wouldn’t be there to watch his eyes widen in astonishment and delight.
Time to go. And she’d do it suddenly, disappear without fuss. She couldn’t cope with saying long goodbyes. Lio wouldn’t understand her tears and he’d be desperately upset if she cried. That was the last thing she wanted.
Vittore would care for his son and nurture him, she was convinced of that. So what use was she?
Halfway through dinner she pleaded a headache. Refusing offers of painkillers and chalk-white with strain, she escaped to her room. Shaking uncontrollably, she began to pack her things.
In the bottom of the wardrobe she came across the stack of papers belonging to Linda, which Vittore had returned to her after extracting all the outstanding bills.
Numbly she went through them, discarding everything until she came to a sealed envelope. She stared at it for a while before opening it. Several small books fell out and she realised they were Linda’s diaries.
She hesitated, but knew that if she didn’t read them she would never know the full truth of Vittore’s marriage. And it would be a part of the puzzle forever unsolved.
Nervous and tentative, she sat cross-legged on the floor, opened the first page and began to read.
Her heart began to thump. Here it was. Damning evidence that Linda had cold-bloodedly snared Vittore by, as she triumphantly put it, ‘copying the sweet, innocent, butter-wouldn’t-melt act that’s always got that wretched Verity covered in admirers’.
Appalled, she read on. The deliberate pregnancy. The threatened abortion. How Vittore remained polite but distant—and ever faithful; too honourable, too dedicated to the marriage to look at another woman.
Verity skipped the accounts of Linda’s affairs, sickened by her adoptive sister’s excuse that she needed love in any form, shape or size but wouldn’t give up her lifestyle for anyone.
The next part of the diary upset her so much that she wasn’t aware of any sound until Vittore’s voice broke into her concentration and she looked up to see that he was standing, shell-shocked, in the middle of her room.
‘Don’t you ever knock?’ she cried miserably.
‘I did. Several times. I was worried about you,’ he said hoarsely. And then she realised why he looked so grim. His eyes were on her case. Slowly he scanned the shelves and flat surfaces, devoid of any of her possessions. His face was ashen. ‘Did you mean to sneak out like Linda?’ he accused.
‘I’ve been reading her diaries. You didn’t tell me that Linda took your mother’s jewels as well as her own, and that she cleaned out your joint account,’ she said quietly.
His brows daggered together fiercely. ‘I don’t talk about her.’
‘But she had terrible debts!’
He shrugged. ‘She could go through money faster than anyone I’ve ever known.’
‘I can believe that. I know what happened. I’m sorry, Vittore,’ she said humbly. ‘You behaved like a saint.’
‘No. I hope I behaved like a gentleman. Just tell me one thing. Why did she run away when she could have demanded half my fortune?’
Verity bit her lip. ‘Because she knew she could lay her hands on money and jewels to set herself up in England and she had a very wealthy lover,’ she replied quietly. ‘She couldn’t bear being loathed by everyone in the village and treated with cold politeness by your mother and the staff. She wanted to be loved and never forgave you for not adoring her. More than anything, she wanted to hurt you.’
‘But her plans to marry her lover came to nothing.’
‘He left her even before she’d moved into the house.’
She stole a glance at his bleak, harrowed face and debated
whether to say that Lio had almost certainly been neglected in England, if the accounts of casual lovers and agency baby-sitters and forgotten meals were anything to go by.
She could tell him that Linda’s life had spiralled down into a seedy, debt-ridden trawl for material comfort and that his estranged wife had wished that Lio had never been born—and that she’d also wished she hadn’t run off with Lio, because he was nothing but a millstone around her neck.
But she loved Vittore too much to disclose such painful information. He was happy now. And deserved nothing that would mar his happiness.
She pushed the diaries into her handbag, intending to burn them later. She knew the truth. She could handle it. Nothing, not even Linda’s sad decline, could affect her as much as leaving the two people she loved most in the world.
‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘that’s the lot. I was going to pop in to see you before I finally left—’
‘What flight?’
She started at the barked question. ‘Whatever I can get.’
‘And Lio? Mother?’
‘Oh, they’ll live without me very well. Give…’ Oh, God! Tears! Hastily she scowled and pretended to be checking the contents of her purse. ‘Give them both a hug and tell your mother I’ll whizz over one day and we’ll talk plants non-stop.’
‘I’ll drive you.’ Scowling, he made to go.
‘No!’ Sitting beside him for the long journey to the airport would be torture. ‘I’m taking a taxi.’
‘Expensive.’
‘But I won’t have to chat to the driver,’ she pointed out sharply.
He exhaled noisily. ‘I see. In that case, I’ll get the rest of your money,’ he muttered, looking as if he was very tired all of a sudden.
‘No. You’ve overpaid me as it is. I can make my own way in life.’
‘You’ll want to visit the nursery to see Lio…’
She glanced at him then, wondering why his voice had broken. His eyes glinted with unshed tears and she felt her own filling her up with grief and spilling onto her cheeks in a total betrayal of her cheery attitude.