by Sara Craven
She caught her lower lip in her teeth, struggling to regain her equilibrium. Trying to disregard the image his words had presented. ‘Yes—I suppose …’
‘So,’ he said, after a pause, ‘shall we settle this thing now? Will you marry me, and come to Italy with our son?’
‘I don’t seem to have much of a choice,’ she said in a low voice.
Something unreadable came and went in his face. ‘And if you could choose? What then?’
‘I would wish to be as far from you,’ she said passionately, ‘as it’s possible to get.’
His head went back, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Well, do not despair, bella mia,’ he drawled scornfully. ‘My home at Comadora is large, a palazzo, with thick walls, and many rooms. You should be able to avoid me easily.’
‘Thank you,’ she said huskily.
‘Tonight, however, you will not be so fortunate,’ he added.
She stiffened. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I intend to spend the night here.’
She gasped. ‘But—but you can’t …’ She tried not to look at the all too obtrusive sofa bed. ‘There’s no room.’
‘It will be cramped,’ he agreed. He took off his jacket, and began to loosen his tie. ‘But it is only for one night.’
She said in a choked voice, ‘You promised me—you swore this wouldn’t happen. Oh, why did I think I could trust you?’
‘The boot is on the other foot, cara mia.’ He began unhurriedly to unfasten his shirt. ‘I do not trust you. Who knows what you might be tempted to do, if you were left alone?
‘But I have no intention of breaking my word,’ he added. ‘This armchair looks comfortable enough, so I shall use that.’ His smile grazed her skin. ‘And you can have that congegno quite undisturbed. I hope you sleep well.’
He draped his shirt over the back of the chair, sat down and removed his shoes and socks, while Polly watched in growing alarm. But when he stood up, his hands going to the waistband of his trousers, she intervened.
‘Kindly stop right there,’ she said grittily.
‘You have some problem?’
‘Yes.’ Her green eyes were stormy. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Then deal with it.’ He unzipped his trousers, stepped out of them, then placed them, folded, with the rest of his clothes. He was wearing brief silk shorts, and the rest of him was smooth tanned skin. For one burning moment of self-betrayal she found herself remembering the taste of him, and felt her body clench in uncontrollable excitement.
‘Why, Paola, you are blushing,’ he jeered softly. ‘But not even to spare you will I sleep in my clothes. And you were not always such a prude,’ he added drily. He indicated his shorts derisively. ‘These, as you know, are a concession. But if the sight of me is still too much, you could always close your eyes.’ He paused. ‘Have you a towel I can use?’
Dry-mouthed, she muttered acquiescence, and went to the chest of drawers. As she reached for a towel, she uncovered Charlie’s photograph.
‘What is that?’ Sandro came to her side, and took it from the drawer. He studied it for a moment, brows lifted, then turned to her. ‘Is this where you usually keep it?’
‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.
‘You hid it,’ he asked, incredulously. ‘In case I came here?’
‘Think whatever you wish,’ she flung at him. ‘I don’t give a damn.’
He set the photograph carefully on top of the chest of drawers. ‘And you wonder why I do not trust you,’ he said silkily. He rescued the towel from her nerveless hand and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
For a moment she stood irresolutely, trying to decide what to do. She could hardly go to bed in her robe, without exciting the kind of comment from him she most wished to avoid. And what nightgowns she possessed were far too thin and revealing.
However …
Polly knelt, opening the bottom drawer of the chest, searching with feverish fingers. There were some oddments of winter clothing here, she knew. Among them …
She drew out the pyjamas with a sigh of relief. They were worn out, washed out, and she’d never liked them, but they were good old-fashioned winceyette, and they covered her from her throat down to her feet.
She was just fastening the last button on the mandarin-style jacket when Sandro returned, and stopped dead at the sight of her.
‘Santa Madonna,’ he breathed, with a kind of fascinated horror. ‘No wonder you sleep alone. I think I shall have to choose your trousseau myself, particularly the biancheria intima.’
‘Thank you,’ Polly returned icily. ‘But I prefer to pick my own lingerie. And if you don’t like the way I look, you can close your eyes too,’ she added triumphantly.
‘That is one solution,’ he admitted musingly. ‘But I can think of others that I would enjoy more.’ He saw her blench, and grinned. ‘Calm down, cara mia. I intend to keep my word. But sometimes to cover too much can be a mistake, because it excites the imagination.’ He paused. ‘I suppose a spare blanket is too much to hope for.’
She wanted to scream at him that she hoped he caught galloping pneumonia and died alone in a ditch. Instead she heard herself say unwillingly, ‘Yes, there is one.’
She fetched it from the corner cupboard, pale blue and still in its wrappings. ‘I bought it for Charlie,’ she told him, gruffly. ‘For when he moves into a bed instead of his cot.’
There was a silence. ‘Then I am doubly grateful,’ he said quite gently. ‘Because this is a sacrifice for you. And I will make sure it goes with us to his new home.’
For a moment, there was a note in his voice that made her want to cry. She turned away hurriedly, and got into bed, pulling the covers over her, the metal base creaking its usual protest as she settled herself.
‘Dio,’ Sandro muttered. ‘And that—atrocity will remain here.’
Well, she wasn’t going to argue about that, Polly thought wearily. Aloud, she said, past the constriction in her throat, ‘Will you turn the light off, please? When you’re ready.’
‘I am ready now.’
She lay, eyes tight shut, as he went past her, and the room was plunged into darkness. Waited for him to return to the chair.
Instead, she was aware of him standing beside her. He said quietly, ‘Paola, do you ever wish you could turn back the clock? Wipe out what has been?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Because I know it’s impossible, and I prefer to deal with reality.’
He sighed. ‘Then could we not declare a truce for this one night? Be together for old times’ sake?’
She wanted so badly to yield. To reach up and draw him down to her. She was starving for him, her body quivering with need, aching for him. Reminding her that she’d never shared a room with him before without eventually falling asleep in his arms in the drugged sweetness of sensual exhaustion.
But if she surrendered, she would be lost forever. And if she resisted, as she knew she must, at least she would retain what remained of her pride. Which might be all she had left to sustain her in the weeks, months, even years ahead.
‘Even if I was in the mood for casual sex,’ she said stonily, ‘you gave me your word.’ And paused. ‘Besides, you flatter yourself, signore,’ she added, coolly and distinctly. ‘The old times weren’t that special.’
She heard his swift intake of breath, and flinched, knowing she had gone too far. Waiting for a retribution which seemed inevitable.
But there was nothing.
She felt rather than heard the moment he moved away. Listened, all her senses tingling, as he wrapped himself in the blanket. Then, in the heavy silence which followed, she turned her face into the single pillow, and lay like a dead thing.
It had never occurred to her that she would sleep. She was too aware of his even breathing only a few feet away, demonstrating quite clearly, she realised, that her rejection couldn’t have weighed too heavily with him after all.
She sighed silently, searching for a cool place on the pillow. S
he needed to look calm and rested in the morning, not wan and heavy-eyed.
Because Sandro must not be allowed to think that he still mattered to her.
That was what she needed to remember above all. Anything else would be a disaster, because, as those few moments in the darkness had proved all over again, it was going to be difficult to remain immune to the devastating allure of his sexuality.
But that, she thought, had always been her downfall from their first meeting. She had been too much in love, too blinded by the passion and glamour of him to ask the right questions and demand answers that made sense.
Her first major surprise had been his brilliant command of English, but when she’d asked him about it he’d simply said he’d had good teachers.
Polly had wondered, with a pang, whether he meant other women, and decided not to probe any further. Now she suspected that he’d gone to school in England, and probably university too, either here or in America.
He’d told her too that he worked at the Grand Hotel Comadora, but she’d never gone there to see him because its sheer expensive exclusivity discouraged casual visitors. The entrances were controlled by security guards, and the staff were subject to strict rules, so she’d stayed away. Otherwise she’d have soon found out that he wasn’t simply an employee, but the owner. And that had been the last thing he wanted her to know.
Her own naïveté made her cringe now. The way she’d trusted him with all her small, loving dreams of their future.
‘I’d like a tiny house,’ she told him once. ‘In one of the villages high above the sea, with a terraced garden, and its own lemon tree.’
‘Mm.’ He’d stroked her hair back from her love-flushed face with gentle fingers. ‘And will you make me limoncello from our tree?’
He was talking about the lethally potent liqueur that was brewed locally, and she’d laughed.
‘Well, I could try.’
God, what a fool she’d been, and how he must have been secretly amused at her, knowing full well that he was going to dump her once their warm, rapturous summer together was over.
He’d found himself an inexperienced virgin, and cynically turned her into an instrument for his pleasure.
I bet he couldn’t believe his own luck. I must have been the perfect mistress, she thought, wincing. Easily duped, and ecstatically wanton. He didn’t even have to kiss me. The sound of his voice—the warmth of his skin as he stood next to me were enough.
And, as she’d discovered tonight, they still were.
So how was she going to deal with the bleak sterility of the future that awaited her in Italy? A wife who was not a wife, she thought, living in a house that would never be her home. Her only link with Sandro, the child he had made in her body. A child, at the same time, who had driven them further apart than any years or miles could have done.
Sandro blamed her for keeping her pregnancy from him, but what else could she have done when she’d been dismissed so summarily from his life? And the accompanying threat might have been veiled, but it was real enough to have kept her from Italy ever since. Or until yesterday, at least.
And that had been all his own doing.
And now amazingly she was going to return to the Campania at his side. Somehow, she was going to have to learn to be his marchesa. To sit at his table, wearing the clothes and probably the jewellery he provided. To be pleasant to his family, and welcoming to his guests. And never by word, look or gesture let anyone suspect that she was bleeding slowly to death.
She supposed there would be compensations. She knew there would be heartbreak. And she was scared.
Scared of the inevitable isolation that awaited her—the power he still exerted over her trembling senses—and the ever-present danger of self-betrayal.
She needed to work on her anger—her bitterness at his desertion. They would protect her. Build a barrier that not all his sensual expertise could breach. That was the way she must go.
All the same, she found her mind drifting wistfully back to the tiny dream house and its lemon tree, and she saw herself walking beneath it with Sandro, her hand in his, as the sun glinted through the leaves.
And though her mouth smiled, there were tears on her face as she finally fell asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE was weighed down, sinking into the depths of a dark and bottomless sea, unable to move or save herself.
Polly opened her eyes, gasping, to the familiar surroundings of the flat, bathed in early-morning light through the thin curtains, but the sensation of being pinned down persisted. Even increased.
Slowly, and with foreboding, she turned her head, and saw that Sandro was lying next to her, on top of the covers. The blue blanket was thrown lightly over him, and, she realised incredulously, Charlie’s small pyjamaed form was also present, sprawled across his father’s bare chest, his dark head tucked into the curve of his shoulder. Both of them were fast asleep.
For a moment Polly was transfixed by this unexpected tableau. And deep within her, she felt such a stir of tenderness that she almost cried out.
She swallowed deeply, reclaiming her self-control. Reminding herself that she would have to get accustomed to seeing them together, although not in such intimate circumstances. And, at the same time, knowing a pang of jealousy that Charlie, usually awkward with strangers, should have capitulated so readily. She overcame an impulse to snatch him back.
Slowly and stealthily, she began to ease her way towards the edge of the bed. It was still early, but her need for coffee was evenly matched with her desire to extract herself from a difficult situation.
Besides, she wanted both Charlie and herself to be ready by the time Julie arrived.
Julie, she thought, her mouth tightening, who was going to get a piece of her mind. And yet was that really fair to the girl, who’d only been doing the job she was hired for?
Yes, she had concerns, but so had Polly. She’d been worried about her mother’s apparent resolve to keep Charlie a baby for as long as possible, and therefore more dependent than he should be at his age. Mrs Fairfax had lavished presents on ‘my little prince’ and ‘Gran’s sweet little man’, most of them in the form of expensive clothing which she fussed to keep pristine. Even helping his grandfather to gather up hedge clippings seemed to be on the forbidden list, Polly recalled wryly. Hardly any wonder that Charlie didn’t shine at outdoor activities.
And he was lazy about feeding himself, and doing simple tasks that Polly set him, probably because he was used to having everything done for him at other times.
I knew there were problems, she admitted as she slid with infinite care from under the covers, but at the same time I wanted to avoid another confrontation with my mother. So I have only myself to blame.
She stood up, then paused, suddenly aware of movement behind her. Stiffening as Sandro’s voice said a husky, ‘Buongiorno’.
‘Good morning.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘I was going to make coffee—if you’d like some. I—I don’t have espresso,’ she added stiltedly.
‘Coffee would be good,’ he said. ‘If I can free myself sufficiently to drink it.’ She could hear the smile in his voice, and bit her lip.
‘Shall I put him back in his cot?’ she asked.
‘Why disturb him for no cause?’
‘Perhaps I should ask you the same thing.’ Polly stared down at the floor. ‘What is he doing here?’
‘He was crying,’ Sandro said shortly. ‘He wanted a drink, which I gave him. Should I have left him thirsty?’
‘He’d have needed changing too.’ God, she thought, she sounded so carping—like a miserable shrew.
‘I even managed that,’ he returned. ‘After a struggle. Although I do not guarantee my handiwork,’ he added drily.
‘You did that?’ Polly turned then, staring down at him.
‘But of course. He was uncomfortable.’
‘Well—thank you for that,’ Polly said reluctantly. She shook her head. ‘I can’t understand why I didn’t h
ear him myself. I always do …’
‘You were dead to the world.’ His voice gentled a little. ‘You did not even scream “rape” when I joined you on the bed. Perhaps you sensed Carlino was there to act as chaperone.’
‘Maybe so,’ she agreed stiffly.
‘A friend warned me that when you have a child, the concept of “three in a bed” takes on a new meaning,’ he went on. ‘I now know what he means.’
Polly looked away, her mouth tightening, and he sighed. ‘That was a joke.’
‘An inappropriate one,’ she said, hating the primness in her voice. ‘I’ll get the coffee now. And—thanks again for helping with Charlie.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, his voice faintly weary.
By the time she returned, Charlie had woken and was in a grizzly mood.
‘You are sour in the mornings, figlio mio,’ Sandro told him. He slanted a faint grin at Polly. ‘Like your mammina.’
She sipped the strong, scalding brew she’d made. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was defensive. ‘But this isn’t easy for me.’
‘Or for me, cara mia,’ he said. ‘Or for me.’
He swallowed his own coffee with the complete disregard for its temperature that she remembered so well, then rose, swinging Charlie up into his arms. ‘Come, my little grumbler. Come and take a bath with Papa and see if it improves your temper.’ He glanced at Polly. ‘You have no objections, I hope.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘None.’
She occupied herself with stripping the bed and turning it back into a sofa, while attempting to ignore the noise of splashing and Charlie’s gleeful squeals coming from the bathroom. Trying hard, too, not to feel envious and even slightly dejected, because that would get her nowhere.
Her path might have been chosen for her, but she had to follow it, whatever the cost.
What would happen next? she wondered. She supposed she would have to see Mrs Terence and tell her that Safe Hands would be losing her earlier than planned.
And she would have to visit her parents and break the news to them too—a situation which had all the makings of a Class A nightmare.