She was nothing special, she’d said between mouthfuls of what she’d been told was penne del pescatore—pasta with lashings of succulent prawns, juicy tomatoes and herbs—which had tasted delicious. She lived in an ordinary semi, she’d imparted, with ordinary, slightly elderly parents and she’d worked as a waitress in a café none of them would be seen dead in.
Though she hadn’t said that last bit aloud, of course. And if they all thought she wasn’t fit to belong to the ancient, rich and super-successful Verdi family then tough! She was beyond caring right now. She had other things on her mind.
Like that kiss. What it had meant, if anything. And why it had affected her so cataclysmically when she’d been kissed before—of course she had. But Vito’s kisses had never left her feeling as if the whole world had turned upside down.
By the time they’d been served with macedonia di frutta fresca—a sort of alcoholic fruit salad she had translated to herself, wondering if she dared plunge her silver spoon into the crystal dish that looked so delicate it might shatter if she even breathed on it— Tia Donatella had unbent enough to ask if she was settling in, and even Lorna, wearing a mauve silk shift today and looking cool and gorgeous, had said, ‘I’ll show you around some time, help you get your bearings. Just say the word,’ managing to sound only the tiniest bit bored by the prospect.
The cousin—Giovanni—had given her a few sly glances which she’d tried to ignore, and Eduardo, whose kind smile she’d missed dreadfully, hadn’t been there. He lunched in his room, it had been explained, prior to taking his afternoon rest.
Which left Lucenzo, who hadn’t addressed a single word to her. Or looked at her. His sensationally attractive face had looked as remote as the far side of the moon, and the only time he had fleetingly caught her eyes his gaze had been so cold it had made her shiver, making her spill her coffee down the front of her T-shirt in a shame-making brown dribble.
He had acted as if this morning—all those mixed and passionate emotions—simply hadn’t happened. So fine, OK, he’d said kissing her had been a mistake and she agreed—well, the sensible part of her did—and she really would try harder to forget it, but what about the rest?
What about the way she’d told him everything, every humiliating detail of her so-called affair with Vito, displaying her own gullibility? He’d obviously believed her and been as kind as he knew how. Was that to be wiped away, too?
Judging from his attitude at lunch, it surely looked that way.
Which was why she now wanted to kick holes in walls!
Catching her fingers practically plucking lumps out of her bottom lip, she sternly told herself to get a life and marched through into her bedroom to change the stained T-shirt for one which looked only marginally better.
As soon as Sam woke and had been fed and changed she would carry him down into the fresh air, she decided, trying to make herself feel sensible and adult. It would be cooler by then, and she’d seen some cute little cotton sun hats in one of the over-stocked drawers in the nursery. He would look almost edible in one of those!
In the meantime she’d sit quietly, making plans. Plans to leave this beautiful, unsettling place. She’d been so right when she’d instinctively known that what had happened this morning had created more barriers than it had broken down. It was more than ever imperative that she should get away.
Two weeks or maybe a little longer, depending on Eduardo’s progress, she told herself as she moved around quietly, unable to sit still, tidying the already immaculate nursery.
She had to get back to where she belonged, where she fitted in, where she wouldn’t get lost in fantasies of falling in love with Lucenzo—
Falling in love? As if! she mocked herself acidly, rubbing furiously at the sparklingly clean worktop with a teatowel. Of course she wasn’t falling in love. No way!
Only a few months ago she’d believed she was in love with Vito and it hadn’t been anything like this—this muddled and scary maelstrom of emotions that was plaguing her right now.
It had been calm and comfortable. She’d admired him for the way he had supposedly been struggling to make his way in the world, and she’d worried about him—whether he was working too hard, getting enough sleep, enough to eat. She’d liked it when he’d said she was beautiful, that he loved her and wanted her, and she’d looked forward to their marriage with a warm, contented feeling, because ever since she could remember she had longed for the day when she would have her own home, her own young family.
So what was love? she asked herself scornfully. A wildly beating passion that turned your guts to water and your brains to porridge? Or a fond contentment? It couldn’t be both. So perhaps it was neither. Perhaps it didn’t really exist outside romantic novels and soppy films!
Getting hot and bothered, Portia told herself that her hormones were playing up. They did, didn’t they, after you’d had a baby? That was something she could cope with—wild and muddled emotions because all those hormones were going haywire. They’d settle down sooner or later.
But she wasn’t sure about that, not sure at all, when Lucenzo said in that shiver-making dark velvet voice of his, ‘I did knock—quietly—but you couldn’t have heard. I didn’t want to wake the baby if he was sleeping.’
Just his presence made the air around her tingle, hum with a strange prickly tension. She couldn’t believe that it wouldn’t affect Sam, make him wake up bellowing, but he was still sleeping in his gauzily draped crib, flat on his back with his little arms above his head, his almost transparent eyelids gently closed. Peaceful, innocent, tender.
And Lucenzo was watching him. There was a look on his face that made her heart turn over and a lump jump into her throat. A look that was full of wonder all mixed up with something that looked like pain.
Portia drew air into her cramped lungs, swallowed the awkward lump in her throat and asked thickly, ‘Did you want something?’
He turned slowly, as if reluctant to drag his eyes away from the sleeping infant, and when he looked at her his face had been wiped of that puzzling expression. Just blank and remote. His voice was cool as he said quietly, ‘A message. Through there?’
He swung his back to her, his shoulders broad and intimidating beneath the silk fabric of his shirt. She followed on leaden legs as he walked through into her sitting room by the door at the far end of the light and airy nursery, glad beyond all reasonableness that he hadn’t chosen the other one—the door to her bedroom.
But he wasn’t about to jump on her; he’d spelled that out earlier. He deeply regretted those few minutes of passion. He was probably afraid she was about to jump on him—hence that coldly impassive, keep-your-distance expression!
He was all wound up; she could see that. His wide shoulders were rigid, the broad chest that tapered to his slim, flat waist, the narrow hips, the long legs planted firmly apart—all practically screamed tension. Or was it simply wariness?
He could be justifiably wary of her after she’d tried to rip his clothes off! The thought was deeply embarrassing, not to mention depressing.
Hoping she didn’t look as bad as she felt—as if she’d been discovered committing some particularly heinous crime—she closed the door to the nursery behind her and asked, ‘What message?’ Not one he would take any pleasure in relaying, by the looks of him!
‘Lorna is to accompany you to Firenze—Florence—in the morning. Alfredo will drive you. You are to choose new clothes.’ He stuffed his hands into the side pockets of his trousers as Portia’s brows drew together in a frown and her small rounded chin jutted out at a mutinous angle.
‘I don’t want new clothes. I can’t afford them and I won’t accept charity.’
Lucenzo sighed. He might have expected this. The woman he had first thought her to be would have jumped at the chance of a whole new wardrobe of designer gear, no expense spared. But the Portia he had come to know over the last few hours, whose story of what had happened between her and his half-brother he believed implicitly because it
rang so true, wouldn’t take hand-outs.
She had very little in the way of personal possessions, and those she did have looked as if they belonged in a jumble sale. But she had her pride and he respected her for that.
Changing his approach, careful not to make it too personal, he said gently, ‘Father and Nonna have been putting their heads together.’ He attempted a smile. ‘And when they do that, most sensible people run for cover!’
His stab at a smile went unanswered. Portia, he decided, had developed a decidedly stubborn light in her eyes. She had his respect for that, too. But he agreed with every word his father and grandmother had said on the subject—though he could hardly tell her as much, not after those moments of madness this morning. It would imply a degree of intimacy that had to be avoided at all costs.
He tried again. ‘You must know that Father already regards you as one of the family, and he and Nonna have decided—’ he tried to give the impression that he was searching his memory for the exact words ‘—that such a pretty young thing deserves the kind of clothes that will do her justice.’
‘Oh, goodness!’ Portia’s eyes went wide and her soft lips parted. How could anyone think she was pretty when she was only very ordinary? Vito had called her beautiful but she had been right not to believe him, especially as she now knew everything he’d ever said to her had been a pack of lies!
Lucenzo forcibly ground his teeth together, to stop himself blurting out what he felt. She suddenly looked so bewildered, so achingly vulnerable, it was all he could do to prevent himself from reaching out, from touching her, from telling her to believe it. ‘Pretty’ was too tame a word. She was an incredibly sexy woman!
But telling her that would be as good as letting her know that she had this strange ability to turn him into an echo of his half-brother—all rampaging male lust! Just looking at her made everything that was male in him stand to attention. That silky blond hair falling around her face, soft strands sticking to her forehead because of the heat, her huge grey eyes water-clear and strangely innocent, her too-small T-shirt clinging to the bountiful perfection of her breasts, her tiny waist, the curve of her hips that made him think of feminine fecundity and all that implied—
Closing his eyes briefly, he drew in a sharp breath and managed, ‘Lorna knows the best shops, knows where the family holds accounts. Please try to accept this gift my father wants to make. Be gracious about it. It would give him so much pleasure to spoil you a little.’ And it would ease his own conscience a little, too. So far, apart from his father, the Verdi family had given her nothing but grief.
Portia shifted uncomfortably. When he put it like that she was tempted to comply, if only to humour Eduardo of whom she was already very fond.
But she pointed out honestly, ‘It would be such a waste. I won’t be here long enough to get much wear out of smart new Italian clothes, and they sure as anything wouldn’t fit in with my lifestyle back home!’ Then, seeing his impressive jawline go as hard as a rock, Portia mumbled doubtfully, ‘Though I suppose they could be left here and I could wear them when I bring Sam back to visit his grandpa.’
The reminder that she was still intent on leaving hit him like a blow to the stomach, emptying his lungs of air. But it was nothing personal. It couldn’t be. Hadn’t he already decided to take off himself in the not-too-distant future?
He simply wanted what was best for all of them. His father had livened up considerably since meeting Portia and his grandson, and, despite his former opinions, Portia and her little son needed the support of the family. They were entitled to it, after all. Baby Sam was Vito’s son.
She was moving restlessly around the room now, her arms wrapped defensively around her body. There was a battle going on inside her head; he was sure of that. The caring side of her, her natural instinct to please, was warring with the side that stubbornly refused to take hand-outs.
There was a tiny frown line between her eyes and a few beads of sweat glistened on the sweet curve of her short upper lip. The desire to kiss away both those outward indications of her inner stress, to fold her in his arms, hold her close, was becoming intolerable. He was going to have to deal with this unwanted and despicable surge of lust in the only way he knew how.
He bunched his hands in his side pockets to stop them reaching out for her and drawled as coolly as he could, ‘Don’t dismiss my father’s generosity out of hand, Portia. I know it would hurt him.’ If she was as soft-hearted as he had recently come to believe she was, that should do it. ‘I have to leave this evening—business—but I should be back here in a month’s time. Will you promise you’ll stay, not mention anything about leaving to anyone, until I return?’
He had never had any reason to distrust himself around any woman before now. So the simple solution was to remove himself out of temptation’s way before he found himself doing something that would make him despise himself—behaving like his half-brother!
The only indication that what he’d said had had any effect on her at all came in the sudden slump of her shoulders, the way she came to an abrupt standstill and appeared to be studying her feet.
Acutely aware of the waiting silence, Portia grappled with wildly conflicting emotions. He was leaving the villa, and she knew she would miss him so dreadfully that her heart was already aching.
But because she felt so drawn to him, because his mere presence in the same room made a wild sexual assault on her senses, it would be far better if he weren’t around, wouldn’t it? And without him here it would be easier to stick around for just a little while longer than she’d already decided on.
She lifted her head but didn’t look at him as she mumbled wretchedly, ‘OK. I promise.’
She heard his quietly voice, ‘Thank you.’ Heard him leave the room and close the door gently behind him.
And then discovered she was crying.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘BOY, did I need that!’ Lorna carelessly replaced her empty espresso cup on its saucer, dabbed her glossy lips with a tissue and leaned back gracefully on her chair, lifting her face to the sun.
She’s gorgeous, Portia thought, not for the first time. Clouds of dark chestnut hair, greeny cat’s eyes hidden now behind smoked lenses, and a truly enviable svelte, sleek figure.
Quite why Vito had been unfaithful to his elegant wife she couldn’t even begin to imagine. And if he’d had to play away from home why pick on someone as ordinary and, let’s face it, as dumpy as she was?
Wriggling uncomfortably on her own seat, she cleared her throat and suggested tentatively, ‘Alfredo will be waiting to take us back to the villa. Do you think we ought to make tracks?’
In any other circumstances she would have enjoyed sitting at a pavement café table in the sun-soaked Piazza della Republica, relaxing and people-watching—especially after a long and hectic morning being dragged from one exclusive air-conditioned shop to another.
Lorna had appeared to be in her element, but Portia had felt simply awful as she’d been chivvied into trying on masses of things she didn’t think she’d ever have the courage to wear. Everything had become a blur of beautiful, classy garments, scarves, shoes and underwear, all bearing designer names she would never in a million years have associated with herself.
Whose idea it had been to dragoon Lorna into accompanying her she would never know and didn’t like to ask. It seemed very cruel. True, both Eduardo and Lucenzo had told her that Lorna’s marriage had been on the rocks, but it couldn’t have been pleasant for the other woman to be ordered to spend what amounted to a small fortune—albeit of someone else’s money—on the female who had borne her dead husband’s son!
‘Let him wait; that’s what he’s paid for,’ Lorna drawled lazily. ‘For all he knows we might be in need of a late lunch. Are you quite sure you won’t?’
‘No, thank you.’ Portia’s voice was on the strangled side of prim. She didn’t mean to sound ungracious but she desperately wanted out of this awkward situation.
She flushed
a dull scarlet when Lorna pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and leaned forward, her cat’s eyes level and direct.
‘Lighten up. I’m not your enemy, you know. I don’t know how long your affair with Vito lasted, and I don’t want to. You took nothing from me that I hadn’t wanted to be rid of.’
She took a pack of cigarettes and a slim gold lighter from her bag, lit up, and regarded Portia—who was now cringing with embarrassment and guilt—through a blue haze of smoke.
‘Vito had dozens of affairs throughout our marriage; he couldn’t help himself. Let’s face it, it wasn’t a marriage made in heaven. He proposed only because after what happened to Lucenzo’s wife his father was putting pressure on him, as his second son, to marry and produce an heir.’
She flicked ash into her saucer and then inhaled deeply, giving a slight cynical smile. ‘I was socially acceptable—unlike his preferred playmates, the topless models, wannabe actresses, that sort. And I accepted him for his family wealth and connections. We both knew what we were doing, but towards the end I’m pretty sure he was going to divorce me. You see, once I’d got that ring on my finger I’d made it plain I wasn’t a breeding machine. Not a maternal bone in my body, I’m afraid. We had endless rows about it—he said I was reneging on our bargain.’
She shrugged and theatrically turned her mouth down at the corners. ‘And perhaps I was. We both behaved badly, so I suppose you could say we deserved each other.’
Portia didn’t know what to say. It all sounded so callous and heartless. But then she didn’t have a sophisticated bone in her body, and certainly couldn’t understand how the minds of the super-rich worked.
Maybe this was her opportunity to find out at last what had happened to Lucenzo’s wife. Had he divorced because she couldn’t or wouldn’t produce an heir?
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