They weren’t, he knew that, but sometimes he just had a yearning to be back there, and those distant hills made him feel closer. The idea of moving to some gated community or apartment complex with hefty security and nothing to look at through the windows but carefully manicured grounds brought him out in hives.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, knowing full well he wouldn’t, and he closed his eyes and listened to the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers as she drove him home.
* * *
He was asleep when she turned onto the long gravel drive that led to her villa.
It had once been the main dwelling on her family’s farm, long superseded by a much larger villa, and she loved it. It was small and unpretentious, but it was hers, it had stunning views, and it was perfect for Gio’s recovery because it was single storey and so he wouldn’t have to struggle with stairs.
Her headlights raked the front of the villa, and she drew up outside and opened the door quietly, easing out of the car without disturbing him. She’d put the radio on quietly while he slept, and she left it on while she went in and turned up the heating.
It wasn’t cold, exactly, but it was cheerless even though the rain had stopped now, and she pulled sheets out of the linen cupboard and quickly made up her spare bed for him. It was a good room, the view from the bed stretching miles into the distance, and on the top of the hill on the horizon was the Palazzo Valtieri, home to his family for hundreds of years.
The lights were off now, the palazzo deserted, but normally she could see it in the dark. It was quite distinctive, and at night the lights could be seen for miles. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d lain there in her bedroom next to this one and stared at them, wondering if he was there, if he was awake, if he was looking for the lights of her villa.
Probably not. Why would he? He didn’t feel the same about her, he’d made that perfectly clear five years ago when he’d ended their relationship without warning. And anyway, most of the time he was in Firenze, where he lived and worked.
But still she looked, and wondered, and yearned.
‘Stop it!’ she muttered, and made the bed. Torturing herself with memories was pointless—as pointless as staring at the palazzo on the hill like a love-struck teenager night after night.
But she felt like a love-struck teenager, even after all this time. Nothing had changed—except now she didn’t have to imagine what it felt like to lie in his arms, because she knew.
She tugged the quilt straight, turned it back so he could get in, and went outside, switching on the porch lights.
He was awake. She could tell that, even though his eyes were closed, and as she walked towards him, her boots crunching on the gravel, they opened and looked straight at her through the windscreen.
He didn’t want to come in. She could tell that, just as she’d been able to tell he was awake. Well, that was fine. She didn’t really want him to, either, because it meant keeping up an impossible charade of indifference for the next two weeks, and she really, really didn’t know if she could do it.
But it seemed that neither of them had a choice.
* * *
He had to do it.
There was no point delaying it, he had to get out of the car and hobble into the house and try, somehow, not to remember the last time he’d been in there.
The night of his brother Massimo’s wedding, nine months ago.
Long enough to make a baby.
That was a random thought. And if he hadn’t stopped, if he hadn’t walked away and got back in his car and driven back to Firenze, they might have done just that.
They’d had a great day. A quiet family wedding, with a simple ceremony in the town hall followed by a meal in a restaurant owned by a member of their housekeeper Carlotta’s family.
And then Massimo had taken his bride home, and the rest of them had ended up at Luca’s with all the children. Too much for him, and too much for Anita, so he’d given her a lift home, and she’d offered him coffee before he headed back to Firenze, and he’d accepted.
Except they’d never got as far as the coffee—
‘Gio?’
He eased his fragile and protesting foot out of the car with his one good hand, and then swung round and stood up, propping himself on the door for a moment.
‘OK?’
‘Bit light-headed.’
She clicked her tongue and took his good arm, draping it round her shoulders and sliding her arm around his waist so she could help him to the door. He didn’t lean much weight on her. He couldn’t, she was tiny, so he wasn’t sure how much of a help it was, but it gave him a legitimate excuse to be close to her for a moment.
He actually didn’t need her help. So long as he took tiny, short steps, it was OK. Not good, but OK. And if he took it slowly, he’d be fine.
Did he tell her that?
No, because he was weak and self-indulgent, and he was enjoying the feel of her arm around his waist too much, so he told himself he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
As if it would. Anita was made of sterner stuff than that. He’d ripped her head off a million times when she’d been helping him limp home after he’d fallen out of a tree or off a wall or come hurtling off his bike at some crazy break-neck speed, and she’d never once turned a hair or paid any attention to his objections.
So he kept quiet and let her help him, and enjoyed the side-effect of being close to her firm, athletic body, savouring the nudge of her hip against his, the feel of her arm around his back, her warm fingers curled around his wrist.
And the scent of her, the perfume she always wore, the perfume he’d bought her countless times for Christmas or birthdays, always apologising for being unimaginative but doing it anyway because that scent, for him, was Anita.
‘All right now?’
He nodded, words failing him for a second, and she shot him a keen look.
‘You really are feeling rough, aren’t you? I was expecting you to tell me to let go and stop interfering and that you didn’t need my help and go and do something useful like cooking—’
She broke off, meeting his eyes and then laughing as she saw the wry humour reflected there.
‘Surely not? Surely you haven’t finally learned to be gracious, Giovanni Valtieri, after all these years?’
‘Hardly.’
He chuckled and lifted his good hand, patting her cheek patronisingly. It always annoyed her and her eyes flared in warning.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ she said, and dropping him there in the entrance hall like a hot brick, she stalked into the kitchen, hips swishing. ‘Coffee?’
He followed her slowly, enjoying the view in a masochistic way because there was no way he would act on this crazy attraction between them. ‘Only if you’ve got a decent coffeemaker now. I don’t suppose there’s any food in the house?’
‘Not yet. It’s in the car. I’ll put the coffee on. Do you want to lie down for a while, or sit in here?’
And there it was—the sofa, an old battered leather one where he’d nearly lost his self-control last June. But it looked really inviting, and it was set opposite a pair of French doors out onto the terrace and he could see the familiar lights of the valley twinkling in the distance. His home was out there somewhere in the darkness, and if he couldn’t be there, then this was the next best thing.
‘Here looks good,’ he said, and made his way over to it and lowered himself down cautiously. So far, so good, he thought, and stretched his leg out in front of him with a quiet groan of relief.
‘Better?’
‘Much better. Have you got that coffee on yet?’
‘I thought you didn’t like my coffee?’
‘I don’t, but I need caffeine, and it has to be better than the stuff in the hospital.’
She gave him a look, but got two mugs out and found some biscuits in a tin.
‘Here. Eat these while you wait. We’ll be having dinner in a while. I bought something ready-made so we can have
it whenever you’re ready.’
‘Good. I’m starving.’
She laughed. ‘I’ve never known you when you weren’t starving. It’s a miracle you’re not fat.’
‘It’s my enormous brain. It takes a lot of energy.’
She snorted, but he could see a smile teasing the corners of her mouth, and he turned away so she wouldn’t see him laughing in response. Then his smile faded, and he closed his eyes and sighed quietly.
If it wasn’t for this intense physical tug between them which had appeared suddenly when they were fourteen and never faded, life would have been so, so much easier. They could have just been friends, just as they had all their lives until that point. They’d been inseparable, getting into all manner of scrapes together, but then their hormones had made things awkward between them and she’d started spending more time with the girls, and he with the boys.
But despite the occasional awkwardness, they’d stayed friends, and they still were, twenty years later. She was the first person he called if he had something interesting or sad or exciting to share, but since that time five years ago when they’d somehow lost their restraint and ended up in bed for a few giddy and delirious weeks, things hadn’t been the same.
He hadn’t called her as much, hadn’t leant on her in the same way, and if she’d leant on him, he’d given only what he’d had to and no more.
He’d been easing away from her, trying to distance himself because it was just too darned hard to be so close when he could never give her what she wanted—until last June, when he’d nearly lost the plot. He’d hardly seen anything of her since then, and he’d missed her more than he would ever admit.
* * *
She heard a quiet sigh, and looked over to where he was sitting.
He looked thoughtful, sombre, and she wondered what he was thinking about. The silly woman who’d got him in this mess with her unprovoked attack?
Or the last time he’d sat on that sofa, when they’d so nearly—
‘Here, your coffee,’ she said, dumping it down on the table beside him. She went back for her own coffee and the biscuits, and handed them to him.
‘No chocolate ones?’
‘Do you know, you’re like a demanding child,’ she grumbled, going back to the cupboard and rummaging around until she found a packet of chocolate coated wafers. ‘Here. I was saving them for a special occasion, but since you can’t cope without them...’
He arched a brow, but she ignored it and tore the Cellophane and put the packet down on the cushions between them, reaching for one at the same time as him. Their fingers clashed, and she withdrew her hand.
‘After you,’ she said, ‘since you’re clearly going to die if you don’t eat soon,’ and his mouth curved into a slight, fleeting smile and he picked one up deliberately and bit it in half.
She looked away. He was teasing her, tormenting her, but her fingers were still tingling from the brush of his hand.
How could she feel like this still? Always, all the time, year after year without anything but hope to feed it?
Except he’d given her hope. They’d had an affair, and last year, they’d so nearly started it up again. So very, very nearly—
‘Good biscuits.’
‘They are. That’s why I was saving them. Don’t eat them all, you won’t want your dinner.’
‘Unlikely.’
She snorted, and put the rest away in the tin and put the lid on, and he just leant back and stretched out his long, rangy body and sighed.
He looked so good there, as if the sofa was made for him, as if it was his body that had moulded it to the saggy, comfortable shape it now was—except he’d only ever been on it once before, and she really, really didn’t want to think about that time.
‘How’s the coffee?’ she asked to distract herself, and he glanced down into the mug and shrugged.
‘It’s coffee. It’s not great. Why don’t we go and buy a coffee maker?’
‘Now?’
He chuckled wearily. ‘No, not now. Tomorrow? I don’t know if I can cope for two weeks without proper coffee.’
‘This is proper coffee. You’re just a coffee snob.’
‘No, I just know what I like.’
‘And you couldn’t possibly compromise to spare my feelings?’
He turned his head and gave her a mocking smile. ‘Now, you know that’s ridiculous.’
Oh, goodness, she couldn’t do this! That smile cut right through her defences and left her so vulnerable to him, but there was no way he was going to know that. So she laughed and hit him lightly with a cushion, then hugged it to her chest and pulled her knees up, propping her feet on the edge of the sofa and changing the subject back to the safer one of his attacker.
‘I wonder when they’ll find her. She makes me nervous.’
His lips kinked in that lopsided smile that was so familiar to her and made her heart lurch once again. ‘It’s not a Bond movie, Anita. She’s just an angry woman who’s probably now very scared.’
She nodded. ‘Probably. What on earth did she want from you?’
He shrugged. ‘Money? They were in business, she cheated him for years, he found out and told her to go quietly and broke up the partnership, and then she decided to go after what she thought was her half. So he produced all the evidence to show she’d cheated him and she gave in, but instead of gaining money, she’s ended up with a legal bill, and she blames me.’
Anita laughed in astonishment. ‘Why? She didn’t seriously expect to win?’
‘Apparently.’
‘She’s deluded, then. Either that or she hasn’t heard of your reputation. She should have just gone quietly.’
‘Of course, but she was distraught. Much more so than I would have expected, and she was so insistent on talking to me. It wasn’t normal behaviour. Maybe if I’d listened I wouldn’t be in this mess now.’
He looked slightly bemused, as if he was still trying to work it out, and she reached out a hand and rested it on his shoulder. Silly of her to touch him, so risky and not really necessary, but she needed to feel his warmth, just to reassure herself that he was still alive, that this woman’s actions hadn’t actually caused his death after all.
But then he turned his head and their eyes locked. His pupils flared, darkening his already dark eyes to midnight, and it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Heat scorched through her, a heat born of want and need and a deep and unbearable longing to just lean over and rest her head on his shoulder and hold him close.
For an age they said nothing, and then she pulled her hand away and got up.
‘I’ll get the food in from the car and cook the dinner,’ she said, her voice jerky and tight, and pulling her boots back on, she went out to the car and stood for a moment sucking in the cool air and getting herself back under control.
How could she still love him, still want him, like this? Five years she’d had to get over him, and she’d thought she was doing OK, but tonight she felt as if she hadn’t made any progress at all. And now they were supposed to be stuck together alone here for two weeks, and keep their hands to themselves?
They’d never do it.
* * *
He was on the phone when she went back inside with the shopping, talking to his mother.
She could tell it was her, just by the tone of his voice and the patient, slightly indulgent expression on his face.
‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, Anita’s looking after me. Of course I’ll be nice to her. I know she’s a nice girl.’ He glanced across at her and winked, and then his mother said something else and he looked hastily away. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course not.’
Of course not what? Of course not, any chance of them getting back together? It would make his mother a very happy woman. Hers also. Her, too, come to that, happiest of all of them, but it was a fruitless waste of energy thinking about it any more, so she dumped the shopping down on the worktop and started to put it away.
If on
ly she could tune out the sound of his voice, instead of catching every word as if she was eavesdropping! Not that she could help it.
She left the shopping and went into the bathroom, giving it a quick clean. Hopefully by the time she’d finished, he would have got off the phone and she wouldn’t be forced to endure the warm murmur of his voice and that soft chuckle which melted her bones.
By the time the taps and mirror were gleaming and they could have eaten off the fittings, she decided the bathroom was probably clean enough. She went back into the kitchen, but he was still on the phone. To Luca, this time, she thought.
There was medical stuff—details of his treatment, a report on what hurt, what tingled, what ached—definitely Luca. And he was lying, as well. She took the phone from him.
‘Luca? Hi. This is mostly lies. He hurts, he looks awful, he’s dizzy—Gio, no, you can’t have the phone back.’ She stepped further away, listening to Luca’s advice for feeding him things to replace the iron while Gio protested from the confines of the sofa.
‘Will do.’
‘And don’t let him walk on that foot yet.’
‘OK. I’ll do my best.’ She swatted his hand away. ‘He wants you back.’
‘Anita, before you go, I know this is difficult for you,’ Luca said softly. ‘We’re really grateful to you for being there for him. You just take care, OK? Don’t let yourself get hurt, and if it all gets too much, call, and one of us will come.’
She swallowed hard. ‘I’m fine. Here he is.’
She handed the phone back and retreated to the kitchen, wishing she’d bought raw ingredients instead of a ready-made meal. It might have given her something to do for the next hour or so, instead of turning on the oven, putting the pan of lasagne into it and then twiddling her thumbs for half an hour.
She closed the oven door and thought about what Luca had said. Dark green vegetables and red meat, with whole grain bread and pulses.
Well, the red meat was taken care of, and she had some pâté and a mixed salad she could give him for a starter, and the ciabatta was made with stoneground flour. That would have to do for now, and tomorrow she’d go shopping.
The Valtieri Baby Page 3