by Anne Mather
The island Cesare had chosen for their picnic was small and quite deserted. The chalet was there, as he had said, and as soon as they had arrived, and moored the launch, Cesare stripped off his pants and sweater and dived into the grey-blue waters enthusiastically, shedding the slight stickiness that the heat of the day and their heated exchange had put on him.
Emma was more cautious and investigated the chalet in his absence. It was a one-roomed dwelling, with slim yet strong walls, and only one window, the catch of which seemed to be stuck. There were several cane chairs, and a table, and a cupboard which was disappointingly empty.
She merged from the chalet as Cesare came striding up the pale warm sands of the beach, and her stomach did a little acrobatic twist at the sight of his tanned body. He wore only pale blue swimming shorts, and was dripping water, his hair smooth against his head.
He lifted a huge orange towel from amongst the load of things which he had dumped on the beach and began drying his chest and shoulders. He saw Emma, and said:
‘Well? Are you coming in?’
Emma unzipped the six-inch zipper of her over-blouse and then fastened it again nervously. Her bathing suit was in the small duffel bag which she had brought with her, and at the time she had packed it, she had felt almost certain she would not be wearing it. To picture herself and Count Vidal Cesare bathing together had seemed the height of folly, but now she realized he intended that she should.
‘I’ll have to change,’ she said, glancing round at the chalet behind her.
‘Well, it’s early yet. Come and sit down, and you can bathe later. Si?’
Emma consented, but wondered what on earth they would find to talk about if she did sit down. However, she need not have worried. Count Cesare was an adept conversationalist, and it was difficult to retain her assumed identity when all the while she was tempted to tell him about her training at the hospital and her subsequent attack of influenza.
Instead, she had to pretend a knowledge of the United States which she did not possess and pray that he would not obtain different answers from Celeste.
Cesare lay back lazily on his towel, surveying her through half-closed eyes, looking considerably younger than he actually was. Despite the sometimes hectic life which he led, he retained his health and vitality which was due in no small measure to the fact that he got plenty of exercise contrary to the lazy, indolent air he assumed in the casinos.
Emma sat forward, hugging her knees with her arms, and gazing out across the water, glistening now in the hot sunshine. She seemed preoccupied, and he said:
‘You’re not still thinking about that incident on the launch?’
‘No,’ she denied honestly. ‘I was thinking many things. But not that.’ She sighed. ‘I wish I could speak Italian. It would be nice to be able to converse with the ordinary people.’
Count Cesare grinned. ‘And are we … my grandmother and I … so extraordinary?’
‘Yes. At least, well … anyway, I would like to learn.’
‘Would you like me to teach you?’ he asked.
‘Could you?’ She looked down at him, blushing for some unknown reason.
‘Of course.’ He sat up, and reached for his sunglasses. Then he said: ‘Maybe it will be easier to learn individual words first of all. A sort of vocabulary, si?’ He glanced round. ‘For instance, the beach is la spiaggia; this towel is l’asciugamano; the coast is la costa.’
Emma repeated the words after him, asking him the names of every article she could see, and relaxing completely with him for the first time. It would be difficult for her to remember all the names he told her, but it was an amusing interlude when they laughed together at Emma’s terrible pronunciation, and she no longer felt defensive with him.
When the hands of his gold watch crept round to twelve-thirty he said, with some surprise:
‘You’ll have to save your swim until later. We shall now have lunch. What do you like? Chicken? Ham? Lobster? Anna always packs enough for an army!’
Emma accepted a plate of lobster and salad, eaten with tiny rolls oozing with fresh butter. Then she had some fruit salad and ice-cream, and washed it all down with some delicious white wine which Cesare recommended.
‘That was delicious,’ she said at last, when Count Cesare thrust the remains of their meal back into the huge hamper. ‘And I am enjoying myself.’
‘Good.’ He grinned, drawing out his cigarette case. He had pulled on his shirt over his bare chest, and changed back into his slacks again. All his body was tanned, she had noticed, and she assumed he spent many such days in the sunshine.
He lay back lazily, sliding his sunglasses back on to his nose. He seemed unwilling now for conversation and Emma wondered why the prospect of the end of this exciting day should seem so bleak. It was no good feeling this way, she thought angrily. When Celeste found out that they were together she would be absolutely furious, and even though Emma was in no way concerned in the deception of their hostess, the old Contessa, she was concerned about the possible effect on their relationship. Their association was brittle enough, heaven knew, without the added complication of something like this. Besides, the Count was clearly entertaining her because it amused him to do so, and possibly because he had nothing better to do. He obviously thought of her in the light of her becoming his stepdaughter should he marry Celeste. He was not to know that once their alliance was sealed his newly acquired stepdaughter would be sent back to the hospital in England, probably never to be seen again.
But at least this was one prospect Emma did not mind. She knew she would never be able to live with Celeste and Count Cesare, knowing that they were married and living a life of intimacy together. The idea was repugnant to her, but she refused to analyse why this should be so.
Getting up quietly so as not to disturb him, she walked up the beach towards the chalet and beyond it to the cluster of shrubs and trees which formed the centre of the island. It was a very small atoll, one of the many lying hereabouts where it was relatively easy to find a deserted place. The far side of the island yielded yet another beach, this time not so attractive, and shaded by the foliage.
Then she turned and walked slowly back to where Count Cesare was lying. She thought she would change while he was resting, and then swim later.
But to her astonishment and alarm, when she returned to the beach below the chalet, the Count was not there. He had gone. The towel still reposed in the spot where he had been lying, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen.
Refusing to admit to a feeling of panic, Emma stared about her in bewilderment, and as she did so her gaze was caught by a moving craft heading across the lagoon with some speed. Straining her eyes against the glare of the sun, Emma swallowed disbelievingly. It was the launch; she was sure of it. And he had gone and left her!
Her legs gave way and she sank down on to the sand shakily. Oh, God! she thought wildly. What on earth is he doing? How could he just leave, like that, without a word?
She felt near to tears, and forced herself to remain calm. She had to think, and think coherently. Things like this did not just happen. There had to be a reason behind it, and obviously, as he had left the hamper and the towels, he must be coming back.
At this her thoughts cheered; but that didn’t explain the reason for his unexplained departure. She hunched her shoulders depressingly. Her lovely day was spoiled, and she wanted to cry quite badly now.
Determinedly she rubbed a hand over her damp eyes. She would not behave like an idiot. If the worst came to the worst she could always hail a craft passing by, and anyway, there was lots of time yet. It was barely three o’clock.
Opening her duffel bag, she drew out the yellow one-piece bathing suit which she had bought herself in London just before she left. It was edged with dark brown beading, and suited her fair complexion and blonde hair. She changed in the chalet, and then walked down to the water’s edge. It was warm, beautifully so after the cold English Channel she was used to swimming in, and she struc
k out bravely away from the shore, doing a lazy crawl.
After a while she turned on to her back and floated, drifting with the water, her hair like seaweed floating about her. Then, not wanting to risk getting cramp, she swam back to the shore and waded up on to the beach.
It was not until then that she remembered she had forgotten to bring a towel herself. With reluctant movements she lifted the huge orange bath-towel which the Count had brought, and wrapped it about her wet body.
It was warm from the warmth of the sun, and enveloped her like a blanket. She thought she could vaguely smell the odour of his shaving lotion and an indefinable scent of his body.
She was afraid suddenly, not so much of being alone, but of the implications of her own feelings towards Count Cesare. She was thinking far too much about him, allowing his affairs to monopolize her thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. He was Celeste’s concern, anyway, not hers. It was Celeste he wanted, Celeste and her millions of dollars, so that he could restore the crumbling old palazzo and regain the family treasures. It wouldn’t matter if in so doing Celeste installed full central heating, and fitted carpets, and perhaps a lift, because by then they would be married and their lives would be one. To imagine Count Cesare with Celeste was painful enough at the moment. What would it be like once they were married?
Emma felt sick, and buried her face in the towel feeling the hot tears scalding her cheeks. She despised herself, and her stupid emotions. How could she act like this? Why couldn’t she shake off this feeling of depression that was threatening to overwhelm her?
She lay back on the sand, sighed deeply. The sun was hot on her face and she closed her eyes wearily. Anything to escape from the futility of her thoughts, from the awareness of her feelings for a man who was not only far out of her reach but who clearly thought very little of her. So little that he didn’t even bother to explain before leaving her alone, on a deserted island in the middle of the lagoon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE launch glided in to its mooring without a sound and Count Cesare vaulted out of the vessel on to the sand, mooring it securely.
Then he walked up the beach, lighting a cigarette with thoughtful movements, still absorbed with the results of his mission. He was almost on Emma before he saw her, a huddled bundle in the orange towel, her head pillowed on one arm, fast asleep. But her eyes were puffy from recent weeping, and the stains of dried tears were on her cheeks.
With a muffled exclamation he flung away the cigarette, and sank down on to his haunches beside her. He was cruel, and a beast, and he had known his unheralded departure would disturb her, but he had not expected her to react so violently. He had reassured himself with the thought that she would know he would return, eventually, and excused his own behaviour on the grounds of its importance. But that did not alter the fact of his having used her to further his own ends, however noble they might be, and that was inexcusable.
‘Emma,’ he murmured, softly but insistently, tugging at the towel gently.
The towel drawn back exposed the soft childish curve of her shoulder and the nape of her neck, while the swelling fullness of her breasts was outlined clearly by the damp costume.
Cesare, used as he was to the shape and guile of a woman’s body, found his senses stirring in spite of himself, and he was unable to prevent his fingers sliding caressingly over the smoothness of her upper arms.
‘Emma,’ he said again, shaking her a little, until the wide green eyes opened, and gazed at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Cesare,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Where … oh!’ Memory flooded her being, and she sat up sharply, releasing herself from his hands. ‘You … you’re back!’
Cesare remained on his haunches looking at her. ‘Yes, I’m back,’ he agreed quietly. ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you.’
‘You … you didn’t frighten me,’ she retorted, assuming an anger that was hard to arouse now that he had returned.
‘Then why were you crying?’ he asked, his eyes narrowed slightly.
‘I … I wasn’t,’ she denied hotly. ‘For goodness’ sake, I’m not a baby.’
‘Aren’t you?’ he murmured, stroking one cheek with caressing fingers. ‘You don’t look very old to me.’
‘Oh, stop it!’ she cried, brushing his hand away, and bending her head to avoid looking at him.
‘Emma,’ he said solemnly, ‘I apologize for doing what I did. It was unforgivable, but very necessary just the same.’
Emma looked up at him, her eyes flashing. ‘I’ve told you. Forget it! Just take me back to the Palazzo. I want to leave here at once!’
Cesare stared at her intently. The orange towel had slipped from her shoulders now and she sat there, in the fading sunlight, a small, outraged girl, who nevertheless seemed to epitomize all that was warm and sweet and feminine.
‘Emma …’ He said her name softly, and saw a shiver of apprehension slide over her.
His fingers stroked the skin of the arm, so near to him, his eyes never leaving her face. Then his hand curved round the nape of her neck, tipping her head back so that she was unable to lower her gaze. Falling on to his knees beside her, he bent his head and put his mouth to the side of her throat, then drew her back on to the sand as her eyes closed convulsively.
His mouth parted her lips in a slow, languorous kiss, which hardened and deepened as he felt her immediate response. To Emma, aroused from sleep and still only half awake, his lips were warm and desirable, and her response was more revealing in this lethargic state.
‘Dio,’ he groaned, feeling the yielding softness of her body beneath him. Her young mouth moved sensuously under his own, arousing him in spite of the control he was holding with iron will over himself, and he felt his head swimming dangerously.
He had wanted to comfort her, to make up to her for his tardy behaviour, but instead his gentleness was turning to passion, and he realized, with disgust at his own actions, that he wanted her completely.
With a superhuman effort, he pulled himself away and stood up, smoothing his hair with hands which were not quite steady.
‘For God’s sake, Emma,’ he said, more violently than he had intended, because of his own disturbing desires, ‘get up and stop acting like a cortigiana!’ His voice was sardonic and hateful.
Emma got to her feet, wrapping the towel about her. ‘What does that mean?’ she asked, in a small voice. ‘That was not part of our vocabulary.’
‘Cortigiana!’ His tone was mocking. ‘Find it in the dictionary. Now come on! Get dressed, and we will go. Your stepmother will be wondering where you are. Mothers usually worry over their children, don’t they?’
‘Oh, Cesare!’ she exclaimed. ‘How can you?’
He turned away, ashamed of himself, both for his actions and the words he was now using to dispel any feelings he might have aroused in her. He was a pig and a careless fool, only thinking of his own pleasures. But she was so deliciously sweet and untouched, and all thoughts of Celeste, or any other woman for that matter, had fled when his mouth touched hers. It would have been so delightful to teach her the arts of making love, but he was more than twenty years her senior, experienced and jaded, with no right to despoil such freshness. She needed a younger man, a much younger man, with whom she could share the trials and errors of inexperience. Besides, he was living a dangerous existence on the knife-edge of disaster, and no woman deserved that kind of treatment; not even Celeste. He must resolve this affair before allowing Celeste and her millions to ruin everything.
When Emma was dressed she walked back to him, wrapping her bathing suit inside the towel, and lifting his shorts to do likewise.
‘I’m ready,’ she said dully, and he nodded, throwing away the end of the cigarette he had been smoking while waiting for her.
He climbed into the launch, and then gave Emma his hand to do likewise. She stumbled on the top of the side, and almost fell into the bottom of the boat, saved only by his body. She felt the tautness of his muscles, as she was pressed mo
mentarily against him, and she said weakly:
‘Cesare, please!’ imploringly.
He ground his teeth together, and pushed her away, unfastening the mooring rope, and flinging it into the water.
‘We must find you a boy-friend, Emma,’ he said tightly. ‘It seems you are becoming ridiculously infatuated with the idea of making love. Maybe some youth of your own age will quench these rather embarrassing fires.’
Emma stared at him disbelievingly. Then she stamped her foot angrily, knowing with a kind of woman’s intuition that that was not the whole of the truth.
‘I’ll choose my own friends, thank you,’ she said coldly. ‘And don’t imagine I’ll attempt to embarrass you, Signor Count. Nothing would induce me to speak to you again, unless there’s absolutely no choice.’
‘Very well, signorina. That pleases me greatly. I am not used to dealing with impulsive teenagers who fling themselves at my head.’
‘Oh! Oh!’ Emma could think of no reply, and as she could feel the betraying tears prickling at her eyes yet again she turned away from him and went down to the cabin, to remain there for the rest of the journey.
Celeste had had a very annoying day. The headache which had disturbed her sleep had caused her to wake with such depression was swiftly eased by the administration of two tablets which the maid brought her with her morning cup of coffee. Celeste had never known such speedy relief and she bestowed a condescending smile on the maid, and said:
‘You may run my bath, Anna. I feel quite refreshed. I think I will join the Count after all.’
Anna’s face was bland indifference.
‘Unfortunately, the Signor Count has already left the Palazzo,’ she intoned calmly. ‘It will not be possible for Madame to join him.’
Celeste had a sneaking suspicion that the maid was enjoying her role as adviser. Consequently her voice was sharp as she said:
‘I don’t understand! The Signor Count and myself were to go on a picnic this morning. Surely he hasn’t gone alone!’
Anna shook her head. ‘But no, madame. The Signorina Emma has gone with him. They left almost an hour ago.’