‘Shh … It’s all right. Shh…. You’re safe …’
A pair of strong arms seized her and she screamed again, writhing and clawing in terror.
‘Eve! Eve! It’s all right. It’s just a dream. Shh … You’re quite safe.’
It was Raphael’s voice, close to her ear. It was his arms wrapped tightly around her, and his hands gentle on her sweat-soaked hair as they soothed away the nightmare. Overwhelmed with relief, she collapsed against his chest, desperately grateful for his warmth and strength.
Gradually her breathing steadied, and the trembling that racked her body grew less violent under the steady strokes of his hand. But she didn’t want him to stop. The only sound in the still room came from the soft, rhythmic hissing sound of his hand against her hair and the steady thud of his heart beneath her ear. Sleep blurred the edges of her mind, drawing a veil of shadow over everything except his reassuring nearness.
Gently he laid her back on the pillows. She was dimly aware that her brief T-shirt had ridden up, but her embarrassment at the realisation was outweighed by the sudden desolation she felt at losing contact with his body. He pulled the covers back over her, then stood up.
Through half-closed eyes she watched him flex his tired shoulders, then bend to pick up her laptop and several scattered pages of notes for the article, which must have slid off her knee when she’d fallen asleep. As he reached over to turn out the light he paused for a moment and looked down at her. His face was lined with exhaustion, his expression guarded and remote.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
He shook his head wearily. Then switched the light off and was gone.
The sun was climbing higher into a sky the colour of delphiniums by the time Eve made her way hesitantly downstairs, stiff with shame and embarrassment at the prospect of seeing Raphael again.
So she’d managed to make an almighty fool of herself not once but twice in one evening. That was quite an achievement even by her standards.
And on both occasions Raphael had behaved with dignity and chivalry.
Damn him.
She’d woken early and tried to make some headway on the article, but no matter how hard she tried the words wouldn’t come. Sienna and the retrospective seemed like light-years ago—part of another lifetime when she had known what she believed and had been charge of her own actions. Since then her heart seemed to have told her head its services were no longer required and staged something of a takeover, as last night’s argument with Lou demonstrated.
She couldn’t blame Lou for being worried. If she’d been a thousand miles away in England she probably would have been, too. It was just that here, in close proximity with Raphael di Lazaro, she had never felt safer in all her life.
She found Fiora in the salon, dusting the many photograph frames that crowded the surface of the grand piano. Golden motes danced in honeyed shafts of sunlight falling in through the three sets of French windows, suffusing the room with warmth.
‘Buongiorno, signorina. You sleep good?’
Eve was just about to reply truthfully that, no, she’d had a dreadful night when she stopped herself. Judging from the meaningful look on Fiora’s face, she would assume that meant one thing …
If only.
‘Brilliantly, thank you, Fiora.’ She beamed. ‘It’s so peaceful here.’
‘Si, signorina. Signor di Lazaro, he always say that too. Here is the only place he sleep good.’
‘Raphael?’
‘Ne, Signor Antonio.’ She sighed. ‘He so tired recentemente. Now we know why …’
Tears filled her small dark eyes and, biting her lip, she reverently dabbed the duster over the photograph frame in her hand.
‘Don’t get upset, Fiora. I’m sure Signor Antonio will be out of hospital and back here where you can look after him in no time.’
‘Si, si … spero …’ Fiora sniffed, looking fondly down at the photograph. It showed a dinner-suited Antonio, arm in arm with someone who looked suspiciously like an Italian film star. ‘Those infermiera—they not know him. He like things done just so. He not easy man. But underneath … he is good man.’
Not according to Raphael, thought Eve, who rather suspected that in his current state Antonio would neither know nor care how things were done. Out loud, she said, ‘Have you worked for him for long?’
‘Trentacinque anni. Thirty-five years. I start when he bring Isabella here as a young bride.’
‘Raphael’s mother?’
‘Si.’ Fiora replaced the photograph amongst the others. Most of them were of Antonio, formally dressed, with a variety of diamond-festooned beauties on his arm. Eve wondered which of them was Isabella.
‘What was she like?’
Fiora reached over, picked up a small photograph from right at the back and handed it to her. It was of an astonishingly beautiful girl holding a little boy on her knee, and Eve’s heart lurched as she recognised the child’s huge dark eyes with their fringe of long lashes, his perfectly shaped mouth. Isabella was dressed to go out, wearing a simple dress of pale green silk-satin, with a tiny cluster of pink satin roses between her creamy breasts. She was looking straight into the camera, smiling radiantly, while Raphael, unsmiling, looked up into his mother’s face with an intensity that made Eve’s heart ache for him.
‘Raphael is very like her.’
‘Si, l’aspetto, perhaps. In personality he is like Signor Antonio.’
Eve looked up in surprise. ‘Really? I thought—’
‘Oh, they fight, certo, but is because they are just the same. Ostinato, orgoglioso, difficile …’ She laughed. ‘Always they think they are right! That is why they cannot get along.’
‘She looks very beautiful. Molto bella. And very young.’
‘Ventuno when they marry.’
Twenty-one. The same age as me, thought Eve in wonder. But found her gaze being drawn away from Isabella’s luminous beauty back to the face of the little boy. Without thinking she stroked the pad of her thumb over his face, as if trying to soothe away the anguish that she saw in the dark pools of his eyes.
‘You can see how much he loves her. Her death must have been devastating for him.’
She spoke out loud, but almost to herself, assuming that Fiora wouldn’t understand. To her surprise, Fiora replied.
‘Si. For a child to see such a thing.’ Her voice trailed off and she shook her head sorrowfully.
In the short silence that followed, Eve’s stomach gave a dramatic rumble.
‘Signorina, mia dispiace … Colazione! Poverino! Come, come with me.’
Thoughtfully Eve replaced the photograph, this time positioning it right at the front, so it obscured Antonio and the filmstar. A thousand questions rose to the surface of her mind, like fish in a pool, but Fiora had already gone, hurrying off to the kitchen with an efficient rustling of skirts.
With a last glance into the sad eyes of the little boy, Eve followed.
Eve took her coffee out onto the terrace. In the shimmering morning light no evidence remained of what had taken place there last night, apart from a scattering of bruised rose petals on the flagstones beside Raphael’s chair.
She bent to pick one up, crushing its soft flesh between her fingers and releasing its outrageously sensual fragrance. Instantly she was transported back to the moment when she had put her hand to his face and he had pulled her down to kiss him. A tide of bittersweet remembered ecstasy washed through her.
At that moment she’d been so sure of herself, so confident with her silly plan. Now it seemed nothing more than laughable. She’d thought that by getting closer to Raphael she would be able to see things more clearly, but, like Icarus flying towards the sun, she had been foolish and over-ambitious. The closer she got, the more he dazzled her.
Looking down, she saw that she was still holding the rose petal, but it was crushed and battered beyond recognition.
It seemed like an omen. She had been mad to think she could play games with a man like Raphael Di Lazar
o and escape with her heart intact.
Beyond the terrace a broad sweep of lawn sloped downwards to a line of cypress trees in the distance, set along a stone wall. Suddenly the urge to get away from the house was overwhelming. Throwing down the tattered petal, she set off briskly in the direction of the trees.
As she got nearer she could see that the wall formed the back of a low, single-storey building with a sloping tiled roof. After hesitating, in case it was the home of one of the members of the villa’s staff, Eve walked cautiously on. As she rounded the last corner she let out a gasp of pleasure.
Before her lay a swimming pool. A perfect, glittering oval of pure turquoise.
The building that she’d just walked around was built in the style of an ancient Roman bathhouse, with marble benches standing in the shade under the wide portico. Wistfully her gaze darted back to the water. The need to feel its soothing chill on her overheated skin was suddenly irresistible.
She opened one of the doors into the poolhouse and found herself in a stunning room decorated in pale, creamy tones. One wall was dominated by a huge mirror hanging over a marble topped counter on which an array of Lazaro cosmetics was arranged. Behind a screen of sandblasted glass in one corner there was a vast walk-in shower, and a pair of huge, squashy sofas covered in biscuit-coloured coarse linen stood either side of a low table on which piles of magazines were neatly stacked.
Feeling like Goldilocks in the Three Bears’ house, Eve padded around, lifting the stoppers from jars and peering into cupboards. She was hoping that someone would have conveniently left something for her to swim in, but, while the room contained every imaginable luxury, there was nothing so practical as a bikini.
Which left her with a choice. Bra and knickers, or nothing?
She didn’t need to look at the verdigris clock set into the stone of the poolhouse wall to know it was almost lunchtime—the high, hot sun and her own gnawing hunger were evidence enough. But she felt better. There was something soothing about swimming, and length after length of rhythmic strokes had calmed her thoughts. It was a refreshed, restored and ravenous Eve who hauled herself reluctantly out of the pool.
In the end she had decided that skinny-dipping was a little too risqué; the thought of one of the servants—or, worse, Raphael—finding her, and standing over her as she got out of the water completely naked, had been enough to convince her that bra and knickers was the only option.
It wasn’t a choice she had made lightly. The underwear she was wearing was a set Lou had made her buy on a last-minute shopping trip the day before she left, and had cost about as much as she would usually want to pay for a whole outfit. Including shoes and the bus fare home.
Although she’d been vociferous in her objections to the price, she secretly loved the semi-sheer organza bra and matching shorts. They were a delicate creamy cappuccino shade, and a butterfly nestled between the bra cups, its wings made of crisp lace in sugared almond pink. Swimming in things of extreme beauty had felt a little bit like wearing the crown jewels to dig the garden but, all things considered, it certainly beat the alternative.
And now she just had to get them dry again. She stretched out on one of the steamer chairs at the poolside and lifted her face to the sun, but realised within minutes that sitting in the heat for that long would be unbearable. She sat up, biting her lip. It seemed there was only one thing for it, after all.
She unfastened the bra and slipped it off, then wriggled quickly out of the damp shorts and draped them both over the chair at the side of the pool. Going back into the poolhouse, she picked up one of the glossy magazines from the pile on the table and began to flick through it. The next moment she gave an exclamation of delight as she came across a feature-length interview with Sienna.
It was a godsend—just the inspiration she needed to get her into the mood for returning to her own article. In fact, you could almost call it research. Throwing herself down onto one of the oversized sofas, Eve put on her glasses and began to read.
The surface of the water was smooth and still, and Raphael barely hesitated before plunging in with an impressively graceful dive. It felt delicious on his skin, and he swam a couple of lengths beneath its surface, grateful for the cool and quiet.
When he’d finally fallen into bed in the small hours he’d slept only fitfully, tormented by the memory of Eve’s sweating, writhing body as he’d held her in his arms while the nightmare faded. A pale slice of blue sky had been visible through the gap in the curtains before sleep had come to him, and even then it had been plagued with more disturbing, sensual dreams that, on waking, had left him feeling raw and edgy with unfulfilled desire.
It was getting beyond a joke. For all his determination last night to make it clear to her that nothing more would happen between them, he could no longer pretend to himself that he wasn’t seriously disturbed by her presence. It was an extremely unwelcome feeling, and one he was beginning to bitterly resent. Perhaps it was just as well he was going to Venice this afternoon.
Pushing through the water, he felt the life seep back into his heavy limbs. Yes, getting away from Eve for a couple of days would give him time to clear his head and maybe even run a few checks on her—find out exactly what sort of a threat she posed. In the meantime she’d be quite safe here with Fiora.
Considerably safer than she was with him.
The thought was an unsettling one. He swam faster, cutting through the water with long, savage strokes.
‘Lazaro is my favourite label!’ Sienna enthused in the interview. ‘I love the fluid lines and feminine details. He has an amazing, instinctive understanding of women’s bodies …’
Just like his son, thought Eve wistfully. She really ought to be getting back to her own article—her underwear would surely be dry by now. Reluctantly she replaced the magazine and, stretching indolently, padded out into the sunshine at the poolside.
She was just reaching for her things when a movement beneath the surface of the water caught her eye. Giving a tiny whimper of distress, she made a grab for her underwear, but in her haste the bra flew out of her shaking hands, making a graceful arc through the air before landing in the water.
Transfixed with horror, she watched it slowly float down towards the bottom of the pool.
Swimming under the water, Raphael saw something pale and gauzy drifting down from the surface. He glanced upwards through the turquoise depths and saw a figure, slender and golden as a sunflower, standing beside the pool. Her face was indistinct through the water, but there was no mistaking those long legs and generous curves. Grabbing the diaphanous piece of underwear, he kicked up to the surface and shook the water from his eyes as he placed it on the side.
Eve felt the blood rise to the surface of her skin as Raphael’s gaze flickered dispassionately over her naked body. Frantically she looked around for something to cover herself up with.
Of course there was nothing.
Swallowing tears of utter mortification, she crossed her arms defensively over her breasts and wished she had the confidence to carry off the stark naked look successfully.
Failing that, a supermodel body would help.
‘I was going to ask if this was yours, but actually I think I can work it out for myself.’
The lack of interest in his eyes was like a slap in the face after the passion of last night’s kiss and the intimacy of waking up in his arms. Meeting his gaze as coolly as possible under the circumstances, Eve raised her chin a little.
‘Top marks, Einstein. Now, if you’ve quite finished enjoying my humiliation, could I have it back, please?’
He sighed and lifted himself out of the pool in one lithe movement that made the muscles ripple beneath his glistening skin. Getting to his feet, he pushed the wet hair back from his forehead and came towards her, holding out the bra. In his masculine hand it looked absurdly girly and frivolous. And intimate—almost as if he wasn’t touching an inanimate scrap of organza and lace but her own flesh.
Eve shrank back
, despising herself for the shameful rush of sweet wetness that thought aroused in her.
‘Are you going to come and get it, or do you want me to come over there and put it on for you?’
‘No!’ It came out as an embarrassing squeak.
‘No, what?’ he asked levelly. ‘No, you’re not going to come and get it? Or no, you don’t want me to come and put it on for you? I hope it’s the latter, because I have to admit my expertise lies more in the removal of these things.’
‘Just give it to me,’ she snapped. Darting forward, she shot out a hand and snatched the bra from where it swung, incriminatingly sexy, from his outstretched finger.
But, having got hold of it, she felt even more at a loss. What should she do now? If she were to turn and go back into the poolhouse she would give him a perfect view of her naked behind, and creeping backwards without turning round was just too ridiculously gauche and embarrassing to consider. Maybe she should just put her underwear on right here, in front of him? Another crimson tide of shame washed through her at the idea. Maybe not.
The realisation dawned that she was stuck there until he chose to leave. And he didn’t seem to be in any hurry.
‘I’m sorry. I had no idea you were down here.’
Miserably she faced him, aware that whichever way she crossed her arms there was no way she could cover her breasts up entirely. ‘You don’t have to apologise. It’s your house.’
‘Even so …’ He stopped, seemingly struggling with what to say for a second. ‘I wanted to apologise anyway. For what happened last night—’
‘Look—please,’ she interrupted desperately. ‘There’s really no need. I don’t know what came over me. I don’t usually—’ She faltered, not wanting to put into words what had happened between them. Not wanting to be having this conversation. Particularly not wanting to be having this conversation while she was naked and clutching her underwear. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, looking down, ‘it’s over. Forgotten.’
Latin Lovers: Italian Playboys Page 42