The Mediterranean Rebel’s Bride

by Lucy Gordon

  A contented silence fell. Leaning back against the other side of the steps, she met his eyes. Was he remembering the last time they had been alone together-what had happened-what had nearly happened?

  ‘By the way,’ Polly said, as casually as she could contrive, ‘I’m sorry I had that screaming fit. I never meant to weep and wail all over you. I don’t often do things like that.’

  ‘Not often enough. You released something that’s been building up for the past year, and which needed to be released. I’m glad I was the one there.’

  He caught sight of her disbelieving face and said, ‘I mean it. I like to pay my debts.’

  ‘You do that in hard cash,’ she reminded him. ‘And plenty of it. I’m not complaining.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I can’t tell you what a good feeling it gives me to know that I’m contributing to Brian’s future comfort. I hope you’re spending something on yourself?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘None of it?’

  ‘What for? I have all I need.’

  ‘Not a pretty dress or a new pair of shoes?’ he asked, scandalised.

  ‘Your mother bought me all those new clothes.’

  ‘A luxurious meal out?’

  ‘Sure, with me fighting my way though an Italian menu and reducing everyone to fits of laughter.’

  ‘You’re right-it’s a terrible prospect. I shall appoint myself your translator for an evening. I know the perfect place. It’s time we had an evening out.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, remembering her resolve to be sensible.

  ‘I’m your patient and your employer. I have first call on your time. No argument.’

  When she didn’t reply he asked, ‘Are you angry with me?’

  ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘The night before last I came to the verge of-well, forgetting my manners. All right, a little more than the verge. But for a moment you seemed to need me, and I was glad. I felt close to you. Surely you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but-’

  ‘But Brian wouldn’t, eh? All right, I should have respected that. But you can’t seriously be afraid of me.’ His voice became teasing. ‘I’ve never seen a woman more capable of punching a man’s lights out.’

  ‘Not with your injuries,’ she said lightly. ‘It would be unprofessional.’

  ‘If I offend you I give you leave to forget my injuries and make me sorry I was born.’

  ‘Who is offended?’ came a voice from behind them.

  ‘Nobody, Mamma. Polly and I were just planning a night out tomorrow. It’s time she had some fun.’

  ‘Of course. What a splendid idea!’

  ‘You see-it’s settled,’ Ruggiero told Polly. ‘We’ll do it tomorrow night, before you can change your mind.’

  ‘I didn’t know I’d made up my mind.’

  ‘Mamma made it up for you,’ Ruggiero said wickedly. ‘She’s good at that.’

  ‘She’s not the only one,’ Polly said wryly. But inside her she was smiling. She would have the rest of her life to be strong.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘ARE we going back to that fish restaurant of yours?’ Polly asked as they drove down the hill on the following evening.

  ‘No, this is somewhere different. In the old city. You haven’t had time to see any of Naples.’

  The phrase ‘the old city’ meant nothing to her, but she soon found out that it was a place of little winding streets with cobblestones. In this part of town there were no pavements, so that traffic and pedestrians fenced with each other in both directions at once.

  Polly loved it at first sight. It was dazzling, colourful and vivid, the narrow streets blazing with light even as darkness fell, because the little shops and restaurants stayed open very late.

  ‘This part of Naples is like a world apart,’ he told her.

  ‘I like it better than the conventional world,’ she said.

  ‘So do I. People seem more at ease here. Let’s have some coffee.’

  They dived into a tiny coffee bar, where the owner hailed him as a friend and seated them at window table.

  ‘If I’d known we were coming here I’d have worn something more restrained,’ Polly said. She was wearing the elegant green gown given to her by Hope. ‘I feel overdressed.’

  ‘Don’t worry-you’ll be fine in the place we’re going,’ he assured her.

  ‘That’s a relief. I never did master the trick of getting these things right. I was always too dull or too bright for the occasion.’

  ‘Why must you always criticise yourself?’

  ‘It comes from having lived a life full of comparisons.’

  ‘Comparisons with her?’

  ‘Yes, I just got used to thinking of myself as the plain one in the pack.’ She chuckled suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was remembering a lad who said he was madly in love with me and he wanted to shower me with flowers. I thought that was so charming-until they turned out to be buttercups he’d picked in the park. Poor fellow. I was very hard on him, but I wanted roses. Someone had given Sapphire roses the day before, and she was actually offended because they were the wrong kind. I thought that was so cool.’

  ‘The wrong kind?’ he asked, askance.

  ‘They were tea roses. He was a bit of an academic, and he explained that flowers had their own meanings, and tea roses were a way of saying that he would always remember her.’

  ‘Tea roses for remembrance?’ he echoed, beginning to laugh. ‘I thought that was red roses?’

  ‘No, red roses are for passionate love lasting to eternity,’ she said in a reciting voice. ‘Tea roses are for peaceful remembrance.’

  ‘I’ve never heard that before.’

  ‘Neither had she, and when he produced a learned tome to prove it I thought she was going to explode. He only lasted one day, but I was so envious. Roses were romantic. Buttercups were prosaic.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘How can such rich gold be prosaic?’

  ‘But they’re so common,’ she objected, surprised and charmed by this hint of a poetic streak. ‘You can pick buttercups anywhere.’

  His next answer startled her even more.

  ‘Is that what makes things beautiful? Rarity? Does something stop being lovely because there are plenty? You’re rather like a buttercup yourself.’

  ‘You mean commonplace?’

  ‘I mean made of gold.’

  For once she was lost for words. He was looking at her with a question in his eyes.

  ‘I wish I could see into your thoughts at this minute,’ he said softly.

  ‘There’s never any secret about my thoughts,’ she said, trying not to be aware of her heart thumping.

  ‘You know that’s not true,’ he said, still watching her but speaking quietly, like a man trying to lure a wild bird to come to him without frightening it.

  ‘It’s a pretence,’ he went on when she didn’t reply. ‘You accused me of playing the role of father, saying the right words for the wrong reasons. But you’re doing the same thing-playing the role of sensible nurse, steady and reliable, with no inner life of her own.’

  ‘Which is how I’m supposed to be-’

  ‘But now I know better. Don’t forget that. You’ve let me see that inner life and you can’t drive me out again.’

  It was true that she couldn’t drive him out, but not in the way he thought.

  ‘All right, you saw inside me,’ she said at last. ‘So keep my secrets.’

  ‘Against anyone else,’ he said at once. ‘As long as you don’t keep them against me.’

  She shook her head, and her long fair hair fell about her face. He reached out to brush it back and was struck by something in her look. It was vulnerable and nervous, and it startled him into drawing a sharp breath.

  She heard the sound, and misunderstood it as one of dismay.

  Sapphire, she thought. Say what he might, that ghost was still with them. He’d brushed back the hair and s
een the wrong face.

  ‘You’re fooling yourself,’ she told him bitterly. ‘She’s not dead. She never will be.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of her-’

  ‘You were doing more than thinking. You were looking for her-here.’ She pointed to her face.

  ‘Polly, I-where are you going?’

  To his disbelief she leapt to her feet and rushed out of the little coffee bar, leaving him staring after her, too surprised to move.

  ‘Get after her,’ the man at the counter said. ‘Pay me later.’

  ‘Thanks, Tino,’ he yelled, dashing out into the street and looking this way and that.

  But she’d gone. In five seconds flat she’d managed to disappear.

  Ruggiero ran, looking into the shops that were still open, but she wasn’t there. He turned and ran to the other end of the street, but again he was unlucky.

  It was impossible, but she’d completely vanished.

  He began to walk, twisting this way and that, exploring side streets, all of them full of song and laughter that seemed to mock his confusion. Then he remembered her cellphone and drew out his own, ready to dial her number.

  But he didn’t know it. He nearly threw the phone away in disgust.

  It was an hour before he walked despondently back to the coffee bar. She had probably returned home, and he would have to call and see if she was there, but there was just one last chance that she might have returned to the place where they’d started.

  Even as he went in he knew it was a fruitless search. The bar was almost empty.

  ‘Here’s what I owe you,’ he said, giving some money to Tino.

  Then he realised that Tino was winking, and jerking his head at the corner. Ruggiero looked and saw a young woman with fair hair cropped close, a sleek, elegant head. She turned and gave him an appraising look.

  ‘You-you-’ He despised himself for stammering, but he couldn’t help it.

  She was an elfin creature-pretty, pert, with high cheekbones that he’d never noticed before and a neck that was almost swan-like. As he stood watching, struck to silence, she rose and sauntered past him to the door. One challenging glance over her shoulder, then she was gone.

  A moment to get his breath and he was after her, catching her up in the street.

  ‘Where were you?’ he demanded, grasping her arm firmly. ‘No, don’t walk away.’

  ‘Let go of me.’

  ‘And risk you vanishing again? I don’t think so. How did you manage to vanish into thin air?’

  ‘I just went in there,’ she said, indicating a barber shop right next to the coffee bar. ‘It was the one place you never thought to look.’

  ‘But that’s a male barber’s.’

  ‘I know. They thought I was nuts, but I just said I wanted it off-all of it. Nothing fancy.’

  ‘But-is it you?’ he was peering at her.

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ she said, emphasising the last word.

  ‘Do you mean,’ he asked in mounting outrage, ‘that I’ve been worried out of my mind about you and you’ve been having a haircut? Of all the crazy times to pick-’

  ‘It was the perfect time. I should have done it long ago. You as good as told me that tonight.’

  ‘I? I never said a word. Polly, have you been taking something? Because you’re talking gibberish.’

  ‘I’m talking about the way you looked at me tonight, trying to find Sapphire.’

  He stared. ‘Why have you got to drag her into this?’

  ‘Because she’s there. I saw it in your face.’

  ‘If you did, you put her there yourself,’ he said, becoming really angry. ‘Why are you obsessed with her?’

  ‘I’m not. You’re the one who’s haunted.’

  ‘I told you-that’s done with.’

  ‘Yes, you keep telling me. Too often. Can you really dismiss a ghost that easily?’

  ‘I might if you’d let me.’

  She stared, thunderstruck.

  ‘What?’ she asked in a whisper.

  ‘Don’t you know that? It’s a lot more complicated than you’ve realised.’

  ‘Is it me?’ she whispered. ‘Is that really what’s happening?’

  ‘You bring her into every conversation.’

  ‘Only because you-’

  ‘No, don’t push it onto me. I’ve fought my ghost, but yours is still there-and maybe she’s harder to fight because she’s been there all your life. All those comparisons you’ve told me about, with you always coming off worst. But why should you think like that? You were the brainy one, she needed you as much as you needed her. Who did who’s homework?’

  ‘But she was the one with the beauty and charm and-’

  ‘Give me patience!’ he groaned. ‘Polly, did anyone ever tell you that you’re an FCP?’

  ‘What on earth is an FCP?’

  ‘A Female Chauvinist Pig. You didn’t know there was such a thing, did you? Hah! At least I’ve managed to take you by surprise. If a man implied that a woman should be defined by her looks rather than her brains he’d be condemned up hill and down dale, and probably sued as well. But you’ve just said exactly that. Polly, it’s nonsense! You’re a wonderful person-bright, funny and beautiful.’

  ‘I’m not beau-’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ he warned, wagging a finger in mock threat. ‘Don’t say you’re not beautiful or I’ll get annoyed.’

  ‘Not in comparison to her-’

  ‘But why must you always compare yourself to her?’

  He read the answer in her expression and said, almost violently, ‘She’s not here. There’s just you and me. I’m looking at you, and I tell you you’re gorgeous. Why do you look at me like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘With that disbelieving expression, as though I was crying to the moon. Oh, to hell with everything!’

  He’d grasped her shoulders before she knew what he meant to do, and his lips were on hers before she could protest. His arms were like steel rivets about her, and his lips were fierce and angry as they moved over hers again and again. It was a kiss without tenderness. The kiss of a man tearing down a brick wall to make his point. And it left her physically excited as nothing in her life had ever done before.

  She tried to get sufficiently free to embrace him back, but before she could manage it he released her suddenly and stepped well away from her with a growl of fury.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’m sorry-I’m sorry. I-promised nothing like that would happen. I didn’t mean to break my word, but-’ He took a long, shaking breath. ‘I guess the truth is I’m a bit of a bully.’

  ‘A-a bully?’ she asked, trying not to let her voice shake as much as his own.

  ‘People have to see things my way, and if they don’t I’ll go to any lengths to make them. It’s not nice and it makes me behave badly, but do you get the point now?’

  ‘What-what point?’ she stammered, wondering which universe she’d stumbled into.

  ‘That you’re beautiful. Did I convince you of that before I forgot my manners?’

  For a wild moment she was temped to say no, and let him make the point again, and perhaps again. But common sense, the quality that always seemed to ruin things, intervened.

  ‘I’m convinced,’ she said, trying to laugh and failing. ‘A practical demonstration is always useful.’

  ‘You’re angry with me.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You are. I can hear it in your voice-a terrible edge, as though you’re wondering how much more of me you can stand. But don’t worry. I’m on my best behaviour from now on.’

  He neared her again, while still keeping a safe few inches between them, and she could sense that he was still trembling-almost as much as herself.

  ‘I never really thought you looked like her,’ he said, glancing at her shorn head. ‘Not after that first mistake. But now-I don’t know you at all.’

  ‘Let’s go from there.’

  ‘Where to?’

&nb
sp; ‘How about that meal you promised me? I’m starving.’

  ‘It’s not far away.’

  In the next street they passed a jewellery shop, where something attracted him in the window. He drew her inside and made the proprietor show him the little brooch.

  ‘A buttercup,’ he said to Polly.

  ‘Well, I told you they were everywhere. Common as muck.’

  ‘Not this one. This is rare and valuable-perfect for you.’

  Then Polly saw that the little flower was made of solid gold, and very expensive.

  ‘I can’t take this-’ she gasped.

  ‘You must. It might have been made for you.’

  He pinned the brooch onto her dress and she realised that it did indeed look perfect, glowing under the lights as though it had were a glamorous flower instead of a prosaic one.

  She twisted her head, trying to see her own shoulder, beaming with delight.

  He led her to a tiny restaurant where the odours wafting out were delicious and the proprietor greeted him by name.

  While they were eating maccheroni with Neapolitan ragù sauce Polly began to rub her neck self-consciously.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I must look very weird.’

  ‘Not weird, but it’s a little unsettling. And that’s because you’re a combination of someone I know and someone I’ve never met before. I’m definitely nervous.’

  ‘So you should be,’ she teased. ‘I don’t know the new-comer myself, so she might spring some surprises on both of us.’

  ‘That’ll be nothing compared with what it’ll do to Brian.’

  So absorbed was she in her new territory that she almost said, Who? But she recollected herself in time.

  ‘He’s used to my funny ways,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘Oh, he’s like that? Ready for anything? A man who can’t be surprised, dominant, bestriding the world?’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘You mean he’s not like that? No, on second thoughts I picture him with glasses and the start of a paunch.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to picture him at all,’ she said, trying to sound firm.

  ‘But you never talk about him. For a man who’s won your passionate love, he doesn’t seem to make much impact on you.’

  The memory of his kiss seemed to hang in the air between them. She was saved from having to answer by the waiter, bearing wine.