by Anna Cleary
‘Ah.’ With every word she’d uttered his eyes had become darker and more inflamed until they were smouldering hot coals. And unless she was imagining what she was seeing, his proud erection had grown even more majestic.
‘Molto bene,’ he growled, his sensuous mouth edging up at the corners. ‘But first we will go gently.’
‘Fantastico.’ She smiled through her lashes. ‘Piano, piano.’
Softly, tenderly, he stroked her all over, with lips as well as fingers, trailing fire in every corner of her purring being, then he parted her thighs, and stroked the folds of her sex with a soft, soft hand, finding, to her intense pleasure, the sensitive nub of her clitoris.
To her voluptuous delight, he positioned himself between her legs and kissed the places his fingers had previously caressed, and allowed his tongue to softly, thrillingly, penetrate inside her and tickle the yearning satin walls.
The sensation was so sexy she writhed, she whimpered, she moaned in rapture.
Suddenly in a rapid tumultuous rush her orgasm blossomed inside her and dissolved like a sunburst, irradiating her with an intense and satisfying release.
Strangely, her appetite to proceed was barely diminished. Perhaps because Valentino, lounging in satisfaction of a gift well delivered, his black lashes at half mast like some smouldering, slumberous panther with one black eye, was a temptation too delicious for any red-blooded woman to withstand for long, she gave him little time to rest.
She assisted him in donning a condom, then straddled him and gently, tenderly, eased herself onto him, and had the intense excitement of sliding up and down that rock-hard shaft until she was filled to the brim with ecstasy and their passion soared to shattering climaxes.
And that was only the start. Valentino had much to teach her that she hadn’t known before, especially about gentleness and the sheer erotic turn-on of masculine tenderness and consideration.
They only lifted their heads when clattering from below reminded Valentino the cleaning woman had arrived, and he poked his head out of the door and issued an executive command that she only bother with the lower level that day, and stay away from the upper.
In fact, Pia might have stayed locked in his arms in a state of impassioned bliss all day long if their pleasure hadn’t been interrupted at last by the sounds of doors opening and closing, a radio, and an elderly voice calling, ‘Tino, Tino, dove sei?’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘THAT’S Nonno.’
With one accord Valentino and Pia scrambled up, dived for their clothes and each made a rush for the en-suite bathroom, crashing into each other at the door.
‘You go first.’
‘No, you go. Don’t panic, I’ll talk to him.’
Pia didn’t linger long in Valentino’s bathroom. She had a hasty all-over wash, including her glowing face with its puffy, swollen, kiss-ravaged lips, then hastily dressed in what she had, while Valentino took his turn to wash and dragged on his jeans and shirt.
‘Is there another exit?’ she breathed, horrified to be caught in flagrante delicto, so to speak.
He nodded. ‘Downstairs. Don’t worry. He’ll be starting the cooking. He won’t even see you.’
‘Oh, but…’ Aghast, she realised her precious runner was still downstairs on the sofa. ‘Would you mind going down first and bringing up my runner?’
She explained, and, amused, Valentino complied, strolling down to the sitting room only to find that all evidence of the breakfast excitements had been cleared by the indefatigable Mirella.
Enzio caught sight of him and came bustling from the kitchen with tales of the morning’s catch, and was brought up short by the sight of Valentino’s developing bruise. ‘Mamma mia, what has happened to you?’
‘What? Oh, this. I bumped into something. Not to worry, it’s nothing. How was the voyage?’
‘Not bad. Some lobster, squid, a little bass.’ The old man peered closely at him. ‘You need a chunk of meat to put on there. What was it?’
‘Something near the rocks. Where I was swimming.’ Valentino met the shrewd eyes and held them firmly.
Enzio’s brows elevated but he said nothing more about the curious wound. ‘So.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Mirella has started the soup, the fish are ready for cooking, and you can collect the vegetables from the garden, if you can see well enough. Only wait while I wash off all these fish scales and change my clothes.’
He could see well enough, Valentino reflected. He’d seen treasures aplenty this morning. That reminded him of the need to hunt for something strategic for Pia to wear. He came upon her swimsuit hanging in the laundry, apparently having been washed and now dried by the warm air. His brows knitted. Whatever Mirella made of a woman’s swimsuit in one of the Silvestri bathrooms would be old news in Positano by the time he next made it to the piazza.
It would be a pity if the town gossips got wind of his affair, and experience had taught him they would be especially hard on Pia.
He carried the swimsuit upstairs.
A savoury aroma of cooking wafted to Pia as she walked down to the front entrance with Valentino, at least looking respectable. Whatever it was smelled rich, herbal and delicious, provoking hunger pangs of a different sort from those she’d recently been assuaging. She’d just turned for a hasty farewell on the doorstep when an elderly figure appeared in the hall behind Valentino, a query on his lips.
She swiftly pulled away from Valentino, and came face to face with the old man she’d seen working in the garden most mornings. His was a remarkable face. The creases of age had settled into lines of humour and sadness, strength and wisdom. Sharp brown eyes, bright with curiosity, scrutinised her from head to toe.
Valentino took charge.
‘Nonno,’ he said in English. ‘This is Pia Renfern, our neighbour. Pia—Enzio Silvestri, my grandpapa.’
‘Aha.’ The old man’s brows were lifted high. ‘Our neighbour.’ He managed to inject the word with both surprise and comprehension, as if her being a neighbour explained everything. Like what she was doing kissing his grandson on the doorstep. Had he noticed their embrace? Pia wondered. Could she possibly pretend she’d dropped by for a cup of sugar?
‘Signore,’ Pia said, extending her hand. He accepted it in his gnarled old hand and with grave courtesy leaned forward to brush each of her cheeks with his.
‘Pia, you say. Where then are you living?’
She pointed up the hill and explained about Lauren’s apartment.
‘Sì.’ The old man nodded, registering every item of information with care. ‘I know it. Maybe I have seen her, your cousin. She has the long hair?’
‘Yes, that would be Lauren. Really long brown hair.’
Enzio smiled, his shrewd gaze switching between her and Valentino, surmise in his eyes. Was the secret passion pulsing between them and making the air sing apparent to other people? Pia wondered.
‘Tino, you should invite your guest. Pia, you will please dine with us.’
Pia hesitated, her glance flying to Valentino. Her instinct was to decline and flee. With the sheets still piping hot, so to speak, the presence of a third party could be fraught with awkwardness. As well, Valentino’s eyes had veiled and his body language suggested a definite reluctance.
Everything between them was too raw, too sweet and wild for family members to witness.
‘That’s very kind, signore,’ she said quickly, ‘but I mustn’t intrude. I just met Valentino swimming a bit earlier and dropped by for a—a chat.’ She barely blushed. ‘I really should be at home, er—working.’
‘Ah, swimming,’ the grandfather said. ‘So you have been swimming?’ He nodded long and meditatively. ‘Sì, sì, sì, sì, sì.’
Pia noticed a glance pass between them, stern on Valentino’s side, solemn on his grandfather’s. Valentino murmured something to him in Italian, and Enzio argued back with vigour.
In the end Valentino patted his shoulder with an amused grimace and turned to Pia. ‘He begs you. We would be greatl
y honoured if you would eat with us in one hour.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘He wants me to assure you we are very fine cooks and the fish will never be as sweet as they are at this moment in the history of the universe.’
There was nothing for it but to give in and accept gracefully. At least she would have an hour to compose herself. She should be able to keep her hands off Valentino for the course of a meal. Surely.
Her body still humming with the aftermath of love, she walked home and soaked in a long refreshing shower. Then she put on a sundress, sandals and a little make-up.
It was never the Australian way to arrive as a guest empty-handed, so, searching for something she could take as a contribution, she decided on the wine Lola had brought.
And truly it was lovely, being ushered into the Silvestri inner sanctum. Valentino greeted her at the door and escorted her inside to where his grandfather was waiting. Enzio kissed her as if they hadn’t exchanged greetings only an hour earlier, and accepted her gift with warm approval.
‘Can I do anything to help?’ she enquired. ‘I’d be very happy to help with the salad. Wash the lettuce, if you’d like.’
Neither of them would hear of it, to her regret.
At first the old gentleman ensconced her royally in the sitting room with great solemnity, a glass of crisp white wine and a platter of bread and olives.
She sat there a while hugging herself with amazement over the day’s events so far. An Italian lover. She had a bone fide, certified Italian lover. How had she, Pia Renfern, managed it? The most tender, virile, sexy, gorgeous Italian lover.
Lunch was served in a rather formal dining room she suspected was rarely used. There were starched antimacassars on the chair backs, and wedding photos on the wall, of both a very young Enzio and his bride, and Valentino’s parents, also looking ridiculously young by modern standards.
More family pictures adorned a side table with a lace cloth, and she wished she could examine them all more closely. From where she sat, she could make out a younger Valentino, looking devastating in uniform.
The meal began with a delicious vegetable soup. It was followed by a dish of mussels, another of eggplant roasted with herbs and parmesan, and whole fish fried in olive oil with a piquant lemon and caper sauce. The salad came last, lettuce leaves included. After Valentino served her with a generous helping, she made a surreptitious inspection but could detect no life-threatening organisms, none visible to the naked eye, at least.
Though Enzio did most of the talking, she had the sense Valentino was in control. Valentino served the food and took care of the changeover between courses. The old man deferred to him often, and there was a soft note in Valentino’s voice whenever he addressed his grandfather, as if he was taking care to be gentle.
Enzio, on the other hand, only had eyes for Pia. Everything she said, everything she did seemed to charm him as if she were a visiting princess from some enchanted royal line.
‘Do you cook, Pia?’ he enquired.
‘I try,’ she admitted, smiling. ‘I wouldn’t dare claim it here, though. I can just about rustle up a good Thai stir-fry.’
Enzio looked mystified and appealed to Valentino for clarification. ‘Ah.’ He nodded when Valentino explained. ‘A Thai stir-fry.’ His brow furrowed. ‘This Thai stir-fry might be very good…’ though it was clear from his expression that he thought it unlikely ‘…but the best food, the very best of all, is Italiano. And of the Italiano, the cooking of Campania is very fine. How many weeks do you stay with us?’
‘Four or five. We’ll see how it goes.’ She felt a twinge to have to acknowledge that her visit was finite. How would it be when Valentino’s few days were up and he was gone? What would she do then? Her sunshine was on borrowed time. She suppressed a surge of panic.
From across the table she felt Valentino’s intelligent gaze on her, curious and assessing, and lowered hers. If he had the slightest inkling of how she felt, how quickly he’d be on that white stallion galloping for the horizon.
‘Not much time for you to learn,’ Enzio said worriedly. ‘Tino, we will have to work fast.’
With a laugh Valentino said, ‘Nonno, Pia has a mother at home in Australia to teach her cooking.’
‘Is she Italiano?’ Enzio said.
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Pia confessed, smiling. ‘But Australians adore Italian food. I’m sure every household in Australia makes lasagne.’
The corrugations in Enzio’s brow multiplied. ‘Lasagne.’
His horror at the Australian version of lasagne was so apparent Pia had to laugh. Still, underneath her laughter the realisation was forced upon her that Valentino was in no way so caught up in the magic he was forgetful of reality. His imminent departure and her eventual one were right up there in his frontal lobes. While for her, the sweeter every moment now, the more bitter would be the separation to come.
But for the moment she was in love, she was with friends, the food tasted wonderful, and she wanted to extract every atom of happiness from being enveloped in such warmth. More than that, her lover was charming and attentive, teasing her with wickedness where Enzio’s facility with English did not extend.
Unable to touch, they had to satisfy themselves with looking. Every dark, slumberous glance from Valentino only whetted her appetite for the next time she would be alone with him.
The day had felt close to perfect. She felt enveloped in warmth, with Enzio so kind and funny, making jokes and laughing. When the glasses were refilled he congratulated her on the wine she had brought. ‘A very fine wine from Capri,’ he said, beaming. ‘You choose like an Italiana.’
‘Thank you, signore, but I can’t claim to have chosen it,’ she confessed. ‘It was given to me by a friend who lives there.’
‘Ah.’ His eyes widened. ‘You have some friends on Capri?’
‘Not exactly. They’re really my cousin’s friends. I’ve only met Lola the one time. Lola Fiorello. Her husband is the movie director.’
A strange expression entered Enzio’s gaze. His smile was wiped from his face and he cast a swift glance at Valentino. ‘Fiorello? She was the woman, the friend of Ariana?’
Valentino hesitated, then spoke to his grandfather in rapid Italian. When Enzio replied with a veiled glance at Pia, Valentino placed his hand on his arm as though to restrain him, speaking in tones of urgent persuasion.
‘Who’s Ariana?’ Pia said.
There was a moment of silence, then both Silvestris spoke simultaneously.
‘Valentino’s wife.’
‘My ex-wife.’
Pia absorbed the information, only her suffering heartbeat attesting to the shock gathering itself for a heavier onslaught later, when she would be alone.
The old gentleman looked from Valentino’s face to hers and back again, then gently replaced his napkin. He turned towards Pia. ‘Signorina. It has been very pleasant to make your acquaintance.’ Stiffly he rose from the table. He looked pale and all at once fragile, a slight jerkiness in his movements. ‘Scusi, I am finding I am a little tired. Buona sera, Pia, Tino.’
Looking after him with a concerned expression, Valentino suddenly sprang to his feet and followed his grandfather from the room. ‘Nonno.’
Pia was left sitting amongst the wreckage, waiting, but Valentino didn’t return. After thirty or so minutes of mounting confusion and concern she cleared the dishes and carried them to the kitchen.
How many opportunities had she given him to reveal his former marriage? Even on the very first day he could have told her the truth. And why didn’t he come back to talk about it? What sort of a man couldn’t face a woman with the truth? A man still in love with his wife?
She did a little rinsing and tidying, but, unsure of the protocols with leftovers, unsure of anything on earth, decided not to go any further with cleaning up.
With a leaden heart she let herself out of the front door and walked home. Ran, actually.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AFTER the earliest night in years, Pia had jus
t fallen into a dream where she was easily able to fly in a vertical position, though it still felt terrifying to be looking down on the tree tops, when a ringing sound penetrated the mists and pulled her back down to her bed and into her body. Eventually she woke to the realisation that she was in Italy, it was the middle of the night and someone was ringing the doorbell.
As she adjusted to full consciousness, the hurt feeling she had every time she thought of Valentino revived with renewed force.
She reached for the lamp and was amazed to discover it was still only nine-thirty. Stumbling from the bed, she threw her pashmina around her shoulders and bumped her way to the front door. Her hand faltered on the knob. Who was it likely to be? Would a serial killer ring the bell?
‘Who is it?’ she croaked.
‘Valentino.’
She opened the door and blinked at him. He looked grim and purposeful in black jeans and a thin black sweater, his shadowed jaw stern, a serious glitter in his dark, semi-bruised gaze. He swept a glance over her and just for an instant a flame flared in his eyes.
After a second or two he said silkily, ‘Am I to be invited in?’
She moved aside. He strode past smelling of the night and the sea, then turned back and pulled her to him, kissing her lips, her throat. She could feel the electricity of his lean body, his strong heart drumming against hers with a vibrant pulse that even in such confusing circumstances compelled a leap of excitement in her veins.
With an effort of will she disengaged herself. First things first.
In the sitting room she faced him. ‘How is your grandfather? Is he all right? Was it because of me that he…?’