by Anna Cleary
He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘No, no. He’s fine. Sleeping. You know he is in his eighties. He’s been doing too many things today.’ He glanced at her, then dropped his lashes. ‘I’m sorry you were—left alone.’
She shrugged a casual dismissal.
It was a moment when he might have taken her in his arms, but she forestalled that by knotting her pashmina more securely and retreating elegantly to one of the armchairs. The damage was done, anyway. Now she had the imprint of his lips on her mouth and throat, her skin burned for another taste.
After a second Valentino succumbed to the signals and took the sofa. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped, staring at the rug, his handsome face unreadable.
‘Nonno had a little moment of weakness while you were there this afternoon,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t like to leave him.’
Pia exclaimed in concern. ‘Oh, no.’
‘Don’t worry. He’s fine now. But I didn’t intend to leave you there for so long. All alone and wondering. I came back to talk to you about it but you were gone.’ He gave her a keen glance, his dark eyes shrewd.
For a second she wished she were a seventies porn star, and could drag out a languid cigarette, light up, and exhale a poisonous cloud. At any rate, she crossed her legs. Pity she was in her nightie and had no five inch heels to accentuate their shapeliness.
‘About…?
He scratched his ear. ‘Perhaps you are thinking I should have mentioned my marriage.’
‘Why would I think that?’
His eyes glinted. ‘Exactly. Why would you?’
‘You owe me nothing, after all. The past is past.’
‘And it’s not as if I have lied to you.’ He lilted his spectacular brows, threw out his hands.
‘Unless, of course, you call it a lie of omission.’ She watched his face and he smiled, meeting her gaze without apparent shame.
‘I have no doubt we are all guilty of keeping things to ourselves, cara mia. Even when we find ourselves opening to the possibilities of connecting with someone who excites us.’
A certain warmth crept into her cheeks, but she said rather loftily, ‘If you’re referring to my being a painter, there were reasons I didn’t want to discuss my work.’
His eyes gleamed. ‘Ah. The temperament of the artist must be taken into account.’
A small silence fell. She certainly didn’t feel the need to open that can of worms. The painting block led straight
to the stress disorder, the stress disorder was the high road to the bank incident, the bank incident led to head shrinkers and the supposition in minds like Euan’s she was a weak, loopy, unreliable mental case.
She cleared her throat. ‘I suppose your divorce was quite recent.’
He lifted his shoulders. ‘Five years.’
‘Five?’ She was surprised, and relieved. ‘Oh. Well, you seemed so angry with Lola, frothing with rage like the red hot lava of Vesuvius, I thought it must be more recent. I’ve even been wondering if she was involved in some way. If you and she—’
With a thunderstruck expression he said, ‘No. Wipe that from your mind.’ He punched his fist into his palm and accompanied it with a stream of emphatic and very convincing Italiano. ‘Nothing like that. What happened in the past was—complicated. But…’ he lifted his hands in rueful resignation ‘…it was a divorce. What divorce isn’t? I didn’t care to mention it to you because…’ He hesitated, his jaw clenching, and it was as though the words were forcibly extracted through his gritted teeth. ‘I am not proud of these events.’
‘You were wounded,’ she surmised softly.
Frowning, he flashed her a non-committal glance and waggled his lean hand. ‘Cosi cosi. I… Soon after our marriage I was called away to sea for many months. Ariana grew bored and spent a great deal of time over at the Villa Fiorello.’ He gave a wry shrug. ‘The truth was, she found she didn’t like being married to an old-fashioned navy carabiniere as much as she enjoyed playing sophisticated games with celebrities.’
He looked so grim, with such distaste in his expression, Pia’s imagination ran riot. What sort of games? Celebrity stripteases? Pole dancing? Wild orgies with drug-crazed movie directors? Sleazy politicians?
‘Stories leaked out, as they always will, and there was a nationwide scandal. It was in the media for weeks. My wife’s picture was on the front page of every European newsrag, along with—some famous terrible people.’ He grimaced and made what could have been a shudder. ‘In the end— Well, now she has an acting career. Have you heard of her? Ariana da Silva?’
Pia shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
His face was impassive. ‘You will. I believe she’s considered a big talent.’ His lip curled. ‘Being married to me would have smothered her creativity, so Lola said. She’s married now to this Argentinian film guy.’
His sensuous mouth widened, but it was barely a smile, shadowed as it was with the bitterness of remembered anguish.
The depth of Pia’s dismay rendered her speechless. Her heart went out to him. She had a strong inkling he’d minimised the extent of it and barely revealed a hint of the ordeal he’d endured. The disgrace. His soul excoriated with shame. His control of his proud, stern face, so dignified, so beautiful, touched a deep emotional chord in her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, tears blurring her eyes. ‘You must have gone through a terrible time. It must have been—
devastating.’
He made a minimal acknowledgement with his hands and shoulders. ‘It was hardest for Nonno, living here and facing his friends in the village every day. You saw today… He still finds it painful to be reminded. In my case…’ He shrugged. ‘I resigned my position and found other work. Now Grazie a Dio the—the episode is—in the past and we can all move on.’
Oh, God. He’d lost his job over it. His career. She gazed searchingly at him, wondering if he’d sought any counselling. She knew too well how it felt, carrying a load of shame and a loss of public face, though it was hard to imagine someone with his powerful chest and lean, iron-hard frame being anything but impervious.
The understanding crystallised in her as never before that underneath that powerful exterior there was a big, strong heart beating. A heart that could suffer. And had.
She felt a rush of such intense warmth for him. If only she could find a way to heal that damaged heart, she’d do it. She’d move mountains. She’d…
She flew across to the sofa and hugged him, showering his face with kisses.
‘I’m so glad you have that positive attitude,’ she said, warmly stroking him, grateful to have had at least enough experience herself to be able to offer some sage words, however small. ‘After a trauma like that it takes time, but it’s best to let go of your negative feelings. And I really appreciate you telling me all this. Honestly.’
He smiled, holding her close. ‘Life goes on.’
‘It does.’
He continued to scan her face, his brows a little elevated, eyes glinting, then he got up from the sofa and started to pace, a few steps one way, then a few steps back. He said stiffly, ‘This is—not something I reveal to people, usually.’
‘Of course not. I’m honoured that you’ve…trusted me with your—personal experience.’
‘I would hope that you and I could find some ground to trust each other, Pia.’ He halted and looked keenly at her. He added softly, ‘If we are to be true lovers.’
What? Her heartbeat bounded in joyful shock.
He seized her hands and pulled her up. ‘Is it possible,
tesoro? Can we be together for a time?’
She put her arms around his neck and answered him with a kiss. True lovers. How she adored those words. If Euan had ever thought of saying anything like that…
He paused from kissing her to say, ‘No doubt there are things you’ve experienced in your life as well, amore. Things you’d like to share.’
Desire was humming through her, lighting her up like fireworks, and
she could feel its answering throb in his big, vibrant body, binding her to him like an irresistible cord.
‘Oh, nothing like that,’ she breathed. ‘Nothing so—life-shattering.’
He gazed quizzically at her, a slight frown between his eyes. ‘Nothing?’
Well, there was the bank incident of course, but she could hardly be expected to tell him that, with all the likely fallout. Did she want to put him off? Anyway, it was nowhere near what he’d suffered with the divorce.
He released her after a second, and still with that small frown made a move towards the door.
Taken aback, she gasped, ‘You’re leaving?’
He paused with his back to her. There was a tension in the set of his wide shoulders. ‘It’s been a long day. I think—maybe we should both get some sleep.’
‘Oh, but…’ She wasn’t exactly pleading, but her sudden removal from his arms was a massive let-down, like being cast into outer darkness. She threw out her hands in confusion, and her pashmina slid to the floor.
‘Maybe we both need to reflect.’ He threw her a glance, and then as though magnetically drawn his gaze swivelled back for another. A hot gleam lit his eyes. ‘Perhaps we need to think…think about what we really… You are looking quite chaste in that nightdress.’
‘Chaste?’
Honestly, she was astounded, and the tiniest bit offended. Wasn’t she a bona fide red-hot mamma? Admittedly her nightie was white, with lace, pintucks and tiny blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the bodice, but the fabric was very fine. Not see-through exactly, except in certain lights, but the deep bodice was quite flattering to her cleavage and the gown did have a tendency to skim her shape as she moved.
‘Sì.’ His lashes flickered down and his voice softened. ‘You are reminding me of a virgin, una bella vergine desiderabile.’
There was something deeply arousing about those words, or maybe it was the way he curled them around his tongue. Call it a contradiction in terms, but somehow they triggered a sense of challenge in her. How many men had ever described her as looking like a beautiful, desirable virgin? He was making her feel beautiful and desirable, all curves and breasts and soft, pliant femininity, tingling, yearning to be touched.
But what was the point if he walked out of the door?
She drew a breath. ‘You know, it’s funny you should say that, Valentino. I feel like a virgin.’
His strong brows lifted and the gleam in his eyes grew piercing. ‘After this morning?’
‘I know.’ The old throaty voice was beginning to overtake her. ‘Amazing, isn’t it? But I’ve bathed so often today I feel all soft…and fragrant…and sweetly, sweetly virginal.’ She injected so much sensuality into the words they even convinced her. ‘Feel me. I’m trembling.’ She brushed his bronzed arm with hers, and he quivered as if from a bolt of electricity. She said solemnly, ‘I feel like some mediaeval princess who’s been locked in a tower for twenty-six years. As if—as if no man must ever touch me.’
His eyes sharpened and flickered to her breasts. ‘No man?’
She lowered her lashes. ‘Well, I suppose… If there was one who was especially virile…’
He laughed, then all at once he dragged her so close to him their pelvises touched and his chest was grazing her nipples through the cloth.
‘I think I can promise you something pretty exceptional,’ he said thickly, encouraging her with the virile bulge she detected beneath his belt buckle. Then, like the wild animal he was, for the third time since morning he dragged her triumphantly to the nearest available lair.
* * *
It was a night of highs and lows, so to speak, with desire giving way to passion and passion surrendering to sleep in the hour before dawn. But before the cock crowed three times her lover was up and dragging on his clothes.
‘I have to check on Nonno,’ he told Pia when she lifted her tousled head. ‘He wakes early and I want to be there.’ He kissed her. ‘Keep my pillow warm.’
Then he was gone.
Something was gnawing at her. She had much to think about, and she was feeling a little fatigued, so she slept in, had a leisurely shower, an even more leisurely breakfast, and chose to spend what was left of the morning working on her landscape.
A scrutiny of the watercolour persuaded her it wasn’t completely hopeless, but it was time for a more passionate rendering in oils.
She tried to concentrate on the positives while she was slapping on the colour, the pleasures, all the beautiful moments with Valentino. But try as she might to cling to the rose-coloured world, there were shadows lurking around the edges. Something he’d said last night.
Together for a time. How long was a time?
When he’d first said it she’d blithely assumed he’d meant for the few days he was in town. That would fit in perfectly with her new paradigm, after all. Love ‘em and leave ‘em Renfern. Maybe he would consider flying back to see her from time to time once he went back to work.
She laid down her brush and rested her head in her hands. Oh, please. How much of a fraud was she? The truth was, she couldn’t face the thought of the goodbye. Losing him was unthinkable. It would tear her heart out. She closed her eyes. Oh, how she needed to make the most of what time she had, for Lauren would come back one day and…
* * *
Seeking sustenance from the sea, Valentino plotted a course for Ischia and headed across the Bay. He needed to think, and where better to do it than the scenes of his disillusionment? Ischia, Capri… Playgrounds of the wealthy, both legitimately and otherwise.
In his mind the shadow of the Fiorellos and their circle of friends hung over the islands like a curse. He’d always had hopes of pinning something on them to avenge a tiny piece of his trampled honour. Why else had he joined Interpol? There was little doubt, with the Fiorello millions far exceeding their apparent income, a successful operation could be mounted there.
If his staff weren’t overloaded with the ever-increasing tide of evil swamping the world’s crime fighters. And if he still cared enough to drive it.
Today he had something more immediate weighing on his heart.
Despite the hard-won wisdom of experience, and against all the odds, once again he seemed to have arrived at that fateful crossroads with a woman. He realised now that, at some level, recognition of that knowledge had been in his bones from the instant he’d set eyes on her.
The other time he’d reached this point he hadn’t had a second’s hesitation. He’d plunged in and swept Ariana off her feet without a bare moment’s consideration for anything beyond the glossy surface. No objective thought as to whether their hearts and minds could engage and find solace in each other.
Was he in danger of making the same mistake twice? His gut clenched as the realisation of what was truly bothering him articulated itself in his thoughts. With lovely Pia, the passion was vibrant, as was all the pleasure, the excitement and laughter. But what of the deeper bonds lovers needed if they were to endure?
Trust should be there, surely. Affection beyond lust. Respect.
He visualised her face the day of their conversation in the café. How she’d mocked him. The possible seriousness of those things she’d said to tease him had gained a sudden traction since he’d discovered she was an artist. She didn’t want to be pinned down. Was that the key to her reserve?
Last night he could have sworn her tears had been sincere in her response to the fracture of his life. Yet still she chose not to reveal her own story. Maybe he was making too much of it. Maybe she truly hadn’t been affected by what by all accounts most people would find a terrifying experience.
Or was it simply that she needed time?
He had an urgent sense of his own time running out. He’d postponed his return to work but he couldn’t indefinitely. Soon he’d have to take up the grim load again. His interlude would be over. He understood enough about love to know that once he left, no promises made, no commitment achieved, the sweet, exhilarating momentum would be lost.
>
Instinctively he comprehended that last night had been crucial, a turning point between them in some way, yet nothing had been established. The crushing thought crept up on him that perhaps nothing ever would and she’d slip through his fingers.
What then?
He braced his shoulders and faced the relentless sea. Well, then he’d go back to doing what he’d done for five years. Surviving. Filling the emptiness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HALLELUIA. She could paint.
In the days that followed Pia worked on her landscape, and planned out the beginnings of several others in various carefully selected parts of the town. In the absence of an art supply shop in Positano, forced to replenish her materials, she was faced with a dilemma. Nothing but the urgency of needing to capitalise on her power while it was bubbling up inside her could have forced her into it, but she swallowed her anxiety and braved the Blue Ribbon again, quietly catching the bus into Sorrento.
She was hardly relaxed on the journey, but the view from the bus wasn’t nearly as confronting as it had been from the car, especially from the side away from the cliff edge.
In subsequent days she became a frequent visitor to the Villa Silvestri. At her tentative request, Enzio agreed to allow her to draw him, and seemed greatly delighted when she showed him the result. After that, it was easy to persuade him to sit for her for a little while every day to be painted.
She didn’t expect to finish the portrait in her remaining time in Italy, of course, but she had plenty of good drawings of her subject to draw from, and some well-lit photos. She could finish the work in Sydney. A souvenir.
Since she visited so often, she was almost always invited to share their evening meal.
‘We have been talking,’ Enzio announced one sunlit morning on the Silvestri balcony. Valentino was stretched out on a lounger, his long bronzed legs crossed at the ankles as he perused the newspaper. Occasionally he read out amusing snatches or made sardonic comments about the progress of the investigation into the missing Monet from the Cairo museum. ‘We are thinking it is your turn. Tonight we are hoping you will cook the dinner for us.’