An Elusive Desire

by Anne Mather

  ‘Rafaello-Raf!’ she stammered, despising herself for her incompetence. ‘What a surprise! Where’s Nicola? I thought she was coming to meet me.’

  ‘Nicola’s not well.’ Rafaello’s chilling dark eyes swept her anxious face without compassion. If she had changed, if Nicola had changed, Rafaello had not, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth as she surveyed his lean features.

  He had always been tall, taller than the average Italian, and therefore topping her five feet eight inches by some four inches more. He was dark, as was to be expected, though not so dark that it was not possible to glimpse lighter strands in his dark hair. His skin was brown, textured by the sun, and the eyes that were surveying her so coldly were as black as hell’s kettles.

  ‘Nicola’s ill?’ For the moment Jaime tried to concentrate on what he was saying, not on the manner in which he was saying it.

  ‘I said—not well,’ Rafaello amended shortly. He picked up her suitcase. ‘Is this all your luggage?’

  ‘I—yes.’ Jaime didn’t like being disconcerted, but she was disconcerted now. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been put to this trouble. If I’d known—–’

  ‘Yes? What would you have done?’ Rafaello prompted, starting off across the crowded reception area. ‘Put off your visit, perhaps? Given us a little more time to prepare for you?’

  Jaime pressed her lips together as she followed him. With his leather-jacketed figure forging ahead of her, it was difficult to think coherently about anything. What was he implying? That she had invited herself to the Castello? It was obvious he didn’t want her here, and truthfully she could hardly blame him.

  Outside the airport buildings, the afternoon sun was infinitely warmer than its English counterpart. When she had left Heathrow, her cream flannel pants suit had not been out of place, but here in Italy, the trousers felt incredibly warm, and she shed her jacket to reveal the bronze silk shirt she had bought in Selfridges just last week. There was a breeze, however, and she was glad of its coolness against her cheeks, even if its errant current brought strands of silky hair to brush against her neck.

  ‘If you will wait here, I will bring the automobile,’ said Rafaello, pausing at the kerb and setting down her case. His dark eyes raked her flushed cheeks and tumbled hair before moving lower to denounce the unbuttoned neckline of her shirt. His scornful appraisal made her want to put up her hand and fasten the neck of her shirt, but she refused to succumb to so obvious a condemnation. Instead, she faced him proudly, uncaring that the wind was exposing the smooth curve of her breast, and with a silent imprecation, he strode abruptly away.

  In Italy, all men enjoy looking at a beautiful woman, and in the five minutes or so before Rafaello returned with the car, Jaime quickly got used to countering their amorous glances. Even so, she was immensely relieved when Rafaello did return. She would not have been entirely surprised if he had chosen to abandon her after all.

  The car, a sleek red Maserati, nosed to the kerb beside her, and Rafaello sprang out to stow her suitcase in the boot. ‘Get in,’ he directed, swinging open the door, and with a gesture of acquiescence Jaime obeyed. She noticed that when Rafaello came to join her, he made sure his thigh did not brush hers as he levered himself behind the wheel, and the car moved away smoothly, without any further need for conversation.

  For a time, Jaime was content to remain silent. Indeed, Rafaello’s attitude was such that she was tempted to let him nurture his ill-humour all the way to Vaggio. But concern for Nicola, and the awareness that for seven days, at least, she was expecting to enjoy his hospitality, inevitably aroused her own feelings of compassion. Even so, she waited until the hilly suburbs of the city were behind them, but once they were on to the anonymous autostrada, that connected Pisa with Florence, Jaime endeavoured to recover the situation.

  ‘I assume you know that Nicola rang me,’ she ventured, wishing for once that she smoked so that she had something to do with her hands, and then flinched when his lean face turned aggressively in her direction.

  ‘She rang you?’ he stated disbelievingly. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

  Jaime gasped. ‘It’s the truth. Why else would I be here?’

  ‘You tell me.’ Rafaello’s thin mouth compressed as he turned back to the road.

  Jaime felt more than a little indignant. ‘I didn’t ask for this invitation,’ she said tautly.

  Rafaello’s brown-fingered hands tightened on the wheel. ‘Then why have you come here? I would have thought an invitation to the Castello di Vaggio was the last thing you might accept.’

  ‘And you’d be right.’ Jaime was stung into retaliation. ‘I knew you wouldn’t approve.’

  ‘Would you expect me to?’

  Jaime found she was breathing shallowly and took a deep gulp of air. ‘I came because Nicola asked me to come,’ she declared tersely. ‘I had hoped she would meet me, and that any conversation between the two of us would be in the company of other people. I didn’t know Nicola was not going to be well enough to drive so far, or that you might see this as an opportunity to re-open old hostilities!’

  Rafaello cast a mocking look in her direction. ‘How cold you are, Miss Forster!’ he observed scornfully. ‘How controlled! I can hardly conceive that I once believed you were a warm human being, a creature of flesh and blood! It was a weakness on your part, no doubt, and one which you have evidently succeeded in destroying. Forgive me for reminding you of times you would prefer to forget.’

  Jaime’s nostrils flared. ‘Why do you persist in calling me Miss Forster? Don’t you think that’s a little petty?’

  ‘Petty?’ He lifted his shoulders uncomprehendingly. ‘What is petty?’

  ‘Mean—small-minded.’ Jaime’s fists clenched. ‘And insulting me is rather childish, isn’t it?’

  ‘Was I doing that?’ Rafaello’s tone had hardened nevertheless. ‘I am sorry. I keep forgetting you are still a woman.’

  Jaime’s fingers itched to strike the arrogant expression from his face, but the autostrada was not the place to indulge her temper. Besides, he should not know he could get under her skin so easily, and she steeled herself to ride his abuse without exhibiting any obvious reaction.

  ‘You are the assistant to the company director now, are you not?’ he remarked, a few minutes later, and she forced herself to look at him.

  ‘Is there anything wrong with that?’

  ‘No.’ He paused. ‘You have flown high and wide since those early days. The humble typist becomes the sophisticated business executive. Tell me, have you found your job as satisfying as you thought it would be?’

  ‘Completely,’ replied Jaime crisply, concentrating on the curve of the road ahead, though she was aware of Rafaello’s eyes upon her.

  ‘In all ways?’ he persisted, the tenor of his voice deepening as he spoke, and Jaime’s resentment grew at the deliberate way he was attempting to disrupt her self-possession.

  ‘In all ways,’ she assured him, meeting his scornful gaze. ‘There’s more to life than meekly accommodating a man’s sexual instincts, if that’s what you mean. A woman should learn to use her head as well as her body.’

  ‘As you have?’ snapped Rafaello harshly, and Jaime nodded.

  ‘Why not?’

  His jaw hardened. ‘I take it you don’t regret—anything.’

  ‘No. Why should I?’ She paused. ‘Do you?’

  Rafaello’s thick lashes narrowed his eyes as he turned back again to the road. ‘What have I to regret?’ he stated bleakly. ‘I never knew you.’

  There was silence for a time after that, while Jaime endeavoured to recover her composure. Much to her dismay, Rafaello’s last words had scraped a nerve, and she found to her chagrin that her hands were shaking and her knees felt disturbingly weak. She had thought that nothing he could say would disconcert her, but she had been wrong. His final denunciation had left her feeling raw and vulnerable, and she wished with all her heart that Nicola had not abandoned her to her husband’s less than tender mercies.


  About thirty kilometres east of Pisa, Rafaello drove off the autostrada on to the narrower country roads that led up into the Tuscan hills. All about them now was the rolling Italian countryside, with its patchwork of green fields interspersed with silvery-green olive groves and acres of vines. Thickly-wooded hills overlooked valleys where the wheat was already turning golden in the heat, and as the late afternoon sunlight shimmered hazily over church spires and cast shadows across the glistening curve of the river, Jaime forgot her misgivings in the sheer delight of being there.

  ‘It’s beautiful!’ she breathed, as the Maserati crested a rise and the whole panorama of a milk-and-honey valley was spread out below them. ‘I didn’t know—I never dreamed it would be like this!’

  ‘Would it have made any difference?’ asked Rafaello flatly, and then, as if prepared to meet her halfway, he added: ‘They say nature outdid herself in Tuscany. I love it, of course. It is my home, my land, my heritage! I could never give it up.’

  Jaime shook her head. ‘I can understand that.’ She lifted her eyes. ‘Is that a monastery up there?’

  Rafaello followed her gaze. Clinging to the hillside several hundred feet above them, the white walls of an ancient building stood out in sharp relief, and his lips curved in a wry smile. It was the first time she had seen anything close to humour soften his stern features since they had met at the airport, and the difference it made was amazing. Gone were the grim lines that bracketed his mouth; gone, too, was the frowning cleft between his dark brows; and the parting of his lips revealed the uneven attractiveness of strong white teeth.

  ‘It was,’ he conceded, turning his attention to the road again, as they descended a sharp series of bends into the little town of Santo Giustino. ‘It is an hotel now; small and spartan, it is true, but capable of accommodating perhaps a dozen people.’

  ‘I’d like to stay there,’ said Jaime, looking back over her shoulder. ‘The view must be magnificent.’

  ‘I imagine it must be.’ Rafaello negotiated the narrow entry to the main square of the town. He glanced at his watch. ‘You must be thirsty. We will stop here for a drink before continuing our journey.’

  Jaime was surprised. ‘Is it much further?’ she asked, as he pulled the Maserati off the road and into a narrow parking space.

  ‘Maybe forty kilometres,’ answered Rafaello carelessly, pushing open his door. ‘Come, we will have a drink at the café.’

  Jaime got out of the car with some reluctance. Forty kilometres was not far – a matter of some twenty-five miles. Hardly a great distance. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to drive straight to the Castello? After what Rafaello had said, she couldn’t believe he had any desire to prolong this journey.

  But it was too late now for misgivings. Rafaello was locking the car doors, and as her jacket was locked inside, Jaime had no choice but to accompany him as she was. Not that what she was wearing was in any way out of place in a town that catered frequently for tourists. But she was aware of Rafaello’s eyes upon her, and that was what troubled her most.

  Santo Giustino was a pretty little town, made the more so by the strings of coloured bunting strung out across the narrow streets. It was very old, with shops and houses set close together, and backed by a beautiful little cathedral, also decorated with flowers.

  ‘It is carnival time,’ explained Rafaello, as they crossed the square to where several tables had been set outside the doors of a small restaurant. ‘Tomorrow there will be a procession of floats, and a festa with fireworks, celebrating the feast of Santo Gennaro.’ He grimaced ruefully. ‘In fact, the feast of Santo Gennaro should take place in January, but who can enjoy a festa when there is snow on the hills and a cold wind blows down from the Alps?’

  Jaime smiled at him. She couldn’t help herself, and for a moment Rafaello shared her amusement. His lean, attractive features mirrored her enjoyment, and then, as if a barrier had dropped between them, he turned away, gesturing to her to take a seat while he went to find the proprietor.

  They drank Campari and soda, sitting on opposite sides of the small table, with its blue and white chequered cloth. As the shadows lengthened, more people emerged to stroll in and out of the shops that edged the square, or joined them at the tables, to talk and share a bottle of wine. It was all very peaceful and civilised, but Jaime felt anything but calm. She was only conscious of Rafaello’s brooding preoccupation, and the knowledge that despite his concern for her welfare, he could not relax in her presence.

  ‘Could we—could we spend a moment in the cathedral?’ she ventured, when both their glasses were empty and it was obvious he was about to suggest going back to the car. ‘I adore old churches, and this one is very old, isn’t it? La Cattedrale de Santo Giustino—I read it on that notice over there,’ she added apologetically. ‘Please. I’d like to see inside.’

  Rafaello glanced at his watch once again and got to his feet. ‘If you wish,’ he declared, without expression, and taking a deep breath, Jaime accompanied him round the square and up the four shallow stone steps that led into the candelit interior of the small cathedral.

  It was not like any cathedral Jaime had seen before. Its size precluded any impressive displays of architecture, but its atmosphere was instilled with the generations of believers who had worshipped here. She noticed Rafaello crossed himself as they entered the nave, dipping his hand into the holy water and making a silent obeisance. Not having been brought up in any particular belief herself, Jaime nonetheless envied him his faith, and she bowed her head respectfully as she wandered up the aisle.

  The altar was lit by two tall candelabra, and to one side there was a statue of the Virgin and child, with several unlit candles waiting to be used. ‘To light a candle for someone you love is an act of faith,’ remarked Rafaello behind her, stretching past her to put several coins in the collection box. ‘But faith is not something you know much about, is it, Jaime?’ he added, as she turned quickly to look at him.

  He was close, too close, in the shadowy confines of the beautiful little church. The neck of his cream shirt was open, exposing the strong column of his throat, and from the opening she could smell the warm scent of his body. It was a disturbing scent, clean and essentially male, and her breath caught in her throat. ‘The last time I saw you was in a cathedral, did you know that?’ she asked huskily, her voice revealing a little of the strain she was under, and Rafaello looked at her from between narrowed lids.

  ‘You came to the church?’ he demanded. And then, with rough passion: ‘Why?’

  Jaime forced a lighter tone. ‘I—was invited, remember?’

  ‘You said you would not come.’

  ‘I changed my mind.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘A woman’s prerogative.’

  Rafaello’s breathing was ragged. ‘You would have made a beautiful bride,’ he said unsteadily. ‘So tall—so slender—so fair.’ In the flickering light from the candles, his dark face was taut with emotion, and because Jaime was wearing high-heeled sandals, their eyes were almost on a level. Compulsively, it seemed, he lifted his hand to slide its length against the curve of her cheek, and in the incense-laden atmosphere, Jaime’s senses spun away …

  ‘A che ora si parte, padre?’

  The youthful voice of a boy, dressed in the robes of a novice and speaking to an elderly man attired in a priest’s hassock, broke the spell. One moment, Rafaello’s hand was against her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips, his cool fingers incredibly sensuous against her heated skin, his dark eyes moving over her face with something akin to hunger—and the next, he had turned from her and was striding down the nave and out of the cathedral, his long legs extending the distance between them, as if by doing so he could put her out of his life.

  Jaime followed more slowly. Pausing for a moment to light one of the candles and secure it in place, she nodded diffidently to the elderly priest, who had watched Rafaello’s departure with evident perplexity. ‘Vada con Dio, signorina,’ he murmured, making the sign of the cross,
and Jaime bowed her head respectfully as she emerged from the cathedral into the slanting sunlight of the evening.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JAIME’S room overlooked the curve of the valley and the lower, wooded slopes of the mountains that gave it protection. It did not have the most impressive view of any of the rooms in the Castello, nor was it the largest apartment in the castle, but Jaime had been so relieved to see it, she had cared little for its size or situation.

  Awakening the next morning in a bed whose proportions were totally out of place in such modest surroundings, Jaime lay for several minutes wishing she did not have to get up. The prospect of the day ahead filled her with apprehension, and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she should not have given in to Nicola’s pleading.

  The night before, they had arrived at the Castello when the drifting shadows of evening were casting a misty insubstantiality over the surrounding countryside. The latter part of the journey had been by far the most arduous, not only because of Rafaello’s brooding silence, but also because the last few miles had been a twisting turning climb through picture-book scenery that nevertheless was harrowing on the nerves. Perhaps if Rafaello had driven less aggressively, more consideringly, Jaime would not have felt as if her head was spinning by the time they reached the little town of Vaggio su Ravino, but as it was, nausea was her most obvious reaction when she first saw Rafaello’s home.

  The Castello di Vaggio was about half a mile from the town, at the head of a winding road that Jaime guessed would be treacherous in winter. And it was a castle, she discovered in amazement, clinging to the mountains in much the same way as the monastery she had admired earlier. Somehow, she had imagined that the name castello was just the courtesy title for a rather large villa, and to discover that Rafaello’s ancestors had built the castle hundreds of years before had come as quite a shock. He had never boasted of his antecedents. He had never even mentioned that the di Vaggio family had lived in this part of Italy for more than eight hundred years. But Nicola had told her, spilling the castle’s history carelessly as she showed Jaime to her room, answering her questions without enthusiasm, and obviously finding the subject tiresome when she wanted to talk about herself.