Wife in the Shadows (15 page)

The wisest course would be to pretend it had never happened at all. Anyway, if he began to be a real nuisance, she would only have to tell Santino, and he would be instantly warned off. Porto Vecchio, after all, was full of people who remembered Nonna Vittoria with deep affection.

But it would not come to that. He was probably not used to rejection, especially in public, she thought as she let herself into the house, but it would do him a world of good. So, tomorrow night, with luck, he would eat back at his hotel, giving up as a bad job any random thoughts he might still be harbouring about her.

Although she hadn’t the least idea why he should, she thought, examining herself critically in her bedroom mirror. She hadn’t changed and suddenly become a beauty—an object of desire to an attractive man. And it wasn’t as if she’d looked affluent wearing an old blue dress, much loved but faded by the
sun, and with plain silver studs in her ears. So there’d been no reason for him to wish to spend even five minutes with her.

It makes no sense, she told herself. No sense at all. But it’s over, so what does it matter?

She considered eating at home the following night, but told herself she’d be stupid to allow herself to be pressured out of her favourite restaurant on the off-chance some visiting glamourboy might be present. And even if he did dine at Santino’s, he would be unlikely to try again and risk a further snub.

And, in the event, he did not turn up, so she’d been worrying—if that was the word—about nothing. Though that had not prevented her looking up nervously each time anyone came into the
trattoria.

Behaving like a cat on hot bricks, she derided herself, over someone who’d probably moved on by now to look for more excitement.

But she was mistaken as she discovered the following morning when she was on the beach with Poco and saw him walking towards them, long muscular legs and bronze arms displayed in shorts and a polo shirt.

‘Buongiorno,’
he greeted her pleasantly as he halted, looking up at the sky. ‘They say it will rain later. Do you think so?’

‘It’s unlikely,’ Ellie said shortly and would have walked on, except he’d crouched down, snapping his fingers and Poco, the treacherous mutt had gone straight to him and was lying across his sandaled foot, waving his paws in the air.

‘Your dog at least seems to like me,
signorina,’
he commented as he gently rubbed the proffered tummy. ‘What is his name?’

‘He’s my neighbour’s dog,’ Ellie said coldly. ‘And his name is Poco.’

‘An odd choice. He is hardly as small as all that.’

Ellie bit her lip. ‘She told me she called him that because when he was a puppy, she asked his breed and they told her “A little of this and a little of that.’”

‘I think they told the truth.’ He got lithely to his feet, tucking

Poco under his arm. ‘My new friend and I are going to the
caffe
by the church. Would you care to come with us?’ ‘No, of course not!’

He said briskly, ‘Then you had better tell me where you live so I can deliver Poco safely home when we have finished our refreshments.’

‘But you can’t do that,’ Ellie said stormily.

‘What is to prevent me? I wish it.’ He gently pulled one of Poco’s ears, and had his hand licked. ‘And he is perfectly willing.’

‘He’s not your dog.’

‘Nor yours, it seems. And I need my coffee,’ he added. ‘If you are so concerned for Poco’s welfare, I suggest you join us.’

He set off across the sand to the promenade, and Ellie followed, angry to feel so helpless but knowing she had no choice, because there was no way she would allow him near Casa Bianca, whatever the excuse.

When they were seated at a table on the pavement, and she’d been served with a filter coffee while he chose espresso and a sweet roll which he shared with Poco who’d been brought a bowl of water, Ellie said tautly, ‘Are you doing this to punish me?’

His brows lifted. ‘For what?’

She met his gaze defiantly. ‘For refusing to have dinner with you, of course.’

‘Is the coffee here so bad it ranks as punishment?’ He sounded faintly amused. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then—why?’

‘It is quite simple. The other morning, I saw a girl laughing and dancing in the sea as if she did not have one care in the world. I wanted to find out what could have prompted such happiness.’

So, she had not imagined that she was being watched. It was a disturbing thought and she made herself drink some coffee before she answered. ‘I think—realising that I didn’t have to be unhappy any longer.’

‘What made you so sad?’

She looked away, her heart hammering. ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘Then it is a man.’

‘No,’ she denied swiftly. ‘Or—not in the way you think.’

This is dangerous, she thought with a kind of desperation. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I ought to leave the coffee, grab Poco—and go. Talking to him like this—being with him—is madness that I can’t afford.

‘How do you know what I think,
signorina?’

‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t know you,
signore,
or anything about you. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.’ She rose. ‘Now, Signora Alfredi will be wondering where we are, so if you’ll excuse me.’

‘On one condition,’ he said. As she passed his chair to retrieve the dog, he put a hand on her arm. ‘That you have dinner with me tonight.’

‘That’s quite impossible.’ She looked down at the darkness of the tanned fingers against the comparative pallor of her own skin, her throat tightening uncontrollably. ‘And don’t touch me—please.’

His hand lifted immediately, unquestioningly. ‘But we both have to eat,’ he said. ‘Shall we meet at the
trattoria
at nine, or should I collect you from your house?’

‘No!’ The word sounded almost anguished, and she paused, taking a deep breath. Be careful, she thought. Be very careful. ‘Anyway, you don’t know where I live.’

‘It would not be hard to discover.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Maria at the restaurant has a romantic heart, I think.’

Romantic …
The word seemed to judder in her mind.

She said, her voice taut, ‘Please understand,
signore,
that there is no possibility of—romance between us, and there never will be.’

He leaned back, the dark eyes speculative. ‘But,
signorina,
how can you be so sure?’

She scooped up a wriggling Poco. ‘Because I am married,’ she said stonily. ‘And one bitter experience is quite enough in
anyone’s lifetime. Does that answer your question? Now please leave me alone.’

And she walked away, without looking back.

She was restless all day, unable to settle to the translation work awaiting her attention, or, if she was honest, to very much at all. And she didn’t need this kind of distraction, she told herself angrily. She’d come here for peace and quiet. To find herself again. Perhaps even—to heal.

Not to engage in a reluctant battle of wits with someone she didn’t know—and didn’t want to know.

She was tempted to pack her bag, lock up Casa Bianca, walk up to the square where her car was parked—and go.

But where? Not back to Vostranto, that was for sure. And turning up at the Palazzo Damiano would involve a lot of questions she would prefer not to answer—or not immediately.

Besides, why should she be the one to leave? She belonged here and he most certainly didn’t. So, he had no right to intrude like this and turn her small private world upside down. Amusing himself at her expense by this—totally meaningless pursuit.

A man, she thought, fuelling her resentment, who’d never learned to be kind, because he hadn’t found it necessary. Who was accustomed, instead, to using his surface attraction in order to gain easy favour. And wasn’t used to taking ‘no’ for an answer.

Only, it wasn’t going to work. Not with her. So he could just—pack his designer luggage and move on. Go back to playing his games with people who knew the rules.

But until he did so, she was damned if he was going to turn her into a prisoner in her own home. Or a fugitive.

Yes, she would eat at the
trattoria
tonight, she decided, squaring her slender shoulders, because that was how she lived when she was here, and his presence would not deter her, or the probability that he would manoeuvre her somehow into sharing his table.

And if that prospect, and the memory of their previous
encounters, was preventing her concentration on the job in hand, she would find something else to occupy her.

With a suggestion of gritted teeth, she embarked on a heavy-duty clean of the living room, moving furniture, scrubbing the floor and even washing walls, before moving on to the kitchen, the shower room and finally her bedroom. The two empty rooms at the rear of the cottage which in Nonna Vittoria’s day had provided the accommodation for family holidays she decided to leave for another day.

When evening came, she showered and washed her hair, drying it to hang casually loose and shining round her face, then dressed in slim white cotton pants, and a dark red top even more elderly than the blue dress. She reached for her scent spray only to put it back, unused, together with her cosmetic bag.

This rendezvous was not of her choosing, she reminded herself, viewing herself with indifference, so there was no compulsion to make an effort. Exactly the opposite, in fact.

She walked slowly to the restaurant, her hands clenched into fists in her pockets as she strove for an appearance of composure.

He was there, as she’d known he would be, seated at a table set for two with flowers, candles lit, and chilled white wine, while Maria, of the romantic soul, waited, eyes dancing to usher her there.

He got to his feet, relaxed in chinos and a white shirt, its cuffs rolled back over his forearms, his smile glinting.

He said softly, ‘So you came. I was not sure that you would.’

‘Really?’ She took her seat. ‘Now I’d have said you’d never suffered a moment’s uncertainty in your entire life,
signore.’

‘Then perhaps you should not judge by appearances,
signorina.’
He paused. ‘But must we be so formal?’ He offered her a swift smile. ‘My name is Luca. And yours?’

Her hesitation was palpable. ‘It’s—Helen,’ she said at last. The English version of her name, she thought, that only her parents had used. Something to hide behind.

He inclined his head.
‘Buonasera,
Helen. It is good to meet you.’

She looked down at the white cloth. ‘It’s hardly the first time.’

‘Then let us make it so.’ He signalled to Santino, who came to pour the cold, sparkling wine into the waiting flutes. He added softly, ‘To your good health,’ as he raised his glass.

The wine tingled against the dryness of her mouth and throat. She said huskily, ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here. This is such a mistake.’

‘Why do you say that?’

She stared at the bubbles in her glass. ‘You—you already know.’

‘Ah,’ Luca said. ‘Because you are married.’ He reached out and took her hand, his thumb smoothing the pale band of skin where her wedding ring had been. ‘But it is not an easy thing to remember.’

His touch was infinitely light, but it seemed to rip through her, making her heart pound unevenly, and she pulled her hand away, flushing. ‘You’ve also forgotten that I—asked you not to touch me.’

‘But that, I think, is impossible.’

She swallowed. Her voice was a thread. ‘Then let me tell you this. Whatever you think is going to happen between us—you’re wrong.’

‘So, I shall have to live with disappointment,’ he said lightly. ‘However, we can still enjoy our food, I hope. I ordered for us in advance,
mia bella
—linguine with mussels and roasted sea bass. Do you approve?’

She bent her head. ‘It sounds—delicious.’

‘Good.’ He raised his glass again, the dark gaze intent, almost reflective in the candlelight. ‘Then,
buon appetito,
Helen—for this—and whatever else tonight may bring. Even if it is—nothing.’ And he drank to her.

‘S
O,’ LUCA SAID,
sampling the
zabaglione
which he’d chosen for their dessert. ‘Tell me about your husband.’

Ellie put down her spoon, startled. His behaviour over the meal had been impeccable, keeping the conversation general, light and amusing, encouraging her to relax and enjoy each excellent course, even to smile and respond shyly to his practised banter. Yet now he’d suddenly switched to the personal again. The much too personal. And she wasn’t sure how to handle it.

She took a breath. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she countered. ‘Nothing?’ he queried lightly. ‘So, does he even exist, I wonder, or is he an invention to keep unwanted lovers at bay?’

She made herself eat some of the frothy concoction in front of her. ‘He’s real enough,’ she said eventually. ‘But I can’t describe him, because I don’t know him, or anything about him and I never have.’

His brows lifted. ‘You married a complete stranger?’

‘It was an arrangement,’ she said. ‘Forced on us both by circumstance.’

‘I believe such arrangements can sometimes turn out well,’ he said, after a silence. ‘With a little goodwill on both sides.’

‘Perhaps.’ Ellie couldn’t eat any more and put down her spoon. ‘But—not in this case.’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘I’ve had plenty of time to decide.’
And now, because of
Silvia, I have a convincing reason too …
‘And concluded that I should leave.’

‘And came here.’ His tone was reflective. ‘Will you tell me why?’

‘Because I knew it was the last place that he—my husband—would ever come to.’

Luca frowned. ‘What is wrong with it?’

Ellie shrugged. ‘Oh—it’s not vibrant—or glamorous—or full of the beautiful people—like those he went ski-ing with last winter,’ she added.

‘But you did not accompany him.’ A statement rather than a question.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t ski.’

‘You could learn. Or you could simply enjoy the air and the beauty of the mountains as many do without venturing on to the slopes.’

That, she thought, was what Tullia had said. ‘Oh, do come with us, Elena,’ she’d appealed. ‘We can find a nice terrace and sit with our hot chocolate and wonderful cakes while Angelo and Domenico and the others go off on their black runs.

‘Besides, Mamma was saying the other day that you and Angelo have still not had a honeymoon.’ She’d looked at Ellie with dancing eyes. ‘Perhaps in such a romantic place, he will wish to treat this as one.’

And she’d replied, forcing herself to smile back, her heart pounding, even though the prospect of sharing a room and a bed with him for the duration had been one of the main deterrents, ‘A little too public, don’t you think? Anyway I’d probably do something silly—slip on the ice and break something and spoil his plans. Believe me, I’m far better off staying at Vostranto.’

Tullia had pouted, but when she returned, she had little to say about the trip other than Ellie was probably right not to have gone, and would have been bored.

Angelo had said even less.

Now, striving for lightness, and a way to bring the conversation and the evening to a speedy end, she said, ‘Maybe I’m just the indoor type.’

‘And yet you spend part of each day on the beach.’ ‘That’s quite different. When I’m here, I’m alone—and free.’

He looked at her unsmilingly. ‘Is that what I saw that first morning—a dance of freedom?’

‘I—I don’t know.’ Had it been freedom, she wondered, that inexplicable, overwhelming sense of irresistible joy that had so unexpectedly assailed her, as if some locked door had suddenly opened on to a new and hopeful world? And all she had to do was hold out her hand to claim it for her own?

Before, of course, she realised what was awaiting her.

Hurriedly, she pushed back her chair and reached for her bag. ‘Anyway, I must be going,’ she said.

‘You do not wish for coffee and some strega, perhaps, or sambucca?’

‘No, grazie.
But it was a wonderful meal,’ she added politely. ‘So, if you will excuse me,
signore.’

He rose too. ‘May it not be Luca?’

She swallowed. ‘If that is—really what you want.’

‘Indeed it is,’ he said.
‘Buona notte,
Helen. I wish you pleasant dreams.’ He paused. ‘And I look forward to meeting you on the beach tomorrow.’

‘I—I may not be there. I have—things to do.’

‘Then Poco and I will both be disappointed.’ He walked round the table, took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘And as I am now convinced you are married,’ he said softly, ‘what can you possibly have to fear?’

And that, thought Ellie as she gave him a taut smile before heading for the door, was the six-million-dollar question.

She lay for a long time that night staring into the darkness, her mind endlessly reviewing every word that had been spoken between them, her inner vision possessed by images of him in almost frightening detail—the turn of his head, the length of the black eyelashes, the shape of his mouth. As if, she thought, she’d been gazing at him all evening, committing
him to some private corner of her memory, instead of trying to avoid glancing at him at all.

Under her nightshirt, her body was tingling, her nipples hard against the thin fabric, scalding heat between her thighs.

Oh God, this is so wrong, she told herself, turning over to bury her flushed face in the pillow. Wrong and crazy. I don’t recognise myself any more, or know what I’m doing, and that scares me. Because there are so many reasons why I shouldn’t be thinking about him—ever, and the fact that I’m still technically a married woman is probably the least of them.

‘Luca,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘Luca—why did I have to meet you now? Why couldn’t it have been long ago when everything was different? When I was different?’

She fell asleep at last, but woke again at sunrise. She showered, put on her robe, then worked doggedly for several hours, drinking cups of black coffee and not allowing herself to think of anything else while she caught up with her schedule.

This was her real life, she thought, as she finally closed down her laptop, and she must never forget that. Must take care to ignore any temptation to wonder if it could ever have been otherwise.

She did some washing and hung it in the small courtyard at the back of the house. It was going to be the warmest day yet, she realised, looking up at the sun, high in an almost cloudless sky. A foretaste of summer heat, and there was little breeze so the sea would be like a millpond.

She fought with herself as she tidied an already tidy house, repeating over and over again that she would be a fool and worse than a fool to go anywhere near the beach today whatever the weather. But, as she’d known from the first, it was a losing battle, so she changed into a bikini, covered it with shorts and a cheesecloth shirt, put sun lotion, a towel, some bottled water and an apple in a canvas bag and headed for the shore.

She had just reached the steps when Luca’s hand descended lightly on her shoulder.
‘Buon giorno,’
he said. ‘Where is your little friend today?’

She said stiltedly, ‘The Signora’s niece is taking her out for the day, and Poco is going too. The children adore him.’

‘Ah.’ His brows lifted. ‘So, is it possible for you to tolerate my company alone?’

He was wearing khaki shorts, and espadrilles, his sun glasses pushed up on top of his head, and the rest of him was bare bronze skin. The faint amusement in his dark eyes was also playing round his firm mouth, and every inch of him spelled danger.

She said huskily, ‘I thought I might swim.’

‘I thought so too. I was only waiting for you.’

‘And if I’d stayed away?’
As I should have done …

He shrugged a shoulder and she tried not to notice the play of muscle under the smooth skin. ‘Then I would have come to find you.’

He had already spread a towel in the shelter of a rock, and she arranged hers beside it, fumbling a little as she felt tension building inside her.

He said gently, ‘There is no need to be afraid.’

Now how did he know that? she wondered wildly. Aloud, she said, ‘I—I don’t understand what’s happening. Why you are doing this, when you know—when I’ve told you the situation.’

‘You have told me certain things.’ The dark gaze held hers. ‘But not all of it, I think.’

Ellie bit her lip. ‘All that is possible, anyway.’

‘At least until you begin to trust me,’ he agreed, unzipping his shorts to reveal black swimming trunks.

Feeling absurdly self-conscious, Ellie discarded her own shorts and shirt, thankful that her dark green bikini was cut on lines more demure than strictly fashionable, but aware, just the same, of the frank appreciation in his expression.

Then he took her hand, and began to walk down the beach, his pace quickening until he was running with Ellie laughing and breathless at his side as they reached the water’s edge, and splashed into the softly curling shallows.

For a moment the sea felt so cold it made her gasp, but Luca’s
arm was round her, urging her forward, making her forget her initial recoil as the water deepened.

And when the lean, brown body beside her dived forward into the waves, she followed, the chill suddenly becoming—exhilaration.

It had been months since her last swim, and all the bleak unhappiness and uncertainty she’d experienced during that time seemed to fall away from her, leaving her buoyant as the sunlit air as she cut through the water in her smooth, efficient crawl.

When she began to feel the pull on her muscles, she turned and swam back slowly to where Luca was waiting for her, treading water, his dark hair gleaming in the sun.

‘You swim very well,’ he said. ‘Where did you learn?’

‘Here,’ she said. ‘My father taught me when we came to stay with my grandmother.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I used to go to the public baths sometimes when I lived in Rome, although they were always so crowded. Several of my colleagues went to the big hotels to swim in their pools, but I found that too expensive.’

‘Che peccato,’
Luca said softly. ‘Because I often did the same. We might have met much earlier.’

‘I think I’d have been lost in the crowd.’
In so many ways …
She forced a smile. ‘But that’s why I’m out of practice and out of condition.’

‘It is not apparent. You came here often as a child?’

‘Whenever it was possible. We all loved it.’ She paused. ‘Nonna Vittoria’s other daughter, my aunt and—and her family were never as keen.’

Now why, she wondered vexed, did I need to mention that?

She added hurriedly, ‘And I love it still.’

‘That is evident. But it is a pity that you come here alone.’

‘I don’t see it that way at all.’ She began to swim back to the shore using a sedate breast-stroke. ‘I’m quite happy in my own company.’

His voice reached her quietly. ‘And that is an even greater
pity. A woman with such a gift for happiness should not prefer solitude.’

Once out of the water, Ellie walked quickly up the beach, aware of Luca keeping pace at her shoulder and the unruly hammering of her heart as she headed for the freshwater shower sited at the edge of the promenade to rinse the salt from her skin. She stepped into the shallow basin, and reached for the control lever only to find his hand covering hers as he joined her under the shower head, pulling her towards him.

She said in a voice she didn’t recognise, ‘No, please, you mustn’t. It’s not right …’

‘Are you throwing your marriage in my face again, Helen?’ His tone was harsh. ‘The fact that you belong to another man? Do you wish he was here with you now instead of me—this husband?’

And this time her whispered ‘No’ was in acceptance, not denial, as Luca turned on the water and stood, holding her close against him so that she breathed the cool, salty fragrance of his skin as the cascade covered them both. She could feel the thud of his heart echoing through her own bloodstream, and leaned into him, resting her forehead against the muscularity of his chest, her legs shaking under her, waiting for what would be.

When the gush of water stopped, Luca put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up towards his. He said gently, ‘I will say again—you have nothing to fear, I promise you. Nothing.’ And let her go.

Afterwards, when they had gone back to the rock and dried themselves, Ellie produced her sun lotion and Luca lay, propped up on an elbow observing her, his dark gaze candidly intent, as she applied the liquid to her slender legs, her arms, her midriff, and, having carefully removed the halter strap, the faint swell of her breasts above the bikini top.

She said with a catch in her breath, ‘Why are you watching me?’

‘You know why,
mia bella.’
There was a smile in his voice, as he stretched out a hand for the bottle. ‘So there is no need to play games. Permit me to attend to your back,
per favore.’

She turned over, lying face downwards on her towel, her body rigid, hands clamped to her sides, trying to subdue the uncertain clamour of her pulses.

Luca began with her shoulders, his touch as gentle as she had hoped—or perhaps dreaded. As he smoothed the lotion into her heated skin with light, circular movements, Ellie found her fists slowly beginning to unclench and the tension in her muscles relaxing.

His hand moved downwards, and she flinched instinctively as he released the clip that fastened her bra.

‘No—please.’

‘Will it also please you to have a mark across your back?’ he asked softly, as his fingertips anointed the delicate, untrammelled contour of her spine.

There seemed no answer to that, and the lingering stroke of his hands on her body was making her so breathless she probably couldn’t have spoken anyway, she thought, closing her eyes and giving herself up to pure sensation.

He did not hurry, finishing his ministrations decorously about a centimetre above the band of her bikini briefs. ‘Now you will not burn.’

But she was scorching already, every fibre of her being, each bone, each drop of blood in her starved body coming alive, its long-suppressed hunger crying out for appeasement—for a satisfaction that had up to now only existed in her imagination. That she had tried so hard to teach herself to live without, while struggling at the same time to endure those brief, unhappy encounters in the marriage bed. Until endurance threatened to turn into heartbreak and became utterly impossible.