Читать книгу From Florence With Love: Valtieri's Bride / Lorenzo's Reward / The Secret That Changed Everything - CATHERINE GEORGE - Страница 11

‘YOU ran away.’

She was sitting outside her room on a bench with her foot up, flicking through a magazine she’d found, and she looked up guiltily into his thoughtful eyes.

‘I had to help Carlotta.’

‘And it was easier than dealing with my mother,’ he said softly, a fleeting smile in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, she can be a little …’

‘A little …?’

He grinned slightly crookedly. ‘She doesn’t like me being on my own. Every time I speak to a woman under fifty, her radar picks it up. She’s been interrogating me for the last three hours.’

Lydia laughed, and she put the magazine down, swung her foot to the ground and patted the bench. ‘Want to hide here for a while?’

His mouth twitched. ‘How did you guess? Give me a moment.’

He vanished, then reappeared with a bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘Prosecco?’

‘Lovely. Thanks.’ She took a glass from him, sniffing the bubbles and wrinkling her nose as she sipped. ‘Mmm, that’s really nice. So, how was the baby?’

‘Beautiful, perfect, amazing, the best baby in the world—

oh, apart from all their other grandchildren. This is the sixth, and Luca and Isabelle are about to make it seven. Their second is due any time now.’

‘Wow. Lots of babies.’

‘Yes, and she loves it. Nothing makes her happier. Luca and Isabelle and my brother Gio are coming over tomorrow for dinner with some neighbours, by the way. I’d like you to join us, if you can tolerate it.’

She stared at him. ‘Really? I’m only here by default, and I feel such a fraud. I really ought to go home.’

‘How’s your head now?’

She pulled a face. ‘Better. I’m still getting the odd headache, but nothing to worry about. It’s my ankle and the other bruises and scrapes that are sorest. I think I hit every step.’

He frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t really think about the things I can’t see.’

Well, that was a lie. He thought about them all the time, but there was no way he was confessing that to Lydia. ‘So—will you join us?’

She bit her lip, worrying it for a moment with her teeth, which made him want to kiss her just to stop her hurting that soft, full mouth that had been taunting him for days. Dio, the whole damn woman had been taunting him for days—

‘Can I think about it?’

A kiss? No. No! Not a kiss!

‘Of course,’ he said, finally managing to unravel his tongue long enough to speak. ‘Of course you may. It won’t be anything impressive, Carlotta’s got enough to do as it is, but my mother wanted to see Isabelle and Luca before the baby comes, and Gio’s coming, and so my mother’s invited Anita and her parents, and so it gets bigger—you know how it is.’

She laughed softly. ‘I can imagine. Who’s Anita?’

‘The daughter of our neighbours. She and Gio had a thing a while back, and my mother keeps trying to get them together again. Can’t see it working, really, but she likes to try.’

‘And how do they feel?’

He laughed abruptly. ‘I wouldn’t dare ask Gio. He has a fairly bitter and twisted attitude to love. Comes from being a lawyer, I suppose. His first line of defence is always a prenuptial agreement.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Trust issues, then. I can understand that. I have a few of my own after Russell.’

‘I’m sure. People like that can take away something precious, a sort of innocence, a naivety, and once it’s gone you can never get it back. Although I have no idea what happened to Gio. He won’t talk about it.’

‘What about Anita? What’s she like?’

His low chuckle made her smile. ‘Anita’s a wedding planner. What do you think?’

‘I think she might like to plan her own?’

‘Indeed. But Gio can’t see what’s under his nose, even if Mamma keeps putting her there.’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘It could be an interesting evening. And if you’re there, it might take the heat off Gio, so he’ll probably be so busy being grateful he’ll forget to quiz me about you, so it could be better all round!’

She started to laugh at that, and he joined in with another chuckle and topped up her glass.

‘Here’s to families and their politics and complications,’ he said drily, and touched his glass to hers.

‘Amen to that,’ she said, remembering guiltily that she’d meant to phone Jen again. ‘I heard from Claire, by the way—she’s back home safely, and she said Jo’s ecstatic about winning.’

‘How’s your sister about it?’

She pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure. She was putting on a brave face, but I think she’s gutted. I know none of us expected me to win but, you know, it would have been so nice.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. You’ve done more than enough.’ She drained her glass and handed it to him. ‘I’m going to turn in. I need to rest my leg properly, and tomorrow I need to think about arranging a flight back home.’

‘For tomorrow?’ He sounded startled, and she shook her head.

‘No. I thought maybe the next day? I probably ought to phone the hospital and get the go-ahead to fly.’

‘I can take you there if you want a check-up.’

‘You’ve got so much to do.’

‘Nothing that’s more important,’ he said, and although it wasn’t true, she knew that for him there was nothing more important than making sure there wasn’t another Angelina.

‘I’ll see what they say,’ she compromised. There was always the bus, surely? She’d ask Carlotta in the morning.

She got to her feet, and he stood up and took her hand, tucking it in the crook of his arm and helping her to the French doors. Quite unnecessarily, since she’d been hobbling around without help since the second day, really, but it was still nice to feel the strength of his arm beneath her hand, the muscles warm and hard beneath the fine fabric of his shirt.

Silk and linen, she thought, sampling the texture with her fingertips, savouring it.

He hesitated at the door, and then just when she thought he was going to walk away, he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, sending rivers of ice and fire dancing over her skin.

It was a slow kiss, lingering, thoughtful, their mouths the only point of contact, but then the velvet stroke of his tongue against her lips made her gasp softly and part them for him, and everything changed.

He gave a muffled groan and deepened the kiss, searching the secret recesses of her mouth, his tongue finding hers and dancing with it, retreating, tangling, coaxing until she thought her legs would collapse.

Then he eased away, breaking the contact so slowly so that for a tiny second their lips still clung.

‘Buonanotte, Lydia,’ he murmured unevenly, his breath warm against her mouth, and then straightening slowly, he took a step back and turned briskly away, gathering up the glasses and the bottle as he went without a backwards glance.

She watched him go, then closed the curtains and undressed, leaving the doors open. The night was warm still, the light breeze welcome, and she lay there in the darkness, her fingertips tracing her lips, and thought about his kiss …

He must have been mad to kiss her!

Crazy. Insane. If he hadn’t walked away, he would have taken her right there, standing on the terrace in full view of anyone who walked past.

He headed for the stairs, but then hesitated. He wouldn’t sleep—but what else could he do? His office was next to her room, and he didn’t trust himself that close to her. The pool, his first choice of distraction for the sheer physical exertion it offered, was too close to her room, and she slept with her doors open. She’d hear him, come and investigate, and …

So not the pool, then.

Letting out a long, weary sigh, he headed slowly up the stairs to his room, and sat on the bed, staring at the photograph of Angelina on his bedside table.

He’d loved her—really, deeply and enduringly loved her. But she was gone, and now, as he looked at her face, another face seemed superimposed on it, a face with laughing eyes and a soft, full bottom lip that he could still taste.

He groaned and fell back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. The day after tomorrow, she’d be gone, he told himself, and then had to deal with the strange and unsettling sense of loss he felt at the thought that he was about to lose her.

She didn’t sleep well.

Her dreams had been vivid and unsettling, and as soon as she heard signs of life, she got up, showered and put on her rinsed-out underwear, and then sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed thoughtfully as she studied her clothes.

She couldn’t join them for dinner—not if their neighbours were coming. She’d seen Elisa, seen the expensive and elegant clothes she’d worn for travelling back home from her daughter’s house, and the only things she had with her were the jeans and top she’d been wearing now for two days, including all the cooking she’d done yesterday.

No way could she wear them to dinner, even if she’d earn Gio’s undying gratitude and give Elisa something else to think about! She put the clothes on, simply because she had absolutely no choice apart from the wedding dress Carlotta had stuffed in a bag for her and which she yet had to burn, and went outside and round the corner to the kitchen.

Carlotta was there, already making headway on the lunch preparations, and the children were sitting at the table eating breakfast. For a slightly crazy moment, she wondered if they could tell what she’d been dreaming about, if the fact that she’d kissed their father was written all over her face.

She said good morning to them, in her best Italian learned yesterday from Francesca, asked them how they were and then went over to Carlotta. ‘Buongiorno, Carlotta,’ she said softly, and Carlotta blushed and smiled at her and patted her cheek.

‘Buongiorno, signorina,’ she said. ‘Did you have good sleep?’

‘Very good,’ she said, trying not to think of the dreams and blushing slightly anyway. ‘What can I do to help you?’

‘No, no, you sit. I can do it.’

‘You know I can’t do that,’ she chided softly. She stuck a mug under the coffee machine, pressed the button and waited, then added milk and went back to Carlotta, sipping the hot, fragrant brew gratefully. ‘Oh, that’s lovely. Right. What shall I do first?’

Carlotta gave in. ‘We need to cut the meat, and the bread, and—’

‘Just like yesterday?’

‘Si.’

‘So I’ll do that, and you can make preparations for tonight. I know you have dinner to cook for the family as well as for the workers.’

Her brow creased, looking troubled, and Lydia could tell she was worried. Exhausted, more like. ‘Look, let me do this, and maybe I can give you a hand with that, too?’ she offered, but that was a step too far. Carlotta straightened her gnarled old spine and plodded to the fridge.

‘I do it,’ she said firmly, and so Lydia gave in and concentrated on preparing lunch for sixty people in the shortest possible time, so she could move on to cooking the pasta sauce for the evening shift with Maria. At least that way Carlotta would be free to concentrate on dinner.

Massimo found her in the kitchen at six, in the throes of draining gnocci for the workers, and she nearly dropped the pan. Crazy. Ridiculous, but the sight of him made her heart pound and she felt like a gangly teenager, awkward and confused because of the kiss.

‘Are you in here again?’ he asked, taking the other side of the huge pan and helping her tip it into the enormous strainer.

‘Looks like me,’ she said with a forced grin, but he just frowned and avoided her eyes, as if he, too, was feeling awkward and uncomfortable about the kiss.

‘Did you speak to the hospital?’ he asked, and she realised he would be glad to get rid of her. She’d been nothing but trouble for him, and she was unsettling the carefully constructed and safe status quo he’d created around them all.

‘Yes. I’m fine to travel,’ she said, although it wasn’t quite true. They’d said they needed to examine her, and when she’d said she was too busy, they’d fussed a bit but what could they do? So she’d booked a flight. ‘I’ve got a seat on a plane at three tomorrow afternoon from Pisa,’ she told him, and he frowned again.

‘Really? You didn’t have to go so soon,’ he said, confusing her even more.

‘It’s not soon. It’ll be five days—that’s what they said, and I’ve been under your feet long enough.’

And any longer, she realised, and things were going to happen between them. There was such a pull every time she was with him, and that kiss last night—

She thrust the big pot at him. ‘Here, carry the gnocci outside for me. I’ll bring the sauce.’

He followed her, set the food down for the workers and stood at her side, dishing up.

‘So can I persuade you to join us for dinner?’ he asked, but she shook her head.

‘I’ve got nothing to wear,’ she said, feeling safe because he couldn’t argue with that, but she was wrong.

‘You’re about the same size as Serena. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you borrowed something from her wardrobe. She always leaves something here. Carlotta will show you.’

‘Carlotta’s trying to prepare a meal for ten people this evening, Massimo. She doesn’t have time to worry about clothes for me.’

‘Then I’ll take you,’ he said, and the moment the serving was finishing, he hustled her back into the house before she could argue.

He was right. She and Serena were about the same size, something she already knew because she’d borrowed her costume to swim in, and she found a pair of black trousers that were the right length with her flat black pumps, and a pretty top that wasn’t in the first flush of youth but was nice enough.

She didn’t want to take anything too special, but she didn’t think Serena would mind if she borrowed that one, and it was good enough, surely, for an interloper?

She went back to the kitchen, still in her jeans and T-shirt, and found Carlotta sitting at the table with her head on her arms, and Roberto beside her wringing his hands.

‘Carlotta?’

‘She is tired, signorina,’ he explained worriedly. ‘Signora Valtieri has many people for dinner, and my Carlotta …’

‘I’ll do it,’ she said quickly, sitting down and taking Carlotta’s hands in hers. ‘Carlotta, tell me what you were going to cook them, and I’ll do it.’

‘But Massimo said …’

‘Never mind what he said. I can cook and be there at the same time. Don’t worry about me. We can make it easy. Just tell me what you’re cooking, and Roberto can help me find things. We’ll manage, and nobody need ever know.’

Her eyes filled with tears, and Lydia pulled a tissue out of a box and shoved it in her hand. ‘Come on, stop that, it’s all right. We’ve got cooking to do.’

Well, it wasn’t her greatest meal ever, she thought as she sat with the others and Roberto waited on them, but it certainly didn’t let Carlotta down, and from the compliments going back to the kitchen via Roberto, she knew Carlotta would be feeling much less worried.

As for her, in her borrowed top and trousers, she felt underdressed and overawed—not so much by the company as by the amazing dining room itself. Like her room and the kitchen, it opened to the terrace, but in the centre, with two pairs of double doors flung wide so they could hear the tweeting and twittering of the swallows swooping past the windows.

But it was the walls which stunned her. Murals again, like the ones in the cloistered walkway around the courtyard, but this time all over the ornate vaulted ceiling as well.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Gio said quietly. ‘I never get tired of looking at this ceiling. And it’s a good way to avoid my mother’s attention.’

She nearly laughed at that. He was funny—very funny, very quick, very witty, very dry. A typical lawyer, she thought, used to brandishing his tongue in court like a rapier, slashing through the opposition. He would be formidable, she realised, and she didn’t envy the woman who was so clearly still in love with him.

Anita was lovely, though. Strikingly beautiful, but warm and funny and kind, and Lydia wondered if she realised just how often Gio glanced at her when she’d looked away.

Elisa did, she was sure of it.

And then she met Massimo’s eyes, and realised he was studying her thoughtfully.

‘Excuse me, I have to go and do something in the kitchen,’ she murmured. ‘Carlotta very kindly let me experiment with the dessert, and I need to put the finishing touches to it.’

She bolted, running along the corridor and arriving in the kitchen just as Carlotta had put out the bowls.

‘Roberto say you tell them I cook everything!’ she said, wringing her hands and hugging her.

Lydia hugged her back. ‘You did, really. I just helped you. You told me exactly what to do.’

‘You know what to do. You such good cuoca—good cook. Look at this! So easy—so beautiful. Bellisima!’

She spread her hands wide, and Lydia looked. Five to a tray, there were ten individual gleaming white bowls, each containing glorious red and black frozen berries fogged with icy dew, and in the pan on the stove Roberto was gently heating the white chocolate sauce. Sickly sweet, immensely sticky and a perfect complement to the sharp berries, it was her favourite no-frills emergency pud, and she took the pan from Roberto, poured a swirl around the edge of each plate and then they grabbed a tray each and went back to the dining room.

‘I hope you like it,’ she said brightly. ‘If not, please don’t blame Carlotta, I made her let me try it!’

Elisa frowned slightly, but Massimo just gave her a level look, and as she set the plate down in front of him, he murmured, ‘Liar,’ softly, so only she could hear.

She flashed him a smile and went back to her place, between Gio and Anita’s father, and opposite Isabelle. ‘So, tell me, what’s it like living in Tuscany full-time?’ she asked Isabelle, although she could see that she was blissfully contented and the answer was going to be biased.

‘Wonderful,’ Isabelle said, leaning her head against Luca’s shoulder and smiling up at him. ‘The family couldn’t have been kinder.’

‘That’s not true. I tried to warn you off,’ Gio said, and Luca laughed.

‘You try and warn everybody off,’ he said frankly, ‘but luckily for me she didn’t listen to you. Lydia, this dessert is amazing. Try it, cara.’

He held a spoonful up to Isabelle’s lips, and Lydia felt a lump rise in her throat. Their love was so open and uncomplicated and genuine, so unlike the relationship she’d had with Russell. Isabelle and Luca were like Jen and Andy, unashamedly devoted to each other, and she wondered with a little ache what it must feel like to be the centre of someone’s world, to be so clearly and deeply loved. That would be amazing.

She glanced across the table, and found Massimo watching her, his eyes thoughtful. He lifted his spoon to her in salute.

‘Amazing, indeed.’

She blinked. He was talking about the dessert, not about love. Nothing to do with love, or with her, or him, or the two of them, or that kiss last night.

‘Thank you,’ she said, a little breathlessly, and turned her attention to the sickly, sticky white chocolate sauce. If she glued her tongue up enough with that, maybe it would keep it out of trouble.

‘So how much of that was you, and how much was Carlotta?’

It was midnight, and everyone else had left or gone to bed. They were alone in the kitchen, putting away the last of the serving dishes that she’d just washed by hand, and Massimo was making her a cup of camomile tea.

‘Honestly? I gave her a hand.’

‘And the dessert?’

‘Massimo, she was tired. She had all the ingredients for my quick fix, so I just improvised.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, but he left it at that, to her relief. She sensed he didn’t believe her, but he had no proof, and Carlotta had been so distraught.

‘Right, we’re done here,’ he said briskly. ‘Let’s go outside and sit and drink this.’

They went on her bench, outside her room, and sat in companionable silence drinking their tea. At least, it started out companionable, and then last night’s kiss intruded, and she felt the tension creep in, making the air seem to fizz with the sparks that passed between them.

‘You don’t have to go tomorrow, you know,’ he said, breaking the silence after it had stretched out into the hereafter.

‘I do. I’ve bought a ticket.’

‘I’ll buy you another one. Wait a few more days.’

‘Why? So I can finish falling for you? That’s not a good idea, Massimo.’

He laughed softly, and she thought it was the saddest sound she’d ever heard. ‘No. Probably not. I have nothing to offer you, Lydia. I wish I did.’

‘I don’t want anything.’

‘That’s not quite true. We both want something. It’s just not wise.’

‘Is it ever?’

‘I don’t know. Not for us, I don’t think. We’ve both been hurt enough by the things that have happened, and I don’t know about you but I’m not ready to try again. I have so many demands on me, so many calls on my time, so much duty.’

She put her cup down very carefully and turned to face him. ‘We could just take tonight as it comes,’ she said quietly, her heart in her mouth. ‘No strings, just one night. No duty, no demands. Just a little time out from reality, for both of us.’

The silence was broken only by the beating of her heart, the roaring in her ears so loud that she could scarcely hear herself think. For an age he sat motionless, then he lifted a hand and touched her cheek.

‘Why, cara? Why tonight?’

‘Because it’s our last chance?’

‘Why me?’

‘I don’t know. It just seems right.’

Again he hesitated, then he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘Give me ten minutes. I need to check the children.’

She nodded, her mouth dry, and he brushed her lips with his and left her there, her fingers resting on the damp, tingling skin as if to hold the kiss in place.

Ten minutes, she thought. Ten minutes, and my life will change forever.

He didn’t come back.

She gave up after half an hour, and went to bed alone, humiliated and disappointed. How stupid, to proposition a man so far out of her league. He was probably still laughing at her in his room.

He wasn’t. There was a soft knock on the door, and he walked in off the terrace. ‘Lydia? I’m sorry I was so long. Are you still awake?’

She propped herself up on one elbow, trying to read his face, but his back was to the moonlight. ‘Yes. What happened? I’d given up on you.’

‘Antonino woke. He had a nightmare. He’s all right now, but I didn’t want to leave him till he was settled.’

He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes shadowed in the darkness, and she reached for the bedside light. He caught her hand. ‘No. Leave it off. Let’s just have the moonlight.’

He opened the curtains wide, but closed the doors—for privacy? She didn’t know, but she was grateful that he had because she felt suddenly vulnerable as he stripped off his clothes and turned back the covers, lying down beside her and taking her into his arms.

The shock of that first contact took their breath away, and he rested his head against hers and gave a shuddering sigh. ‘Oh, Lydia, cara, you feel so good,’ he murmured, and then after that she couldn’t understand anything he said, because his voice deepened, the words slurred and incoherent. He was speaking Italian, she realised at last, his breath trembling over her body with every groaning sigh as his hands cupped and moulded her.

She arched against him, her body aching for him, a need like no need she’d ever felt swamping her common sense and turning her to jelly. She ran her hands over him, learning his contours, the feel of his skin like hot silk over the taut, corded muscles beneath, and then she tasted him, her tongue testing the salt of his skin, breathing in the warm musk and the lingering trace of cologne.

He seemed to be everywhere, his hands and mouth caressing every part of her, their legs tangling as his mouth returned to hers and he kissed her as if he’d die without her.

‘Please,’ she whispered, her voice shaking with need, and he paused, fumbling for something on the bedside table.

Taking care of her, she realised, something she’d utterly forgotten, but not him. He’d remembered, and made sure that she was safe with him.

No strings. No repercussions.

Then he reached for her, taking her into his arms, and as he moved over her she stopped thinking altogether and just felt.

He woke to the touch of her hand on his chest, lying lightly over his heart.

She was asleep, her head lying on his shoulder, her body silvered by the moonlight. He shifted carefully, and she sighed and let him go, so he could lever himself up and look down at her.

There was a dark stain over one hipbone. He hadn’t noticed it last night, but now he did. A bruise, from her fall. And there was another, on her shoulder, and one on her thigh, high up on the side. He kissed them all, tracing the outline with his lips, kissing them better like the bruises of a child.

It worked, his brother Luca told him, because the caress released endorphins, feel-good hormones, and so you really could kiss someone better, but only surely if they were awake—

‘Massimo?’

He turned his head and met her eyes. ‘You’re hurt all over.’

‘I’m all right now.’

She smiled, reaching up and cradling his jaw in her hand, and he turned his face into her hand and kissed her palm, his tongue stroking softly over the sensitive skin.

‘What time is it?’

He glanced at his watch and sighed. ‘Two. Just after.’

Two. Her flight was in thirteen hours.

She swallowed hard and drew his face down to hers. ‘Make love to me again,’ she whispered.

How could he refuse? How could he walk away from her, even though it was madness?

Time out, she’d said, from reality. He needed that so badly, and he wasn’t strong enough to resist.

Thirteen hours, he thought, and as he took her in his arms again, his heart squeezed in his chest.

Saying goodbye to the children and Carlotta and Roberto was hard. Saying goodbye to Massimo was agony.

He’d parked at the airport, in the short stay carpark, and they’d had lunch in the café, sitting outside under the trailing pergola. She positioned herself in the sun, but it didn’t seem to be able to warm her, because she was cold inside, her heart aching.

‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me,’ she said, trying hard not to cry, but it was difficult and she felt a tear escape and slither down her cheek.

‘Oh, bella.’ He sighed, and reaching out his hand, he brushed it gently away. ‘No tears. Please, no tears.’

‘Happy tears,’ she lied. ‘I’ve had a wonderful time.’

He nodded, but his eyes didn’t look happy, and she was sure hers didn’t. She tried to smile.

‘Give my love to the children, and thank Francesca again for my Italian lessons.’

He smiled, his mouth turning down at the corners ruefully. ‘They’ll miss you. They had fun with you.’

‘They’ll forget me,’ she reassured him. ‘Children move on very quickly.’

But maybe not if they’d been hurt in the past, he thought, and wondered if this had been so safe after all, so without consequences, without repercussions.

Maybe not.

He left her at the departures gate, standing there with his arms round her while she hugged him tight. She let him go, looked up, her eyes sparkling with tears.

‘Take care,’ she said, and he nodded.

‘You, too. Safe journey.’

And without waiting to see her go through the gate, he walked away, emotions raging through him.

Madness. He’d thought he could handle it, but—

He’d got her address from her, so he could send her a crate of wine and oil.

That was all, he told himself. Nothing more. He certainly wasn’t going to contact her, or see her again—

He sucked in a breath, surprised by the sharp stab of loss. Ships in the night, he told himself more firmly. They’d had a good time but now it was over, she was gone and he could get on with his life.

How hard could it be?