Hot Nights with...the Italian

She capped the bottle and lay back on the padded cushions of her shaded lounger, closing her eyes and letting her thoughts drift.

Dinner tonight, she supposed, would probably be the best time to tell him of her decision—and then she might well drink herself into oblivion for the first time in her life, which was not something she’d ever contemplated, or a prospect she particularly relished.

It was just a question of doing whatever was necessary to get her through this phase in her life relatively unscathed, she thought unhappily, and alcohol was the only available anaesthetic.

It occurred to her that Renzo would probably know exactly why she was drinking as if tomorrow had been cancelled, but why would he care as long as he got what he wanted? she asked herself defiantly.

Anyway, she’d deal with that when the time came, and in the meantime she should stop brooding and turn her thoughts to something else entirely.

She ought to have brought something to read, she told herself ruefully. But when she’d mentioned packing some books into her honeymoon luggage Julia had stared at her as if she was insane, then told her acidly that Renzo would make sure she had far better things to do with her time.

Which brought her right back to square one again, she thought with a sigh, sitting up and reaching for her shirt.

She’d noticed some magazines yesterday in the salotto, and although they seemed exclusively to feature high fashion and interior design, they’d at least be a diversion.

Also they were in Italian, and Zio Guillermo had suggested kindly, but with a certain firmness too, that it would be good for her to start improving her language skills as soon as possible. So she could kill two birds with one stone.

Because of the heat, she deliberately took the climb up to the terrace very easily, pausing frequently to stand in the shade, and look back over the view.

But as she reached the top of the last flight of steps she halted abruptly, her heart thumping out a warning tattoo against her ribcage.

Because Renzo was there, sitting at the table, his feet up on an adjacent chair, reading a newspaper, a glass of wine beside him. He was wearing brief white shorts, a pair of espadrilles and sunglasses. The rest of him was tanned skin.

There was no way to avoid him, of course, Marisa realised uneasily, because this was the only route to the house. She just wished she was wearing more clothes. Or that he was.

It was all too horribly reminiscent of the last time he’d seen her in a bikini, when she’d given way to an impulse she’d hardly understood and been left to weep at her own humiliation.

She swallowed. But that had been years ago, and she wasn’t a child any longer—as he’d demonstrated last night.

And now there were things which had to be said, which couldn’t be put off any longer. Three birds, she thought, for the price of two. And bit her lip.

As she stood, hesitating, Renzo glanced up and saw her. Immediately he put his paper aside and got politely to his feet. ‘Buon pomeriggio.’ His greeting was unsmiling.

‘Good afternoon,’ she returned, dry-mouthed. In some odd way, he seemed taller than ever. ‘I—I was hoping you’d be back.’

He said expressionlessly, ‘I am flattered.’

His tone suggested the opposite, but Marisa ploughed on, trying to look anywhere but directly at him.

‘Evangelina said you might need medical treatment. I—I was—concerned.’

‘In case I had been blinded?’ he questioned with faint derision. He shook his head. ‘Evangelina exaggerates. As you see, no doctor was necessary,’ he added, removing his dark glasses.

She had to look at him then, staring with horror at the dark bruising at the corner of his eye. It was even worse than she’d expected.

She said huskily, ‘I—I’m truly sorry. Please believe that I didn’t mean to do it—that it was a total accident.’

He shrugged. ‘Then God help me if you ever intend to do it.’

Colour rose in her face. She said, ‘I never would. I—I was startled, that’s all.’ She spread her hands defensively. ‘All this—the strain of these last weeks—the wedding—it hasn’t been easy for me.’

‘And therefore my quite unreasonable wish to kiss you goodnight was the final straw?’ he said softly. ‘Is that what you are saying?’

She bit her lip. ‘Yes—perhaps.’ She looked down at the black and white marble tiles at her feet. ‘Although I realise it’s no excuse.’

‘At least we agree on something.’

He was not making this very easy for her, she thought. But then why should he? He was the one with the black eye.

‘Also,’ she went on, ‘I have to thank you for pretending that you walked into a door.’

‘It is the usual excuse, I believe,’ he said crisply. ‘Inoltre, I felt the truth would hardly be to the credit of either of us.’ His mouth twisted. ‘And Evangelina would have been most distressed. She is a romantic creature.’

She did not meet his gaze. ‘Then we must already be a terrible disappointment to her.’

‘No doubt,’ he said. ‘But we must all learn to live with our various disillusionments.’ He shrugged again. ‘And for some time to come, it seems, to judge by last night.’

The moment of truth had arrived. Earlier than she’d planned, but a few hours couldn’t really matter. Anyway, there was no turning back now, she thought, taking a deep breath. But her voice faltered a little just the same. ‘Well—perhaps not.’

There was an odd silence, then Renzo said slowly, ‘Why, Maria Lisa, are you saying you want me to make love to you?’

She realised that he was looking at her, studying her, allowing his eyes to travel slowly down her half-naked body. Thought again of a time when she would have responded with eager joy to the caress of his gaze, and how her pathetic attempt to lure him had met with rejection instead.

A small, cold stone seemed to settle in the middle of her chest.

She said, lifting her chin, ‘Shall we save the pretence for the staff, signore? You don’t want me any more than I want you. Julia told me you already have this Lucia Gallo in your life, so we both know exactly why we’re here, and what’s expected of us, and it has nothing to do with love.’

She stared rigidly past him. ‘You said last night that you wanted me not to—not to dread being with you, but that’s not going to happen. It—can’t. Because, however long you wait, I’m never going to be—ready in the way you wish.’

He was utterly still, she realised, and completely silent. In fact, she could have been addressing a statue. A man of bronze.

Oh, God, she thought. This would have been so much less complicated over dinner. And she wasn’t explaining it all in the way she’d rehearsed down at the pool either. In fact, she seemed to be saying all kinds of things she hadn’t intended. But she’d started, and she had to go stumbling on. She had no choice now.

‘You bought me for a purpose.’ Her voice quivered a little. ‘So you’re entitled to use me—in that way. I—I realise that, and I accepted it when I agreed to marry you. Truly I did. I also accept that you were trying to be kind when you said you’d be patient and—and wait in order to make … sex with you … easier for me. Except, it hasn’t worked. Because waiting has just made everything a hundred times worse. It’s like this huge black cloud hanging over me—a sentence that’s been passed but not carried out.’

She swallowed. ‘It’s been this way ever since we became engaged, and I can’t bear it any longer. So I’d prefer it—over and done with, and as soon as possible.’

She slid a glance at him, and for a brief instant she had the strangest impression that it wasn’t only the corner of his eye but his entire face that was bruised.

Some trick of the light, she thought, her throat closing as she hurried on with a kind of desperation.

‘So I need to tell you that it’s all right—for you to come to my room tonight. I’ll do whatever you want, and—I—I promise that I won’t fight you this time.’ And stopped, at last, with a little nervous gasp.

The silence and stillness remained, but the quality of it seemed to have changed in some subtle way she did not understand.

But all the same it worried her, and she needed it to be broken. To obtain some reaction from him.

She drew a breath. ‘Perhaps I haven’t explained properly …’

‘Al contrario, you have been more than clear, signora.’ His voice reached her at last, cool and level. ‘Even eloquent. My congratulations. I am only sorry that my attempt at behaving towards you with consideration has failed so badly. Forgive me, please, and believe I did not intend to cause you stress by delaying the consummation of our marriage. However, that can soon be put right. And we do not have to wait until tonight.’

Two long strides brought him to her. He picked her up in his arms and carried her towards the open French windows of the salotto.

She said, in a voice she did not recognise. ‘Renzo—what are you doing?’ She began to struggle. ‘Put me down—do you hear? Put me down at once.’

‘I intend to.’ He crossed the room to the empty fireplace, setting her down on the enormous fur rug that fronted it and kneeling over her. He said softly, ‘You said you would not fight me, Marisa. I recommend that you keep your promise.’

She looked up at him—at the livid bruising and the hard set of his mouth. At the cold purpose in his eyes.

‘Oh, God, no.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Not like this—please.’

‘Do not distress yourself.’ His voice was harsh. ‘Your ordeal will be brief—far more so than it would have been tonight. And that is my promise to you.’

He reached down almost negligently, stripping her of the bottom half of her bikini and tossing it aside, before unzipping his shorts.

He did not hold her down, nor use any kind of force. Shocked as she was, she could recognise that. But then he did not have to, she thought numbly, because she’d told him that she wouldn’t resist.

And he was, quite literally, taking her at her word.

Nor did he attempt to kiss her. And the hand that parted her thighs was brisk rather than caressing.

She tried to say no again, because every untried female instinct she possessed was screaming that it should not be like this.

That, whatever she’d said, this wasn’t what she’d intended. That she’d been nervous and muddled it all. And somehow she had to let him know this, and ask him, in spite of everything, to be kind.

But no sound came from her dry, paralysed throat, and anyway it was all too late—because Renzo was already guiding himself slowly into her, pausing to give her bewildered face a swift glance, then taking total possession of her stunned body with one long, controlled thrust.

Arching himself above her, his weight on his arms, his clenched fists buried in the softness of the rug on either side of her, he began to move, strongly and rhythmically.

Marisa had braced herself instinctively against the onset of a pain she’d imagined would be inevitable, even if she’d been taken with any kind of tenderness.

But if there’d been any discomfort it had been so slight and so fleeting that she’d barely registered the fact.

It was the astonishing sensation of his body sheathed in hers that was totally controlling her awareness. The amazing reality of all that potent, silken hardness, driving ever more deeply into her aroused and yielding heat, slowly at first, then much faster, that was sending her mind suddenly into free fall. Alerting her to possibilities she had not known existed. Offering her something almost akin to—hope.

And then, with equal suddenness, it was over. She heard Renzo cry out hoarsely, almost achingly, and felt his body shuddering into hers in one scalding spasm after another.

For what seemed an eternity he remained poised above her, his breathing ragged as he fought to regain his control. Then he lifted himself out of her, away from her, dragging his clothing back into place with frankly unsteady hands before getting to his feet and looking down at her, his dark face expressionless.

‘So, signora.’ His voice was quiet, almost courteous. ‘You have nothing more to fear. Our distasteful duty has at last been done, and I trust without too much inconvenience to you.’

He paused, adding more harshly, ‘Let us also hope that it has achieved its purpose, and that you are never forced to suffer my attentions again. And that I am not made to endure any further outrage to my own feelings.’

He walked to the door without sparing her one backward glance. Leaving her where she was lying, shaken, but in some strange way feeling almost—bereft without him.

And at that moment, when it was so very much too late, she heard herself whisper his name.

CHAPTER SIX

EVEN now Marisa could remember with total clarity that she hadn’t wanted to move.

That it had seemed somehow so much easier to remain where she was, like a small animal cowering in long grass, shivering with resentment, shame and—yes—misery too, than to pull herself together and restore some kind of basic decency to her appearance as she tried to come to terms with what had just happened.

Eventually the fear of being found by one of the staff had forced her to struggle back into her bikini briefs and, huddling her crumpled shirt defensively around her, make her way to her room.

There, she’d stripped completely, before standing under a shower that had been almost too hot to be bearable. As if that could in any way erase the events of the past half-hour.

How could he? she’d asked herself wretchedly as the water had pounded its way over her body. Oh, God, how could he treat me like that—as if I had no feelings—as if I hardly existed for him?

Well, I know the answer to that now, Marisa thought, turning over in her search for a cool spot on her pillow. If I’m honest, I probably knew it then too, but couldn’t let myself admit it.

It happened because that’s what I asked for. Because I added insult to the injury I’d already inflicted by telling him to his face that he didn’t matter. That sex with him would only ever be a ‘distasteful duty’—the words he threw at me afterwards.

She’d sensed the anger in him, like a damped-down fire that could rage out of control at any moment, in the way he’d barely touched her. In the way that the lovemaking he’d offered her only moments before had been transformed into a brief, soulless act accomplished with stark and icy efficiency. And perhaps most of all in his subsequent dismissal of her before he walked away.

Yet, anger had not made him brutal, she reflected broodingly. He had not behaved well, perhaps. After all, she had still been his new bride, and a virgin, but he had not forced her—merely used her confused and unwilling assent against her. And he most certainly hadn’t hurt her.

Or not physically, at least.

Which made it difficult to blame or hate him as much as she wanted to do, she realised, aggrieved.

An important stone that would for ever be missing from the wall of indifference she’d deliberately constructed between them.

And it was a wall that she was determined to maintain at all costs, Marisa told herself, now that Renzo had so unexpectedly come back into her life, it seemed with every intention of remaining there, totally regardless of her own wishes.

Which surely constituted just cause for resentment, however you looked at it?

Suddenly restive, she pushed the coverlet aside and got out of bed, moving soundlessly to the small easy chair by the window.

If ever she’d needed a good night’s sleep to ensure that she was fresh, with all her wits about her for the morning, it was now. And it just wasn’t going to happen—thanks to the man occupying her living room sofa and the memories his arrival had forced back into her consciousness.

Memories of leaning slumped against the shower’s tiled wall, a hand pressed against her abdomen as she realised it would be nearly three weeks before she knew for certain whether Renzo’s ‘purpose’, as he’d so bleakly expressed it, had been achieved, and his child was growing in her body.

Of trying desperately to formulate some credible excuse to avoid having to face him at dinner in a few hours’ time—or ever again, for that matter—and knowing there was none. She would have to pretend that she didn’t care how he’d treated her. That she’d neither anticipated nor wanted anything more from him, and was simply thankful that the matter had been dealt with and need not be referred to again.

Of eventually dressing in a pretty swirl of turquoise silk—not white, because it was no longer appropriate, and not black because it might suggest she was in some kind of mourning—and joining him with an assumption of calmness in the salotto.

Of accepting his coolly civil offer of a drink with equal politeness, realising he had no more wish to speak of the afternoon’s events than she did. And then of sitting opposite him in silence, during an interminable meal.

A pattern, she had soon discovered, that would be repeated each evening.

Not that he’d planned to spend time with her during the day either, as she had found out when she joined him for breakfast the following morning, at his request, conveyed by Daniella.

‘This is a very beautiful part of the world, Marisa, and you will no doubt wish to go sightseeing—to explore Amalfi itself, of course, and then discover the delights of Ravello and Positano.’

Was he offering to escort her? she wondered in sudden alarm, her lips already parting to deny, mendaciously, that she had any such ambition. To say she was quite content to stay within the precincts of the villa while he went off to Ravello, or wherever, and stayed there.

But before she could speak, he added smoothly, ‘I have therefore arranged to have a car placed at your disposal. The driver’s name is Paolo. He is a cousin of Evangelina and completely reliable. He will make himself available each day to drive you anywhere you want to go.’

So I don’t have to …

The unspoken words seemed to hover in the air between them.

‘I see.’ She should have been dancing with relief. Instead, she felt oddly—blank. She hesitated. ‘That’s—very kind of you.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing.’

And that she could believe, she thought bleakly. It was his way of dealing with an awkward and disagreeable situation—by simply ridding himself of the source of annoyance.

After all, he’d done it not that long ago—with Alan.

Renzo paused too. He went on more slowly, ‘I have also ordered a box of books to be delivered here for you—a selection from the bestseller lists in Britain and America. I recall you used to like thrillers, but perhaps your tastes have changed?’

Marisa found she was biting her lip—hard.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not really. And I’m very grateful.’ Adding stiffly, ‘Grazie.’

‘Prego.’ His mouth curled slightly. ‘After all, mia bella, I would not wish you to be bored.’

A comment, she thought stonily, that removed any further need for appreciation on her part.

For the next few days it suited her to play the tourist—if only because it got her away from the villa and Renzo’s chillingly aloof courtesy. To her endless embarrassment he continued to treat her with quite astonishing generosity, and as a result she found herself in possession of more money in cash than she’d ever dreamed of in her life, plus a selection of credit cards with no apparent upper limit.

She’d often wondered what it might be like to have access to unrestricted spending, only to find there was very little she actually wanted to buy.

Maybe I’m not the type to shop till I drop, she thought, sighing. What a waste.

But she did make one important purchase. In Positano she bought herself three maillots—one in black, another in a deep olive-green, and the third in dark red—to wear for her solitary late-afternoon swim, and to replace the bikinis she never wanted to see again, let alone wear.

In Amalfi she visited an outlet selling the handmade paper for which the region was famous, and dutifully bought some to send back to England to Julia and Harry. She also sent her cousin a postcard, with some deliberately neutral comments on the weather and scenery. After all, she thought wryly, she could hardly write Having a wonderful time.

She was particularly enchanted by Ravello, its narrow streets seemingly caught in a medieval time warp, and thought wistfully how much she would like to attend one of the open-air concerts held in the moonlit splendour of the gardens at the Villa Rufulo. But she acknowledged with a sigh, it was hardly the kind of event she could attend alone, without inviting even more speculation than already existed.

Paolo was a pleasant, middle-aged man who spoke good English and was eager to guide her round his amazing native landscape and share his extensive knowledge of its history. But Marisa was conscious that, like the staff at the villa, he was bemused at this bride who seemed never to be in her husband’s company, and she was growing tired of being asked if the signore was quite well.

Eventually she decided she had visited enough churches, admired enough Renaissance artefacts, and gaped at sufficient pictures. Also, she felt disinclined to give any more assurances about Renzo’s health—especially as the bruise on his eye was fading at last.

Her main danger was in eating far too many of the delicious almond and lemon cakes served in the cafés in Amalfi’s Piazza del Duomo, as she sat at a table in the sunlight and watched the crowds as they milled about in the ancient square.

So many families strolling with children. So very many couples, too, meeting with smiling eyes, a touch of hands, an embrace. No one, she thought, had ever greeted her like that, as if she was their whole world. Not even Alan. But their relationship hadn’t had a chance, being over almost as soon as it had begun.

And then, in her mind, she saw a sudden image of Renzo, standing at the altar only a week before, as if transfixed, an expression that was almost wonder on his dark face as she walked towards him.

And what on earth had made her think of that? she thought, startled, as she finished her coffee and signalled for the bill.

Not that it meant anything—except that the sight of her had probably brought it home to him that his head was now firmly in the noose.

All the same, the buzz of talk and laughter in the air around her only served to emphasise her own sense of isolation.

She thought, with a pang, I have no one. Unless, of course … And her hand strayed almost unconsciously to the flatness of her stomach.

The next morning, when Evangelina enquired at what hour the signora would require Paolo to call for her, Marisa said politely that she did not wish to do any more sightseeing for a while.

‘Ah.’ Something like hope dawned in the plump face. ‘No doubt you will be joining the signore by the pool?’

‘No,’ Marisa returned coolly. ‘I thought I would go up to the village for a stroll.’

‘The village is small,’ said Evangelina. ‘It has little to see, signora. Better to stay here and relax.’ She gave a winning smile. ‘Is quiet by the pool. No disturb there.’

In other words, Marisa thought, caught between annoyance and a kind of reluctant amusement, no one would go blundering down there in case the signore decided to take full advantage of his wife’s company by enjoying his marital rights in such secluded and romantic surroundings.

She shrugged. ‘I’ll swim later, as usual,’ she said casually. ‘After I’ve been for my walk.’ And she turned away, pretending not to notice the housekeeper’s disappointment.

Fifteen minutes later, trim in a pair of white cut-offs topped by a silky russet tee shirt, with her pretty straw bag slung across her shoulder, Marisa passed through Villa Santa Caterina’s wide gateway and set off up the hill.