At Her Latin Lover's Command
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She absorbed this without comment. But she was stunned. He hadn’t been happy in England. She pursed her lips, contemplating the fact that he’d been in virtual exile from the country of his birth.
Scanning the bustling promenade, she compared the greyness of the city of London and the vibrant colours all around them; the roar of the capital city’s traffic, the dirt and the smell of petrol fumes…and the partially traffic-free Bellagio, where stately ferries ploughed their way across a glittering lake. The hurried, preoccupied Londoners wrapped in their own concerns…and the lively Italians hell-bent on living life to the full and including any passing stranger who caught their attention.
‘I understand why you want Carlo to live here,’ she said soberly. ‘I think it’s perfect for him. You love your house and its setting and I’ve fallen in love with it too. Because of that, I’m sure we can all be happy together in time.’
He looked disbelieving. ‘Happiness? Very unlikely,’ he said with a cynical drawl.
‘Wait and see.’ She felt shaky, as if she were poised on the edge of a precipice. She had to make him believe their marriage could be more than a façade. ‘We must both work to that end.’
There was a long pause. ‘Too much has happened. Too much anger, too many scars that can never heal. But I’ll settle for a harmonious relationship. I’m relieved you’re falling in with my plans.’
‘I’ll do everything I can to let people believe we have a good marriage,’ she said earnestly.
Imperceptibly she moved closer to him and they walked along almost hip to hip. She felt him give a little shudder and knew he felt a physical interest in her. First, she thought, they’d have sex. And then it would gradually turn to a trusting, loving relationship.
She was in seventh heaven. Although she was dazzled by the breathtaking views, charmed by Bellagio and overwhelmed by the pleasure of being close to Dante, she was nevertheless alert enough to realise that the set of his body had changed quite dramatically.
It was as though he had been holding himself back before, as if he, too, had imposed some kind of restraint on himself.
When he pointed out the villages across the lake, he became more animated and flamboyantly Italian. Responding to an inner urge, she put her arm around his waist. When he stiffened, she thought he’d shrug it off. But his muscles relaxed again and he slid his arm around her slender waist, making her heart sing with joy.
As they wandered along, she noticed that they were attracting admiring glances. People smiled at them fondly. One day, she promised herself, this would be for real.
Feeling light-headed, she listened with pleasure to Dante’s enthusiastic descriptions of the sumptuous gardens in the villas open to the public.
‘You really love Bellagio, don’t you?’ she laughed, almost drunk with happiness, when he paused for breath.
He scowled and cleared his throat. ‘Everything about it. There’s so much to show you. The day after tomorrow we’ll take a drive inland…’
He had paused. Like her, he had seen that all eyes seemed to be elsewhere, a murmur of voices buzzing excitedly about something. She looked back over her shoulder and discovered the focus of everyone’s attention.
‘Oh, look, Dante! A bride and groom!’ she exclaimed softly. The bride looked very young, perhaps as old as she’d been when she’d married Dante. Her dress was the purest white and the white roses in her dark, glossy hair gave her a touching fragility. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ Miranda breathed dreamily.
‘Beautiful,’ he agreed, his voice sombre.
She frowned, puzzled. ‘Where’s everyone else? The bridesmaids, guests… There’s just the couple and a photographer!’
‘It’s the custom. They’re being photographed in romantic settings.’
He sounded choked. Emotion had claimed her too. The bride looked as if she might burst with love. The fresh-faced groom couldn’t take his eyes off his adoring wife.
That was how it had been for her, Miranda thought, a pain wrenching at her heart. But not for Dante.
With everyone watching fondly, the couple posed at the foot of the cobbled steps then beneath the arcade. She and Dante looked on, each with their own thoughts, as the photographer persuaded the couple into an artistic pose by a stone balustrade, with the lake and mountains in the background.
So loving, she thought as they laughed and giggled their way to the gangplank of the passenger ferry for another shot.
Somehow Dante’s hand had crept into hers. It was poignant, watching the couple. They hadn’t a care in the world. They were starting married life and were confident it would be roses all the way. She felt tears welling up and fought hard to suppress them as she contemplated the ruins of her own marriage.
‘Complimenti,’ Dante murmured as the rapturous lovebirds wandered past them on their way to another venue.
The bride gave him a sweet smile, which became even warmer when she met Miranda’s wistful eyes. Her new husband said something in Italian and Dante’s grip tightened as the couple moved on.
‘What did he say?’ she asked, where once she would have kept silent.
Dante didn’t look at her, but watched the bride and groom running like children to a seat by a large floral display.
‘He returned the compliment,’ he said eventually. ‘He said he imagined we were recalling our own wedding.’
‘I was,’ she admitted shakily.
She remembered with a sigh that she had been in a dream the whole day. Dante’s lovemaking that night had been tender and profoundly passionate.
She also remembered how his face had glowed with an inner radiance. Her heart thudded. Could Guido have been wrong? Had Dante loved her when they got married? She’d truly believed that he did at the time.
Though, she thought with a shiver, his rapturous expression on their wedding day could have been due to something else: imagining himself stepping into Amadeo’s shoes and inheriting a fortune.
‘Lunch,’ he muttered, drawing her to a table overlooking the lake. He seemed preoccupied and thoughtful.
Daringly she blurted out, ‘I wish it was like it used to be between us.’
He winced as though he felt the same pain that shafted through her body.
‘Those days of innocence are gone,’ he growled.
And with that harsh put-down, he picked up the menu and annoyingly disappeared behind it.
But she persevered, risking an outright snub. It was a chance she had to take.
‘You can’t deny that it would be wonderful if we could be truly together,’ she ventured. ‘Easier all round. No pretences,’ she added haltingly.
He lowered the menu sufficiently for her to see his dark, intense eyes.
‘Yes,’ he rasped and dashed her hopes by following that with, ‘but we have to accept that it would be impossible under the circumstances.’
‘Nothing’s impossible—’ she choked out.
‘I think there is something you should understand about Italian men, Miranda,’ he said tightly. ‘Honour is very important to them.’
His mouth twisted but he kept his head down, his eyes lowered to the damask tablecloth. And in a bleak voice he continued, ‘The worst insult you could imagine would be to call a man cornuto. Do you know what that means?’
Glumly she shook her head. But she could guess.
‘It’s a cuckold,’ he said. ‘A man who’s wife has been unfaithful.’ His eyes lifted to hers—hot, burning, indicating the seething emotions he was repressing. ‘It pains me that anyone could call me a cuckold—and the fact that if they did I would have to stay silent, because it’s true. I try to forget it, to put it aside, but it rips me apart to think of you with other men. When I look at you I think of their hands roaming over your body and I can barely contain my anger and shame!’
Hot tears threatened and she beat them back furiously.
‘I did not betray you,’ she insisted. ‘I have always been faithful.’ Taking a deep breath, she decided to seize the moment and added in a low whisper, ‘I have always loved you.’
And she waited for his response, her heart in her mouth. Everything depended on this. Her future happiness, Carlo’s. Please make him believe me, she thought, her hands tightening into fists beneath the table.
‘A commendable try,’ he drawled, his skin taut with disapproval over the contours of his face as he pretended to scan the menu. ‘But I know the truth. Understand this, Miranda. I can never forgive you.’ His eyes lifted to hers and in them she saw her own bleak misery.
She felt that he’d thrust a knife into her heart. Her confession of love, her attempts to penetrate his barrier of hatred and mistrust, had been in vain. He’d made up his mind. They’d be polite strangers for years to come.
She sat silent and stunned and deeply hurt by his intransigence as Dante beckoned for service.
Conscious of the waiter prompting her, she mechanically put in her order, knowing she wouldn’t be able to do more than toy with her food.
Then, averting her head in misery, she pretended to be fascinated by the boats crossing the lake, but all she could see were white blurs in a mist of blue because tears had sprung into her eyes and were clogging up her throat.
It seemed she was no nearer to saving her marriage. Maybe, she thought in a flood of despair, there was no hope, after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE felt battered and bruised. If it hadn’t been for Carlo, she would have gone back to the palazzo and wept in her room till she could weep no more. Then she would have taken the next flight home, to prepare for a lonely and loveless future.
But of course she had to stick this out. And she knew that in two hours they were to collect him for his treat in Maggiore. She had no intention of appearing red-eyed and defeated in front of her son.
Because of that she conquered her urge to sob her heart out and forced herself to reply to Dante’s inconsequential remarks during the meal.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said politely. ‘The strangozzi is excellent.’
Resolutely avoiding his eyes, she jabbed her fork into the noodles and scooped up some of the anchovy and peppers with it.
‘More wine?’ he enquired solicitously. ‘And please smile occasionally.’
Repressing the urge to say ‘what for?’ she managed a strained smile and a nod. As he filled her glass, she muttered,
‘You care very much what people think of us, don’t you?’
He leaned forward as if he were saying something intimate and romantic.
‘You know perfectly well that I don’t want Carlo to become aware that anything’s amiss. And that means other people must be convinced of our unity.’
She heaved a huge sigh. That was all he cared about. Well, she wasn’t going to continue this farce. Dante had to be forced to accept her innocence.
‘I want to talk to you later,’ she muttered. ‘When he’s in bed.’
‘Look at me.’
Her eyes lifted in sullen query. ‘Well? I’m looking.’
‘You can’t sulk. Lovers gaze into one another’s eyes,’ he said huskily.
She winced. ‘We’re married,’ she retorted, trying to hide her anguish.
Dante reached across the table and caught her hand in his. While she rejoiced in the warmth of his grip, she had to steel herself against the urge to leap up and run away from the cruel charade they were playing.
‘It was part of our agreement that you would keep up appearances,’ he reminded her with soft menace. ‘You agreed to this. And confirmed it only moments ago.’ His voice grew husky. ‘You will look at me as if you love me. As if I am the only man in the world for you.’
His fingers began to stroke her palm and she could bear it no longer.
‘Please, Dante! I want to leave!’ she whispered in desperation.
A moment’s pause. Then, ‘Yes. Why not?’
And to her surprise, he flung some notes on the table and drew her to her feet, calling back something to the waiter, who had come running to see what was the matter.
Dante held her hard against him as they walked away. They turned into a narrow side-street and suddenly the noise and bustle became a distant murmur. She was lost in her own misery and had never felt more alone. Pretending they were happily married was harder than she’d ever imagined. And they had months and years of it to come! She ground her teeth.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t refuse my request,’ she muttered tetchily.
Dante’s breath sounded harsh. ‘It wouldn’t surprise anyone to imagine that we’re hurrying off to spend the rest of the day in bed.’
Miranda stiffened and froze. ‘What?’ she choked in horror. ‘You told a waiter—?’
‘No!’ he said impatiently. ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing anything so crass. But he is a man and knows of the whirlwind of passion that can strike at any time and he will put two and two together—’
‘And it matters what a waiter thinks?’ she snapped, stalking on again.
She felt suffocated. Her life wasn’t her own. It was composed of lies and deception.
‘Yes. Because he’ll gossip,’ Dante answered tersely. ‘My arrival in the town has been noted with interest. Yours has been eagerly awaited. Haven’t you noticed everyone staring?’
She was used to that. People always stared when she walked about with Dante—though he’d always asserted they’d been looking at her.
‘I suppose you’re delighted with your morning’s work,’ she grouched, barely able to hold back her temper. ‘The whole of Bellagio will soon know how perfect our marriage is! It’s hateful, having to pretend! I feel I’m deceiving everyone. Your mother, your friends…’
She clenched her teeth to stop a sob from escaping. Oh, Carlo, she thought, if only you knew what I have to do to be with you!
Dante turned her to face him, his eyes glittering with a frightening intensity.
‘What makes you think you have the monopoly on feelings?’ he said tautly. ‘Why do you imagine you’re the only one who is finding this an utter nightmare? That I don’t loathe the deception too? This situation is a million miles from what I really want. But it’s all I’m going to get so I have to put up with it.’
Her mouth clammed shut. His misery affected her strangely. She wanted to make him happy, to see him content. But that would never be, not while they were trapped in this farcical marriage.
‘Oh, hell!’ he groaned. ‘That’s all I need, right at this minute!’
He was glowering darkly at a villa decorated with blue and white streamers and matching rosettes. Bows had been tied in blue and white ribbons on every railing spike of the surrounding fence and banners had been strung across the lane.
She frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘This is where the groom lives,’ he muttered, storming ahead. Only to be confronted with another villa similarly decorated, this time in pink and white. Dante stopped and glared at the offending gaiety. ‘I could do without having weddings thrust down my throat!’ he growled.
In a flash of intuition she jerked out, ‘You wish you had true love, too.’
He winced at the joyful ribbons fluttering in the breeze and looked away.
‘Don’t we all?’
It was her turn to wince. As they walked back to the palazzo in total silence, she felt sadness creep through her, filling every part of her yearning body. He felt trapped. He was young and virile and facing the daunting prospect of marriage to a woman he didn’t love—for the foreseeable future.
She shrank at the thought. Maybe they had both made a mistake in thinking that they must stay together for Carlo’s sake. For Dante, a civilised divorce and shared custody might be a better solution.
Though she would need assurances about her future role if she was ever to agree to such a drastic step. And she didn’t know how she would cope when he remarried—as he surely would.
Miranda stomped along miserably, trying to sort out the mess they’d made of their lives. She knew one thing. Whatever they decided, she must clear the air. She couldn’t let him think she was a bad mother and an unfaithful wife. He had to know that she hadn’t treated her marriage vows lightly, even if he had.
And that, she mused optimistically, might change his attitude towards her. She brightened up a little.
‘I think we need some time apart now. This has been tougher than I imagined,’ Dante muttered as he unlocked a small gate into the garden and deactivated the alarm. He glared at her. ‘When we collect Carlo later, I expect you to make an effort to be friendly towards me.’
‘Oh, I will,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll give it my all. And tonight,’ she added with steely determination, ‘we will talk this situation through. There’s some things we must get straight. And we need some ground rules.’
‘We’ll need more than rules to keep us in check,’ he growled, and before she could ask him to explain the cryptic statement he strode away rapidly through an archway of lemon trees.
She filled the time wandering in the garden, trying to come to terms with Dante’s feelings about her. Tonight she would make him reveal who’d told him all those lies about her. And they’d confront this person together, she vowed grimly, demanding evidence.
And somehow they’d discover what had happened that night she was taken ill. Maybe a friend had come round before the flu had hit her—though she didn’t know anyone who’d be able to knock back so much champagne.
Her eyes darkened as she gazed out over the untroubled lake. The overwhelming temptation was to retreat into her shell and pretend that nothing hurt her. But now she realised that hiding her feelings had led Dante to believe she didn’t love him. Or Carlo.
She had to go for broke. Dante needed to know how deep her feelings were, even if that meant risking his contempt and rejection.
It was an unnerving prospect. Nothing she had done so far—concealing her misery at her father’s death, shouldering her sister’s upbringing and suppressing her longing for fun and freedom—had been as hard as this.
But she loved Carlo and she loved Dante with all her heart. Misguided though it might be, she harboured a fancy in the back of her mind that if she persevered they could be a real family again. It was worth the try, worth the risk of being hurt.
Nervous but resolved, she checked her watch and saw to her surprise that it was time to collect Carlo.
At first, she and Dante were a little strained and false when they met him at the nursery. Their chatter was ridiculously bright and bordering on the inane. But soon she was caught up in her love for her child and the fun of seeing the world through his eyes.
‘Dat’s Mummy,’ he said proudly, presenting her with a painting consisting entirely of muddied splodges. ‘Mummy on de floor.’
‘It’s lovely!’ she enthused, spotting a small smear of blue—presumably her—in the middle of the brown swirls. ‘What am I doing on the floor?’
‘Larfing,’ Carlo said with a giggle and she swept him into her arms. ‘Mummy larfs lots,’ he told his father. ‘Mummy loves me lots. I love Mummy.’
And she was subjected to an affectionate stranglehold. The ice had been broken and Carlo had confirmed the fact that she adored him.
From that moment on, gradually Dante and she grew more natural and spontaneous in their reactions and the atmosphere between them eased.
And their togetherness had a sweet poignancy that was not lost on her. Dante—at the moment—was playing at happy families. She was doing it for real.
By the evening, her emotions were in a tangle. She had loved every minute of her time with Dante and her beloved son. And wished it could be like this all the time because in this make-believe world there were no nightmares, no accusations of infidelity and no lack of love.
Instead, there was fun, laughter and affection. And lovely silly games, she thought in amusement as Dante plotted to ‘chase Mummy’ with Carlo, and began to stalk towards her menacingly.
‘No, help! Help!’ she squealed.
She had let her hair down, literally, and her white-blonde mane streamed out behind her as she dashed barefooted through the hall with Dante and a delighted Carlo in hot pursuit.
Pretending to trip over her flowing silk skirt, she allowed herself to be caught and they all collapsed in a laughing heap on the soft Persian rug.
Carlo flung his arms around her neck in his trademark stranglehold. ‘I ’ove you, Mummy.’
‘I love you too, sweetheart,’ she said tenderly, giving him a kiss.
‘Mummy’s pretty,’ he said proudly, pulling experimentally at her soft coral top and accidentally revealing the lace of her strapless bra. He looked to his father for confirmation.
‘Yes,’ he agreed in a low tone, though she didn’t dare look at him. His voice was seductive enough. ‘Very pretty.’
‘Kiss Daddy!’ Carlo demanded.
She hesitated, her eyes flicking to Dante’s where he lay winded beside her. This was a bridge too far. Hastily she busied herself with sliding her narrow shoulder straps into place and wriggling the top back down to cover the soft skin of her exposed midriff.
‘Kiss Daddy!’ Carlo repeated, his face puckering anxiously.
She managed to smile in reassurance. Dante was beautifully smooth-shaven, she thought, her heart jerking with love. And devastatingly handsome, particularly now that his bow-tie had come undone in the mêlée and his top button was undone. That, the glimpse of tanned throat and his dishevelled hair just made him more irresistible.
Leaning forward, she kissed him briefly on the cheek and quickly withdrew, too wary of betraying her longing for more. Old habits died hard, she thought, wishing she’d hugged Dante as she’d wanted.
‘No!’ Carlo crossly turned her head back. ‘Like Paolo’s mummy and daddy do!’
‘Silly Mummy,’ Dante murmured and kissed Miranda full on the lips.
She imagined that his mouth lingered a little on hers but then it was gone, leaving her feeling very shaky. She rose with a rustle of silk and hauled Carlo into her arms.
‘I think,’ she declared breathily, in case her son came up with any more intimate gestures that Paolo’s parents might have indulged in, ‘it’s time for your bath and bedtime story.’
‘No—!’
‘Yes!’ they chorused, and exchanged the conspiratorial smiles of parents the world over.
The instinctive communication between them made her feel good. It seemed that Dante’s hostility had melted away after an afternoon and evening of sheer fun.
A child, she thought, can reach parts that nothing else can. And her hopes lifted several notches.
‘I can get to the top of the stairs before you do,’ announced Dante slyly.
‘Can’t!’ yelled Carlo, and set off at a great pace, his face sweetly earnest in his determination, his little legs comically twinkling over the marble floor as they pretended to hurry after him.
It was as if a band of iron was squeezing her heart as she watched him and Dante together. The two males in her life. The two people she loved above everyone else. And she wanted their love more than anything else in the entire world.
She had to really work hard to overcome her reticence if she was to win Dante’s heart. Biting her lip, she started up after them. So many obstacles, she thought soberly, lifting her skirts and taking two stairs at a time. A mountain to climb.
‘I won! I won!’
Carlo’s ecstatic face swam into her vision. A huge kiss was deposited clumsily on her knee and then a small, trusting hand slid into hers.
‘You were very quick,’ she praised, her voice shaky with the depths that her love could reach.
‘Boats,’ he declared simply, drawing her into the bathroom, where Dante, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, was checking the temperature of the water gushing from the tap.
‘Yes, we’ll get the boats in a minute,’ she answered.
She knelt, like Dante, and made to help her son undress but was firmly pushed away.
‘I do it. I do it!’ he insisted.