Mistress Material. Sharon Kendrick

she answered politely, and then her gratitude came out in a rush. ‘I wanted to thank you, Pasquale—for...’ it sounded a bit over the top to say it, but say it she must ‘... saving my life,’ she gulped.

      He shook his head and smiled gently. ‘Let’s forget it.’

      But she would never forget it, she knew that, and the burgeoning, almost schoolgirlish attraction she had felt towards Pasquale suddenly flowered and blossomed into mature life.

      I’m in love with him, she thought, with a calm certainty.

      ‘Sit down,’ he offered, and she drew up one of the tall stools he’d indicated and sat, leaning her elbows on the counter as she struggled to say something which didn’t involve the fact that he’d seen her half-naked just minutes ago. Sitting there, with her still damp hair and her face completely bare of make-up, she suddenly felt very young and very boring.

      ‘You look very efficient in the kitchen!’ she remarked brightly. ‘I’m surprised!’

      He raised his dark eyebrows fractionally, but didn’t comment on the sexism inherent in her remark; instead he began to pour the fragrant brew into a large porcelain cup. ‘The Italian male is renowned for many things, but not, I think, for his prowess in the kitchen,’ he said as he pushed the cup towards her.

      She knew that. She knew, too, exactly what they were renowned for... For being wonderful... lovers... She gulped, and took a deep breath. ‘So you decided to break with tradition?’ she joked.

      A sudden bleakness dulled the magnificent eyes as he added sugar to his own cup. ‘Unhappily, yes. One cannot have servants on hand every minute of the day, and when my mother died...’ He hesitated. ‘Well, Papà was in a state of shock for such a long time, and Francesca was too young...’

      Suzanna could have kicked herself for her blundering insensitivity. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she groaned softly. ‘I didn’t mean to put my foot in it.’

      He gave a small smile. ‘Time gives a certain immunity against pain, Suzanna.’ And his accent deepened. ‘Didn’t your own father die very suddenly?’

      Suzanna went very quiet. ‘Francesca told you?’

      ‘Yes.’ He paused, and the dark eyes were very direct. ‘It was a car crash, I believe?’

      If it had been anyone else but him, she suspected that she would have found the question a gross intrusion, but Pasquale asking it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. ‘Yes,’ she said, and swallowed.

      ‘You were thinking of him by the pool—when you began to cry?’

      His perception quite took her breath away. ‘How on earth could you know that?’

      ‘I know quite well the difference between shock and grief. And bottling it up won’t help, you know.’ He gave her a gentle smile. ‘Now drink your coffee and I will take you out for lunch. Will that cheer you up?’

      ‘Lunch?’ She felt like Cinderella. ‘Are you sure?’

      His mouth moved in an enigmatic smile. ‘Quite sure,’ he said drily. ‘You see, another characteristic of Italian men is their enjoyment of being seen with an exceptionally beautiful young lady.’

      She knew that he had deliberately emphasised the young bit, but she didn’t care. Pasquale was taking her for lunch and that was all that mattered.

      

      In the event, that lunch ruined her for every future meal of her life. He took her to a lovely restaurant, and he was charm personified. The food was delicious and the half-glass of wine he allowed her incomparable. He seemed so at home in the discreetly elegant surroundings, and she tried to emulate his cool confidence. The down side was that at least three women came over to greet him—women with stacks more experience and poise than Suzanna—and she found herself wishing that they might totter and trip on the ridiculously high heels they all seemed to be wearing!

      It was past three when they drove back, and she felt warm and contented and wondered what he would suggest doing that afternoon. But he did not get out of the car.

      ‘I will leave you to amuse yourself,’ he told her, and he gave her a stern look. ‘But pleaseno more swimming—not today!’

      She found it hard to hide the disappointment. ‘But where are you going?’

      ‘To work. Be so kind as to tell Papa and Francesca that I shall be late—and that I shall not be in for supper.’

      Suzanna felt as flat as a pancake as she walked slowly back into the flower-covered villa. She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to write a letter, but it was difficult, because outside a wind was insidiously whipping up, while in the distance she heard the ominous rumble of thunder.

      She began to long for the return of the others, but no one came back. No Francesca or Signor Caliandro. The villa suddenly seemed awfully big and awfully empty with just her and the cook, who was busy in the kitchen.

      Francesca rang at six to say that she would be staying at her godmother’s. ‘The storm is very bad here,’ she explained. ‘And it’s moving down towards your part of the city. Will you be all right? Is Pasquale or Papà back yet?’

      Suzanna didn’t want to worry her friend, so she didn’t bother telling her that Pasquale was not in for supper and that there was no sign of her father.

      She decided to keep herself busy, and there were enough adult toys in that house to amuse anyone—rows doute of film classics in the room where the video and large viewing screen were kept and a whole library of books, with an English section which would have kept an avid reader going for years.

      So Suzanna passed the rest of the day amusing herself as best she could. She gave herself a manicure and a pedicure. She borrowed Francesca’s tongs and made her curls hang in brightly coloured corkscrews.

      The cook was clearly worried about the weather, and so Suzanna told her to go home early.

      But later, as she perched upon the stool in the kitchen, eating the chicken and salad which had been prepared for supper, Suzanna could hear the distant rumbling of the storm growing in intensity.

      At the best of times she wasn’t fond of storms, but when she was marooned and isolated in a large villa in a strange country—well...

      She went around securing the windows as the wind began to howl like a hungry animal outside, and the rain spattered and thundered in huge, unforgiving drops against the glass.

      She was sitting up in bed reading a book, when the room was plunged into darkness and she screamed aloud at the unexpected blackness which enveloped her like a suffocating blanket.

      She tried to reason with herself that it was just a power-cut, not unusual in a storm of this ferocity, but it was no good—she began to scream anew as a branch hurled itself against the window-pane, like an intruder banging to come inside.

      She didn’t know how long she lay there, cowering with fear, but suddenly she felt the cover being whipped back and there stood Pasquale, his clothes spattered with rain, his dark, luxuriant hair plastered to his beautifully shaped head.

      He took hold of her shoulders and levered her up towards him to stare down intently into her face.

      ‘You’re OK?’ he asked succinctly for the second time that day, and she nodded tremulously.

      ‘Sure?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Where are the others?’

      ‘Francesca says the storm’s too bad to travel back. I don’t know about your father.’

      ‘They’ve closed the airport,’ he said briefly, and then his eyes softened. ‘Were you very frightened here, on your own?’

      Bravado made her lie. ‘Not—really,’ she said in a small voice, but as she stared up at him all in her world suddenly felt very, very safe.

      ‘Wait