Hot Nights with...the Italian. Lucy Gordon

a moment she stood staring at herself in the mirror, studying the shape of her body under the thin fabric of her nightdress. Noticing the length of her legs and the way the shadows in the room starkly reduced the contours of her face, making her features stand out more prominently. Especially her nose …

      The stork, she thought painfully, was alive and well once more. And certainly not likely to be the object of anyone’s desire. Renzo’s least of all.

      She turned away, smothering a sigh, and made her slow, reluctant way back to the bed, lying there shivering in its vastness in spite of the warmth of the night.

      Still listening intently, she realised, for the sound of his return, no matter how many times she promised herself that it wasn’t going to happen. While at the same time, in her head, the events of the day kept unrolling before her in a seemingly endless loop of error and embarrassment.

      It was several hours before she finally dropped into a troubled sleep. And for the first time in years there was no bedside alarm clock to summon her into a new morning, so she woke late to find Daniella at her bedside with a tray of coffee, her dark eyes sparking with ill-concealed interest and excitement as she studied Signor Lorenzo’s new bride.

      Looking to see how I survived the night, Marisa realised, sitting up self-consciously, aware that her tossing and turning had rumpled the bed sufficiently to make it appear that she hadn’t slept alone.

      My God, she thought, as she accepted the coffee with a stilted word of thanks. If she only knew …

      And silently thanked heaven that she didn’t. That no one knew, apart from Renzo and herself, what a total shambles her first twenty-four hours of marriage had been.

      Daniella’s grasp of English was limited, but Marisa managed to convince her gently but firmly that she could draw her own bath and choose her own clothing for the day without assistance, uttering a silent sigh of relief when the girl reluctantly withdrew, after informing her that breakfast would be served on the rear terrace.

      Because she needed to be alone in order to think.

      She’d made a few decisions before she’d eventually allowed herself to sleep, and rather to her surprise they still seemed good in daylight.

      The first of them was that this time she must—must—apologise to Renzo without delay, and offer him some kind of explanation for her behaviour. She had no other choice.

      But that would not be easy, she thought, cautiously sipping the dark, fragrant brew. Because if she simply told him that she’d been too scared to let him kiss her he would almost certainly want to know why.

      And she could hardly admit that the angry words she’d hurled at him last night might in fact be only too true. That she’d feared she might indeed find the lure of his mouth on hers hard to resist.

      No, she thought forcefully. And no again. That was a confession she dared not make. A painful return to adolescent fantasy land, as unwelcome as it was unexpected. Threatening to make her prey to the kind of dreams and desires she’d thought she’d banished for ever, and which she could not risk again. Not after they’d crashed in ruins the first time.

      Oh, God, she thought, swallowing. I’m going to have to be so careful. I need to make him believe it was just a serious fit of bridal nerves.

      From which I’ve now recovered …

      Because that was important, she told herself, when considering the next huge obstacle she had to overcome. Which was, of course, the inevitable and unavoidable establishment of their marriage on as normal a footing as it was possible to achieve—given the circumstances.

      She replaced her empty cup on the bedside table and drew up her knees, wrapping her arms around them. Frowning as she wondered how she could possibly tell him that she was now prepared to fulfil her side of their arrangement. While making it quite clear, at the same time, that she intended to regard any physical contact between them as solely part of a business deal and certainly not the beginning of any kind of—relationship.

      He didn’t require her for that, anyway, she thought. According to Julia his needs in that respect were already well catered for by—what was her name? Ah, yes, Lucia, she recalled stonily. Lucia Gallo.

      And throwing aside the covers, she got out of bed and prepared to face the day.

      She hadn’t taken a great deal of interest in the purchase of her trousseau, except to veto her cousin’s more elaborate choice of evening dresses. But here she was, on the first morning of her marriage, with a tricky confrontation ahead of her, so choosing something to wear from the array that Daniella had unpacked and hung in one of the dressing room closets, suddenly seemed to acquire an additional importance.

      She finally decided on one of her simplest outfits, a square-necked, full-skirted dress in pale yellow cotton. She brushed her light brown hair into its usual style, curving softly on to her shoulders, and added a coating of mascara to her lashes, a coral-based colour to her lips.

      Then, slipping on low-heeled tan leather sandals, she left the bedroom and went in reluctant search of Lorenzo.

      She’d assumed he would be at the breakfast table, but when she walked out into the sunshine she saw that only a single place was set in the vine-shaded pergola.

      She turned to Massimo in faint surprise. ‘The signore has eaten already?’

      ‘Si, signora. Early. Very early. He say you are not to be disturbed.’ He paused, his face lugubrious. ‘And then he goes out in the car. Maybe to see a doctor—for his accident.’

      ‘Accident?’ Marisa repeated uneasily.

      Evangelina came surging out to join them, bearing a fresh pot of coffee and a plate of sweet rolls to add to the platter of ham and cheese already on the table.

      ‘Si, signora,’ she said. ‘Last night, in the dark, Signor Lorenzo he walk into door.’ Her reproachful glance suggested that the signore should have been safely in bed, engrossed with his new bride, rather than wandering around bumping into the fixtures and fittings.

      Marisa felt her colour rise. ‘Oh, that,’ she said, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Surely it isn’t that bad?’

      Pursed lips and shrugs invited her to think again, and her heart sank like a stone as it occurred to her that Renzo might not be feeling particularly receptive to any overtures this morning, and that her apology might have to be extremely humble indeed if it was to cut any ice with him.

      Which was not altogether what she’d planned.

      She hung around the terrace most of the morning, waiting with trepidation for his return. And waiting …

      Until Massimo came, clearly bewildered, to relay the signore’s telephone message that he would be lunching elsewhere.

      Marisa, managing to hide her relief, murmured ‘Che peccato,’ and set herself to the task of persuading Massimo that it was far too hot for the midday banquet Evangelina seemed to be planning and that, as she would be eating alone, clear soup and a vegetable risotto would be quite enough.

      She still wasn’t very hungry, but starving herself would do no good, so she did her best with the food, guessing that any lack of appetite would be ascribed to the fact that she was pining for Lorenzo.

      She was already aware that glances were being exchanged over her head in concern for this new wife left to her own devices so soon after her bridal night.

      If Renzo continued his absence they might start putting two and two together and making all kinds of numbers, she thought without pleasure.

      Her meal finished, she rested for a while in her room with the shutters drawn, but she soon accepted that she was far too jittery to relax, so she changed into a black bikini, topping it with a pretty black and white voile overshirt, and went back into the sunshine to find the swimming pool.

      As Renzo had indicated, it was quite a descent through tier upon tier of blossom-filled terraces.