Hot Nights with...the Italian. Lucy Gordon

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