The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco. Lucy Gordon

looked at him. ‘You mean—?’

      ‘We’d be on the road for about a week, if you can spare the time.’

      ‘But can you spare it? Your work at Pompeii—’

      ‘My team know what I expect of them. They can do without me for a few days, and I’ll keep in touch.’

      She was silent, torn by temptation. To be alone with him, cocooned from the real world, free to indulge the feelings that were taking her over: it was like looking at a vision of heaven.

      ‘I could call my secretary and tell her I’ll be a while coming home,’ she said slowly.

      ‘Drink your coffee and let’s get out of here,’ he said.

      On the drive to the hotel Della sat in happy contentment. She was crazy to be doing this with a man she’d known only a day, yet she had no doubts. Everything in her yearned towards him.

      She knew that by agreeing to go she’d answered an unspoken question. They wanted each other in every way. Their minds were happily in tune, but right now that was secondary to the physical attraction that was clamouring for release. She wouldn’t have agreed to this trip if she wasn’t prepared to make love with him. He knew it, and she knew that he did, and he knew that she knew. The knowledge lay between them, brilliant and enticing, colouring every word and thought.

      When they reached her hotel she half expected him to come upstairs with her and take her into his arms at once. She would not have protested. But she was charmed by the delicacy with which he bade her goodbye in the foyer, after first greeting several people who hailed him by name.

      ‘I know too many people here,’ he said. ‘It’s like being under a spotlight, and that’s—not what we want.’

      ‘No,’ she said.

      ‘Tonight I have to visit my mother and explain that I’ll be away a few days. I’ll see you early tomorrow.’

      He gave a nervous look at the receptionist, who was smiling at him, and departed without kissing Della.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CARLO was there next morning, before she had quite finished her breakfast, spreading the map before her, and explaining that Italy was divided into regions—’As England is divided into counties’.

      ‘I thought we’d head for the region of Calabria,’ he said. ‘It’s here, where the shape of the land becomes a boot. Calabria is the ankle and the toe, eternally poised to kick the island of Sicily. There are some little mountain villages full of history in Calabria that I think you’d like. After that—well, we’ll see.’

      ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘We’ll see.’

      They left half an hour later, heading back down the coast road they’d travelled the day before. But soon the familiar scenery was behind them. The further south they went the more conscious she became that Italy had been one country for barely a hundred and thirty years. Before that it had been a collection of independent kingdoms and provinces, and even now the extreme north and south seemed to be united only in name.

      Calabria was like another world—so different that it was sometimes known as the real Italy, Carlo told her. In contrast to the sophistication of the elegant northern regions, here there was wildness, even savagery in the countryside. The mountains were higher than anywhere else, their sides dotted with medieval towns.

      At last they were climbing, going so high up a mountain road that she hardly dared to look, and finishing in a small, ancient village, with cobblestones and one inn. As he brought the car to a halt Carlo gave her a questioning smile, which she returned, nodding.

      ‘What is this place called?’ she asked.

      ‘I didn’t notice. It’s so tiny it may not even have a name.’

      That made everything perfect—an unknown place, set apart from the rest of the world, where they would find each other.

      A cheerful man in shirtsleeves appeared as they entered. In answer to Carlo’s query, he confirmed that he had two vacant rooms, one large, one small.

      ‘The small for me, the large one for the lady,’ Carlo said.

      A perfect gentleman, she thought, charmed by his refusal to take her for granted, even after the understanding that had passed between them.

      Their doors were immediately opposite, on a tiny landing, so that she gained a brief glimpse of his bedroom with its single bed, so different from the huge double one in her own room.

      They were the only guests. Donato, the proprietor, said that his wife would cook whatever they liked, so they dined on macaroni and beans in tomato soup, pickled veal, sausage with raisins, and cuccidatta—cookies filled with figs, nuts and raisins—washed down with the full bodied wines of the area.

      They talked very little, because their table soon became the focus of attention. Every few minutes one of Donato’s two pretty daughters would appear, to ask if there was anything else they wanted. Before leaving they would give the handsome Carlo a lingering look.

      Della choked back her laughter while he buried his face in his hands.

      ‘I expect this happens everywhere you go,’ she said.

      ‘What do I say to that? If I agree I sound like a conceited jerk.’

      ‘And if you disagree it wouldn’t be true.’

      ‘Can we drop the subject?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

      ‘I’ve been watching the girls giving you the glad eye everywhere we go. Some of them are being hopeful, of course, but some look as if they’re trying to remind you of something.’

      He had the grace to blush, but said nothing for a while. When he finally spoke it was in a different voice.

      ‘That was another life,’ he said quietly. ‘Too many passing ships—but that was just it. They all passed on their way, leaving no trace here.’ He laid his hand over his heart.

      Then he refilled her glass, and didn’t look at her as he asked, ‘What about you?’

      ‘Two husbands, a child and a career,’ she reminded him. ‘I’ve had no time for distractions.’

      ‘I’m glad,’ he said quietly.

      There was no mistaking his meaning. She met his eyes and nodded.

      Soon after that they rose and went slowly upstairs. At his door he paused, half turning, waiting for her to make the next move. She put out her hand to him.

      ‘Come,’ she whispered.

      He came to her slowly, as if unable to believe what was happening. She took hold of him, drawing him into her room and closing the door behind him, not putting on the light. With the curtains drawn back at the tall windows the moonlight came softly in, holding them in its glow while they stood, entranced.

      His fingertips brushed her cheek softly, and it was the sweetest feeling she had ever known. She wanted him now with her whole body. Every inch of her was eager for him to hurry, to take her to the next moment of passion, and from there to the next.

      Yet, contrarily, she wanted to prolong the leisurely tension of this moment, enjoying it to the full before it dissolved into urgency. He seemed to want the same, because he laid his lips over hers with a gentleness that suggested he was in no hurry. She leaned against him and felt his fingers in her hair, while his mouth explored hers slowly.

      She relaxed into the kiss, letting it invade her subtly, then offering it back with all of herself. She began to explore his body, finding it just as it had been in her dreams: hard, strong, and all hers. He wanted her more than he could bear, and that knowledge was the sweetest aphrodisiac.

      Neither knew who first began to undress the other, but her fingers were working on his buttons just as he was doing the same for her. Every moment