Cesare half twisted his head to call back into the shaded bedroom from where he sat, long legs stretched out in tan chinos, lounging out on the sunlit balcony, his city shirt swapped for a knitted polo, feet in casual, handmade loafers.
Beyond, the darkly glinting waters of Lake Garda hid their glacial depths, reflecting the encircling mountains. He flicked open the tab on the beer he’d just taken out of the minibar in the hotel room. As he sipped its cool flavour his sense of ease deepened. The leisurely weekend ahead beckoned him, and the prospect not just of taking his ease, but of spending it with Carla, bestowed a sense of well-being on him.
The time he spent with Carla always did that to him.
I made a good choice in her. She’s worked out well—very, very well.
His eyelids drooped a moment as reminiscence played pleasurably in his head and anticipation of the night to come tonight did likewise. Carla might present a cool, composed front to the world, but when they were alone, when the lights went out... Oh, that was a different matter!
He felt his body quicken in memory. Like a struck match, when he reached for her she went up like a sheet of flame. Passion flared like phosphorous, incandescent and searing. Desire, unleashed, scorched between their bodies...
But it was not that alone—outstanding though it was—that had kept their affair going for so long. It had been six months now, and he showed no sign of tiring of her. But why should he tire of her, when passion still ran so strongly? And even when it was exhausted she was so very suitable for him—the ideal woman to have an affair with. She made no attempt to cling to him. Indeed, sometimes he found himself irked by her occasional unavailability, when she cited pressure of deadlines. But he respected her for it all the same. Made no demands on her when she was working.
His eyes shadowed for a moment. His father had shown no such respect for his mother—his mother’s role had been to be a docile contessa, arranging her life only around the requirements of her difficult husband. Even the weakness of her heart condition had not made his father tolerant of what he perceived as any dereliction in her primary duty to be the chatelaine of his estates.
It was not an attitude he would take when he himself married. Of course his contessa would need to be completely willing to play her role as his wife, just as he himself would shoulder the myriad responsibilities of his position, but that did not mean she could have no life of her own as well. In fact...
He snapped his mind away. It was inappropriate to dwell on the qualities his wife would have when he was here with a woman who could never have that title.
And who would not want to.
Nothing about Carla Charteris gave him any cause for disquiet in that respect. And for that he was entirely appreciative. So if, right now, he was having to wait for her to finish her article, then wait he would—as patiently as his temperament permitted.
Some ten minutes later, as he was nearing the end of his can of beer, it was rewarded.
‘Finished!’ came Carla’s voice from inside, with a sense of relief. ‘All submitted.’
She lifted the laptop off her knees, closing it down, glancing out towards the darkening balcony. She’d been slightly apprehensive in booking this hotel, in case it did not meet Cesare’s exacting standards, but its five-star rating was well deserved. Situated at the lake’s edge, its luxury was discreet rather than ostentatious, and a weekend here—following on from her trip to Venice to cover the opening of a new gallery, which had conveniently coincided with Cesare’s series of business appointments in Milan—should be extremely pleasant.
Pleasant? The mild word mocked her. The time she spent with Cesare was so much more than ‘pleasant’! It was—
Incredible—unbelievable—wonderful—unforgettable!
Her expression softened. Had it really been six months since that first night at his elegant little villa outside Rome? Since then they’d stayed there frequently, recapturing each and every time the scorching intimacy that had swept her away then as never before. Could she have experienced such passion with a man who was not Cesare? Impossible—just impossible! He dominated her consciousness each and every day, whether she was with him or not.
Yet she tried hard not to show it—instinctively knowing that any sign from her of being possessive would be fatal. It was that instinctive awareness that told her to be sure never to make any assumptions about him, never to ask him when they would next see each other. Never to rearrange her life for him.
I want to reassure him that he is safe with me. That I do not depend on him. That I have my own life, separate from my time with him.
It was an odd thought, and the reasons she was thinking it were skittering in the back of her mind, trying to land. But she would not let them. Instead, she would enjoy to the max the times they did have together—such as this weekend.
She padded on bare feet to the minibar, drawing out a miniature bottle of wine and a glass, then headed out to the balcony, sliding her hands over Cesare’s broad shoulders, squeezing lightly.
He turned his head, brushing the tops of her fingers with his mouth. The sensation sent familiar little tremors through her, but she only took a seat beside him on the other sundowner chair, gathering the loose cotton folds of the long printed sundress she’d changed into from her formal Venice outfit, and poured her wine.
‘Salute!’ he said lazily, and clinked his beer can against her glass.
She returned the toast and took a mouthful of chilled wine, turning to look out over the view. It really was spectacular, and she drank it in as Cesare was doing.
‘It’s good to see mountains again—though these are a bit too serrated for my tastes,’ he heard himself observing, letting his fingers intertwine with hers.
As he spoke, he found himself wondering why he’d made such a remark to Carla. As a rule, he never talked about his own home—even if it was only to contrast the high peaks of the jagged Dolomites with the lower, more rounded Apennines that were the ever-scenic background to the Castello di Mantegna. The castello wasn’t a place she would ever see, so there was no point mentioning it.
At the thought, a slight frown flickered across his eyes. He crumpled his beer can, tightening his fingers on Carla’s.
‘Shall we head down to the restaurant?’ he said.
He got to his feet, drawing her with him. His eyes went to her. She looked good—but then she always looked good. Always immaculately groomed, with her fantastic figure on show. Wearing what she did now—that loose dress—she looked different somehow. Still a knockout—always that—but more...medieval. Her hair was loose too, waving lushly down her back.