They walked downstairs together, and once in the hall Sophia led the way into the drawing room where Vittorio was sitting with a drink. Sophia’s revelation had driven the events of the afternoon out of Cherry’s mind, but now all she could see was Vittorio as he’d been by the pool—practically naked and hugely aroused. Two spots of blazing colour stained her cheekbones as she met the cool grey eyes.
‘Every man’s dream,’ he murmured lazily, ‘to dine with two beautiful women. Come and have a drink.’
Somehow Cherry’s legs carried her across the room to sit beside Sophia on one of the sofas. Vittorio was wearing beautifully cut black trousers and a snow-white shirt open at the throat, and he looked sensational. He was the kind of man it was difficult to imagine had once been a small boy, but no doubt he’d had every little girl for miles around madly in love with him. When they’d been handing out sex appeal Vittorio must have stood in line twice. And then some.
‘Another cocktail, Cherry?’ he asked silkily. ‘I think you spilt most of the one by the pool. Or perhaps you would prefer wine or a sherry?’
So he had noticed her ignominious flight earlier. And of course he had to let her know. Cherry’s chin came up, and in spite of her pink cheeks her voice was as thin as steel as she said, ‘I don’t care for cocktails. Wine would be fine.’ She nodded to the open bottle on the coffee table in front of him. ‘Whatever you’re having.’
He bent forward and poured a good measure of the deep red wine into one of the two waiting glasses, handing it to her before filling the other glass with an equal measure of wine and lemonade which he passed to Sophia. His sister grimaced. ‘For goodness’ sake, I am nearly seventeen, Vittorio. When are you going to start treating me as an adult rather than a child?’
Ignoring Sophia, he smiled at Cherry. ‘You have everything you need in your room?’
She had just taken a sip of the wine and almost choked as the grey gaze fastened on her, swallowing hard before she said, ‘Yes, thank you,’ with studied politeness.
He nodded, settling back in his chair and stretching his long legs in front of him. She had caught a whiff of clean, sharp aftershave as he’d handed her the wine, and now his maleness seemed to cross the space between them and surround her, making it difficult to breathe.
She was unutterably glad when Margherita appeared in the doorway in the next moment, the housekeeper’s face impassive when she said, ‘Dinner is ready, Signor Carella.’
‘Thank you, Margherita. We’ll bring our drinks through.’
The dining room was as gorgeous as the rest of the house; an enormous table in exquisite multi-coloured Indian wood was a thing of beauty all by itself, and complemented by the colour scheme of pale buttery yellow and warm ochre which gave an air of tranquillity to the surroundings. The lighting was subdued, the soft muslin drapes at the open windows were moving gently in the warm evening breeze, and the bowl of freshly cut roses in the centre of the table perfumed the air with their sweetness. In any other circumstances it would have been a magical place to sit and chat and savour food and wine. As it was, Cherry’s nerves were stretched as tight as piano wire.
Rosa and Gilda appeared with the first course—antipasto, which consisted of a small plate of olives, cold meats and anchovies—standing behind Vittorio, who was seated at the head of the table while he gave thanks for the meal, and then serving the food quickly and efficiently.
Sophia tucked in with gusto. Apparently the events which were going to unfold in a few short hours hadn’t affected her appetite, Cherry thought wryly. She glanced at Vittorio, who was still blissfully unaware of the bomb about to be dropped in his orderly, controlled world, and found his eyes were waiting for her. Her stomach fluttered nervously.
‘Eat,’ he said softly, ‘or Margherita will think you do not appreciate her food, which would be taken as a great insult.’
Before Sophia had come into her room she had been feeling quite hungry. Now it was an effort to pick up her cutlery. Nevertheless, once she began eating she found the food delicious, the sharp contrasts in taste awakening her tastebuds.
The next course was soup with little shapes of pasta in it which Vittorio informed her were orecchiette. ‘Little ears, in English,’ he said with a smile. ‘Puglia is a rich agricultural landscape, as I am sure you have noticed, and as such the local produce provides a cuisine which is among the best in Italy. The abundant wheatfields and the closeness of the coast mean we feast well; food is very important to us. Is this not right, Sophia?’ he added, including his sister in the conversation.
Sophia nodded. ‘Try some of Margherita’s bread, Cherry,’ she offered, passing the basket to her. ‘She makes it with black olives, onions and tomato, and our own olive oil.’
The bread was mouth-wateringly good. The best she’d tasted.
At this point in the meal Cherry made up her mind to forget about what was to come and enjoy her dinner. Margherita was clearly a fantastic cook, the wine was like nectar from the gods, and Vittorio had apparently decided to put the incident by the pool behind him and metamorphosed into the perfect host, amusing and attentive, with a dry wit that had her spluttering into her glass more than once.
The condemned man—or in this case woman—ate a hearty meal, Cherry told herself, as she gazed with delight at the main course of carpaccio—paper-thin slices of fillet steak garnished with fresh egg mayonnaise and finely slivered Parmesan. It tasted as good as it looked. She thought she had eaten well since she had arrived in Italy, but nothing measured up to Margherita’s cooking. Scary she might be, but hey, so what?
‘You eat like an Italian.’ Vittorio’s voice was soft and his voice had a rich smoky tinge to it as he held her eyes, which made her shiver inside.
To combat her reaction to him, she made her voice light when she said, ‘I take it that is a good thing?’
‘Of course. Italians know how to enjoy the good things in life, si? Life is a gift and not to be wasted. Not even for a moment. There are many pleasures to keep the heart glad, and some are even free.’
His eyes danced, and Cherry just knew he was thinking of their kiss, but this time she refused to blush. Doggedly, she said, ‘Food has to be paid for, surely?’
‘Si, this is true. But a lovely sunset, the feel of cold water on hot skin, walking on a deserted beach at the start of a new day, looking at a beautiful woman—these things are free, are they not? And there are many more.’
‘Try telling that to the millions of people who live out their lives in concrete jungles called cities with maybe a couple of weeks’ holiday somewhere hot.’
She hadn’t intended to be confrontational, but somehow it had come out that way. Now it had, though, she didn’t intend to apologise, and she looked at Vittorio defiantly.
Vittorio looked back from under his long thick eyelashes. She couldn’t read a thing in his inscrutable expression, and had no idea if she’d offended him or not, but forced herself to look back calmly.
‘Rome is a city, but I would not call it a concrete jungle,’ he said gently. ‘Nor Paris, not even London. There are many fine buildings in your capital—squares, parks, places of interest and beauty. Of course there will always be ghettos in every country. It is unfortunate, but while man’s greed triumphs over poverty this will be so. Many governments are infected with the virus of dishonesty, and power corrupts, but still the human spirit can find release if it chooses to.’