In the Italian's Sights

There were several minor panics, but no one seemed as agitated as she was—although everyone else was merely concerned with the wedding, Cherry thought soberly. She was coping with the reality of never seeing Vittorio again. He’d be out there in the world—laughing, eating, sleeping, enjoying life—and she wouldn’t know. It was too unbearable to dwell on, and she managed to put it to the back of her mind during the day. The nights were a different matter. Then the gremlins came in earnest.

Sophia’s morning sickness had gradually diminished to the point where it was no longer a problem, although pregnancy tiredness was still an issue. Vittorio’s sister normally disappeared off to bed immediately dinner was over—something Cherry found a mixed blessing in the circumstances.

On the eve of the wedding, after a traditional luncheon at Santo’s home, where both families had got together for a kind of informal rehearsal and to discuss any last little hiccups, and then an afternoon spent supervising the decoration of the marquee, the construction of the carousel and the stage for the folk dance troupe and band in the grounds of the villa, Sophia requested a dinner tray in her room—leaving Cherry and Vittorio to eat alone.

Cherry couldn’t describe how she felt even to herself. A secret part of her had hoped Vittorio would ask her to stay a while longer, and although her answer would have to have been no, she’d wanted him to ask anyway.

She hadn’t slept well for days—waking very early before it was light and prowling about her room like a caged tigress, full of a restless, nervous energy that made it impossible to rest.

Vittorio had taken her to a festival the week before, where Italy’s national folk dance, the Tarantella, had been performed, and as she had watched the couples dancing in whirling circles, accompanied by quick-beat music on a mandolin, the frenetic pace had touched something deep inside. She knew the story of the dance—that in the fifteenth century local peasant women in the town of Taranto had supposedly been bitten by tarantula spiders and infected with tarantism, believed to be a poisonous venom that could only leave the body by profuse sweating.

She might not have been bitten by a spider, she’d thought wretchedly, as the dance had reached hysteria level, but the infection she was suffering from was even more deadly, and if she could have rid herself of it by dancing until she dropped, she would. If nothing else she might have been able to sleep at night if she was exhausted to the point of collapse.

When she walked into the dining room Vittorio was waiting for her, an opened bottle of wine in front of him. Her breath caught at the sight of him. It always did. He didn’t even have to touch her for her insides to tighten and begin to tremble.

Forcing a smile, she sat down in the chair he’d pulled out for her and accepted the glass of wine he placed in her hand. ‘To tomorrow,’ she said, pleased at how light her voice sounded, considering she was dying inside. ‘Sophia and Santo.’

‘Sophia and Santo.’ He touched her glass with his. ‘And you too. Your help has been invaluable.’

He was wearing a dark grey shirt, unbuttoned at the throat so a couple of inches of hairy chest showed, and black trousers—a vision of tempting male beauty—and his virile sex appeal had never been so potent. Controlling a rush of emotion that had her wanting to throw herself into his arms and kiss him to heaven and back, Cherry took a big gulp of wine. It helped her to say, fairly evenly, ‘Not at all. I’ve enjoyed myself. It isn’t often a girl gets to be so involved in a wedding that isn’t her own, and thanks to you I’ve seen more of Puglia than I ever would have done by myself.’

‘To be honest, so have I. I think when one is born in a place it is easy to grow blasé, but seeing it all through your eyes has been enchanting. You are enchanting,’ he finished huskily.

But not enchanting enough. For an awful moment she thought she had said the words out loud, but when his face didn’t change she pulled herself together. This is the last fence, the last furlong—call it what you will, she told herself grimly. She’d get through it with style. It was second nature for Italian males to flirt and give flowery compliments to any woman from sixteen to ninety. She could handle this. She’d been handling it for weeks, hadn’t she?

Maybe, but her departure from the Carella estate and from Vittorio hadn’t been imminent, an unhelpful little voice reminded her. They had talked often in the last few weeks. Several times she had shared more than she’d intended, and certainly more than she had been comfortable with about her life thus far, and Vittorio had seemed to open up too, sharing the difficulties and pitfalls involved in not only having to take over a business and financial empire when his parents had died so unexpectedly, but bringing up a baby sister.

She had lived in an emotional maelstrom—one day thinking they were getting on really well and that maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to think of her as different from the other women he had known, and then other days plunged into turmoil when he remained distant and almost cold, particularly when they were alone, like now. But tonight he wasn’t cold. She swallowed hard. Tonight desire was plain to read on the hard, handsome face.

If only she wasn’t feeling sexual arousal such as she’d never felt before she’d be in a better position to keep a cool head. This sort of sexual desire was something she had read about but never envisaged feeling herself. In fact she had doubted if it really existed. Fool, she labelled herself silently. It existed, all right.

‘Cherry? Is anything wrong?’ His voice was soft, warm, and she became aware his eyes were stroking her face.

She shivered, she couldn’t help it, but passed off the reaction by saying quickly, ‘Someone walked over my grave.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ He clearly hadn’t heard what she supposed was a very English expression and looked quite alarmed.

In explaining to him a kind of normality was restored, but she was wishing now she had mentioned her intention to leave the day after tomorrow before. It was only courtesy, when all was said and done, and more than that it stated that she knew how things were, that she expected nothing from him. Ever since Caterina had spat her poison she had wondered, just now and again, if Vittorio thought she was out to get herself a rich Italian husband. In the early days he had been so cynical about the women who were paraded before him with hopeful mothers in the background. Oh, she didn’t know what made him tick, she admitted helplessly. She didn’t know what he was thinking, feeling. The man was an enigma.

Their last dinner together wasn’t as she’d imagined it would be. It was her fault, she acknowledged miserably. By the time Gilda brought in the dessert the tense atmosphere was so strong the air practically vibrated. From being relaxed and sexy, Vittorio had changed to warily cool—but then her monosyllabic responses and taut body language sent a message no man could ignore.

He waited until Gilda had served the coffee and left them before he spoke. ‘OK, Cherry,’ he said quietly. ‘Now I know something is wrong. What is the matter?’

‘Nothing. Not really.’ She summoned every ounce of courage she possessed. ‘I just thought you ought to know I’m leaving the morning after the wedding. I’ve arranged for a hire car to be delivered at eleven o’clock. I thought the night before might be a late one for everyone.’

His eyes never left her, but they changed from smoky grey to almost black. ‘Why?’ he asked, in an ultra-reasonable tone that boded trouble.

Reminding herself that he had proved over the last few weeks that he could take or leave her—and he’d decided to leave her—she said quietly, ‘The reason I’m saying at Casa Carella won’t exist any more. Sophia will be a married woman. It’s time I continued with my holiday.’

‘Your holiday?’ The words were a mini-explosion, and he must have realised this, because his tone was very controlled when he next spoke. ‘I did not realise that you were so anxious to leave.’

That was so unfair. Righteous indignation steeled her voice. ‘It’s not a question of that.’

‘No? Then what is it a question of?’

‘I arrived on your doorstep by accident and you were kind enough to help me. I’m aware of that.’

‘Stop making yourself sound like a stray cat,’ he said, with unforgivable scorn.