by Helen Brooks
'I…I don't mind—anything,' she stammered awkwardly.
'Perhaps a pasta dish first?' Romano said helpfully. 'Or rice? They do an excellent risotto here. And we could follow that with the fish dish this restaurant is renowned for. The fish is coated in cream and wine and then baked under a coating of breadcrumbs and served with vegetables or salad.'
'Fine, fine.' She nodded feverishly. 'That sounds lovely.'
It was lovely. The restaurant was lovely. The wine was more than lovely. And, in her effort to combat the big black cloud that had settled on top of her head and was pressing her into a state of nightmarish panic, she consumed three enormous glasses of it to help her force down the delicious food that stuck in her throat like dry bread. And then she accepted a large brandy with her coffee.
She hadn't got the faintest idea what they had talked about during the meal but she must have made sense, to Romano at least, as he was his normal cool, urbane self, self-assured and coldly in control of himself and those about him. Whereas she… She was mental, crazy, possessed of a death-wish, she told herself bitterly.
Romano. Romano of all people! And he said he didn't believe in love any more? She could tell him a thing or two, because one thing was for sure; if she could have chosen to fall in love with someone he would have been the last person in the world she would have nominated. But love wasn't like that; it didn't allow one to choose in the same way as deciding on a comfortable pair of shoes or a new hat. No, it hit with all the force and destructive power of a ten-ton truck when one least expected it.
'Would you like to dance?' Several couples had taken the floor as they had eaten their meal, and now, as she finished her coffee and brandy, Romano glanced across at her, his dark gaze unreadable.
And be compared in his mind with the woman who still held his heart? she thought painfully. She just bet Bianca would have danced beautifully. That slim, supple body she had seen in the photographs couldn't have done anything else.
'No, thank you, I…I'm a hopeless dancer—two left feet,' she murmured quietly, her cheeks flaming.
'I doubt that.' To her horror he stood up, reaching out his hand for her across the table and drawing her to her feet. 'I doubt that very much.'
'Romano, I really don't want to.' But the trouble was, she did, and as they walked hand in hand to the edge of the dance floor and he turned and took her in his arms, drawing her close into his dark frame, she knew she was the nearest she'd ever be to heaven on earth.
He nuzzled his chin on the top of her head, the smell and feel of him encompassing her in a delight that was sensual and fierce and very, very painful, and after a few moments he drew back to look down into her face, his own warm and smiling. 'I thought you said you couldn't dance?' he challenged softly.
'I can't.' The smile she returned was the best bit of acting she'd ever done. 'I'm just following you, that's all.' She didn't have to dance. She was floating, skimming the air…
'Was that a veiled compliment?' he asked in mocking surprise. 'Careful, you're slipping. I'm the big, bad wolf, remember, and you, you're Little Red Riding Hood,' he finished softly, touching her silky, shining hair with caressing fingers before pulling her into his chest again.
She couldn't stand this. If anyone had told her it was possible to want someone so badly that to be with them was a physical torture she wouldn't have believed it, but there was a hard, grinding ache in her heart region and a sensual warmth in every nerve and sinew that was tearing her apart. And Bianca had had him for five or six years. Had woken up beside him, laughed with him, shared the little intimacies of marriage that were so precious and private, made love with him in the warmth of long Italian nights…
'Claire…' She heard him breathe her name into the scented silk of her hair as he moulded her against him, and then she felt it, with a tiny shock of blinding pleasure—the arousal he couldn't hide.
He wanted her. She shut her eyes tight for a moment and resisted the impulse to raise her head and search for his hard, uncompromising mouth. He wanted her; his body wanted her. Whatever he still felt for Bianca, whatever his heart said, physically he wanted her very much indeed.
'You are beautiful, do you know that?' His voice was whisper-soft and had the effect of sending heat into every pulse-beat. 'So, so beautiful. Your skin is like cream…'
Cream? She thought of the silver threads on her stomach, faint now but there nevertheless, and felt herself stiffen.
'Do not be frightened.' He had sensed her withdrawal and misunderstood the reason for it, his voice husky now as he put her slightly from him. 'I know how you feel about me, and I am not about to force my attentions on you because this…chemistry that you spoke of has reared its head again.' His voice was rueful and she suddenly hated him for it. She wanted him to be devastated, torn apart like she was. 'Just relax, Claire,' he said thickly. 'We're two adult people—surely we can enjoy each other's company for a few hours with no strings attached?'
What did that mean? She wanted to ask him, but he had drawn her back against him, and being held against that hard, masculine frame drove all lucid thought from her head, bringing the senses of touch and taste and smell blindingly alive.
They were on the dance floor for over an hour and he kissed her more than once, bending his night-black head and teasing her lips until they opened under his, only releasing her mouth when he felt her full submission.
She had known deep inside that he was a sensual man, in spite of the cold facade he presented to the world; it was there in the coal-black eyes and firm sexy mouth, the hard, lean body. But the hour on the dance floor was a revelation on how to make love in a room full of people. His body was doing incredible things to hers, as hers was to him—-his arousal hot and fierce against the thin material between them—and when she allowed her thoughts to roam further, and imagine what it would be like if they were alone, it made her feel faint.
When the floor-show began they returned to their seats, and she knew she wouldn't have been able to walk but for the firm, hard hand at her elbow. And although she kept her eyes on the big, buxom female singer, with the voice of an angel and the figure of a traditional Italian mamma, she was aware of every tiny movement he made, every move of his hands and turn of his head.
They left the restaurant just after eleven, stepping into a cool, fragrant night that was lit with the ethereal allure of millions of tiny stars and the round glow of a full moon, and as they walked to the Ferrari she knew she was trembling and hoped desperately he couldn't feel it through his hand on her arm. She had never felt so vulnerable in her life—not only because of the physical attraction that was so raw and powerful, but also because he had embedded himself in the very quintessence of her mind.
And he didn't want her at all. Oh, his body might seek to slake the need their nearness had aroused, but that was as far as it went. He was a sensual, passionate man and he had been married for a good number of years. No doubt he had been used to making love regularly before he was married too, she added bitterly as Romano opened the passenger door and she slid inside the beautiful car.
But her as a person? A woman? A real flesh-and-blood human being with problems and desires and the whole hundred per cent that went with any sort of commitment? No, he had made it crystal-clear he wasn't into any of that, And probably, more than probably, if he saw her naked even the desire wouldn't be there. He had been used to perfection and that was hard to compete with—not that she ever could have before the accident, but since…
What, if she was being honest, could she offer a man like him? she asked herself as he walked round the Ferrari's bonnet to the driver's side. He had everything; he'd always had everything. Wealth, power, good looks, and no doubt his marriage had been a bed of roses that would always be measured, even if he was unaware of it, against any other relationship.
'That is an oh, so serious face,' he said easily as he slid into the car, and when she didn't answer he tilted her chin and looked deep into her eyes f
or a moment before kissing her lightly on the mouth. 'Let's get out of here, shall we?'
Was that it? she asked herself helplessly, not sure if she was relieved or furiously angry, although she suspected the latter. After that hour of seduction, and that was what it had been—she discounted the fact that she had been there every inch of the way—was he just going to drive her home and deliver her to Grace like a missing parcel?
He wasn't. When the car stopped a few moments later in a quiet, secluded pull-in surrounded by wispy trees and bushes, she stared at him as he cut the engine.
'I would like to kiss you, Claire, properly.' He turned to face her in the shadows, the quiet of the night making her feel they were the only two people alive in the world. 'I have wanted to kiss you properly all night.'
What on earth had he been doing in the restaurant if not kissing her properly? she thought bewilderedly. But then she found out.
He leant forward and caught her mouth fiercely, and instantly the need was there, raging, overpoweringly strong, taking control of her thoughts, her mind, in a devouring fire that was quite unstoppable. Her lips opened beneath his and he plundered her mouth, the kiss becoming deeper and deeper until the taste and scent of him spun and whirled in her head.
She twisted closer to him, and she knew her action surprised him, her love for him making her sensitive to every movement and reaction of his body, and then his hands began to move over her body in an agony of desire, his harsh, ragged breathing and hungry mouth firing her passion still more.
She couldn't believe what was happening to her. She had never thought of herself as particularly sensual—in fact she had been able to control herself, and Jeff, with a minimum of effort—but this, this was something quite different. She wanted to belong to him, to drown in him, to get as close as she possibly could.
The need he aroused was consuming, overwhelming, dangerous. And he had spelt out just how dangerous. He hadn't pretended he was in love with her, given her any sort of line, in fact he had been brutally honest from the first moment they had met. And she could feed herself excuses again—the romantic setting, the wine and so on—but when was she going to face the fact that she was a convenient commodity, like a packaged loaf of bread when one was hungry? The voice in her head was like a douche of cold water.
'Romano?' She pulled away violently, her vision blurred and her heart beating frantically. 'I need to…I need to ask you something,' she stammered painfully.
'No, not now.' His hands were powerful and strong, his voice thick and husky as he pulled her against him again.
'Yes, now.' She avoided his searching mouth and said, 'Can this ever mean anything to you? Beyond a brief…relationship, that is?' She had been going to say 'affair' but couldn't bring herself to voice the word, knowing she was on the verge of taking just that, devastating though it would be.
'Claire, what is this?'
'I need to know.' Despite the wild clamour of her heart, the desire to be closer and closer, she found the strength to ask even as she knew the inevitability of his answer.
And then he was still. Perfectly still. And she had her answer.
'I want to go back, Romano.' And she did, back to a time when she didn't know Romano Bellini existed, to a world where the worst thing she had had to deal with was Jeff's desertion, the horror of the accident and the nightmarish months that had followed. Suddenly that all seemed bearable compared with the pain that was consuming her now.
'Claire, I cannot promise you anything, you know this. I thought I had made it clear—'
'You did.' Her voice had been savage and she moderated it as she said again, 'Yes, you did. You did. I…this is not your fault, but please, please take me back. I want to go home.'
And the painful childishness of her last words brought his mouth into a thin white line as he turned, fired the ignition, and drove out onto the main road again without another word.
CHAPTER SIX
The next few weeks were the most difficult of Claire's life, but she got through them. She was a loving friend, companion and confidante to Grace, as well as a mixture of mother and nurse when the need arose; she was a cheerful sister and playmate for Lorenzo, a reassuring and solid support for Donato, and all the time she felt desperately, hopelessly, utterly miserable.
And she couldn't tell anyone. She rang her mother once a week to keep her informed of how things were, but it wasn't the same as a face-to-face chat, and there was no way she could burden her with the knowledge that her daughter was unhappy while she was hundreds of miles away in a foreign country, so she forced herself to sound bright and cheerful and positive.
Romano had been in the States on business for three weeks following their disastrous dinner date, and had used pressure of work as an excuse to cut his visits to Casa Pontina to the bare minimum on his return. It hurt, but not as much as seeing him did on the rare occasions when they met.
It was following one of these visits, in the middle of April, when Grace was eight and a half months pregnant and absolutely enormous, that Grace spoke to her as they sat together in the warmth of the tranquil evening air, Donato and Lorenzo being occupied in the house working out a program on Lorenzo's computer.
'Donato is worried about Romano,' Grace said quietly as she settled herself more comfortably on the cushioned sun-lounger, shutting her eyes as she leant back against its support. 'He feels there's something wrong.'
'Wrong?' Claire had glanced sharply at her friend, but Grace's face was quiet and relaxed, her eyes still shut, and now Claire relaxed a little as she said again, 'Wrong? What do you mean?'
'I don't know—Donato doesn't know—but Romano has been strange recently, not like himself at all. Oh, I know he isn't the easiest person to get on with, especially since—' Grace stopped abruptly and then continued, 'The last two or three years have been hard, but there's something niggling away at him—or so Donato thinks anyway.'
'Has he tried to talk to Romano about it?' Claire asked carefully.
'Yes, but Romano is very much a law unto himself. He always has been.' Grace sighed heavily and opened her eyes, reaching for the glass of lemonade at her elbow and taking a long swallow before she said, 'Perhaps it's just work? He's always worked hard—with his father dying when he did all the responsibility for their business interests went straight onto Romano's shoulders— but since…since the accident he's immersed himself in work. I suppose it's therapy, in a way.'
'Yes.' Claire's stomach was knotted up but she forced herself to say as naturally as she could, 'It can't be easy, losing someone you love in such circumstances.'
'Someone…? Oh, Bianca. Yes, of course.' Grace glanced at her as she replaced the empty glass on the small table at the side of their loungers. 'He didn't say anything to you, did he? When you went out for dinner that time?' she asked carefully.
'Say anything? About work, you mean?' Claire prevaricated, her heart beginning to thump. This would be quite the wrong time for Grace to find out about her feelings for Romano, and his lack of them for her, with the twins' birth imminent. It was important that she was worry-free and relaxed. 'I don't think so—why?'
'Donato seems to think he's been worse since about then.' Grace settled back against the cushions again, wincing as she tried to ease her aching back. 'Of course, the States thing didn't help. I understand he had to work hard to pull that contract around due to some mess-up in his office in Naples. Heads rolled, from what Donato said.'
'There you are, then. That's probably it.' Claire felt sorry for the heads that had rolled but relieved that an explanation- was to hand. 'It's probably just a passing phase, that's all.' And when she went back to England the phase would be well and truly passed, she thought bitterly. Romano was obviously irritated and annoyed that he couldn't visit his friends with the same ease as before. No doubt he held her personally to blame for his predicament. Perhaps she was to blame, at that.
As Grace settled down for a nap Claire's thoughts churned on. She should neve
r have let things get to such a stage as she had that night. She should have called a halt long before she did. He had spelt it out to her weeks before, his attitude to women, commitment and relationships, and she had no one to blame but herself. He had probably thought she was game for a flirtation to while away the weeks till she left Italy and returned home—a little amour, a light intrigue that they would both enjoy. Perhaps he'd had bed in mind, perhaps not, but he certainly hadn't expected to be asked the million-dollar question of where the romance could go.
She twisted miserably in her seat, her cheeks burning as she recalled his stony face on the drive home from the restaurant, and the way she had sat huddled in her seat like a small, crushed child. What a fiasco, what an utter, utter fiasco. He was used to dealing with sophisticated, capable career women—women who knew what they wanted and exactly how to get it, who were aware of the score and used it to their own advantage in their dealings with the opposite sex. What must he have thought of her?
She cringed inwardly as she stared blindly over the beautiful landscaped gardens in front of her, the lawns and flowerbeds quiet and scented in the late evening air.
No wonder Donato had sensed something unusual in his friend of late. It was probably a lethal mixture of disgust, scorn and sheer exasperation, and all directed at her.
She was deep in the midst of futile self-recrimination when Donato stepped through the open French doors and walked quietly over to where the two women were sitting. 'She is asleep?' he asked softly as he glanced down at his wife.
'Just a minute or so ago,' Claire answered, just as softly. Grace had been finding sleep difficult in the last few weeks, her bulk preventing her from getting comfortable, and the cat-naps she managed most nights left her tired and pale in the mornings. 'Is something wrong?' she added as she glanced up at his dark face.
'There is a problem. The police have just telephoned.' Donato's gaze didn't leave his wife's face as he spoke. 'It appears that there was a break-in at my offices and two security staff were hurt. The thief, or thieves, knew what they were looking for as they made straight for my office and my private safe.'
