Second Marriage

by Helen Brooks

  She was beginning to tremble in his arms, he could feel it as she was aware of the furious pounding of his heart, and as he slowly lowered her against him, so her feet were on the ground and she was held into the length of him, his hands began to touch her, stroke her, caress­ing the soft, smooth skin of her back under the light top.

  She shivered as his warm lips moved over her neck, her throat, her ears, unable to stop him, to say and do all the things she knew it would be sensible to do and say. This was love, then, she thought helplessly, this longing to be one with him body and soul, to be utterly enveloped in him to the point of oblivion, to know that his needs were more important than hers, that she would do anything, anything for him.

  She didn't know how her hands had come to be tan­gled in the strong, virile black hair, but as she pulled his mouth back to hers he groaned softly, exciting her senses and causing her to move against him in such a way that they both became bathed in sensation.

  She brought her hands from his shoulders, where her fingertips had been digging into his skin in her excite­ment, and tentatively slid them inside his shirt, touching the hair-roughened muscled skin of his chest with deli­cate, exploring fingers. She had wanted to touch him like this for so long and now, as she felt the passionate heat of his skin and the arousal of his hard nipples in their lair of black silk, she couldn't believe what it was doing to the core of her.

  He was kissing her mouth again, biting gently at her lower lip and letting his tongue-tip stroke against the contours of the full upper one before he penetrated the sweetness within, his thrust greedy. 'I want you. I'm burning up inside. You do not know what you do to me, little foal…'

  His murmur was hot and desperate against her closed eyelids, his voice thick with desire, and everything in her rose to meet the need he was revealing. She wanted him. She wanted him so fiercely that her blood was puls­ing and racing with it. She wanted to hold him, touch him, taste him, feel him inside her, draw him into the very kernel of her being.

  The strong, predatory thrust of his arousal against her soft, silky flesh told her he was as helpless in this tide of passion that had taken them by storm as she was, and she knew she had to draw back, to stop, but she couldn't remember why. Every thought she had ever had was burnt up in this one moment, and then the next, and the next… There was no past, no future. Nothing existed outside the immediate present in all its erotic intimacy.

  His hands were moving all over her, everywhere but the smooth, soft curve of her belly, and then his fingers splayed across that too, and she knew their tips would sense and feel the slight breaks in the silkiness. Instinctively she reached down and drew them to her waist as a tiny thread of sanity returned. This was mad­ness, madness…

  Even as the warning brushed her mind Donato called from the darkness, his tone anxious. 'Romano? Romano, you are coming to the house?' The intrusion into the bubble that had captured her senses was complete, and she jerked away violently, her face flaming as she took two steps backwards, away from him.

  'Claire?' He reached out and pulled her against him before she could resist, holding her firmly but not mak­ing love to her now as he said, 'I did not plan for that to happen. You have to believe me.'

  'Do I?' She stared up at him, her inner turmoil re­flected in her eyes. How could he touch her like that, show such warmth, such passion, without it meaning something to him? But it didn't. Now that the spell was broken cold, harsh reality had taken its place. 'How did it happen, then?'

  'You have to understand—' As Donato's voice inter­rupted them again he swore once before calling back, 'In a moment—we will be there in a moment,' without taking his eyes off her stricken face. 'Claire, you have to understand that I can't give you what you want—'

  'Which is?' she cut in shakily.

  'Commitment—any sort of real commitment.' The words hung there for a second, stark and chilling, before he said, 'That is what you want in a relationship, sì? I know that. That is why I haven't touched you in the last weeks—' He broke off abruptly, shaking her slightly be­fore he said, 'Don't look at me like that. This may not be what you want to hear right now, but it is the truth.'

  "Then why tonight?' she asked with painful directness, her heart pounding.

  'I do not know why tonight,' he said, with a flatness to his voice that made her blood run cold. 'I did not mean it to happen, but you were so— Oh, hell, you almost drowned,' he added, with a savagery at variance with what had gone before.

  'So you were being kind, trying to be nice to me?' she asked in a small, quiet voice. That was it—he felt sorry for her. He had seen the scars, sensed her embar­rassment, and he was trying to be nice to her. She wanted to die.

  'Kind?' He stared at her as though she were mad. 'What has kindness to do with anything?'

  'You…you felt sorry for me,' she stated flatly. Her voice was as expressionless as his had been previously, but her whole body was beginning to shake with a re­action to all it had been through since she had first heard Lorenzo call.

  'Do not talk such rubbish, woman—' he began tightly, only to stop abruptly as he took in her trembling. 'Dam­mit, you're cold. You will be ill. I should never have kept you out here.'

  He had whisked her off her feet again before she real­ised what was happening, but she felt too weak and spent to make any protest, shutting her eyes and keeping them shut even when Romano carried her into the house and up the stairs to her room. It was only after he had placed her carefully in the big cane chair in her bathroom, and Gina and Anna were fussing around her, that she forced herself to enter the land of the living—and only then because she knew he had gone.

  'Lorenzo?' she asked faintly, cutting into the maids' effusive praises as they stripped off her top and panties and helped her into a steaming bath.

  'He is OK—he is very OK, sì?' Gina said reassur­ingly, running still more hot water into the bubbly scented foam. 'The signore and signora, they are with him, and he just have the…how you say?…the sore throat, sì? From the water he swallow? But he OK. The doctor, he come soon.'

  The doctor did come soon, and after he had finished giving Lorenzo the all-clear he came along to Claire's room, popping his head round her door to observe her lying pale and wan against the heaped pillows, her hair spread out in a shining chestnut arc behind her as she allowed the last traces of dampness to dry in the warm room.

  Grace had been in and out for the last little while, flitting between Claire and Lorenzo's rooms like an anx­ious mother hen. But now the twins had woken and were demanding their dinner so she was occupied in the nursery—for which Claire was thankful. She wanted nothing more than to shut her eyes and go to sleep, to blot out the thoughts that were screaming and shouting in her head, painful, torturous thoughts.

  'Ciao, Claire.'

  She liked this doctor. He was the same one who had attended Grace before the twins' birth and she under­stood he had been the Vittoria family doctor for years. 'Hello, Doctor.' She tried to smile, but to her horror in the next moment she had burst into tears, and he was sitting on the bed patting her hand like a comforting old woman.

  It was a minute or two before she could control her­self, but he said nothing, quietly waiting until she had dried her eyes and then saying slowly, 'Is this just be­cause of the swimming incident, or is there something more, Claire?'

  'I…' She blinked into the wise old face for some mo­ments, and then decided honesty, or partial honesty at least, was the best policy. 'There is something else, a problem that has been getting me down,' she said slowly. 'I…I feel it would be better if I left Italy, that I could cope better at home, but I don't like to walk out on Grace when she needs me.'

  'I think it was good that you came when you did, and I am sure you would be welcome to stay for as long as you like, but the crisis has passed, sit Grace can manage perfectly well now, I am sure.' He smiled at her and she managed a tremulous smile in return, her brown eyes swimming. 'This… problem—it is an affair of the heart?' he as
ked perceptively, and when she nodded, went on, 'Sì, it normally is at your age.'

  'You think Grace doesn't need me here any longer?' she pressed again. 'Really?'

  'I think she likes having you here, but, no, I do not think she needs you in the way you mean,' he said qui­etly. 'Grace is an intelligent woman. She knows you have your own life to lead and that this time was tem­porary. I am going to give you something to help you sleep now, and in the morning you can review the situa­tion and do what you think best with a clear head. Now is not the time for decisions of this nature.'

  She lay very still waiting for the pills to work once the doctor had left, her eyes moving slowly round the beautiful room and her mind picturing the rest of the house and the gardens beyond. She would miss Casa Pontina, she would miss Grace and Donato, and Lorenzo and the babies, but, oh, she had to leave—she must. This evening, that time in the garden when Romano had held her in his arms, and now this talk with the doctor—all told her that her time here was finished.

  She didn't need to wait and review the situation and her head had never been clearer. She loved a man who was as far out of her reach as the man in the moon. A man who could have any woman he wanted to satisfy his physical needs, a man who was powerful, wealthy and handsome. But worse, much worse, she loved a man who was in love with someone else—albeit that the ob­ject of his devotion had been dead for three years.

  Since that evening in the hospital, when he had told her about his parents and his loveless childhood—the way he had relied on Donato and his family for every­thing that should have come naturally from his own kin—since then she had known deep in her heart that there was no chance, ever, for her. Because Bianca had been his childhood sweetheart and more, much more than that. She had been part of the good side of his life, from when he was a boy, a necessary and integral part of himself. She could see that now.

  He might have had other girlfriends, played around a bit the way wealthy young bachelors in his privileged position were almost expected to do, but Bianca had known she'd had his heart, and when the time was right he had seen it too and married her. The perfect couple. Until fate, in the guise of a fast sports car, had taken a hand, that was.

  Her eyes were dry now—achingly, bitterly dry. The pain was too deep for tears.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'A Farewell party?' Romano's eyes shot from the in­vitation in his hand, which Grace had just handed him, to Claire's face. 'You are leaving?' he asked tightly. 'When?'

  'In a couple of weeks.' She was amazed her voice was so steady. This was the first time she had seen him since the pool incident three days earlier, although he had telephoned the house the morning after to enquire as to how she and Lorenzo were. 'And Grace is insisting on a party.'

  'Of course I am. You've made loads of friends since you've been here and they'll all want to say goodbye. Poor Attilio is heartbroken,' Grace added, still in the same conversational tone of voice, as she glanced casu­ally at Romano. 'Claire's told him she's too busy for romance, but I think the poor lamb thought while she remained in Italy there might be a chance for him. I think they'd make a lovely couple actually, don't you, Romano? And he blames himself now for taking his month's holiday these last four weeks, but it was all arranged before Christmas; he was touring France with some friends.'

  'Was he?' Claire had never heard Romano use such a cold and uninterested tone with Grace before, but her friend didn't appear to notice.

  'All that time lost—he's quite distraught.' Grace laughed lightly. 'Still, he's got two weeks left to get her to change her mind,' she added, with another glance at Romano's glowering face.

  What on earth was she talking about? Claire thought bemusedly as she stared at Grace. Her friend knew she wasn't interested in Attilio in the slightest, and it wasn't like Grace to discuss anything of this nature so frivo­lously—especially as she knew the tutor's infatuation with her made her both uncomfortable and embarrassed.

  'Anyway, I must go and speak to Cecilia about dinner. Are you staying, Romano?' Grace asked over her shoul­der as she made for the door. 'You know you are wel­come.'

  'No, I am sorry, I have a previous engagement,' he said flatly. 'I just came to see—to see how you all were.'

  A previous engagement? Claire thought painfully. She didn't need to be the Brain of Britain to work out the gender of his dinner companion, not with him in full evening dress and looking dark and dangerous.

  'Have a drink anyway—and fix Claire one, would you? I'll be back in a moment,' Grace said sunnily as she shut the drawing room door, leaving them alone.

  'You would like a drink?' he asked her coldly, his eyes narrowed as they moved over the brilliant sheen of her hair and creamy skin to the soft, dusky red of her mouth, where they lingered for an infinitesimal moment.

  'No, not really—would you?' she asked nervously.

  'No, I do not want a drink, Claire.' She hadn't seen him in this mood before and she couldn't quite deter­mine it; the dark eyes were glittering with some emotion that was undefinable. 'So, you are breaking poor Attilio's heart and returning to England.' It was a state­ment, not a question. 'I did not expect you to leave Grace with the infants so soon.'

  It was said coolly and without the slightest expression but was unmistakably a criticism, and immediately her hackles rose. 'Didn't you?' She managed a disdainful smile that was the best bit of acting she was ever likely to produce. 'You don't think Grace is an able mother?'

  'Of course she is,' he said at once, his tone one of shocked outrage.

  'Well, then…'

  'But I thought you had come as a friend, a compan­ion,' he said silkily. 'Someone to talk to and share with. This is a very emotional time for a woman—'

  'I don't need you to tell me that,' she bit out tightly, enraged beyond measure that he dared to preach to her about emotional times. Him! Of all people! After what he'd put her through. 'But Grace had her low time before the babies were born—some women do—and she's fine now. And I've…I've got things to see to in England.'

  'What things?' The words were rapier-sharp but she was determined not to be intimidated. He saw her as some sort of pathetic spinster who had nothing better to do than dance attendance on one of his friends, did he? Grace was Donato's wife, and as such, in his opinion, one of the privileged few who were entitled to any con­sideration? Well, she'd got news for him…

  'Things of a personal nature,' she said dismissively.

  'That is no answer,' he grated out harshly.

  'Well, it's the only one you're getting.' He didn't want her, not for anything beyond a brief fling at least, and she wasn't even sure about that any more.

  She had replayed the incident in the garden over and over in her mind, and however she tried to skirt round it, to make it different, the fact that he had been trying to reassure her about her femininity because he had felt sorry for her was uppermost. And perversely she both loved and hated him for it—loved him for the under­standing and tenderness it revealed, which she had sensed before was a hidden part of his nature, and hated him because the last thing, the very, very last thing in the whole world that she wanted him to feel for her was pity.

  'I see.' He eyed her grimly.

  He looked very arrogant and very handsome as he stood frowning at her, the tall, broad-shouldered body that was so unequivocally male shown to perfection in its clothing of somewhat traditional evening garb, em­phasising so well the hidden strength and power of the hard frame.

  Of all the men in all the world she'd had to go and fall for this one, she thought painfully, with more than a touch of self-despair. Her mother had always said she didn't do things by halves, and she had been proved right once again.

  'Will you come to the party?' she asked carefully, after a few tense moments in a screaming silence he didn't seem inclined to break.

  'Do you want me to?'

  'Of course,' she said flatly. 'Donato and Grace would be upset if you refused.'

  'Donato and Grace. Yes, I s
ee.' He stared down at her with narrowed dark eyes. 'In that case I shall be there.'

  'Good.' For Donato and Grace. Oh, she hated him…

  'And now I really must be off. It would not do to be late,' he said, with that cool control that hid all expres­sion.

  'No, you mustn't keep her waiting.' She didn't know why she had said it. The only good thing was that her voice sounded bright, carefree, even, and not at all as though she was eaten up inside with jealousy and a long­ing to know who he was meeting and what she looked like.

  'Quite.'

  Game, set and match to him, Claire thought numbly as he smiled with that icy twist of his lips that didn't reach his eyes, before inclining his head and leaving the room. Well, he could see who he liked after all. He was a free agent—no strings, none of his hated commitments. She swore, once but with great intensity, in her mind, and was so shocked at the profanity that she hurried out of the room to find Grace or Lorenzo—anyone to stop her mind from following such a self-destructive path. She was going to get through this with mind and soul intact; she was. She wasn't too sure about her heart, but she would have to gather the pieces of that and deal with it once she was back in England.

  The almost daily visits Romano had been making for the last few weeks became a thing of the past, and Claire didn't see him again until the day of the party.

  It was the middle of June and the day was a hot one, the temperature creeping steadily upwards towards ninety degrees Fahrenheit. The careful sunbathing Claire had indulged in over the last few weeks had turned her clear skin a soft honey-gold, and the coppery tint in her silky chestnut hair was more pronounced, flattering the darkness of her eyes and making them appear enormous.

  She and Grace had made several shopping trips into Sorrento over the last two weeks, the winding streets and fascinating alleyways providing everything from the very best fashionable clothes and exquisite jewellery to simple handicrafts and cheap souvenirs.