Rome's Revenge

by Sara Craven

  ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘No—I don’t want to do that.’

  She wasn’t sure it was possible to turn back either. Not now. Not ever. She felt as if she’d taken some wild, momentous leap in the dark.

  She said, almost beseechingly, ‘But it’s all happened so fast…’

  ‘I think it was the way you talked about it,’ Rome said, after a pause. ‘I could tell how much it had meant to you. And I was curious to see something that could put that note of yearning into your voice. It made the distance seem immaterial.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her throat tightened.

  ‘And I would do the same for you,’ he added casually. ‘If you come to Italy, I’d show you all the places that were important to me.’

  ‘Even your vineyard?’

  He laughed. ‘Maybe even that.’

  ‘Well, I hope you won’t be disappointed in Suffolk. It’s quite a gentle landscape. There aren’t any towering cliffs or sweeping hills. And the beaches are all dunes and shingle.’

  Rome shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’ll chance it.’

  Cory watched curiously as he negotiated a busy junction with effortless ease.

  She said stiltedly, ‘You’re a very good driver.’

  ‘I’ve been driving for a long time.’ He slanted a glance at her. ‘You don’t have a car?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s never seemed worth it. Not in the city. For work and shopping I tend to use the Underground, or taxis.’

  ‘Unfortunately we don’t have those conveniences at Montedoro, so one’s own transport is a necessity.’

  She nodded. ‘Have you visited East Anglia before?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve only been in London. Why?’

  ‘Because you seem to know the way so well. And without any prompting from me.’

  There was another slight pause, then he shrugged again. ‘We have road maps even in Tuscany. And I’m capable of working out a route for a journey.’

  ‘Which means you must have planned this in advance,’ Cory said slowly. She turned her head, staring at him. ‘Yet you had no means of knowing that we’d meet today. Or ever again, for that matter.’

  ‘You’re wrong about that.’ His voice was quiet. ‘Because I knew I would see you again, Cory mia. And so did you. If not today, then at some other time. And I could wait.’

  Yes, she thought, with a sudden pang. He would be good at that. Was that why he’d kept away all week? Making her wait—making her wonder?

  She said bitterly, ‘I don’t think I know anything any more.’

  ‘Do you wish you hadn’t come? Perhaps you’d rather be back at your National Gallery, fantasising about an image on canvas.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘Do you prefer oil paint to flesh and blood, mia?’

  She flushed. ‘That’s a hateful thing to say. And not true.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

  Cory bit her lip. Glancing up at the sky, she said, with asperity, ‘It seems to have stopped raining. I suppose you arranged that, too.’

  Rome laughed. ‘Of course. I want this to be a perfect day for you, cara.’

  Cory relapsed into a brooding silence. But it didn’t last long—how could it, when she began to recognise familiar landmarks and favourite bits of countryside?

  In spite of herself, she felt anticipation—even happiness—beginning to uncurl inside her.

  ‘We’ll be in Sudbury soon,’ Rome remarked at last. ‘Do you want to stop and look round?’

  ‘Gainsborough was born there,’ she said. ‘They’ve turned the house into a gallery for some of his work. But maybe we’ve looked at enough paintings for one day.’

  ‘Where do you suggest we go instead?’

  ‘Lavenham’s quite near,’ she said. ‘And it’s really beautiful—full of old, timbered houses.’

  ‘Is that where you used to live?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, our house was nearer the coast—in a village called Blundham.’

  ‘I’d very much like to see it,’ Rome said, after a pause. ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why should I? But, at the same time, why should you want to?’

  ‘To fill in another piece of the puzzle.’ He was smiling again, but his voice was serious. ‘To know you better, mia bella.’

  Cory straightened in her seat. She said crisply, ‘Isn’t that rather a waste of time—when you’ll be gone so soon?’

  He said softly, ‘At the moment, my plans are fluid.’ And paused. ‘Tell me, is there somewhere in Lavenham that we can have lunch?’

  She said huskily, ‘Several places.’ And stared determinedly out of the window as she allowed herself to wonder what he might mean.

  The bar at the Swan Hotel opened into a maze of small rooms. They found a secluded alcove furnished with a large comfortable sofa and a small table, and a cheerful waitress brought them home-made vegetable soup followed by generous open sandwiches, with smoked salmon for Cory and rare roast beef for Rome. She chose a glass of white wine, dry with an underlying flowery taste, while Rome drank a sharp, icy Continental beer.

  On their way to the hotel they’d visited the market place and seen the old Corpus Christi guildhall, now a community centre, and the ancient market cross.

  The rain had well and truly stopped now, and a watery sun was making occasional appearances between the clouds, accompanied by a crisp breeze.

  Cory was telling him over the sandwiches that a number of the shops they’d passed dated from the Tudor period, when she stopped with a rueful laugh.

  ‘What am I doing?’ She shook her head almost despairingly. ‘I’m trying to teach history to someone who was born in Rome.’

  He grinned. ‘Different history, Cory mia. And don’t stop, please. I’m enjoying my lesson. Why was Lavenham important?’

  ‘Because of the wool trade. It was a major centre. Then came the Industrial Revolution, and the power looms, but there was no coal locally to run them, so the woollen industry moved north.’ She smiled rather sadly. ‘We may have missed out on the dark, satanic mills, but now we have nuclear power plants instead.’

  ‘So, tell me about Blundham.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.’ Cory finished her wine. ‘It’s just an ordinary little village. We don’t get too many tourists, apart from birdwatchers and walkers.’

  ‘I hope our arrival won’t prove too much of a shock,’ Rome said drily, as he paid the bill.

  But, in the end, the shock was Cory’s.

  They arrived at Blundham after a leisurely drive through narrow lanes. On the face of it the village, with its winding main street lined with pink-washed cottages, looked much the same. She recognised most of the names above the shops, and the pub, which had been rather run down, had received a much needed facelift, with window boxes, smart paintwork, and a new sign. It all had the same rather sleepy, prosperous air that she remembered.

  ‘Why are there so many pink houses?’ Rome queried, as he slowed for the corner.

  Cory shook her head. ‘It’s just a traditional thing. You’ll see it everywhere in Suffolk.’ She pulled a face. ‘My grandfather told me that originally they mixed the plaster with pigs’ blood to get that particular colour, but I don’t know if it’s true or if he was just winding me up.’ She leaned forward eagerly. ‘If you take the left-hand fork down here, it will bring us to the house.’

  ‘Who does it belong to now?’

  ‘A London couple. He was something in the City, and she wanted to play the country lady.’ Cory frowned slightly. ‘I didn’t like them much, and nor did my grandfather. He said they’d find it too big, and too isolated. In fact, he told them so, and the agents were furious. But they came up with the asking price, so they got it.’

  Rome said slowly, ‘Only it seems they didn’t keep it.’

  He brought the car to a halt beside a big estate agency sign attached to the front wall with ‘Sold’ blazoned across it.

  And, in smaller letters, ‘Acquired for the Countrywide Ho
tel Group.’

  ‘A hotel. Oh, no, I don’t believe it.’ Cory sat for a moment, rigid with dismay, then scrambled out of the car. She peered through the tall wrought-iron gates. ‘They haven’t just sold it, they’ve actually moved out and left it empty. Look—the garden’s like a jungle.’

  She pushed at one of the gates, and it opened with a squeal of disuse.

  ‘Countryside Hotels came sniffing around when we put the house on the market, but Gramps turned them down flat. He wanted it to remain a private home. That’s why he sold to the Jessons.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t tell him. He’ll be so upset.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Rome said quietly as he followed her up the overgrown drive. ‘After all, he said it himself. Too big and too isolated. Maybe the Jessons gave it their best shot.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Cory, are you sure you wish to do this? Shall we go back to the car and drive up the coast?’

  Her voice was subdued. ‘We’ve come all this way. So I may as well say goodbye. And it could be worse,’ she added, with a forced smile. ‘It could have been bought by Sansom Industries and pulled down.’

  She was half expecting a question or a comment, but Rome said nothing. Just gently removed his hand as they walked on towards the house.

  It was redbrick, built on three storeys, with tall chimneys and mullioned windows.

  ‘It’s a good house,’ Rome said, as they walked round to the rear. ‘Simple and graceful. It doesn’t deserve to be empty.’

  ‘My room was up there. The window on the end.’ Cory pointed. ‘I chose it because at night I could hear the sound of the sea. Usually it was gentle and soothing, but when there were storms it would roar, and Gramps said it was a monster, eating back the land.’

  ‘Didn’t that give you nightmares?’ Rome asked drily.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head decisively. ‘Because I knew I was safe and loved. And the monster would never reach me.’

  Or not then, she thought, with a pang. Her nightmare had begun with Rob…

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She started almost guiltily. Rome was watching her, frowning a little.

  ‘Nothing—why?’ She forced a smile.

  ‘Your face changed,’ he said. ‘One moment you were remembering. The next you looked sad—almost scared.’

  Cory paused. Shrugged. She said quietly, ‘Maybe Memory Lane is a dangerous place.’

  His mouth twisted. ‘You think the future holds more security?’ There was an odd note in his voice—almost like anger.

  No, she thought with sudden desolation. Not if it holds you…

  She said quietly, ‘I try to live one day at a time—and not look too far ahead.’

  She moved off determinedly along the stone terrace. ‘Now I’ll show you my grandmother’s sunken garden. She used to grow roses there, and the most marvellous herbs.’

  She reached the top of the stone steps and stopped dead, drawing a swift painful breath. Because the garden, with its tranquil paths and stone benches, had gone. In its place was a swimming pool, surrounded by an expanse of coloured tiles. Even the old summer house had been supplanted by a smart changing pavilion.

  Cory’s throat tightened. She turned and looked up into Rome’s cool, grave face.

  She said, like a polite child, ‘Thank you for bringing me here, but I’ve seen enough and I’d like to go home, please.’

  Then her face crumpled and she began to weep, softly and uncontrollably, the tears raining down her pale face.

  Rome said something quiet under his breath. Then his arms went round her, pulling her close. His hand cradled her head, pressing her wet face into the muscular comfort of his chest.

  She leaned against him, racked by sobs. He smelt of fresh air and clean wool, and his own distinctive maleness, a scent that seemed at the same time alien and yet totally familiar. She breathed him, filled herself with him, as her hands clung to his shoulders, her fingers twisting feverishly in the fine yarn of his sweater.

  As she cried, he murmured to her, sometimes in English but mostly in Italian. While she didn’t understand everything he said, instinct told her they were words of endearment, words of comfort.

  And she felt his lips brush her hair.

  She lifted her head and looked up at him, a sob still catching her throat, her eyes bewildered—wondering.

  The long fingers touched her drenched lashes, then gently stroked her cheek, pushing back the strands of dishevelled hair. And all the time she watched him silently.

  She felt him straighten, as if he was going to put her away from him, and whispered, ‘Please…’

  For a moment he was still. Taut. The dark face was stark, the blue eyes narrowed, suddenly, and burning.

  And when he moved it was to draw her close again. But not, this time, for consolation.

  He kissed her forehead, then, very softly, her eyes, as if he was blotting her tears with his lips.

  She sighed, her body bending like a willow in his arms in a kind of mute offering. And then, and only then, he found her mouth with his.

  She was more than ready. She was thirsting, starving for him. Her lips parted, welcoming the heated thrust of his tongue. Their mouths tore at each other in a kind of frenzy. She forgot to think, to reason, or to be afraid. There was nothing—nothing—but this endless kiss. This was what she’d been born for, and what she would die for if need be, she told herself, her brain reeling.

  When he lifted his head at last, she was shaking so violently she would have collapsed but for his arm, like an iron bar, under her back.

  He said her name swiftly, harshly, then bent his head again. He was more deliberate this time, more in control, his lips exploring her wet cheeks, the hollow of her ear and the leaping pulse in her throat, lingering there as if he was tasting the texture of her skin.

  Then he kissed her lips again, fitting his mouth to hers with sensuous precision, letting his tongue play with hers, teasing her lightly, wickedly, into uninhibited response.

  His free hand slid inside her sweater and moved upwards, pushing the encumbering folds away and seeking the soft mound of her breast. Stroking her gently, feeling the aroused nipple hardening against his palm under the thin camisole she wore, as she arched against him.

  He lifted his head and stared down at her for a long moment, his eyes slumberous, urgent, as he studied the effect of his caress.

  For a moment she returned his gaze, then her lashes swept down, veiling her eyes, as she waited for him to touch her again.

  This time she experienced the shuddering thrill of his mouth against her, suckling her scented, excited flesh through the silk covering. Circling the rosebud peak with his tongue, coaxing it to stand proud against the damp and darkened fabric.

  Cory could feel the heat of him—the male hardness—against her thighs in implicit, primitive demand, and heard herself moan swiftly and uncontrollably in need and surrender.

  It was a small sound, but it broke the spell. Snapped the web of sensuality which held them.

  Between one instant and the next Cory found herself released—free. And Rome standing three feet away from her, trying to control his ragged breathing.

  He said quietly, as if speaking to himself, ‘I did not—intend that.’

  Hands shaking, Cory dragged her sweater back into a semblance of decency.

  She said, in a voice she barely recognised, ‘It was really my fault. You got—caught up in an overspill of emotion, that’s all.’

  ‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘It was entirely mutual. Have the honesty to admit it.’

  There was a tense silence. Cory looked down at the flag-stones. ‘Are you—sorry it happened?’

  ‘No—but I should not have allowed it, just the same.’ He sounded weary, and a little angry. ‘We had better go.’

  She was still trembling as they walked back to the car. Her lips felt tender—swollen—and she touched them with a tentative finger.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’ He noticed, of course.

  ‘N
o,’ she said.

  But it was a lie.

  Because in those brief rapturous moments in Rome’s arms she had given him the power to hurt her for all eternity.

  And eternity, she realised painfully, might already have begun.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE clouds had returned with a vengeance, and the North Sea was a sullen grey as they drove up the coast road.

  There was silence inside the car, but not the companionable sort, born of long familiarity. The enclosed atmosphere simmered with tension, and some other element less easy to define.

  Cory sat huddled into the passenger seat, staring rigidly at the white-flecked waves emptying themselves on to the banks of shingle.

  She did not dare look at Rome, who was concentrating almost savagely on his driving.

  The advance and retreat of the sea was like a symbol of her own life, she thought, pain twisting inside her. One moment she was being carried along on an inexorable tide of passion. The next she was abandoned, stranded. Left clinging to some inner emotional wreckage. And she wasn’t sure how much more she could take.

  Any student of body language, she thought, would take one look at her and say ‘defensive’. But they didn’t know the half of it. The faint lingering dampness of her camisole against her skin was an unwanted but potent reminder of the subtle plunder his lips had inflicted.

  Her entire being was one aching throb of unsatisfied longing.

  While being shut with him in this confined space was nothing less than torture.

  She sat up with sudden determination.

  ‘Could you stop the car, please?—I’d like to go for a walk—clear my head.’ She shot a swift, sideways glance at his set, remote profile. ‘If that’s all right,’ she added.

  ‘Of course,’ he said coolly. ‘It’s a good idea.’ He paused. ‘Something we both need, perhaps.’

  The wind was freshening, blowing in unpleasant gusts from the sea, and Cory took off the scarf knotted at her neck and struggled to tie it over her hair instead.

  ‘May I help?’ Rome came round the car to her side.

  ‘No.’ Her mouth was suddenly dry, her heart pounding as she thought of his fingers touching her hair, brushing against her throat. ‘No, I can manage. Thank you.’