by Anne Mather
Grace shook her head. ‘Of course not,’ she said, feeling mean for even wishing Julia could change her mind. It wasn’t her friend’s fault that she’d chosen to spend the whole day in the apartment. She’d reputedly come here to have a rest. She had a good book to entertain her. Perhaps she should have an early night, too.
But, although she’d intended to use the bathroom as soon as Julia was finished, the water stopped running, Julia’s door opened and closed, and still Grace lingered in her chair. She was restless—a feeling that was unfamiliar to her, but clearly identifiable. She needed something, anything; the trouble was, she didn’t know what.
Getting up, she paced about the living room, stepping out onto the balcony, and resting her bare arms on the wrought-iron balustrade. Breathing deeply, she tried to calm the agitation inside her, but all she succeeded in doing was filling her lungs with the sensuous perfume of the flowers. Perhaps there was something in their scent, she mused wryly, but she couldn’t ever remember reading that jasmine or honeysuckle, or even the exotic oleander that grew in scarlet clusters round the crumbling fountain, possessed narcotic properties.
Perhaps she should go for a walk, she considered. It wasn’t late, only nine o’clock, and there were still plenty of people about. If she walked down to the harbour, she could always get a taxi back.
The idea took root and flourished. Why not? she asked herself again. She wasn’t the nervous type, and she had few fears for her own safety. She would have preferred to go with Julia, but in her absence she could go alone.
Straightening, she glanced down at what she was wearing. The slip dress with its pattern of orange lilies on a purple background was perfectly suitable for what she had planned, but she took a thin silk shawl to cover her shoulders, just in case it was cool down at the quayside. Then, after checking that the French braid she had fastened earlier was still in place, she left the apartment before she could change her mind.
The thick heels of her sandals clattered on the marble stairs as she descended, but she doubted anyone would hear her. It appeared as if Julia’s was the only apartment not hosting a social gathering of one sort or another that evening, and the mingled aromas of wine and pasta made Grace’s mouth water.
It seemed hours since she and Julia had eaten the cheese and salad that Grace had rustled up after her friend got home. Julia had come in, kicked off her shoes, and sprawled on the sofa with a magazine, and despite her assertion that she didn’t expect Grace to cook for her so far she had made no overtures in that direction herself.
Grace had thought Julia might bring something in with her. She’d told her friend she didn’t intend to go out today, but her words had evidently fallen on stony ground. In consequence, Grace had had to improvise, and although the meal had been tasty she now felt she knew where she stood. In future, she’d make sure they had plenty of food in the fridge.
Perhaps she’d treat herself to a gooey dessert, she reflected now as the caretaker, who never seemed to miss her comings and goings, emerged from his apartment as she reached the ground floor. Italians traditionally ate later than she was used to, and she wasn’t worried that the cafés might be closed.
The caretaker frowned when he saw she was alone. ‘Signorina Calloway?’ he said, glancing meaningfully up the stairs, and Grace heaved a sigh before miming that she was going out alone.
‘Ah, no, signorina.’
The caretaker shook his head, his hands fluttering as he endeavoured to explain what he wanted to say. But his accent was thick enough to cut, and Grace could only guess what he meant.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, making a calming gesture, but the old man was not prepared to let her go without a fight.
He said something else, and Grace identified the word ragazzos in his anxious protest, which even she knew meant boys. It was obvious he was trying to warn her to be careful, and she felt a reluctant sympathy towards him for his concern.
‘No problem,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll get a—a taxi, yes? Back.’
The old man gestured towards his apartment. ‘Taxi now?’
‘No.’ Grace sighed again. ‘Really.’ She held up her hand. ‘I’ll be all right, honestly.’ She patted his arm. ‘Um—thanks, anyway.’
The old man had to let her go, and despite her assertion to the contrary Grace did become slightly nervous walking into town. There were people about, but as the old man had tried to warn her many of them were young men, who stared at her with amorous eyes, and turned to watch her as she hurried by. Some even called after her, making sucking noises with their lips. But she managed to make it appear that she was with someone else at these times, shrinking into the shadows whenever she could.
Rather than run the gauntlet of the crowds along the waterfront, Grace decided to patronise the café she had used the morning after her arrival at the villa, and it wasn’t until she was seated at the table and the waiter came to take her order that she realised it was the same young man who had attended to her then as well. Evidently, he had remembered her, too, incredible as that might seem, and she could only assume it was her height that had reminded him she’d been there before.
‘Buona sera, signorina. Come stai?’
Acknowledging her elevation to signorina again, Grace couldn’t help a smile. ‘Bene, grazie,’ she said, proud of the small grasp of the language she’d made. ‘E lei?’
His delight was obvious. ‘Ah, multo bene, signorina,’ he answered swiftly. ‘Cosa prende?’
Grace’s tongue circled her upper lip. ‘I—’ She had no real idea what he meant. ‘Um—un cappuccino, sì?’
‘Un cappuccino?’ His teeth were very white between his rather thick lips. ‘Bene, signorina. Subito.’
Grace breathed a sigh of relief when he went to get her order, but he wasn’t gone long before he was back. As he bent to set the coffee on the table in front of her, he murmured, ‘Bella, signorina,’ and she realised he had assumed she’d come back to see him.
He said something else in a low voice as he tore the slip on which he’d written her order from his pad. Then, seeing her lack of comprehension, he resorted to English, murmuring softly that he would be finished at ten o’clock.
It was almost that already, and Grace forced herself not to panic. But it was difficult to give someone the brush-off when she didn’t speak their language, and she had the feeling that he wasn’t likely to be co-operative in that department.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking down at her coffee. ‘I think you’ve made a mistake.’ But although she knew he had other customers waiting he didn’t go away.
‘I see you later, hmm?’ he persisted, his hand brushing her shoulder deliberately as he bent to straighten the spoon in her saucer. ‘I show you good time, sì?’
‘No.’
Grace was getting anxious. Without touching her coffee, she pushed back her chair and got to her feet just as another man reached the table. The chair connected with his thigh, and she heard him give a muffled oath. But when she swung round, somewhat guiltily, to apologise she realised why his voice had sounded so familiar.
She shouldn’t have been pleased to see him, but she was. In the present circumstances, she’d have welcomed any farmiliar face. It was only at the back of her mind that she wondered if he had been following her again, and if he had she ought not to be so glad that he was there.
‘Is there a problem, cara?’ Matteo asked, his eyes holding Grace’s deliberately, and she realised he knew exactly what had been going on, and was giving her a chance to extricate herself from the situation.
‘Oh—you’re here,’ she said, forcing a tight smile to her lips, and she sensed the waiter’s instinctive recoil. ‘I—’ She glanced about her, aware that they were attracting the attention of other diners. ‘Um—are you going to join me?’
‘Why not?’ With an involuntary rub of his jean-clad thigh, Matteo took hold of the chair and assisted her back into her seat. Then, pulling out a chair opposite, he subsided onto it, glancing up at
the waiter with a faintly challenging look. ‘Un espresso, pronto, per favore.’
‘Sì, signore.’
If the waiter was peeved, he hid it manfully, but Grace was grateful when he walked away. What with the provocation she’d had to put up with on the way down to the harbour and now this, she was justifiably rattled, and it didn’t help when Matteo fixed her with a mocking gaze.
‘Feeling better?’
Grace thought about picking her coffee up, to give her hands something to do, and then thought better of it. She was aware that she was trembling, and she wasn’t totally convinced that she could blame the waiter for that. She was reminded once again of how disturbing the man opposite could be, and although it had been kind of him to come to her rescue she suspected that his motives were not entirely impartial.
‘I was just leaving,’ she said, deciding not to humour him, and then coloured when his eyes alighted on her cup.
‘Without drinking your coffee,’ he observed. ‘How unusual. Unless it’s not to your taste, of course.’
‘It’s fine.’ Grace took a deep breath. ‘You know it’s fine.’ She paused, and then asked, ‘Have you been following me again?’
His lips twitched, and he raised one finger to them. ‘Shh,’ he murmured teasingly. ‘You make me sound as if I’m stalking you.’
‘And aren’t you?’
She was indignant, but although his expression sobered somewhat he didn’t take offence. ‘As a matter of fact, my being here is not accidental,’ he conceded. ‘But before you start calling the polizia, I should tell you that old Benito sent me.’
‘Benito?’ Grace’s mind was blank.
‘Benito Rossi. At the villa,’ said Matteo patiently. ‘He was concerned about you coming into town alone.’
‘Oh—you mean the caretaker!’ exclaimed Grace abruptly, and Matteo inclined his head. ‘But—’ Her mind raced. ‘What were you doing at the villa?’
He shrugged. ‘Do I have to answer that question?’
Grace flushed. ‘Julia didn’t tell me she was expecting you tonight. Besides...’ She regarded him warily. ‘She couldn’t have expected to see you. She’s in bed.’
‘Perhaps the fact that she is in bed would not be a problem,’ he remarked, his eyes mocking, and Grace was unpleasantly reminded of what she knew and he didn’t.
‘Perhaps not,’ she agreed stiffly. ‘But all the same I think she’d have warned me if she’d known you were coming.’
The waiter returned at that moment with Matteo’s espresso, and he took a couple of bills out of his wallet and paid for both coffees before Grace could object. ‘Allow me,’ he said when she would have reimbursed him, and she decided it wasn’t worth arguing about.
‘Okay, Julia did not know of my intention to call at the apartment this evening,’ he conceded, when the waiter had departed and they were alone again. He lifted one shoulder in an unconsciously Latin gesture. ‘I was going to suggest we might all have dinner together one night this week. Not tonight, obviously, but maybe tomorrow or the day after that.’ His dark eyes were an almost tangible invasion. ‘I thought it might help to persuade you that I am not the—what shall I say? Dissipato?—that you think.’
Grace swallowed. The meaning of the word he had used was obvious enough and she guessed he’d chosen it for that reason. ‘I never said you were dissipated, signore,’ she said, cradling her cup between both palms and lifting it carefully to her lips. So long as her coffee was untouched, she felt compelled to stay here. ‘I just don’t know why you care what I think of you.’
‘Oh, I think you do.’ He was sardonic.
‘No, I don’t.’ Her cup clattered into her saucer again. ‘And as far as arranging for us all to go out together is concerned, why didn’t you just pick up the phone?’
‘Good question.’ He circled his cup with a lazy finger. ‘Perhaps I was hoping that Julia would still be at work.’
Grace gasped. ‘Yoù’re completely without conscience, aren’t you?’
‘Am I?’ His dark eyes looked straight into hers. ‘Why? Because I say what I mean? I can’t help it if you’ve got a problem with that. I guess Julia wasn’t exaggerating when she said you had no time for men.’
Grace almost choked. ‘Julia said that?’
‘Yes. Isn’t it true?’
For a moment, Grace couldn’t say anything. But then, when she found her voice, it was barely audible. ‘I—no.’ She shook her head. ‘That is—not exactly,’
Matteo arched one dark brow. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked, and she found herself explaining.
‘I have—men—friends,’ she got out jerkily. ‘I’m not married, but...nor is she.’
‘No.’ Matteo conceded the point. ‘But I guess the difference is she’d like to be.’
CHAPTER FIVE
WASN’T that the truth?
Grace felt furious suddenly. What was she doing, she wondered, explaining herself to him? Why did she feel the need to defend herself in the first place? It wasn’t as if she cared what he thought of her.
‘You don’t know what I’d like to be,’ she said now, and his hand slid across the table to capture hers in a deceptively casual grasp.
‘So, tell me,’ he prompted huskily, as she marvelled again at how deceitful he was.
‘Why?’ she demanded now. ‘Of what interest could that possibly be to you? When Julia told you I wasn’t interested in men, did you decide to try and change my mind, is that it? Do you feel I’m a challenge to your rampant masculinity?’
‘So you think my masculinity is rampant,’ he observed softly. ‘Hmm, that’s interesting.’
‘No, it’s not.’ Grace was stung by his mocking ridicule. ‘But it’s obvious that’s what you think of yourself!’
‘Do I?’ he murmured, his thumb massaging her damp palm. ‘And what am I to conclude from the fact that you’re trembling? If it’s not passion, then you must be angry with me.’
If he only knew...
‘I think I’d like to leave,’ she said stiffly. ‘Please let go of my hand.’
‘What? And have you throw back your chair and almost unman some other poor bastardo? I do not think the proprietor would thank me for that.’
‘I didn’t—’ Grace’s eyes dropped almost compulsively to where his opened jacket exposed the silver buckle of his belt. ‘I didn’t hurt you.’ And then, almost pathetically, she thought afterwards, she asked, ‘Did I?’
‘And if you did?’ His eyes tormented her. ‘In your opinion, you’ve done a service for all the women of Portofalco. Just think of their relief when they discover I’ve lost my—charm.’
Grace was sure the women of Portofalco would be unlikely to thank her in that instance, but she was equally sure that the situation wouldn’t arise.
She held up her head. ‘You love making fun of me, don’t you?’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’
‘I think so. Yes.’
‘You don’t think you are taking what I say a little too senously?’ His voice softened. ‘Bene, you didn’t hurt me—well, only a little, all right?’
‘You like being provocative, don’t you?’
‘What? By assuring you that you didn’t hurt me before?’ His mouth grew sensual. ‘If I’d asked you to kiss it better, that would have been provocative, no?’
‘You’re disgusting!’ Grace took a deep breath. ‘I want to go.’
‘But we are just getting to know one another.’
Grace shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you said that.’
‘Why not? What have I said?’ He covered her resisting fingers with his other hand and brought the thumb that had been caressing her palm to his mouth. He held her gaze as he sucked the moisture from it, and Grace wanted to die of embarrassment. ‘I do want to get to know you. What’s wrong with that?’
He had to know. Grace’s teeth were clenched with the effort of remaining calm in such trying circumstances. The trouble was, despite what had happened when she wa
s younger, she’d had little real experience with men in recent years. She tended to avoid awkward situations, and she feared she’d become rusty when it came to dealing with the opposite sex.
‘And what about Julia?’ she demanded now, forced to bring her friend’s name back into the conversation. ‘You must know that she—’ She had to go carefully here. ‘You must know she—cares about you.’
‘Does she?’
His indifference appalled her. ‘Of course she does.’
His nostrils flared with unconscious hauteur. ‘Julia has her own agenda, I’ll give you that.’
Grace’s eyes widened. ‘Are you saying you don’t care what she thinks of you?’ she exclaimed hotly, and then drew back when he leaned towards her across the table.
‘I don’t think you and I should waste our time talking about Julia,’ he said, stroking the backs of her fingers. His mouth compressed for a moment, but then he seemed to dismiss whatever it was that had soured his mood. ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he urged. ‘Tell me about the museum. Yes, I know where you work, but I’m told that you’ve been ill—’
‘Never mind about me,’ cried Grace unsteadily. She took another breath, a calming one, she hoped. ‘Why don’t you tell me about Julia? About the relationship you’ve been having with her for the past six months? About how close you’ve become? So close in fact that you invited her to your home to meet your family last weekend—’
Abruptly, she was free. With a curt exclamation in his own language, which Grace was sure wasn’t at all complimentary, he flung himself back in his chair and stared grimly around the café. She soon realised he was looking anywhere but at her, and the desire she’d had to rush away wilted in the chill of his obvious contempt.
‘I’m sorry if you don’t think it’s any of my business,’ she began lamely, the uneasy silence forcing her to say something in her own defence, and he cast her a scornful look.
