by Romy Sommer
“That’s a good likeness.”
She looked up into the same pair of laughing eyes she’d sketched, and for a moment wondered if her imagination had taken flight. “Thank you.”
And again, she was alone and unchaperoned.
“You did not care to go up to the pertuso with your friends?” Stefano asked.
She let out her breath in a rush, too relieved to ask how he knew. “No. I wanted to be alone. There are so many people at the villa, and I like the peace and quiet here.”
He perched on the stone wall. “You do not like being with people?”
“Oh no, not that. I find people fascinating. But sometimes I need time to myself too.”
He nodded, his face serious. “I understand. It is how I feel when I go sailing.”
She glanced around the piazza. The old woman watched them avidly, her hands still busy with the pea pods, but the men under the taverna awning paid them no attention. She looked up again at Stefano and smiled shyly. “Do you live here?”
He shook his head. “I live closer to the sea, at Arienzo.” The dimple appeared in his cheek. “Word travels fast in these parts. I came here to see you.”
She had no idea how to answer that, though her blush no doubt spoke volumes, so instead she asked “why are so many of the houses here empty?”
“Many of the people who lived here have gone away to find better lives for themselves.” Stefano frowned. “There are now almost more Positanese in New York than there are here.”
The dark expression lifted and he glanced again at the sketch pad in her lap. “You are an artist?”
“A student of art. I’m not very good.”
“May I see?” He held out a hand.
For a moment, she resisted handing it to him. What would he make of the drawing she’d done of him?
But what of it? She’d also sketched the villa’s housekeeper, and the haunted faces of the beggars she’d seen in Naples when she first arrived with the boat.
She squared her shoulders and passed him the sketch pad, stifling the sudden frantic fluttering of nerves in the pit of her stomach.
She didn’t usually show her drawings to other people. They were silly sketches, faces or objects that caught her eye and her imagination. Good for the Blackpool sea front, but not true art, her teacher had said.
Stefano took the book, cradling it gently in his big brown hands as he flipped through the pages with long, deft fingers that were surprisingly elegant considering the rough workman-like texture of his hands.
He paused over a full page picture she’d drawn on the day of her arrival. She recognised it immediately. The image had been imprinted on her.
She’d been fresh off the boat from England, wide-eyed with wonder and excitement. As her uncle’s carriage had wound through the back streets of Naples, she’d seen sights she couldn’t have imagined, sights that had shaken the foundations of her comfortable life.
Tall, gloomy tenement buildings crowded together, leaning over dark alleys where a criss-cross of ropes resembling trolley wires twisted overhead. On the streets, wild-haired women cooked over coal stoves and ragged children swarmed like flies. But what had hit Isobel hardest wasn’t the squalor of the place. It was the people. It was the hard, hungry looks in their eyes.
Uncle Padraig’s chauffeur had driven straight passed, unseeing, but to Isobel that torrent of humanity had called out to her, opening her eyes. It was as though she hadn’t truly seen, until she’d arrived in Italy.
Without looking up from the drawing, Stefano said “We are a people in desperate need of change.”
She nodded, unable to speak against the lump in her throat.
With a shrug, he turned the page to a poor copy she’d sketched of Giotto’s Ognissanti Madonna during a school trip to Florence, one of the earliest drawings she’d made in this book.
“Giotto?”
She nodded. “Do you know much about art?”
He flashed a smile that set her stomach fluttering in an altogether different way. “All Italians have a great love for beauty.”
He flicked through the last few pages, his mouth curving upwards when he glimpsed the sketch she’d done of him. Then he closed the book and passed it back to her. “These are very good. With only a few lines you capture the emotion of your subject.”
She knew exactly what emotion she’d caught in his expression. Laughter. The contentment he radiated.
He smiled again, and this time there was something more in his smile, something she wasn’t used to seeing when people looked at her, but which she recognised. It was admiration.
“In the hills, not far from here, is a private chapel that is decorated with the most beautiful frescoes. Local legend says that Giotto himself designed them in the years he lived in Naples. If you like, I will show them to you on Sunday.”
Interest warred with common sense. “I would love to see them. Only …”
“Only you think your family will not approve of you meeting alone with a man?” Mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Follow the path through the olive grove to the road. At nine o’clock on Sunday morning I will wait there for you.” His cheek dimpled. “Bring a chaperone, if you wish.”
There were voices in the distance, the high voices of women, followed by the lower rumble of a man. Her cousins and their friends returning from their hike. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench, and as she moved the corner of her eye caught the gesture the old woman made with her fingers, in the direction of the new arrivals.
“What does that mean?”
Stefano’s gaze followed hers. “It is the sign to ward off the evil eye. Many people here distrust the rich foreigners.”
She didn’t blame them. “But she was friendly to me.”
The dimple winked in his cheek. “Because you are different.” Then glancing back towards the path where any moment her companions would appear, “It is better we are not seen together, si?”
“Si,” she answered.
His warm gaze wrapped around her for a long moment, then he hopped down from the wall. “Until Sunday.”
She nodded, watching as he sauntered across the piazza and out of sight as the others emerged on the other side of the square. She closed her sketch book and rose.
“You missed nothing,” grumbled Lotte, the voluptuous German princess. “It was just a hole in the rock.”
“The view was worth the climb,” Adam said.
Isobel suspected the argument had been going on for some time, and no comment was required. She fell into stride behind them and they headed back the way they’d come. The sun angled low on the horizon, dipping towards the sea and casting a soft blue light over the scene.
She hadn’t decided yet whether she would keep her meeting with Stefano secret, or whether she would take a chaperone with her on Sunday. The only thing she was sure of was that on Sunday she would find the path through the olive grove, and she would see him again.
Chapter Three
Rain drummed against the window panes. Isobel stared listlessly out at the view, hidden now behind a veil of mist and rain. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window. The room smelled of kerosene from the lamps that burned against the darkness of the day. Raucous laughter filtered through from the drawing room, where the other guests played Parcheesi.
She had no desire to join them. An unusual restlessness kept her on her feet, prowling the house like a caged bird longing to spread her wings and fly.
Anything is possible. If you want it enough. Stefano’s words lingered, opening up dangerous ideas she couldn’t control, and didn’t want to control.
She had come alive in the moment they’d met, that moment he’d held her hand and his lips had touched her skin. His smile had banished the heaviness she’d felt since her arrival, and in Montepertuso her eyes had opened to a world full of unimagined possibilities. A world in which she was welcomed and admired.
Last night she’d dreamed of him. She’d never dreamt of a man befor
e, and certainly no dream like this one. She’d dreamed he held her in his arms. His hands stroked her skin, igniting such a storm of desire in her that she’d woken in a fever, reaching out for him. When she’d realised she was alone, that it had been nothing more than a dream, she’d wept salty tears into her pillow.
Perhaps it was this infernal rain making her restless. Day after day of it, trapping them inside the villa.
Another burst of laughter intruded, sounding abruptly louder as the door between the rooms opened.
“I wondered where you’d got to.” At the sound of the clipped male voice she dragged herself away from the window and turned to face him. The practiced smile on her face would have made her mother happy. He was, after all, the sole reason that she was here, entrusted to the care of previously unacknowledged relatives all because Christopher Barrett was their house guest.
“I was thinking,” she said.
“Why bother that pretty head with thoughts that make you sad? If I cannot persuade you to join in Parcheesi, perhaps I could interest you in a quieter game, just you and me? Anything to put the smile back in your eyes.”
He was trying to flirt with her, she realised. She was no expert in these things, but it seemed a clumsy attempt.
“Thank you, but I have a headache. I think I’ll have a rest before dinner.”
He gave a small bow. “Another time then?”
“Yes. Another time.” He stood in the doorway still, and she brushed against him as she passed. There were none of the sparks she’d felt with Stefano. Not even the barest flicker of heat between them.
Another of those traitorous thoughts intruded. Would it be possible to find a man who was both eligible and able to invoke her desire? Did she have to choose between them?
Not that she had much choice in the matter. If Christopher could be brought to offer for her, there would be no-one else. And if he didn’t, she would be paraded before all the eligible bachelors in London like a prize brood mare. She stifled a sigh. Christopher was certainly the lesser of two evils.
He stepped aside to let her pass. As she headed for the stairs, she sensed his gaze on her. With the new insight the last few days had given her, she knew without a doubt that Christopher admired her, that he wanted her. She felt it like a prickling along her neck, an awareness of her power over him.
He was a nice enough man, attractive and well mannered, as pale as Stefano was dark. He was quiet and bookish, and in another lifetime, before she’d met Stefano, she’d have been only too happy to have his regard. But now the thought of his hands on her skin made her flinch.
As soon as she was out of his sight, Isobel raced up the remaining stairs, taking them two at a time. She paused only when she reached the wing she shared with Frances. Half way along the corridor, a small sound brought her up short. A whimper.
Then a moan.
Concerned, Isobel followed the sound. At the end of the corridor Frances’ bedroom door stood ajar, scarcely an inch but wide enough to allow her a glimpse into the room.
She froze.
She should leave. Avert her eyes. Run away.
But she did none of these.
She stood aghast, eyes wide, and stared at her cousin who lay naked on the bed, dark hair spread out in a cloud upon the pillow. And beside her, on the edge of the bed, leaning over her, sat a man as naked as she. Frances did not appear at all shy of her nakedness. She ran a slender hand over the curve of her hip, a smile of invitation parting her lips.
Who was this man? He was certainly not a house guest. He looked Italian, with the trademark olive skin and black hair. What madness was this, that Frances would expose herself this way to a man, who had not been introduced in the usual way and who was no doubt wholly unsuitable?
Isobel stepped slowly backwards into the shadow of the door, careful not to make a sound. But she could not tear her eyes away. Through the crack between the door and wall she watched, terrified and entranced, as Frances’ lover stretched out beside her on the bed. He was an attractive man, stockier than Stefano and somehow coarser, yet still as perfect a representation of strength and youthful beauty as the statue of David she and her school friends had giggled over during their visit to the Galleria dell’Accademia.
Isobel’s heart stuttered as dark, dangerous thoughts swirled through her. Would Stefano look like this unclothed?
No. Like David, Frances’ lover was the embodiment of the common man. There was nothing at all common about Stefano. He would be utterly beautiful naked.
Isobel could scarcely breathe. She watched, fascinated, as the man ran a brown hand over Frances’ bare skin, skimming lightly over her breasts and downward, disappearing between the pale mounds of her thighs. Frances sighed, the sigh becoming another moan as she arched into the slow, sensual movement of his hand. He slid a thick finger inside her, into the folds of her womanhood, moving slowly at first, then with growing urgency. Frances’ breathing grew ragged, and her limbs thrashed against the sheets, not in pain but in a pleasure unlike any Isobel had ever imagined.
The man took his engorged manhood in his other hand and began to stroke along its length. Isobel’s eyes widened. He seemed impossibly large, the organ swelling even further in his hand. No sculpture or painting had ever prepared her for the sight.
“Now, Carlo. I want you now.” Frances’ voice was low and urgent.
Isobel stifled a gasp as the man rolled astride Frances, his back to the door where she hid. He forced Frances’ legs further apart and lowered himself onto her.
As he thrust his full length into Frances, Isobel covered her mouth, more than a little afraid for her cousin. But far from appearing to feel any pain, Frances’ moan sounded ecstatic. The muscles of the man’s back rippled as he lifted himself off the bed, arching back as he pulled out of Frances, affording Isobel an unimpeded view of the glorious mechanics of an act that until now had meant nothing more to her than late night whispers in the school dormitory.
Something disturbing and darkly pleasurable stirred in her. She had never imagined the act of love would be anything like this. To have a man inside her, penetrating her – what did that feel like?
Her body heated as she imagined a man’s hands on her skin, the weight of his body on hers, having him move inside her, in the place so private even she dared not touch.
Frances’ face contorted in aching need. She pressed her hips up against Carlo’s, urging him deeper as he plunged into her.
Isobel’s heart beat hard against her ribs. Her muscles clenched as wet heat gathered in the apex of her legs.
Frances cried out her pleasure, a sound intensely joyful.
“Silenzio,” Carlo hissed. His voice, rough with passion, broke the spell that wove around Isobel. She turned and ran.
In the silence of her bedroom there was nothing but the gentle song of the rain falling on the tiled roof above to drown out her cousin’s carnal moans. Though she buried her face in the pillows, Isobel could still see hear that cry, and see their naked bodies entwined, as though the image had been burnt against her retinas. The need still ached within her, unleashed for the first time, darkly disturbing and yet so wonderful.
What did it feel like? Isobel rolled onto her back and raised up the edge of her dress, sliding her hand beneath her silk drawers, into the secret cleft between her legs. Her body was warm and moist and the need to rub the delicious itch was irresistible. She stroked between the silky soft lips, as Frances’ lover had done, slowly, firmly, then as the blood began to pound in her head, faster and harder.
Images flitted in and out of her head, of Frances and her lover. Only the woman was no longer Frances but herself, and the man had Stefano’s face.
Her heart raced. The sheer impossibility was a sweet, torturous delight.
Was this how Frances felt: deliciously naughty, enthralled by the pleasure?
She slipped a finger inside, exploring the soft warmth, feeling herself tighten around her finger. The sensation was dizzying, more intoxicating th
an limoncello.
Her palm rode against the folds of her womanhood, the friction sending waves of pleasure through her, rising like a storm. And like a storm the climax broke through her, wiping out all thought, all resistance.
She lay unmoving on the thick quilt for an age as the world slowly righted itself again. She should feel guilty about what she had witnessed, about what she had done. So why did she suddenly feel so alive, so excited and eager for more? The world seemed to have become coloured by her illicit act, as though every sight and sound and scent had grown more vivid.
You need to feel the passion, her art teacher had once said. You bring no soul to your work.
Well now she had felt passion. She knew what it was like to have her heart beat faster for a man, to feel her body grow warm at the mere thought of him. She knew what it was like to give herself pleasure.
It was a start, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted the slide of a man’s body against hers. She wanted to both give and receive pleasure. And the man she imagined sharing the moment with wasn’t Christopher.
She closed her eyes against the tumble of alien emotions, and breathed in deeply. The only way she could sort her feelings was on paper. She reached for her sketch pad on the bedside table and opened it to a clean page.
Without thinking, the pencil moved across the paper, capturing the soft curves of a feminine body, and the harder, more powerful lines of a masculine one, the two intertwined.
Anything is possible. If you want it enough.
But was she brave enough to go after what she wanted?
Could she do what Frances had done, and cast aside everything she’d ever been taught, everything she’d ever believed, just to experience this momentary pleasure?
She sighed, looking down at the sketch with a critical eye, before tearing it from the book and crumpling it into a ball.
No. She wasn’t Frances, ready to risk her reputation and her future for a moment of passion. For her, Stefano could be nothing more than a dream.
