by Romy Sommer
“I can’t wear that in broad daylight!”
“Who’s to know what you wear today?” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re not really going to draw pictures, are you?”
Isobel stuck out a tongue, then giggled. “And you’re not really going to sit and read.”
For days, Frances had worn a haggard look in her eyes, but this morning she’d regained her usual spark. The prospect of seeing her lover again had brought roses back to her cheeks. “I don’t even plan to go down to the village with you. Not as long as I have the whole house to myself.”
Seeing her glow, and the air of suppressed excitement about her, Isobel wondered that no-one else in their party had questioned Frances’ plans for the day. With her irrepressible energy and liveliness, Frances would never sit and read quietly all day.
Frances stretched out on the bed, moving with all the sensual satisfaction of a cat. This was the same bed where she’d made love to her Italian lover. Where she no doubt planned to make love to him again today.
A knot tightened in Isobel’s chest. Would she wear that same glowing, satisfied look by the end of the day?
Encouraged by Frances’ honesty, she answered, “No, I don’t intend to paint all day.”
Before she could change her mind, she unbuttoned her dress and reached for the one Frances suggested.
“Oh no!” Frances whipped the dress away. “You can’t wear those.”
Isobel looked down at the white cotton petticoat that covered her more intimate undergarments.
Her cousin rose from the bed and dug in the top drawer of her dresser, tossing clothing at Isobel, leaving her no choice but to strip down and change into the offered garments. When she was done, Frances handed her the ivory silk dress.
Isobel stepped into it and twirled before the mirror. The silken undergarments she now wore left her feeling naked beneath the sheath of silk.
The dress was modish. It was also the shortest skirt Isobel had ever worn, the hemline above her knees and the back decadently bare.
What would her mother say?
She wished she had her hair bobbed, as Frances wore hers. But there was nothing she could do about that now. So she left her hair loose and flowing about her shoulders instead of dressing it up. Exactly the way Stefano had admired it. The soft, sensual sway of it against her skin imbued her with a sense of daring.
“He’ll love it,” Frances said, grinning impishly. She didn’t ask who he was, this man that Isobel planned to meet. Isobel was glad. She didn’t want to share Stefano with anyone. He was her guilty secret.
Isobel looked back at the mirror and her nerves jangled. She hardly recognised the young woman in the mirror. A modern young woman, with feverish eyes.
Her body thrummed with energy. But she was terrified too. Less by what she planned to do, more by the intensity of her desire.
Today she would lose her virginity to a man who wasn’t her husband. When her future husband discovered she was not a virgin, it would be too late to undo.
“I’m ready,” she said.
#
Armed with nothing more than her purse and sketch pad, Isobel emerged through the front doors of the villa onto the flight of wide, shallow steps that connected the villa to the state road.
A crunch of gravel drew her attention, and she turned to see one of the gardeners, his face masked by an armful of tall mauve gladioli.
“Flowers for the house,” he said, his voice rough and heavily accented. Though she’d never seen his face, she knew who he was. Carlo. Frances’ lover.
A gardener! What was Frances thinking?
But she wasn’t thinking. And with a sinking heart, Isobel realised that she was as lost to sense as her cousin.
Did it really matter to her that Stefano was of noble blood, rather than the fisherman she’d first thought him? Would she have acted on this driving need if he hadn’t been an aristocrat? She didn’t know.
As Carlo passed, his gaze swept over her. She shivered. The dress left little to the imagination, and his eyes were coldly shrewd, leaving her naked and vulnerable.
He was boyishly good looking, younger than Stefano, yet she far preferred Stefano’s more rugged charm, the easy grin and casual grace. At the thought of Stefano, her insecurity vanished. She drew back her shoulders and straightened her back, and without a backward glance, headed down to the road.
She walked briskly, heading away from Positano, until she reached the stairs to Arienzo. The stairway descended the steep slope to the rocky shore below, nearly a quarter mile of steps cut out of the mountainside. Used as she was to tramping around the estate at home, she’d had more exercise in these weeks in Italy than she’d ever known. She skipped down the stairs.
She lost count of their number, too absorbed in the bird song and the soft, scented breeze swirling around her. The only sign of life was the muleteers, leading a couple of braying mules loaded with baskets up towards Montepertuso high above.
The tiny hamlet of Arienzo came into view, a cluster of cottages, and above them on the forested hillside red rooftops that hinted at a sprawling villa. The luxuriant vegetation on either side of her path gave way to hand-built stone walls, decorated with hanging baskets spilling blooms and swathes of livid purple bougainvillea.
It was almost nine o’clock. She raced down the steps to the crescent of beach, arriving breathless and flushed.
Waves rolled onto the beach, their filigree of foam breaking apart on the sand. A handful of rag-tag children played among the nets and fishing detritus on the beach.
There was no sign of Stefano.
A single boat rocked against the simple stone jetty that jutted out from an even simpler stone boat house. Though it was not a large boat, it gleamed in the sunlight, painted and polished as no ordinary fishing boat ever was.
At the sound of a whistle, she turned her head, as Stefano emerged from the path behind the boat house, from the direction of the villa. Her stomach fluttered at sight of him, no longer from nerves, but from joy.
“Buon giorno, Isabella.”
This wasn’t the sophisticated Conte di Cilento. This was the Stefano she knew, warm, smiling. His eyes flared as he took in the loose hair and the sheer dress. She tore her gaze away from his, letting her eyes slide down the length of him instead.
He wore fawn-coloured trousers, and a plain cotton shirt, open at the neck to reveal the tanned skin at his throat, golden against the whiteness of the shirt.
“Shall we go?” he asked.
“Where are we going?”
“Capri.”
He took her hand and led her along the jetty, then helped her up onto the deck of his boat. She glanced around. “Are you able to sail this by yourself?” Oh please let there not be a sailing crew.
He smiled, his cheek dimpling. “It’s a motor boat as well as a sail boat. We will be all alone.” He led her into the glassed-in cockpit in the centre of the deck and beneath it, reached down a steep ladder, was a tiny cabin.
As Stefano did a quick inspection of the boat, she climbed down into the cabin to stow away her purse and sketch pad. The room was tiny, with a kitchen top on one side, a bunk on the other.
Back on deck, she stood in the prow as he cast off. The motor engaged, sending a vibration up through the soles of her feet. Though the engine was contained in a powerhouse at the aft of the boat, the roar blotted out the sound of the birds, the children on the beach, even the crash of the waves. She turned her face to the sea, loving the cool spray against her skin as the boat sliced through the deepening water. She lifted the hair off her neck, allowing the cool air across her skin.
Then she turned to look at him, standing firm at the helm, his feet planted apart against the sway of the boat as it moved over the growing swell. His smile reeled her in, as helpless as any fish on a lure. The wind whipped across her face as she made her way towards him, until she ducked into the shelter of the cockpit and the safety of his arms.
“Would
you like to steer?” he asked, his voice silken against her ear. He guided her hands to the wheel and when he let go she felt the power gathered beneath her hands. She laughed at the thrill of it.
Then his arm snaked around her, holding her steady, pulling her back against him. Her nerves tingled with the awareness, all her senses heightened. At her back, his arousal pushed gently against her and the knowledge of her affect on him was exhilarating.
She shifted against him, rubbing herself against him, instantly aware of the effect the movement had on him.
He stepped back, placing a little distance between them. “You tempt me, cara. But it is too soon. Have patience.”
How could she be patient, when every part of her ached with a crushing need to feel him, to know him? When she wanted beyond reason or thought for him to possess her body and turn her into the woman she so desperately wanted to be?
Chapter Eleven
The blue shadow of Capri edged closer, growing larger. The blues changed to greens as the thickly forested coastline came into sharp relief. Too soon for Isobel’s liking, steep, verdant cliffs soared above them, bringing their journey to an end.
Stefano slowed the boat, swinging in towards one of the coves.
On the clear water of the bay, a number of small rowing boats bobbed around a floating barge. Instantly aware of watching eyes, she moved away from him to stand in the prow, but distance did not lesson the heightened awareness of her body to his. Behind her, the engine’s motor died away and the boat drifted into the cove on the waves. Stefano waved to the men lounging on the deck of the barge.
“What are they waiting for?” She called to Stefano.
“For the steam packet that brings tourists from Naples and Sorrento.”
She bit her lip and he smiled reassurance. “It’s early yet in the day for the tourists.”
She searched for the mouth of the sea cave and when she spotted it, nothing more than a dark slash at the base of a cliff, her heart stuttered. “How do we get in there?”
He grinned. “You’ll see.”
Stefano anchored his motor boat and came to stand beside her in the prow. On the platform, one of the men climbed into a row boat and headed for them.
“The row boat will take us inside the grotto.” He helped her down into the narrow rowing boat as it came alongside them. The boat had no benches, only cushions for them to sit on.
“Will this boat through that little hole?” she asked, eying the low entrance of the cave with trepidation.
“It will.” Stefano climbed into the boat behind her, rocking it as he settled in.
“Grazie, Franco,” he said to their rower, who grinned back at him, doffing his cap.
The tiny boat rocked treacherously as they approached the narrow cave entrance. “Lie back now,” Stefano ordered.
Obediently, Isobel lay down, back into Stefano’s waiting arms, her body encased between his long, muscular thighs. Her head rested on his chest, rising and falling with each breath he took. For a moment she closed her eyes, relaxing back into the safety and warmth of his embrace.
Her eyes fluttered open as the heavy rock overhang shut out the light. A wave swelled beneath them, lifting the little boat high enough that she could reach up and touch the rock above their heads.
Then suddenly they were inside the cavern, and Isobel gasped. The cave roof arched up into a high dome, light dancing patterns across the rocky surface. She understood now why this was known as the Blue Grotto. The walls and roof shimmered with colour, reflecting the brilliant turquoise of the water which seemed illuminated by enchantment.
“The Emperor Tiberius used this grotto as his private swimming pool.” Stefano’s whisper rose into the vast echo of the vaulted dome.
Now they were inside, and the roof was higher, she could have sat up. But she didn’t. She lay cushioned against Stefano’s chest, enjoying the unfamiliar hardness of his body, and watched the strange exotic light play over the cavern roof.
Franco kept his back turned to them, looking around the cave with a rapt attention that seemed improbable in someone who saw this sight every day.
The waves slapped a mesmerising rhythm against the sides of their little boat as it rocked gently. Against her lower back she felt the stirring of Stefano’s body and it took her a moment to realise that it was arousal.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“Yes, it is.” His voice was low and husky in her ear, sending shivers through her, and she knew he wasn’t talking about the grotto.
His arm snaked over her stomach, holding her close and he rubbed himself against the curve of her bottom. He seemed to grow harder and longer, and he shifted to accommodate his swelling manhood. She longed to reach out and touch, to learn.
A slow ache throbbed between her legs.
Instead, she raised herself up on her elbow and trailed a hand over the side of the boat. Her hand gleamed silver, the water warm and sensual as silk against her skin. She wondered how it would feel to strip off her clothes and slip into that water, to swim as the Emperors had. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the salty sea scent, the stillness, and imagined herself in the water. Naked. With nothing between her skin and the caress of the water. Her breath quickened.
Stefano stroked his hand over her stomach, slowly and steadily sliding over her hip and upwards, towards her breast, his touch fuelling an ache as her nipples pulled taut against the loose silk of her camisole.
Was this slight friction between their bodies, through layers of clothes, all it took to arouse desire? Or was the electric tension between them something special, a unique bond? Then a traitorous thought intruded: had he done this before, and brought other women here to seduce them in the same way?
Through the thin silk of her dress, the warm pressure of his body set her alight, made her want dark and dangerous things. What did it matter that she was not his first? Was it not better to give herself this first time to a man who knew how to pleasure her, rather than to some unskilled lover?
She banished the fleeting image of Christopher’s soft hands with a shudder.
Yes, far rather would she have Stefano’s hands on her. Even though she might never have more than this one magical day with him.
It was sin. It could be the ruin of her. And she didn’t care.
For the first time in her life she felt truly alive and truly aware.
Voices broke the cave’s serenity, intruding into their idyll. The sound was as good as a splash of icy water in her face. She shrugged Stefano’s hand away and sat up, putting as much distance between them as she could in the tiny space of the rowing boat.
“Sunlight passing through an underwater cavity creates the blue light that illuminates the cave,” the new guide explained in accented English.
Isobel cast her eyes downward, though she’d never felt less demure. Despite the space between them, and the fear of discovery, her body was still on fire for Stefano. She risked a glance at the other boat. A little of the tension in her shoulders dissolved when she did not recognise the other tourists.
Stefano laughed softly behind her, as though her sudden concern for her reputation amused him. “Perhaps it is time we go.”
Franco steered the little boat back towards the cave’s entrance, greeting the other guide as the boats passed. She caught snatches of the intruders’ conversation, recognised their accents as American, and a wave of relief washed over her.
No-one who might know her family. No-one who could report back to her parents that she was alone and intimate with a man, and a foreigner at that.
Stefano lazed behind her in the boat, still as relaxed and unconcerned as before. His easy confidence was strangely seductive. She wished she could share his indifference to what people thought.
As they approached the narrow cave mouth she was forced to lie back against Stefano once again, this time her body rigid with tension.
“Relax,” he said.
She wanted to, but it was impossible. The desire
for release throbbed too insistently through her veins, a need that demanded satisfaction.
Chapter Twelve
Sunlight blinded Isobel as they emerged from the cave. It took a long moment for her eyes to re-adjust to the dazzle of sun glinting off the clear blue water of the bay. By that time Franco, clearly used to the transition, had already manoeuvred the rowing boat alongside Stefano’s pleasure craft.
Stefano climbed onto the deck ahead of her and between the men they helped her up, then with a backward wave, Franco left them.
It was a pleasure to watch Stefano at work. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to raise the anchor, revealing strong, muscled forearms. His arms were tanned, his hands deft and sure as he stowed the anchor and its rope. He caught her watching and gave a knowing grin, stretching out a hand to her, beckoning her to join him at the wheel.
The engine roared to life and soon the boat flew over the waves.
“Where are we going now?” she asked, as he turned the boat to skirt the island’s coastline rather than heading back towards Positano.
“We will have lunch in a quiet cove I know.” He pulled her close to stand once again within the curve of his arms. “It’s a beautiful place, still untouched by visitors.”
She cast a glance behind them, checking they were no longer in sight of the drifting raft or the other visitors’ boat before she allowed herself to relax.
The cove was everything he had promised and more. Sheltered from the waves and the wind, the boat bobbed gently on the tide. The hillsides sloping down to the water were heavily forested, green and lush. And deserted. There were no prying eyes here. They were utterly alone.
It was what she wanted, yet despite the bright sunlight that bathed the cove, a shiver of apprehension spread goose bumps over her skin. Stefano ran his hands down her bare arms to warm her. “Do you want to swim?”
No, she did not. What she wanted was to explore these new and dangerous sensations coursing through her. Now, while she still had the courage to be wild. Now, while Italy and Stefano still had their hold on her.
