The Italian's Secret Child

by Catherine Spencer

  “Then God help me when you are!”

  He was much too irresistible when he laughed, and she wished he’d stop. “No, really!” she said severely. “It’s unrealistic to think we can bridge a decade-long gap in communication by rushing into bed.”

  Sobering, he said, “Then how do you suggest we do it?”

  “That’s my whole point. We can’t. It might be different if we lived close to one another and could take things slowly.”

  “And sensibly.”

  “Yes,” she said, defiantly. “Mock me all you like, but there’s nothing wrong with being sensible sometimes.”

  “I agree, Stephanie. You’re absolutely right.”

  “It’s really for the best to end things now, before either of us gets in too deep.”

  “Indeed, yes!” he agreed, mercifully choosing not to make much of who was getting in where too deep.

  “We went ten years without exchanging a word, after all,” she pointed out righteously, “then in the space of a few days, we forgot all the reasons we didn’t work out the first time around, and picked right up where we’d left off.”

  “Exactly.”

  “At our age, there’s no excuse for repeating mistakes.”

  “None at all.”

  “We’re supposed to learn from them.”

  “Sì.”

  “Well, there you are, then. Now that we’ve cleared the air, we can close the door on the past and part as friends.”

  “Can we?” he said, his expression veiled. “Who are you trying to convince, Stephanie? Me, or yourself?”

  “Well, you, of course!”

  “But you didn’t have to come here to do that. I made it very clear, yesterday, that the next move was up to you, so all you had to do, today, was nothing. I’d have got the message.”

  “I thought it only fair to speak to you face-to-face.”

  “D’accordo! Okay! You’ve accomplished what you came to do.” He placed his hand in the small of her back, pivoted her around, and swept her unceremoniously out into the courtyard. “Grazie, buona fortuna, e buona notte!”

  Miserable in victory, she stumbled as far as the gate. Willed herself not to look back, to keep her reluctant feet moving.

  Moving away from him.

  And could do neither.

  “Is there a problem, Stephanie?”

  She turned and filled her starving gaze with the sight of him. He leaned in the doorway, one broad shoulder propped against the side of the frame, one long leg braced at the ankle across the other, the thumb of one hand hooked in the pocket of his narrow-fitting pants.

  “Yes,” she whimpered pathetically. “It’s the same as it was last night. I don’t really want to go.”

  The next afternoon, Corinna showed up at the villa. She had on a white peasant blouse, and a full, swirling skirt strewn with scarlet hibiscus and royal blue cornflowers. Toenails flawlessly lacquered to match her fingernails peeped from her straw sandals, and she carried a straw bag with a freshly cut hibiscus bloom pinned to the side.

  “I came to see you,” she told Stephanie, when Vivienne suggested she join them for afternoon tea. “Is there some place we can talk in private? The gazebo, perhaps?”

  She led the way into the garden without waiting for an answer and Stephanie, who until then had been floating on a cloud of pure bliss, followed, filled with a sense of foreboding that left her clammy with trepidation.

  “So,” Corinna began without preamble, perching gracefully beside her on a white-enameled bench, a gorgeous, exotic butterfly keeping company with a thoroughly unremarkable moth, “you and Matteo have been spending time together, sì?”

  Although technically the guest and therefore under some obligation to defer to the wishes of her hostess, her poise and self-command were such that she exuded an air of unshakable authority. In a contest of wills, there was little doubt about who’d emerge the winner.

  It wasn’t fair for one woman to be so overwhelmingly beautiful and completely invincible, Stephanie thought, feeling downright anemic in her pale green sundress. “Some,” she admitted, wishing she’d taken time to blow-dry her hair after swimming with Simon, instead of scooping it haphazardly into a knot on top of her head.

  “And you like him?” Corinna cast a knowing glance at her. “You like Matteo very much?”

  What was the point in denying the obvious? “Yes.”

  “Enough not to hurt him?”

  “Yes,” she said again, puzzled. “What makes you think otherwise?”

  Ignoring the question, Corinna said, “He tells me you’re going away together for the weekend. That you’re leaving tomorrow afternoon for his home in Tuscany, and not returning until Monday morning.”

  “That’s right.” Suddenly feeling as if she were eighteen again, and subject to being treated as someone not quite in command of all her faculties, Stephanie returned Corinna’s gaze in full measure and said boldly, “What’s all this leading up to, Corinna? Are you jealous?”

  Corinna’s reaction was startling, to say the least. Dropping her bag on the floor, she clasped her hands in her lap and, closing her eyes, laid her head against the high back of the bench. “Oh, I am jealous indeed!” she sighed. “I am jealous of your youth, Stephanie.”

  Stephanie waited, uncertain how to respond, or even if a response was expected. That this command performance had to do with Matteo had never been in question, but perhaps not, she was beginning to think, quite in the way she’d first supposed.

  After a moment, Corinna continued, “If I were younger, I would marry him in a flash, were he to ask me. But I’m forty-eight, well past child-bearing age, and Matteo deserves a wife who can give him a son.” She opened her eyes then, and without moving her head, slid her amber gaze sideways to connect with Stephanie’s. “Do you not agree that he deserves a son, Stephanie? That it would be a crime to deny him that right?”

  Stephanie’s mouth ran dry and her heart thudded to a stop, before lurching to life again. With crystal clarity she recalled Corinna’s searching examination of Simon the day she’d met him, and her oddly cryptic remarks.

  … Cosi biondo…cosi familiare…he could pass for an Italian with such skin….

  “If there’s a point to all this,” Stephanie said, horribly afraid that there was, “I’m afraid I’m missing it.”

  Corinna reached into her bag, withdrew what appeared to be a folded embossed card stippled brown and yellow with age in places, and passed it to Stephanie. “Does this help you find it, cara?”

  Unwillingly, Stephanie opened it, and felt the blood drain down into her ankles at what she discovered. Inside was a photograph of Simon when he’d been about eighteen months old. Except it couldn’t be Simon. Everything about it—the era in which it was taken, the sepia tint, everything was wrong!

  This child, who looked out with Simon’s wide-set eyes and smiled at the camera with Simon’s sweet little boy dimples, wore a long dress trimmed with fine lace, and had a ribbon in her short, blond hair. But take away the unfamiliar background, the obvious disparity in time, and she could have been his twin. To pretend otherwise was futile. The resemblance was indisputable.

  Stephanie’s hands began to shake. “Where did you get this?” she asked in a shell-shocked whisper.

  “From an album of old photographs I discovered in my house about a year ago. They were in a trunk, along with memorabilia from the Second World War. It took me a while to find this particular print, but I made the connection the day you came to lunch. You’re looking now at a picture of Matteo’s paternal grandmother.”

  “I don’t believe you! Matteo looks nothing like her.”

  “No, he takes after the Italian side of the family. But she was Swiss. Blond and blue-eyed. Just like your Simon. An extraordinary coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  What could she say? The truth had come out in a way she’d never anticipated, and there was no stuffing it back into secrecy. Numb with dread, she stared at Corinna and asked hollowly, “Wha
t are you going to do about it?”

  “Are you admitting that Simon is Matteo’s son?”

  Stripped of energy, tired of lying, and painted into a corner entirely of her own making, Stephanie wilted on the bench. “You haven’t left me much choice, have you?”

  “Then the question, my dear, is what are you going to do? One way or another, Matteo will learn the truth, of that you may be sure. But I suggest it would sound better coming from you.”

  “How, Corinna?” she burst out wretchedly, tears welling up in her eyes. “You appear to have all the answers before I even know there’s a question, so tell me, how do I do that without destroying what he and I are on the brink of rediscovering with one another? Or is that what you’re hoping for—that he’ll walk away from me, and you’ll have him all to yourself again?”

  Corinna retrieved the photo and took firm hold of Stephanie’s trembling hands. “Listen to me, cara,” she said kindly. “I am not your enemy, nor do I have any wish to come between you and Matteo.”

  “But you’ll do it anyway!”

  “If I must, yes.” She sighed again, and gave Stephanie’s hands a last squeeze before releasing them. “Despite what you appear to think, I like you, Stephanie. I feel for you at this most difficult time, and I don’t pretend that the task facing you will be easy. But if you force me to choose sides, I will choose Matteo’s. He and I have known each other from the time we were children spending our summers here on Ischia. My primary loyalty lies with him. I know how deeply he reveres family, how much he hopes to have one of his own someday. Please don’t ask me to betray him by hiding the truth about this child he fathered.”

  “But we’ve only just found each other again!” Stephanie protested, seeing all her newly-minted dreams evaporating. “We’re just beginning to rebuild our relationship!”

  Producing a handkerchief, Corinna dabbed gently at Stephanie’s cheeks. “Do you love him, my dear?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed. “I’ve always loved him.”

  “Enough to forgive him, if he were to tell you he’d fathered a child by another woman?”

  Did she? Heavy-hearted, Stephanie turned away, knowing the answer and wishing she could refute it. But what use trying to fool Corinna, if she couldn’t fool herself? “There’s nothing he could do or say that I wouldn’t forgive.”

  “Then trust him to be equally generous. Matteo is a good man, a fair man.”

  That much she knew to be true. Maturity had softened his hard edges, endowed him with compassion and humanity. But he was no saint. There was a limit to what he’d tolerate, and no amount of sweet reason could mitigate the enormity of her deception.

  “Oh!” she cried, beside herself. “If you had to ruin my life, couldn’t you have waited a few more days and let me have this one, perfect weekend with him, first?”

  “It’s because you do have this weekend that I spoke when I did. Think about it, Stephanie! This way, you’ll have uninterrupted time together to work things out. There’ll be no running away from the truth by either of you.”

  “I’ll spoil everything. He’ll be so angry!”

  “Sì, furioso. But he will also be grato—grateful for the gift you bring to him. Simon is a beautiful child. What man would not welcome him as a son?” Again, she reached for Stephanie’s hands and shook them gently. “Have faith, cara! Believe in Matteo.”

  An hour ago, she had. But an hour ago, she’d still been high on memories of the night before….

  “I don’t really want to go,” she’d confessed when, despite her every intention, she hadn’t been able to open the gate and walk away from him.

  “Then stay. Stop all this nonsense and come here.”

  He’d held open his arms, and she’d flown into them. Buried her face against his neck and drawn in the warm, intoxicating man-scent of him. “You must think I’m such a fool.”

  “No,” he murmured. “Al contrario, cara mia, I understand you better than you think.”

  “But I don’t understand myself.” She leaned back, the better to search his face, and fanned her fingers over her breast. “Matteo, I don’t understand what’s happening here! I’m not a teenager anymore. I ought to be able to control myself. And I do, when I’m not with you. I tell myself I won’t let you sweep me off my feet again, that nothing good can come of this. But as soon as we’re together, the wanting comes back, and it’s as you said last night: it’s not just about sex anymore.”

  “No,” he said huskily. “It’s about two people who lost each other many years ago, and by some miracle have the chance to find their way back to one another. That’s why I asked you to come away with me—so that we can embark together on the long journey from yesterday to today.”

  “And I—”

  He silenced her with a short, hard kiss. “I know. You promised this time to your grandparents.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say!”

  “No?”

  “No. My father and Victor plan to spend the weekend in Capri, and Drew’s flying to Rome to visit a college friend. So, if the invitation still stands, this would be the perfect time for you and me to get away also.”

  “Your grandparents won’t mind?”

  “Not a bit. They’d never come out and say so, of course, but I think they’re finding having six people underfoot all the time a lot more tiring than they’d expected, and they’re quite looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet.”

  “What can I say then, except that, for once, I’m grateful to your father?”

  Undone by his slow smile, by the promise she saw in his dark eyes, she said, “You could tell me you want to make love to me again.”

  “I have to say the words?” He cradled her bottom and pulled her hips playfully against his, against the prominent contour of his arousal glaringly evident through the snug fit of his linen pants. “You can’t figure out for yourself that I’m more than ready, more than willing, to do exactly that?”

  “Talk’s cheap,” she said, lowering her gaze in a parody of prim modesty. “Show me the proof.”

  His low laughter grazed her mouth, sent a thrill of anticipation racing along her nerves. “Then come with me, my love,” he growled, lifting her effortlessly into his arms, “and I’ll supply all the proof you could possibly ask for.”

  Although the corners of his bedroom lay draped in shadows, the moon splashed bright silver coins of light through the open window. Enough for him to find the buttons down the front of her blouse. Enough for her to see the impassioned rise and fall of his chest.

  He turned undressing her into a ritual of worship, un-hurriedly removing each item of her clothing and pausing to admire with a word, a brief, tormenting caress, each inch of skin he exposed. “This place here…and here…and here,” he murmured, pressing hot, damp kisses at the base of her throat, the hollow of her shoulder, the slope of her breast, “taste of peaches kissed by the sun.”

  All that lovely attention she’d accepted with some degree of equanimity, filing away in her memory for later pleasure each erotic touch, every tender word. But when he sank down and buried his tongue between her thighs, the meltdown effect was so total that her mind went dark, her knees buckled, and she swayed against him.

  From somewhere deep within her, a wild, primitive sound erupted. She clutched handfuls of his hair, raked her nails over his shoulders.

  It was too much—he was too much! “No more!” she begged brokenly, when at last the mists cleared and she could speak coherently again. “Let me undress you now! I want to feel all of you against me, skin to skin.”

  He rose to his feet, accepting with tortured patience her fumbling attempts to unbuckle his belt and draw down the zipper at his fly, and pull his shirt free and tear open its buttons, and oh, to possess him as he’d possessed her! To run her palms at leisure over the crisp dusting of hair on his chest and follow its path as it narrowed down his torso in a long, dark stripe. To cradle his taut buttocks and pull him just close enough for the smooth, silken ti
p of his penis to brush questingly against her.

  She loved touching him. Loved the hard, heated texture of him, the underlying strength, the sculpted shape. After so many years of making do with recycled memories, she delighted in the solid flesh and blood reality of him.

  “You are killing me!” he groaned, when she took her fingertip and traced a delicate heart over his groin, then dipped her head and stroked her tongue over the thick, heavy weight of him. “And you’ve gone unpunished long enough.”

  The vengeance he wreaked left her dazed and delirious. In a heartbeat, he had her stretched out beneath him on the bed. She felt cool sheets at her back, and thought that they must be freshly laundered because she could smell lavender.

  Then she stopped thinking altogether because he was inflicting such relentless bliss to her body again that even the soles of her feet puckered with delight. Finally, in a quiet, almost exploratory way, he entered her. Not very far. Just enough to leave her screaming silently for more.

  Opening her eyes, she found him staring down at her, his expression somber, his gaze locked unblinkingly with hers. A pulse throbbed at his temple and she could feel his heart knocking at his ribs. Otherwise, he remained motionless.

  At length, he moved again. An abbreviated thrust only. A taste of heaven too soon withdrawn.

  The darkest recesses of her body clutched and convulsed. She opened her mouth to beg, but he silenced her with his tongue, plunging it deep into her mouth at the same time that he drove hard into her. And then, the race was on.

  His hips ground against hers in frantic rhythm. The bed rocked and groaned in sympathy as she fought the encroaching climax. She wanted to remain clear-headed, to capture for eternity this night, this moment, in all its perfection.

  She wanted the impossible! Nothing could survive the earth-shattering force of the ecstasy which burst over her like a thousand shimmering stars. Nothing could halt the towering magnificence of his ultimate surrender.

  But later, in the close union of heart and soul only ever found after two people have made love, but never present when all they’ve had is sex, she found it was possible to improve on perfection. Because, as she lay with her head on his chest and his hand lazily stroking her back, he said ruefully, “Are men in general more stupido than women, or am I unique in not having seen until now what’s been staring me in the face all along?”