In the Italian's Sights

by Helen Brooks

‘I do not feel young.’ Eyes as green as grass held hers. ‘I do not think I have ever truly felt young as my friends are. I have always felt different. And I know what I want, Cherry. I want to marry Santo and have his babies. That is all I have ever wanted. Everything else does not count for me.’

  Oh, dear. Somewhat at a loss, Cherry squeezed the slim fingers in hers. ‘Then it will happen,’ she said simply. ‘When it’s right. He’ll wait for you, if he is the one.’

  They talked a little more. Cherry told Vittorio’s sister about her job in marketing, and what it had entailed, adding that she was glad she had left when she had and that she was considering a change of career when she returned to England eventually. ‘Perhaps local government—something like that. My degree is in English and Business Studies, but I think I’d find social services more interesting. I’m not sure. Time will tell. For now I’m looking on the next few months as the gap year I never had before university.’

  Sophia nodded, but clearly had no interest in a career herself, only becoming animated when she told Cherry about Santo and how wonderful he was. ‘He has never looked at another girl. I know this,’ she said passionately, ‘and I could never love anyone else. It is foolish to make us wait. I tell Vittorio this but he will not listen. He has the heart of ice, not of fire.’

  After a while both girls settled down for a siesta in the shade of the trees, the chirruping of birds and the lazy hum of bees in the surrounding vegetation the only sound disturbing the warm scented air. Cherry could hardly believe she’d told a virtual stranger about Liam and Angela, but then maybe it was because Sophia was a stranger that it had proved so easy. That and these incredibly beautiful and surreal surroundings.

  This whole interlude felt like a step out of time, she thought drowsily in the moments before sleep overcame her. It was as though she had been transported to another dimension—a dimension ruled by a dark and autocratic overlord with a heart of stone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN Cherry awoke it was because some sixth sense was telling her to beware. From a deep sleep her eyes flew open, and she raised her head to stare into the beautiful smoky-grey eyes that had featured in a dream she now couldn’t remember but which she knew had been disturbing.

  ‘Sleeping Beauty.’ Vittorio’s voice was soft and deep. ‘This is a fairytale, si?’

  It might be—but never had the Prince been dressed in nothing but a brief pair of swimming trunks, and she didn’t think even Prince Charming’s body could compete with the man in front of her. The flagrant masculinity had been raw enough when Vittorio had been fully dressed. Now it was positively alarming. His thickly muscled torso gleamed like oiled silk, and he had obviously just been in the pool because the tight black curls on his chest glistened with droplets of water. The hair on his chest narrowed to a thin line over his flat belly, disappearing into the trunks, and his thighs were hard and powerful. He looked lean, lithe and dangerous, and undeniably earth-shattering.

  Cherry swallowed. There was something about Vittorio Carella which made her feel completely subjugated and painfully feminine. She could cope with the second emotion, but the first was causing her hackles to rise again. Nevertheless, she did what she’d promised herself she would do the next time she saw him and said quickly, ‘I must apologise for not thanking you properly for allowing me to stay. I’m not usually so rude.’

  He eyed her speculatively for a moment, then stretched out on the sun-lounger his sister had used earlier. Lazily, he drawled, ‘Then why so remiss today, Cherry?’

  She might have known she couldn’t expect him simply to accept her apology and leave it at that. It took all of her considerable willpower to bite back the tart retort hovering on her tongue and say flatly, ‘Probably because we got off on the wrong foot.’

  ‘The wrong foot?’ He was clearly amused. ‘This is an English expression, si? But why did we get off on this “wrong foot”, eh? I think I know the answer to this.’

  She stared at him, not knowing what to say.

  ‘For some reason you do not like me. This is true, si?’

  She could tell he was enjoying her discomfiture, playing with her like a cat with a mouse, and nothing could have stopped her next words. ‘As it happens, you’re dead right.’ So much for the apology. But it was his fault, not hers.

  ‘You are an independent woman, I think. Strong. And surprisingly unmaterialistic.’

  She didn’t know if she agreed with his opinion—certainly with regard to the first two attributes. She hadn’t felt very strong lately. Weakly, she said, ‘Surprisingly?’

  ‘I have found most modern women are driven by avarice and greed when it comes to looking for a partner in the opposite sex.’

  Cherry reared up like a scalded cat, glaring at him with shocked eyes. ‘That’s absolutely ridiculous.’

  ‘You think so?’ He smiled coldly. ‘But this is not a criticism, Cherry. Most mothers want their daughters to marry well and live a life of luxury. It is natural. And most daughters are only too pleased to be guided by Mamma in this respect. Over the last years I have had a whole host of such daughters paraded before me by hopeful matrons who probably know to the last euro what I am worth. And of course there have been other women—socialites and so on—who thought they would like to become Signora Carella and continue to live in the manner to which they were accustomed. A few have even said this outright.’

  She stared at him. ‘Are you saying women only want you for your money?’ Had he looked in the mirror lately?

  He laughed—a throaty chuckle. ‘Not only my money, no. If there was a choice between a rich old man and a rich young one most red-blooded females would prefer the latter, I have no doubt. But wealth and position are powerful aphrodisiacs.’

  Cherry thought he was doing himself—and probably the vast majority of the women he’d spoken of—a grave injustice. Vittorio Carella was the epitome of a man with everything, and she didn’t doubt women would find it easy to fall in love with him. She found the thought uncomfortable, and because of this her voice was uncharacteristically sharp when she said, ‘Something tells me you have been mixing with the wrong type of woman. Or maybe it’s a case of “live by the sword, die by the sword”?’

  ‘An interesting suggestion.’ His voice was smooth, silky, but there was the slightest of inflexion in the cool foreign voice that hinted he wasn’t as relaxed and nonchalant as he’d have her believe. ‘You are intimating I get what I deserve, signorina?’

  ‘My father always used to say that water finds its own level.’ She smiled, determined not to be intimidated by this arrogant individual who had put womankind into a box. ‘And I happen to have lots of female friends who couldn’t care less about the balance of a man’s bank account but put a high price on faithfulness and commitment.’

  ‘And you, Cherry? Do you put a high price on faithfulness?’

  For a second she wondered if Sophia had told him about Liam and Angela, but almost immediately dismissed the thought. Brother and sister weren’t into cosy conversations just at the moment. She took a deep breath and spoke from the heart. ‘It’s priceless.’

  The grey eyes narrowed before he raked back his wet hair with bronzed fingers. Changing the subject with an abruptness which was unnerving, he said, ‘I saw Sophia talking to you earlier.’ He gestured towards the house. ‘From the window. The conversation appeared… intense.’

  Cherry’s chin tilted upwards. To anyone who knew her it was a warning signal, but her voice was controlled and without heat when she said calmly, ‘I have no intention of repeating my conversation with your sister, Signor Carella.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would, Miss Cherry Gibbs from England. Not for a moment. You think Sophia is hard done by?’

  The overt mockery was galling. He was galling, with his to-die-for body and filmstar good-looks. Horrified such a thought had entered her mind, Cherry said crisply, ‘I would just say that I consider your treatment of your sister archaic at best and stupid at worst.’

>   The smile hovering about his mouth disappeared. ‘Stupid?’ he ground out. Clearly ‘archaic’ was permissible, but ‘stupid’ had most definitely touched a nerve.

  He sat up on the sun-bed, the subtle sensual odour of his brown skin overlaid with the tang of the swimmingpool water filling her senses as he leant closer. ‘Why stupid?’ he murmured, his eyes like cold steel. ‘Explain yourself.’

  He had asked. ‘I happen to think Sophia is far more emotionally mature than you intimated,’ she said carefully, ‘but when all is said and done she is still a sixteen-year-old girl. I’ve been that age, and if there is one thing absolutely set in concrete it’s that you do whatever the older generation says it’s foolish to do. Call it rebellion, finding your own feet, whatever, but it’s guaranteed you’ll go against the grain. And that is what Sophia is doing.’

  ‘Santo?’ he said flatly.

  ‘Santo.’ Cherry nodded. ‘You are driving her into his arms by trying to keep them apart.’

  ‘The problema romantico?’ The hard, autocratic face was thoughtful. ‘Si, maybe. Perhaps you have a point.’

  ‘Yes, definitely.’ Her voice was cool. ‘It’s Romeo and Juliet all over again.’

  ‘An exaggeration, but I get your drift,’ he drawled mockingly.

  Hateful man. ‘Of course it’s none of my business,’ she said crisply, sliding out of the hammock and walking towards the swimming pool. ‘And I’m sure a man as well acquainted with the female sex as you obviously are knows exactly what he’s doing.’

  She dived into the cool water before he could reply, needing to put some space between them. It didn’t work. When she surfaced he was right there beside her, grey eyes glinting in the baking hot sunlight.

  He didn’t mince his words. ‘You think I am a womaniser?’ he asked, treading water by her side. ‘A philanderer?’

  Feeling far more vulnerable than she would have liked, Cherry blinked and shook her hair out of her eyes. ‘I’ve no idea what you are,’ she prevaricated. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’

  ‘This is true, but I do not think it has stopped you forming an opinion.’ As she began to swim, he kept by her side. ‘Are you always so quick to make erroneous judgements?’

  His voice was mild, but it didn’t fool her for a moment. She had got under his skin, it was obvious, but any satisfaction she might have felt about denting his giant ego was negated by a feeling of defencelessness. Not that she thought he would hurt her—she didn’t—but…

  Forcing a calmness into her voice that was all at odds with her wildly beating heart, she said, ‘I told you. I have no opinion about you one way or the other, OK? You might have a woman for every day of the week or you could live like a monk. You were the one who talked about all those daughters of marriagable age being paraded before you, remember?’

  They had reached the shallow end of the pool, where large circular steps led gently into the water. Cherry didn’t know whether to climb out or continue swimming, but in the next moment Vittorio murmured, ‘Ah, here is Margherita. I thought it would be nice to have cocktails by the pool tonight before dinner.’

  He seriously expected her to sit half-naked drinking cocktails with him? Worse, the scrap of material posing as swimming trunks which all Italian men seemed to favour left nothing, absolutely nothing, to the imagination. The water was cold but Cherry felt hot all over as she watched the housekeeper’s approach.

  Would she be reacting differently to his intimidating masculinity if she’d gone to bed with a man before? she asked herself feverishly as Vittorio stood up, offering his hand to her as he stood on the bottom step leading out of the pool. Possibly because she knew Angela had always slept around, even having two or three boyfriends on the go now and again, Cherry had always determined she would wait for ‘the one’ before she gave herself body and soul. She supposed in hindsight it said a lot for her lack of confidence that she and Liam would actually last, that she hadn’t given in to his constant demands that their lovemaking progress beyond the petting stage. Introducing him to Angela had been the big test. And he’d failed. Spectacularly. But had it really been a surprise?

  Realising she couldn’t do anything other than take Vittorio’s hand, she, too, stood up, blessing the fact she was wearing her chaste swimming costume, its colour and cut modest. What she didn’t comprehend was that when the material was wet it clung to her body like a second skin, showing every dip and curve in a way more skimpy bikinis couldn’t hope to achieve. And then she glanced at Vittorio and saw the blazing animal desire turning the grey eyes into hot glittering orbs, before his lids came down and hid their expression from her.

  Shocked, she stumbled on the slippery steps, and but for his fingers tightening round hers she would have fallen.

  ‘Come.’ His voice was cool and controlled as he led her out of the water, letting go of her hand immediately once she was standing safely on the hot marble slabs surrounding the pool area and turning to the housekeeper who was waiting for them. ‘Grazie, Margherita,’ he said, taking the tray holding two large fluted cocktail glasses and little bowls of nuts and other nibbles from the other woman. ‘Sophia is not joining us?’

  The housekeeper answered in Italian, and whatever she said caused Vittorio to shrug. ‘Then we will see her at dinner. You will make this clear to her. I will have no more sulking in her room, pleading she is feeling unwell. Not now we have a guest.’

  ‘Oh, please, don’t make her come and eat dinner on my account,’ Cherry said hastily, wondering how quickly she could get to her sarong and cover herself. She had never felt so embarrassed in her life. Why hadn’t she realised before how positively indecent the swimming costume became when wet? But then Vittorio Carella hadn’t been around before.

  Vittorio ignored her as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘You will make it clear,’ he repeated to his housekeeper, who stood stiff and impassive in the golden sunshine like a large black crow. Glancing at Cherry, whose cheeks were scarlet, he nodded in the direction of the hammock and sun-lounger they’d vacated. ‘Shall we?’

  He let her precede him, and it was the hardest thing she’d ever done to walk in front of him. She knew his eyes were on her bottom, she could feel their heat burning into her skin, but it was better than if he was facing her because the air on her wet costume had turned her nipples into hard peaks pressing against the thin fabric. She felt as though she was in a porn movie.

  It seemed like for ever before she reached the hammock and grabbed the sarong, wrapping it round her and tying it firmly over the top of her breasts so she was covered to her knees.

  Vittorio set the tray on a table next to his sun-lounger, his voice lazy when he murmured, ‘Better?’ and glanced at her.

  Her colour had just begun to subside. Now it flared into brighter life again at the knowledge he’d sensed her embarrassment and the reason for it. ‘I’m sorry?’ she said icily.

  ‘You are feeling better now you are out of the glare of the sun and under the shade of the trees?’ he drawled softly. ‘The English skin is sensitive, si? It burns easily.’

  It wasn’t what he had meant, and he knew that she knew it. She could tell from the wicked amusement in his eyes. Struggling for composure, she told herself not to rise to his bait. ‘I’ve been in Italy for a few days now. My skin is beginning to acclimatise. Besides which I’m fortunate in that I go brown very easily and rarely burn.’

  ‘This is good.’ He patted the sun-lounger next to his. ‘Come and enjoy your cocktail and relax before you change for dinner.’

  Relaxing so wasn’t an option. Not with acres of hard male flesh causing difficulty with her breathing. And Vittorio was so very much at ease with his body, which didn’t help. He made her feel gauche in the extreme. No doubt the women he’d spoken of earlier would have been quite in command of themselves and the situation, and more than willing to flaunt themselves.

  Somehow she found the aplomb to walk over to the sun-lounger and sit down with a certain grace, a polite smile on her face as she a
ccepted the cocktail he handed her. In any other circumstances, with any other man, she would be enjoying this brief interlude out of real life, she thought regretfully, as she took a sip of her drink.

  ‘Wow!’ As the cocktail hit her tastebuds she gasped. ‘Whatever’s this?’ It was delicious but lethal.

  ‘It is called “Love in the Afternoon”,’ said Vittorio, deadpan. ‘Do you like it?’

  She stared at him suspiciously. ‘Is it really called that?’

  ‘But of course.’ He smiled. ‘It is one of my own concoctions for lazy summer afternoons like this one.’

  That explained it. She’d dare bet he never sat here drinking it by himself! She had to swallow hard before she said primly, ‘It’s very nice, but it tastes rather potent.’

  One male eyebrow slanted provocatively. ‘As one would expect, surely?’

  He smiled that sexy smile but she refused to respond.

  His shoulders were muscled and wide. He was muscled all over, but without an inch of fat on his lean frame. He hadn’t moved since passing her the cocktail, but ridiculously Cherry felt she wanted to edge away. She didn’t of course.

  Clearing her throat, she took another tentative sip. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Gin, dry orange curacao liqueur, chilled champagne, fresh lime juice and pressed pineapple. Little more than a fruit punch, really,’ he said gently.

  A fruit punch guaranteed to do exactly what the name suggested after a glass or two, she’d be bound. Cherry eyed him severely. ‘Hardly your average fruit punch. In England—’

  ‘Ah, but you are not in England now, are you, mia piccola?’ he murmured. ‘England is such a cold country, I have found. Even your summers are full of rain and chilly winds, and you need the fire to keep you warm. I have no doubt your English punch lacks the passion and heat of Italy.’

  He made it sound as though everyone and everything in England was as cold as ice, and she had no doubt he was having a none too subtle dig at her. She knew she ought to leave it, but somehow she couldn’t. ‘I can assure you English people are just as impassioned as Italians about things that matter,’ she said tightly. ‘Admittedly we don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves all the time, but that doesn’t mean we don’t feel deeply.’