by Sara Wood
‘Of course. What else?’ he asked, all innocence.
Because I’m crazy about you, she thought helplessly. I hate it and resent it but can’t stop myself from wanting to be with you. And when you laugh at the things I say, I am desperately flattered and delighted. I am infatuated with you. And nothing seems to kill my stupid admiration, not even the knowledge that I’m totally expendable. A temporary necessity.
‘This is wonderful,’ he murmured, his voice shaking with emotion.
‘Kind of them to throw a party,’ she agreed in a slurred mumble.
‘It’s good to be with people you love,’ he husked.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, aghast.
Was that it? Had she fallen for him? Please, no! He wasn’t the kind of man she’d imagined in that role. Too glorious a male to ever love her. Not second-hand-clothes-Verity. He’d break her heart…
He held her more tightly and she, foolish and unwise, clung to him as if she might drown otherwise. The love song soared and she heard agony and unrequited passion and then joy in the tenor’s voice as he lived the emotions of the music.
Longing and desire vibrated from every note. And her body—quite independent of her own will—had responded to the siren call and now lay melting in Vittore’s enclosing arms.
Her thigh moved with his. His hand splayed against her lower spine, fingers just invading the soft rise of her buttocks. And so her pelvis was thrust against his, the hardness of his arousal hot and demanding.
‘Too friendly,’ she grated in his ear.
‘Convincing, though,’ he breathed.
‘Then if we’ve done our share of convincing, we can stop. Circulate.’ As if her blood wasn’t circulating like a raging torrent already! she thought ruefully. ‘I think I ought to dance with the butcher first,’ she jerked.
‘His wife would be furious. Might take a carving knife to you and turn you into chops,’ murmured Vittore.
The warm laughter in his voice wandered seductively through her flesh and bones and turned them to water.
‘Please!’ she whispered. ‘Move back. You don’t have to impress them with your Casanova techniques. They’re staring at us,’ she complained.
‘Are they?’ He looked around and grinned at several people before returning his attention to her. ‘I’ve got used to it. Not much happens that they don’t know about.’
‘You have them in the palm of your hand. They respect you. Love you,’ she said, resenting the success of his charm.
‘I try to earn their respect,’ he said quietly.
She turned her head and looked up at him. The villagers thought he was a good man. He was deeply admired by people who knew him well. Only she was holding out and any moment now she’d be worshipping him too.
‘You have it. In spades,’ she mumbled and heaved a sigh that made her entire body tremble.
Vittore’s muscles tensed. The pressure against her pelvis burned hot and insistent.
‘I think,’ he said tightly, ‘that you’re right. I should circulate. What would you like to do?’
A little lost, definitely disappointed, she kept her face bright and tried valiantly to count her blessings that she wouldn’t have to battle with her unhealthy desires. Or his.
‘I’d like a cool drink, please,’ she replied.
‘I hope they’ve got ice,’ he muttered.
She smiled faintly, flattered that she could arouse him so easily. They broke apart and he led her to where his mother sat, chatting to a group of villagers who leapt to their feet, applauded her and scrambled to be the one who offered her a chair.
Blushing from so much attention, she sat down and sipped the lemon drink she was offered. Everyone seemed to be talking at once; animated, excited, full of life and enthusiasm. Tiny children, still awake unlike Lio, were being passed around and admired, their squeals and laughter looked on benignly.
She loved Italians. Loved the way they expressed their feelings so readily—pushy, vocal, but never aggressive. She’d always felt so safe here, perhaps because Vittore had told her that no Italian male would ever hassle a woman with a child and she would be respected as a matter of course.
Coloured lights had been strung down the street that led to the harbour. Some of the palms were floodlit, giving the piazetta an exotic air. The town was in festive mood and everybody seemed determined to enjoy themselves until the early hours.
‘It’s a wonderful party,’ she ventured to Honesty who was wearing a stunning beaded shawl in a startling king-fisher blue that competed violently with the orange hibiscus in her hair.
‘Great people, aren’t they?’ she replied. ‘Of course, Italians feel strongly about family. It’s the most important thing in their lives. You can understand now how devastated they were when Linda snatched Lio—’
There was a dramatic chorus of disapproval and Verity realised the people around the table had caught Linda’s name.
‘See what I mean?’ continued Honesty. ‘They hated her for what she was doing to the honour of the family and the village. They knew what she was up to even though Vittore remained steadfast and wouldn’t hear a word said against her. But she didn’t realise that our lives are an open book here. The village looks after its own. Have some more lemon. Dear people.’
Honesty patted a woman’s hand affectionately and nodded at the torrent of liquid Italian that followed.
‘What did she say?’ queried Verity, intrigued by the passionate waving of hands and the nods from their companions.
‘That you are different. Simpatico,’ she said, passing a plate of pastries towards Verity. ‘They’ve cared for Vittore ever since he was old enough to totter down the hill,’ she continued. ‘They know him through and through and would trust him with their lives. Which is why they have gone to all this trouble. Excuse me,’ she said, when Verity was intending to probe further when she’d finished the little tube of ricotta and sugar. ‘I’m off to dance with the tax inspector. He does a wicked tango.’
Absorbing this further proof of Vittore’s decency, Verity settled in her seat, nibbling the delicious pastries and sipping her drink as she watched Honesty and the tax inspector fling themselves whole-heartedly into an energetic tango that left Verity feeling breathless.
She watched Vittore carefully. He displayed the kind of old-fashioned good manners that she admired, talking easily and naturally to everyone there. The priest seemed to be an old friend and the two men spent a while together, apparently exchanging amusing stories because there was much laughter and slapping of backs between them.
The perfect man, she thought wistfully. And he returned frequently to her table, joking, smiling, touching her affectionately on the arm. Once or twice they danced together and fierce charges of electricity powered her body so that she didn’t feel tired any more.
Falling more and more deeply in love with him, she drank more of the limoncello and felt heady with the music and laughter and dancing, until Vittore stayed her hand as she reached for the chilled jug to refill her glass.
‘Verity,’ he said throatily. ‘You know this is made from lemon and sugar and vodka?’
Her eyes widened. ‘No!’ Her hand went to her head. It seemed definitely fluffy inside there. ‘I think I’m a bit squiffy,’ she complained.
‘Perhaps it’s time to get you and Lio back. The walk will sober you up,’ he murmured. ‘Come with me and we’ll go around thanking everyone. They’ll understand if I explain that you’re tired from looking after Lio all day. Then we’ll rescue him from the admirers clustered around him and make our way home.’
His arm enclosed her. She felt cherished. The smiles and affection of the villagers warmed her heart. This was a wonderful place, she thought dreamily. Lio would be cared for, here.
She imagined him ‘tottering down to the village’, totally safe because of those who would keep a loving eye on him. There would be a gelato from the ice-cream shop, pastries from the baker, a fruit drink from the trattoria.
Heaven
s! She’d have to regulate the treats. He’d be the size of a house by the time he reached fourteen!
But of course, she wouldn’t be here. Someone else would have to keep an eye on his forays into the village.
Her lower lip wobbled. Her eyes became bleary. She wanted to see him blossom and grow. To watch him ride his first bike. To wave goodbye when he first went to school, to mop up bloody knees, and spaghetti from his shirt, to meet his first love and to be a part of his life, day by day.
The chances of that were now remote, she recognised that. She would be the maiden aunt who came over and asked him embarrassing questions when he wanted to be out with his friends. There would never be the deep love between them that she had originally anticipated with such joy and delight.
There would be hugs, maybe polite kisses. But never that full-blown rush-at-you, fling your dirty self wildly into your mother’s arms kind of moment.
Oh, Lio! she thought desperately. I want you so much!
‘Ready to leave?’ Vittore asked gently, when they’d exhausted their goodbyes and her cheek tingled with hearty kisses.
‘Uh,’ was all she could manage.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked, his voice unfairly tender.
‘I—I…’ What could she say?
‘Goodbye, my dear.’ Honesty hugged Verity hard, then kissed her cheeks fondly. ‘What a shame you’re not my daughter,’ she said, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘You’re…oh, Verity,’ she sniffed, ‘I bless the day you came into our lives!’
Released, Verity felt a huge lump of emotion sitting in her throat. ‘I’ve never been hugged and kissed so much in my entire life,’ she choked.
‘I’m sure that your mother—’ began Vittore.
‘No.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘My adoptive mother favoured Linda. I assumed it was because she was prettier and I was fat and ugly. Looking back, I can’t ever recall being played with or kissed goodnight.’
‘It’s a wonder you’re so sane,’ growled Vittore angrily.
‘Am I? I wonder, sometimes.’
He smiled beguilingly at her. ‘Verity, why don’t we leave and—’
‘Oh, Vittore!’ came Bianca’s unmistakable silken tones. ‘We’ve only just arrived and you’re leaving!’
‘My darling!’ Vittore’s arms rapidly rearranged themselves around Bianca and then her friend, a tall and slender blonde with a shy smile. ‘Come around tomorrow and tell me what we’ve missed. And keep an eye on Mother. I fear she’ll dance or talk everyone under the table.’
‘I will!’ laughed Bianca, her dove soft eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘Andiamo, Sofia!’ And she whirled her friend into a fast and furious salsa.
Vittore watched the two women, transfixed. And so did Verity. Bianca looked wonderful, her voluptuous body infinitely supple, full skirts swishing seductively around her long legs as she dipped and swayed.
Mournfully Verity eyed her own cheap dress and knew she couldn’t compete with a goddess in hand-made silk that fitted like a second skin. So she began to push Lio up the hill, quite annoyed with herself for feeling so depressed.
‘Sorry,’ Vittore said, catching her up a moment or two later. ‘I didn’t realise you’d gone.’
No, she thought gloomily. What man would?
And it irritated her that she felt so sulky. Why was she so muddled about Vittore? OK, he was Mr Nice Guy. Perhaps even Mr Wonderful, if the entire village was right. But she wanted a nice, homely, steady man who had a fixed routine and a nine to five job…
No. She didn’t. What rubbish. She wanted Vittore. Wanted him more than ever. It was the vodka loosening her mind, of course. She couldn’t even steer a steady course with the buggy. Vittore was having to help her.
‘Will you be all right?’ he enquired, when she’d eventually popped Lio back into his cot again. ‘I noticed you seemed a bit low back there. And you’re not too steady.’
Feeling forlorn, she meant to nod but found that she was shaking her head instead. And that tears were trickling down her cheeks.
‘What is it?’ Vittore asked softly.
‘I don’t know what’s happening to me,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m so confused.’
‘Me too.’
Her head jerked up. ‘You?’ she sniffed crossly. ‘You know exactly what you’re doing—’
He drew her out to the landing. His hands reached out. Stroked her arms. She steeled her mind to her reaction.
‘I wish I did. But every time I come near you,’ he said huskily, ‘I want to make love to you.’
‘You can’t,’ she said, unable to stop herself from sounding grumpy.
‘I will when you’re ready.’
His touch was driving her mad. She shuddered and she was in his arms, her mouth beneath his in a breathless kiss that shattered all her good intentions and left her gasping for more.
‘Please don’t!’ she begged dizzily. ‘Leave me alone!’
‘I can’t. If only I could!’ he growled, the words thick with wanting and accelerating her own hunger to an unbearable level.
She trembled, moaning beneath the onslaught of his mouth where it roamed the creamy length of her throat.
‘I won’t let you!’ she breathed, gasping when he touched the hollow at the base of her throat with the tip of his tongue.
And then he kissed her so hard and thoroughly that she felt she might faint, her head whirling with an intoxicating excitement that obliterated all sense, all conscience and flung her deep into the darkness of her secret needs.
She felt herself being lifted, the pressure of his chest against her breast, the frantic beat of his heart. Or was it hers? Her head fell back in hopeless defeat and his lips savaged her slender throat with a tender passion that made her cry out in despair.
‘Admit what you feel. Drown in pleasure with me!’ he growled, gently biting her lower lip.
The softness of a bed met her spine and then his weight lay across her. She closed her eyes, wanting him but afraid of surrender.
‘I’ll get pregnant!’ she moaned, trying to stop him. ‘Don’t—’
‘Hush,’ he soothed raspingly.
His hand released the few remaining strands of her hair that were still fastened on the top of her head. She felt his tantalisingly delicate caress as his fingers slid up the nape of her neck. Welcomed the pressure of his body, quivering in anticipation of his touch.
‘You’re a brute. Dishonourable!’ she jerked out in desperation.
‘No. I’ll prove that. I only want to give you pleasure,’ he whispered, sliding down the straps of her dress.
Her back arched as his mouth enclosed her breast. ‘Please, Vittore! Don’t take me against my will—!’
‘I won’t,’ he murmured, his mouth vibrating against her warm softness. ‘But let me show you what pleasure can be yours.’
‘What—?’ Her voice gave out.
‘You will not be harmed,’ he said thickly, his hectic kisses consuming her mouth again.
She felt her eyelids growing heavy. Her entire body had been drugged by the richness of his voice, the beauty of his body and the magic of his persuasive fingers.
‘Don’t…use me,’ she said in a tiny, frightened voice.
‘Verity!’ he whispered brokenly. ‘Trust me.’
He touched her then and she knew nothing else, other than pure sensation. With far too great a skill, his hands trailed over her burning flesh, caressing, arousing and sating her need for every inch to be explored.
Fireworks exploded somewhere in the village and with them vanished her reserve. Eagerly she helped him to remove her dress. At some time he must have stripped off his shirt because they were flesh to flesh and she was writhing in fraught delight.
Then it began. A rhythm that dominated her entire self. The intimacy didn’t even shock her. Explosions of pleasure flew in all directions as her nerves began to sing. There was nothing but the movement of his hand, the caress of his mouth, the murmur of fluid Italian whispering in her ear…
>
And all the time the most wonderful, satisfying sensation she could ever have imagined. Wilder and wilder grew her cries while Vittore’s soothing grew more intense and husky. Then she lost herself in the incredible vibrations which made her feel she was soaring to the highest mountain, floating on rarefied air that made her breathing short and tremulous, her heart beating so loudly that it felt it might burst.
Sometime, she didn’t know when, she wandered down from that peak of pleasure and found that she was lying in Vittore’s arms and he was kissing her gently. Warmth permeated her body. The physical ache had gone.
Dreamily she touched his face. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered simply.
He gave an odd little choke. ‘Prego.’
It was like lying in a warm bath. She sighed and stretched languidly. Vittore’s breath drew in sharply.
‘And…you?’ she asked, solemn-faced.
He moved away and picked up his shirt, his face tight and closed. ‘No.’
‘But…’ She licked her lips, wondering how delicately she could put her suggestion. ‘Surely I can—?’
‘Verity.’ Gravel-voiced and avoiding her gaze, he stood up awkwardly and struggled into the shirt. ‘Sleep. Night.’
He was out of the door before she could stir her dazed, lethargic body. Too drowsy to pursue him, she gave a long, satisfied sigh and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Some time in the early hours of the morning, she woke with the sensation that someone was in the room. Peering in the gloom, she made out Vittore’s figure, sitting in a chair and apparently watching her.
She sat up in shock, her eyes huge with alarm. ‘What do you want?’ she cried shakily. ‘Is it Lio? Is he…?’
Her throat dried. He continued to stare as though bemused by her. Verity saw that he was still dressed and clearly hadn’t gone to bed at all. Something in his manner frightened her.
‘Vittore!’ she choked, clutching the sheet to her chin. What was he planning? What was being plotted behind those dark, burning eyes, now that he’d given her such pleasure? ‘Don’t stare at me like that!’ she cried, her nerves screaming with tension.
