Guilty

by Anne Mather

  In the hustle and bustle of Terminal One, it had seemed ridiculous to imagine that Jake might have planned the whole thing. Dressed in a dark brown suede jacket and matching jeans, a bronze collarless body shirt open at the neck, to display the brown column of his throat, he looked so cool and attractive—and young—that it was inconceivable that he should have any serious interest in her. Tall, and dark, and undoubtedly male, he attracted female eyes wherever he went, and even in her newly bought trouser-suit, with her hair trimmed and styled, so that the ends tucked under her chin, Laura knew she couldn’t compete. It had amused him to show her how inexperienced—and unsophisticated—she was, despite being older, but that was all. This wasn’t a game any longer. This was for real. And like it or not, she had to carry off the next few days with as much confidence as she could muster.

  And the journey had been surprisingly smooth. When she stopped worrying about Jake, and accepted his companionship for what it was, she could almost enjoy herself, and there was no doubt he had gone out of his way to make it easy for her. After all, there had been so many new things to see and absorb, not least the helicopter ride from Heathrow to Gatwick airport, and boarding Jake’s father’s private jet for the flight to Pisa.

  She had been introduced to the pilot, who had turned out to be an Englishman himself, and the pretty Italian stewardess had made sure that their every need was catered for. They had eaten lunch, as they’d crossed the Alps into Switzerland, before flying over northern Italy, and down the Gulf of Genoa, to their landing at Pisa.

  There had only been one bad moment, and that was just before they’d landed, when Jake had taken it upon himself to point out any visible places of interest. This coastline, he’d told her, was known as the Riviera di Levante, with the fishing harbour of Portofino being one of the prettiest spots.

  Directing her gaze to the hazy outline of Viareggio, miles below them, had entailed his leaning over her chair, and she was disturbingly aware of his muscled chest, pressing against her arm and shoulder. As he spoke, his breath fanned her cheek, and, although he did nothing to warrant the sudden quickening of her blood, she couldn’t deny its wild crescendo.

  In an effort to distract him, she’d asked the question that had been troubling her, ever since he’d rung eight days ago. ‘Your—your stomach,’ she said. ‘That is—the cut: did it heal all right?’

  It was only after the words were uttered that she realised how intimate they were. Reminding him of his injury could only serve to increase their awareness of one another, and he might easily think that was what she intended.

  But to her relief, Jake chose not to use the question to his own advantage. Instead, as if sensing her ambivalence, he drew back into his own seat, and running a careless hand over his midriff, he replied evenly, ‘It is improving, thanks to you.’ And then, more obliquely, ‘Much like our relationship, wouldn’t you agree?’

  They’d landed in Pisa shortly afterwards, and Laura had been grateful. It meant she’d had little time to wonder what Jake had meant. Instead, she’d still been exclaiming, somewhat fulsomely, over the brilliance of the sun on the old city’s towers and churches that she had seen from the air, when Jake’s father’s chauffeur had come up to them, as they’d cleared Customs.

  A stocky, middle-aged man, with friendly features, and a thick moustache, and wearing the same purple and gold uniform that the pilot and stewardess had worn, he’d greeted Jake with evident warmth and affection. The two men had spoken together in their own language, as they’d walked to where the car was waiting, and Laura had been happy to trail behind, marvelling at the warmth of the day. It was much warmer here than in England, and she’d been glad she had not succumbed to the temptation—at five o’clock that morning—to wear a heavier outfit. As it was, the brushed cotton trouser-suit had been just about right.

  The drive from the airport to Castellombardi had been uneventful—inasmuch as Laura had concentrated on the scenery, and Jake had obligingly discussed soccer with their chauffeur. It had enabled Laura to absorb a little more of her surroundings, though the glimpses of handsome villas she saw, sheltering behind citrus and olive trees, as they’d left the city, had given her more than a twinge of trepidation. They’d given her some indication of what Castellombardi might be like, and the prospect had been quite unnerving.

  Beyond the city’s limits, the motorway signs had all seemed to lead to Firenze—Florence—but although they’d driven for a short distance along the autostrada, they’d soon turned off on to narrower country roads. The flat coastal plain had soon been left behind, and they’d climbed into cypress-shaded hills, where every summit revealed a hidden valley, or the gleaming walls of a medieval town. There were farms, and vineyards, and countless churches, each with its own tower, or campanile, as it was called. There were ruins, too, evidence of the Etruscan civilisation that had once flourished in this area. And occasionally a barren stretch of ground, whose melancholy landscape epitomised the dignity of death in ancient cultures.

  And then, Jake had turned from his conversation with the chauffeur, to tell her that they were now nearing his home. This pine-scented valley, with the tumbling waters of a narrow river at its foot, was Valle di Lupo, and the crenellated towers she could see, nestling against their dark green backcloth, belonged to Castellombardi.

  Laura’s nerves had tightened apprehensively, and not for the first time, she had wished Julie was with them. She, Laura, should not have been here, seeing Jake’s home for the first time, meeting his parents, and sharing their hospitality. That should have been Julie’s prerogative. This whole trip had been arranged for Julie’s benefit, not hers. If only she could stop feeling like a usurper. If only she could stop thinking about Jake altogether.

  But, arriving at Castellombardi, Laura had found herself worrying more about meeting Jake’s parents than coping with Jake himself. And the sprawling manor-house had been daunting enough, without the added complications of a handful of servants, whose names she was sure she would never remember.

  A little of her consternation must have shown in her face, however, for Jake had taken time out from instructing a lusty youth where Laura’s bags were to be taken, to say reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry! They’re going to love you.’ And, in her hysterical state, she wasn’t sure whether he meant his parents or the members of their staff.

  The creeper-hung portico, with its narrow mullioned windows, gave access to a marble-floored entrance hall. The age of the building was much in evidence here, with a restored frescoed ceiling arching above tapestry-hung walls. There was a veritable arsenal of ancient weapons, forming a grim collage above a huge stone fireplace. The number of swords and daggers on display had made Laura look automatically at Jake, and his lazy grin had stirred an unwanted awareness in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘Now, you know why I enjoy sword-play,’ he murmured, for her ears only. ‘Be warned, my ancestors were not known for their tolerance.’

  Laura might have replied—if she could have dismissed the shiver of sentience that shivered down her spine at his words, but she was forestalled by the appearance of another woman. And not a servant, Laura surmised, noticing the rings that adorned her slender fingers. Even without her resemblance to her son, Laura would have guessed that this was Jake’s mother. Although the similarities between them were more in colouring than appearance, she walked with such grace and economy of movement—just like her son, Laura had acknowledged unwillingly.

  ‘Mama!’

  Jake’s greeting had confirmed what was already a certainty, and he went to greet her with an easy confidence. For a moment, he was enfolded in his mother’s arms, and then, before Laura could begin to feel an outsider, he turned and beckoned her forward, to make the introductions…

  And that was when her misgivings had multiplied, Laura acknowledged now, turning back into the classical beauty of the bedroom behind her. For, in introducing her to his mother, Jake hadn’t mentioned Julie. Not once. He had presented her simply as Laura Fox. Not
Julie’s mother, Laura Fox, or even as Laura Fox, the mother of a friend of his. Just Laura; nothing else; as if she, and not Julie, were the reason for this visit.

  The Contessa Sophia Lombardi had been especially charming, Laura conceded, even though she must have wondered why their guest was staring at her son with such consternation. Tall, like Jake, with narrow patrician features, she had welcomed Laura into her home with real cordiality, asking if she had had a good journey, and acknowledging Laura’s compliments about her country. She had made Laura feel like a wanted visitor, not the intruder she believed herself to be.

  Of course, Laura hadn’t been able to say anything that might create any awkwardness in his mother’s presence, and she had not had a chance to speak to Jake alone since his mother’s appearance. Instead, the Contessa had taken charge of her well-being, suggesting that Laura might like to see her room and rest for a while before the evening meal. Like her son, she spoke in English, and Laura had felt obliged to accept her suggestion. But that hadn’t stopped her from giving Jake a quelling look, as she’d followed one of the maidservants up the stairs. It had said, she would speak to him later, and he’d been left in no doubt what she meant.

  But that was over an hour ago now. Since then, Laura had taken a shower, and unpacked her case, and made a tentative exploration of her apartments. Her room—rooms, she corrected herself drily—were situated in the west wing of the building, overlooking the whole sweep of the valley. But it was the rooms themselves that had first drawn her admiration, with their skilful blend of ancient and modern.

  Although, perhaps modern was not an appropriate adjective, she conceded now. Obviously, much of the renovation of the building had been done in the early part of this century, when time and materials had been no object. There was an abundance of gilt and decoration, and, despite their obvious age, the silk-encrusted walls and velvet carpets still wore the patina of an earlier age.

  Nevertheless, the plumbing was reassuringly efficient, and the bathroom sported all the usual accoutrements. If the claw-footed bath and pedestal basin were rather large and ungainly, their function was not impaired. On the contrary, Laura was looking forward to taking a bath. She had the feeling that when the huge porcelain tub was full only her head would show above the rim.

  Between the bathroom and the bedroom, there was a spacious dressing-room, with long walk-in wardrobes. Laura’s handful of outfits looked rather lost in such an excess of space, but it was quite a novelty to have so much freedom.

  Beyond the bedroom, whose generously proportioned four-poster also attracted Laura’s admiration, a modest sitting-room provided reading and writing facilities. All the latest magazines—regrettably, Laura saw, in Italian—were spread on a low glass-topped table, while an exquisitely carved bureau was set with writing paper and envelopes and, Laura saw to her delight, a real quill pen.

  She thought of sitting at the bureau and writing to Jess, but the connotations of that exercise were more than enough to deter her. She could just imagine her friend’s reaction if she wrote and told her she was spending the weekend with Jake’s family, without Julie. No matter that her daughter was supposed to be arriving the following day. Jess was bound to have suspicions. Heaven knew, she had suspicions herself.

  Which brought her back to the crux of her dilemma, Laura sighed heavily. What was she going to do about Jake? And Julie? The trouble was, she didn’t know what Jake had told his mother about his relationship with her daughter, and she could hardly ask. And yet, what else could she do? She had to know if Julie was expected here tomorrow, or whether that had just been a lie.

  But what if it had? she asked herself now, admitting the incredible thought that it might be true. What if Julie wasn’t in California at all? What if she was, even now, trying to reach her mother at Burnfoot?

  But no. Julie herself had told her about this trip to Italy. Julie had tendered the invitation, and just because Jake had made the final arrangements was no reason to assume her daughter wasn’t involved.

  She shook her head, and, walking across to the bed, she flopped down on to the embossed coverlet. The mattress gave beneath her weight, and, squeezing the edges on either side of her, she realised it wasn’t the spring interior she had expected. If she was not mistaken, the mattress was stuffed with feathers, and in spite of her worries she couldn’t prevent a rueful smile from tugging at the corners of her lips. God, she thought, resting back on her elbows. Jess would never believe this place!

  A knock at the outer door brought her to her feet with a start. As she tentatively walked to the door of the sitting-room, her hands automatically dragged the folds of the terry robe she had found hanging on the back of the bathroom door, closer about her. But, she could do nothing about her bare legs, protruding from its hem.

  However, when she called a tentative, ‘Come in,’ the maid, who earlier had brought her a light meal of tea and pastries, appeared to collect the tray.

  ‘Scusi, signora,’ she said, picking up the tray. ‘Mi dispiace di disturbarsi.’

  The words were mostly unfamiliar, but their meaning was clear enough, and Laura raised a deprecating hand. ‘Prego,’ she said, quite pleased with her response. But when the maid launched into a voluble stream of her own language, she wished she had not been so clever.

  ‘Non capisco, non capisco,’ she exclaimed, trying to stem the tide, and she was almost relieved when she heard a low mocking laugh.

  ‘Grazie, Maria,’ Jake said lazily, straightening from his position by the door, and the young maid flushed becomingly, as she sidled past him, and out of the room.

  With the maid’s departure, however, Laura was immediately aware of her state of undress. Jake had evidently bathed and changed. There were drops of moisture gleaming on his hair, and his dark trousers and jacket, and the cream silk shirt and tie, were obviously what he was going to wear this evening. Laura, meanwhile, felt quite dishevelled, but rather than give him another reason to have fun at her expense, she put her hands into the robe’s pockets, and faced him bravely. ‘Did you want something?’ she asked, in the dismissing tone of someone whose patience was wearing thin, and Jake glanced behind him at the open door before answering quietly, ‘I rather thought you wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘Oh…’ Laura was disconcerted then, not least because he was right, and for a few moments she had forgotten the ambiguity of her position. ‘Um—well, yes. Yes, I did want to speak to you. But—not like this.’

  She glanced pointedly down at the bathrobe, and Jake’s mouth took on a decidedly sensual slant. ‘Ah,’ he murmured, a wealth of understanding in the sound, and, as his insolent gaze roved down her body, Laura could almost feel the heat of its passing.

  ‘Please!’ she exclaimed, unable to withstand this kind of sexual gamesmanship, and Jake’s eyes came obediently back to hers.

  ‘Anything,’ he said, his tone scraping her nerves with its husky vibration. ‘Shall I close the door?’

  ‘No!’

  Laura made the denial rather louder than she had intended, and Jake arched a mocking brow. ‘You want the rest of the household to hear this?’ he queried politely, and she turned away, running both hands under the hair at the back of her neck.

  ‘No. I—oh, close the door. Behind you,’ she mumbled wearily. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  The door closed, and she expelled her breath on a heavy sigh. But when she turned around again, she found Jake was still there.

  ‘You—–’ she began, her voice taut with frustration, but Jake was not prepared to argue with her.

  ‘Yes, me,’ he said, crossing the space between them, and cupping her hot face in his hands. ‘You despise me, I know.’ His eyes darkened. ‘But you want me just the same.’

  ‘I don’t—–’ she started, but his mouth silenced her. With hungry expertise, his kiss trapped her instinctive protest, his tongue sliding between her lips to make a statement of its own.

  Laura’s world tilted. Much as she wanted to deny what he was sa
ying, what he was doing, her body betrayed her. The moist fusion of their mouths made any protest superfluous anyway. No one could respond as she was responding and still pretend she was a victim of circumstance. If she was a victim—and of that she had few doubts—it was a victim of her own needs, her own inadequacies. What Jake was doing was simply confirming all those guilty fantasies she had entertained about him.

  But no fantasy had prepared her for the treacherous delight of feeling Jake’s hands on her bare flesh. She was so weak, so accessible, and the terry-cloth robe parted easily beneath his purposeful hands. Not that she was aware of it—not immediately, anyway. Her own hands were too busy clinging to his lapels, in an effort to withstand the shakiness of her knees, to notice at once what he was doing. It was only when one mohair-clad leg brushed her thighs that she perceived the reason why the tips of her breasts felt so aroused. The sides of the robe had parted, and her quivering body was open to his touch.

  Sanity craved that she draw back from him now, while she still could, but her mind was swimming in a haze of emotion. She wanted to be sensible. She tried to remember where she was, and what she was doing, but her feelings got in the way. And Jake didn’t make it easy for her. When he released her mouth, it was only to seek the sensitive skin below her ear, and his teeth fastening on that skin, drenched her limbs with moisture.

  ‘I knew you were beautiful,’ he breathed, tipping the robe from her shoulders, his tongue finding the pulse that fluttered in her throat. His hands slid to her waist, and then moved upward until they were brushing the undersides of her breasts. ‘Bella Laura, do you have any idea how much I want you?’

  ‘Jake—–’

  Laura was finding it an effort even to breathe normally, but her panting use of his name seemed to please him, and whatever protest she had intended to make was stifled by the groan he emitted. His hands closed over her breasts as his mouth sought hers again, and she was weakly aware that so long as he was touching her like this she had no will to resist him.