by Sara Craven
As it was, she felt sick with shame at how easily he’d drawn a response from her. And how her unfulfilled body now felt torn apart by frustration. Like the first time he had made love to her, she thought wretchedly, when she’d been wild for him, his caresses exciting her to the point of desperation. When, at last, he’d entered her, her body had been molten with need, and there’d been no pain.
Just a rapturous sense of total completion, she thought wretchedly. And what she’d believed was utter love.
I know better now, she told herself, her mind raw. I know he was just using me for sex—nothing more, but that’s something I’ll learn to live with.
But I can’t let it happen ever again—and I won’t.
She hadn’t taken his money, she thought harshly. Nor would she accept the false coin of his lovemaking, no matter what the cost to her as a woman. And no matter how she might ache for him, as she did now.
The next day, she married Sandro in a ceremony so brief she could hardly believe it was legal. As they were pronounced man and wife, and he turned to her, she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the promised kiss, only to feel his lips brush her cheek swiftly and coldly.
As she stepped back she glimpsed Teresa and Ernesto exchanging astonished glances, and moved to them to be hugged with real warmth. Teresa drew her to one side. ‘A little gift, cara,’ she whispered, handing her a flat parcel, wrapped in silver tissue with violet ribbons. ‘Do not open it now. Wait until tonight.’
Polly forced a smile of thanks, and put the package in the soft leather shoulder bag which served as her hand luggage.
There were no problems on the flight itself. Polly had never travelled first class before, and sitting in comfort, being served champagne, at least gave a veneer of celebration to the day’s proceedings.
Charlie chatted in wonder about ‘big planes’, gave an imitation of a jumbo jet taking off, then fell asleep, but he awoke grouchily when they reached Naples, and the subsequent journey soon disintegrated into nightmare.
Polly discovered, dismayed, that her son did not enjoy travelling by car, even an air-conditioned limousine, and that he was constantly and miserably sick throughout the trip.
Every few miles they were forced to stop, so that Charlie could be cleaned up and comforted, and eventually Julie, who’d borne the brunt of the little boy’s misery, was sent to sit in the passenger seat beside the chauffeur, and Sandro took her place, cradling Charlie on his lap and talking to him gently.
‘Why not give him back to me?’ Polly suggested, aware that her linen dress was already ruined. ‘I’m worried that he’ll spoil your beautiful suit,’ she added awkwardly.
He gave her a look of faint impatience. ‘Che importa?’ he demanded, and Polly subsided, biting her lip and turning to look out of the window.
Up till now, she’d been totally unaware of the scenery she was passing through, all her attention given to Charlie’s woes. But now she had a breathing space to take in the reality of her surroundings. The road they were travelling had been carved out of the rock-face which towered above them. On the other side was the eternal blue of the Mediterranean, serene today, reflecting the cloudless sky. And straight ahead, nestling in the curve of the bay, a cluster of terracotta roofs round a boat-studded marina.
Beyond it, a rocky promontory jutted into the sea, dominated by a large rectangular building with faded pink walls, made even more imposing by the tower at each of its corners.
She did not need Sandro’s quiet ‘Comadora at last’ to recognise that this place, more a fortress than a palace, was to be her home, and Charlie’s inheritance.
She said, ‘It—it looks a little daunting.’
‘That would have been the intention, when it was built,’ he agreed drily. ‘This coast was often attacked by pirates.’
‘Yes,’ she said, her tone subdued. ‘That was part of the local history I had to learn when I was here—before.’ She hesitated. ‘I suppose I must learn not to mention that.’
‘Perche?’ His brows lifted. ‘Why should you think so?’
She said stiffly, ‘I didn’t think you’d want your family to know that your wife used to be a travel rep.’
‘Why, Paola,’ he said softly, ‘what a snob you are.’
Polly bit her lip. ‘How did you explain why I was back in your life? It might be better if I knew.’
He shrugged. ‘After the crash, I suffered memory problems for a while, something they all know. Once I recovered fully, you had disappeared, and it took time for me to find you.’ He looked at her over Charlie’s sleeping head, his smile mocking. ‘And now we are together again—united in bliss forever.’
Polly drew a breath. ‘Your restored memory seems to have been pretty selective.’
‘You have a better version?’
‘No,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘But no one’s ever going to believe that we’re—blissfully happy.’
‘Then pretend, cara mia.’ There was a sudden hard note in his voice. ‘Pretend like you did three summers ago, when you let me believe you found pleasure in bed with me.’
‘Sandro—please…’ She felt her face warm, and turned away hurriedly, her body clenching in swift, intimate yearning.
That jibe of hers, uttered purely in self-defence that first night at the flat, seemed to have hit a nerve, she thought unhappily. But it didn’t mean anything. After all, no man liked to have his expertise as a lover challenged.
‘Do I embarrass you?’ he asked coldly. ‘My regrets.’
There was a silence, then he said, ‘Will you tell me something, Paola? When you went back to England, did you already know that you were carrying my child?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Ah,’ Sandro said quietly.
The car turned in between tall wrought-iron gates, and negotiated the long winding drive which ended in a paved courtyard before the main entrance to the palazzo.
It was bright with flowers in long stone troughs, and in the middle was a fountain sending a slender, glittering spire of water into the air.
Thank God, Polly thought as the car drew up. Peace at last. She stretched, moving her aching shoulders, longing for a bath and a change of clothing, hopefully with a cold drink included somewhere too.
The car bringing their luggage would have arrived ages ago, she thought.
It seemed that if she was going to be unhappy, at least it would be in comfort. But for now, that thought brought no solace at all.
The massive arched double doors opened, and a man, short and balding, dressed in an immaculate grey linen jacket came hurrying across the courtyard to meet them, looking anxious.
He looks like the bearer of bad news, thought Polly. Perhaps there’s been another accident and our luggage is all at the bottom of the Mediterranean.
Clearly Sandro was concerned, because he deposited Charlie on her lap and got out.
The little man, hands waving, launched himself into some kind of diatribe, and Polly watched Sandro’s expression change from disbelief to a kind of cold fury, and he turned away, lifting clenched fists towards the sky.
When he came back to the car, he was stony-faced as he opened Polly’s door.
‘The contessa,’ he said, ‘has decided to surprise us with a welcome party, and has filled the palazzo with members of my family, including my cousin Emilio,’ he added with a snap. ‘Tonight, Teodoro tells me, there will be a formal dinner, followed by a reception for some of the local people.’
‘Oh, God, no.’ Polly looked down in horror at her stained and rumpled dress. ‘I can’t meet people like this. Is there no other entrance we could use?’
‘There are many,’ he said. ‘But the Marchesa Valessi does not sneak into her house through a back door. Give me Carlino, and we will face them all together.’
Stomach churning, she obeyed, pulling her dress straight and pushing shaking fingers through her dishevelled hair.
Then Sandro’s hand closed round hers, firmly and infle
xibly, and she began to walk beside him towards the doorway of the palazzo. As they reached it, she lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders, and was aware of his swift approving glance.
She was fleetingly aware of a hall hung with tapestries, and a wide stone staircase leading up to a gallery. A clamour of voices abruptly stilled.
People watching her, eyes filled with avid curiosity or open disapproval, a few smiling. And, for a moment, she almost froze.
Then Charlie lifted his head from his father’s shoulder, and looked at all the strange faces around him. In a second his expression had changed from bewilderment to alarm, and he uttered a loud howl of distress, and began to sob.
Polly felt the atmosphere in the great hall change instantly. Censure was replaced by sympathy, and the marked silence that had greeted them changed to murmurs of, ‘Poor little one, he is tired,’ and, ‘He is a true Valessi, that one.’
The crowd parted, and a small, plump woman, her hair heavily streaked with grey, came bustling through. Arms outstretched, voice lovingly scolding, she took Charlie from his father’s arms and, beckoning imperiously to the wilting Julie to follow, disappeared just as rapidly, the sobbing Charlie held securely against the high bib of her starched apron.
‘That was Dorotea,’ Sandro said quietly, his taut mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘Don’t worry, Paola, she has a magic touch. Carlino will be bathed, changed, fed and in a good mood before he knows what is happening. And Julie also,’ he added drily.
Lucky them, Polly thought, and groaned inwardly as the crowd parted again for the contessa.
‘Caro Alessandro.’ She embraced him formally. ‘Welcome home. As you see, your family could not wait to meet your beautiful wife.’
‘I am overwhelmed,’ Sandro said politely. ‘But I wish you had allowed Teodoro to give me advance warning of your plans.’
She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘But then there would have been no surprise.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That is precisely what I mean.’
He looked about him. ‘I am delighted to welcome you all,’ he began. ‘But as you can see we have had a bad journey with a sick child, and my wife is exhausted. She will meet you all when she has rested.’ He turned to Polly. ‘Go with Zia Antonia, carissima, and I will join you presently.’
Polly was aware of an absurd impulse to cling to his hand. ‘Don’t leave me with her,’ she wanted to say. Instead she forced a smile and nodded, and followed the contessa’s upright figure towards the stairs.
From the gallery, they seemed to traverse a maze of passages until they arrived at last at another pair of double doors, elaborately carved.
The contessa flung them open and motioned Polly to precede her. ‘This is where you are to sleep,’ she said.
Polly paused, drawing a deep breath. She had never imagined occupying such a room, she thought dazedly. It was vast and very old, its ceiling beamed, and the walls decorated with exquisite frescos.
It was dominated by one enormous canopied bed, with crimson brocade curtains and a magnificent bedspread in the same colour, quilted in gold thread, but little other furniture.
‘That door is to the bathroom.’ The contessa pointed a manicured hand. ‘I think you will find all you need.’ And the sooner the better, her tone of voice seemed to indicate. ‘The other leads to the dressing room, where your clothes have been unpacked for you.’ She paused. ‘Would you like some tea to be brought to you?’
‘That would be kind.’ Polly hesitated. ‘If it’s not too much trouble—as you have all these other guests, I mean.’
‘How can it be a difficulty?’ The thin lips wore a vinegary smile. ‘After all, cara Paola, you are the mistress of the house now, and your wish is our command.’ She indicated a thick golden rope. ‘Pull the bell, if you wish for the services of a maid to help you dress. Or perhaps your husband will prefer to assist you himself—as this is your luna di miele.’
‘I can manage,’ Polly said quietly, conscious of the faint sneer in the older woman’s voice, and the swift pang of alarm that her words engendered. ‘But I would like to make sure my son is all right, and I don’t know where the nursery is.’
‘I will instruct Dorotea to take you to him later.’ She looked Polly up and down with faint disdain. ‘Now, I recommend that you do as Alessandro suggests, and take some rest. After all, this will be your wedding night, officially at least,’ she added, with another silvery laugh, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Left to herself, Polly walked over to the long windows and opened the shutters. She knelt on the embrasure, lifting her face to the heavy golden warmth of the late afternoon.
If the contessa had deliberately plotted to present her at her worst, she could not have done a better job, she thought bitterly. But there was no way the older woman could have known how badly Charlie would react to the long journey from the airport.
I wish I could stay here, she thought, because I think I’ve already got ‘null points’ from the jury downstairs.
Instead, she had to put on one of the evening dresses Teresa had made her buy, and play her unwanted role as marchesa with whatever style and grace she could summon. And undo, if possible, that first unfortunate impression.
And talking of Teresa… Polly fetched her shoulder bag, and retrieved the parcel it contained. As she undid the ribbons, the tissue parted to reveal a cascade of the finest black lace.
Polly’s eyes widened as she examined it. It was a nightgown, she realised, low-necked, split to the thigh on one side, and almost transparent. Provocation at its most exquisite. An expensive, daring tease.
Any girl who wore it would feel irresistibly sexy. And any man who saw it couldn’t fail to be aroused.
It seemed clear that Teresa had sensed the tensions in her relationship with Sandro, and decided the honeymoon could need a kick-start.
As Sandro said, you’re shrewd, Polly addressed her friend silently, bundling the delicate fabric back into its wrappings, and wondering where she could hide it. But this time you’ve misread the situation badly.
She left the package on the bed for the time being, and went to investigate the bathroom. The room itself probably dated from the Renaissance, she thought, but the plumbing was strictly twenty-first century, and luxurious in the extreme.
The walls were tiled in shades of blue, interspersed with mother-of-pearl, which gave the impression that the room was under shimmering water.
There was a deep sunken bath, and a capacious shower cubicle in the shape of a hexagon, with a pretty gilded roof.
Thankfully Polly slipped out of her clothes, and stepped behind its glass panels. There was a corner shelf holding toiletries, and she chose some scented foam, lathering her body sensuously. The jet was powerful, but reviving, and she twisted and turned under it, feeling some of the tensions of the day seeping away.
She dried herself slowly, her body refreshed and glowing, then took another bath sheet from the pile and wound it round herself, sarong-style, securing it just above her breasts.
If only her tea was waiting, she thought, opening the bathroom door, then, however briefly, life might be perfect.
She walked into the bedroom, and stopped dead, lips parted in shock, and her heart beating an alarmed tattoo.
Because Sandro was there, stretched out across the bed, his coat and tie discarded, and his shirt unbuttoned to the waist.
‘Ciao, bella,’ he said softly, his eyes lingering on her bare shoulders in undisguised appreciation. ‘You look wonderful, and smell delicious,’ he went on. ‘And now there is this.’ He held up the black nightgown with a soft whistle. ‘Perhaps marriage may have its compensations after all.’
And as she watched, transfixed, he lifted himself lithely off the bed, and began to walk towards her, the black lace draped over his arm.
CHAPTER EIGHT
POLLY took a step backwards. She said hoarsely, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I want to take a shower,’ he said. ‘I de
cided you would probably not wish me to join you, so—I waited.’
She took a breath. ‘How—considerate.’ Her voice stung. ‘Perhaps you’d be even kinder and go to your own room, and use your own shower. I’d like my privacy.’
‘So would I, cara, but we are both to be disappointed. Thanks to Zia Antonia, all the rooms in the palazzo are occupied by other people and will remain so for tomorrow—the day after—who knows?’ He paused. ‘Also you are under a misapprehension. This is my room—and my shower.’
He paused to allow her to digest that, his mouth twisting in sardonic amusement at her shocked expression.
‘The accommodation intended for you is currently taken by my aunt Vittoria, a pious widow with a hearing problem,’ he went on. ‘She does not like to share either. Also, she snores, which, as you know, I do not.’
He smiled at her. ‘But she is certainly leaving tomorrow, so you will only have one night to endure in my company,’ he added lightly.
She stared at him, her hands nervously adjusting the towel. ‘You really imagine I’m actually going to sleep here—with you?’ Her voice rose stormily. ‘You must be mad. I can’t—I won’t…’
‘You will certainly spend the night with me,’ he interrupted, a harsh note in his voice. ‘I cannot predict whether or not you will sleep. That is not my concern.’
‘Then what does concern you?’ She glared at him. ‘Certainly not keeping your word.’
He flung exasperated hands at the ceiling. ‘Dio—you think I planned this? That I have deliberately filled my house with a pack of gossiping relatives, including my cousin Emilio, may he rot in hell,’ he added with real bite, ‘just so that I can trick you into bed with me?’
He gave her a scornful look. ‘You overestimate your charms, bella mia. You will stay here tonight, without fuss or further argument, for the sake of appearances, because it is our wedding night, and because we have no choice in the matter.
‘But let me attempt to allay your obvious fears,’ he went on cuttingly. Clasping her wrist, he strode back to the bed, with Polly stumbling after him, tripping on the edge of her towel. He dragged back the satin coverlet, dislodging the huge lace-trimmed pillows to reveal a substantial bolster. ‘That,’ he said, pointing contemptuously, ‘placed down the middle of the bed, should deter my frenzy of desire for you. I hope you are reassured.’
