A Family For Keeps

by Lucy Gordon

  She had felt soft and good against his body, and her lips had been sweet against his. That sweetness had taken possession of him, making him long to kiss her more deeply, although he'd known he must not do so while she was asleep. Instead he had kissed her eyes and her tears.

  But for her it hadn't happened. That thought was very bitter to him.

  Unable to stop himself, he brushed her cheek with gentle fingers. She didn't draw away, only looked at him sadly, quite still.

  'Vincenzo,' she said at last.

  'Hush,' he begged. 'Say nothing.'

  His fingers continued their way down her cheek and across the soft contours of her mouth. He was entranced, absorbed by her, lost in her. He touched her cheek and her mouth again with fingertips that barely brushed them, yet which seemed to burn her.

  She tried to protest, but no words would come. She should stop him, but she lacked the will. This had been inevitable since a few hours ago, when she'd become aware of him as a man. She should have taken flight then, when there had still been time. Except that there had never been time.

  He was going to kiss her, and she wanted it with an intensity that shocked her. It was against every plan she had made, but suddenly that no longer mattered. She could feel her hands tightening on him, pulling him forward until his lips touched hers.

  They felt strangely familiar, as though they had kissed before in some other life. But in her other life there had been no kisses, no warmth or sweetness, or gentleness of lips teasing hers, part plea, part command, part exploration.

  'Who are you?' he whispered against her lips.

  'It doesn't matter,' she said through her swimming senses. 'I'm not real.'

  'You're real now-in my arms.'

  'Only here,' she whispered.

  'The rest doesn't matter. Kiss me-kiss me.'

  She did as he wanted, finding that after the years alone she still knew how to tease and incite a man. It was an intoxicating discovery and it sent her a little wild.

  Now she allowed her hands and mouth to do as they pleased, and the things that pleased them were sensual, outrageous, experienced. He was right. This alone was real, and everything in her wanted to yield to it.

  With every movement she made Vincenzo felt shock flowing along his nerves. He'd suspected the fires inside and it had tormented him, but now he knew for certain. He'd partly discovered the truth that afternoon when he'd discovered that her breasts were surprisingly generous, given her apparently boyish figure.

  All the sensuality she normally kept banked down was flaming in his arms now, inciting him to explore her further, wanting more. He didn't know her real name, but her name no longer mattered. This woman was coming back to life, and he knew that he, and no other, must be the man to make it happen.

  She kissed dreamily, but like a woman who understood a man's body, and every soft touch lured him on. Entranced, he dropped his lips to the base of her throat, moving them in soft, teasing movements and sensing her heated response. His own response was roaring out of control.

  Only she could stop him now, and she made no attempt to do so. When he began to remove her clothes she trembled, but was removing his at the same time. It was she who drew him to the bed, and after that nothing could have stopped him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  My first man in six years.

  The thought came to Julia as the dawn crept in. The night had been hot and fervent, and it had left her feeling at ease in a way she had forgotten. The sheer sense of blinding, physical release had at first stunned, then invigorated her.

  They had claimed each other again and again. After the first time it was she who had taken the initiative, voraciously demanding as she felt her body return to life. And he had responded with unflagging vigour.

  Six years of cramped frustration, deprivation, ending in one night of blazing fulfilment.

  Images came back to her: his body, hard, lean and strong, his love-making, a mingling of power and tenderness, with the power becoming predominant as he'd sensed her need.

  My first in six years. And before that-ah, well! Before that there had been passionate adoration given to the wrong man, who had betrayed it and left her with a smashed life to endure.

  She sat up, careful not to awaken Vincenzo, who slept silently and heavily, as though exhausted. It was a tight fit in the narrow bed, especially as he stretched out in abandon.

  He'd made love like that, she thought, with an abandon that had startled her, so different was it from the controlled surface he presented to the world.

  She hadn't meant to take him to bed, so she told her-self. Either that or she had meant it from the first moment. One of the two. Did it matter which?

  Their aggressive encounter in the attic had awoken in her a physical hunger, long suppressed, and satisfying it had become urgent.

  I didn't think I was like that, she thought wryly. But I suppose after so long…

  He moved in his sleep and stretched out a hand, seeking until he encountered her skin. Then it stopped, lying gently against her as though nothing else in the world mattered.

  Strangely, it was that gesture that alarmed her. If he'd grasped her robustly she would have cheerfully returned to the fray. But the touch against her body was tender. It spoke of emotion, and she knew that emotion must be kept out of this. Only that way could she feel safe.

  After a moment she moved his hand away.

  Vincenzo stirred and stretched, almost pushing her out of the tiny bed. She laughed, clinging on for dear life, and he awoke to find her looking down at him. He grinned, remembering the night they had passed together.

  Her passion had astounded him. More accustomed to her mental and emotional defensiveness, he'd been taken aback by her sensual abandon. She'd given everything with fierce generosity and demanded everything with an equally fierce appetite. When he had been satiated she had been ready to start again.

  Now she looked fresh, light-hearted and mysteriously younger. There was even a teasing look in her eyes that had never been there before.

  'That was fun,' she said.

  The words brought him back down to earth. 'Fun' described a race through the canals, a brilliant costume for

  Carnival. It bore no relation to the experience that had just shaken him to his roots.

  But he answered her in kind, speaking lightly.

  'I'm glad you feel the night wasn't wasted.'

  She was silent, but shook her head, teasing.

  He reached out so that she could take his hand, then he would draw her closer for a kiss. But instead she laughed and got to her feet, looking around for something to throw over her nakedness. Finding his shirt on the floor, she seized that.

  'Spoilsport,' he sighed.

  She chuckled and left the room, heading for the kitchen. He followed at once, catching up, putting his arms about her from behind, and nuzzling her hair.

  'All right?' he asked softly.

  'Of course,' she said brightly. 'Everything's fine.'

  He partly withdrew his hands, just as far as her shoulders. 'That's good,' he said quietly.

  'Do you know how I make coffee in this kitchen?' she asked with a laugh.

  'I'll make it.'

  'Lovely. Then we'll go down and see if Piero's awake yet. He and I should be going soon.'

  He dropped his hands.

  'Whatever you say.'

  She turned suddenly. 'There's something you should know. Don't expect too much from me just now. I'm not used to being in the land of the living. I've forgotten how things are done there.'

  He frowned, alerted by a new note in her voice, but not understanding it. 'The land of the living? I don't understand.'

  'For the last six years I've been in prison.'

  Julia had told Vincenzo that kicking the door in had been one of the great healing experiences of life, and it was true. With that one blow she had put her lethargy behind her, and was ready for the task that had brought her here.

  Walking home with Piero that morni
ng, she bought a map, and studied it as soon as they were inside.

  'Can I help?' he asked.

  'I want to go to the island of Murano.'

  'Take the waterbus. It's about a twenty-minute journey. I'll show you the exact place. Are you going to look at some of the glass-blowing factories?'

  'No, I'm looking for a man. His name is Bruce Haydon. He has relatives there and they'll know where he is now.'

  'Is he Italian?'

  'No, he's English. He had some Italian family on his mother's side, but he's lived mostly in England.'

  She knew he was hoping to hear more, and she was foolish to keep silent. She should simply say that Bruce Haydon had once been her husband; that he had betrayed her vilely and condemned her to hell. But just now she wasn't ready to say the words.

  When she'd changed back into her jeans he led her to the San Zaccaria landing stage, and waited with her while the boat arrived. Passengers poured off, more passengers poured on. As she was about to turn away Piero tightened his grip on her arm.

  'Come back safely,' he said.

  'Yes, I will,' she promised him in a gentle voice.

  As the boat drew away from the landing stage she looked back and saw Piero standing where she had left him. He remained motionless, growing smaller until she could no longer see him.

  At last the boat reached the landing stage at Murano.

  It was a small island, constructed, like Venice, of canals and bridges, famous for its glass-blowing, but without the glamour of the main city.

  With the aid of the map she was able to discover a row of houses beside a canal, and began to make her way along, searching for one front door.

  Then it was there before her, the front door with a brass plaque proclaiming that here lived Signor and Signora Montressi, the name of Bruce's Italian relatives. Luck was with her.

  She rang the bell and waited. But there was no reply.

  She told herself she must be patient.

  She found a cafe and ordered coffee and sandwiches. From her bag, she took a small photo album in which she kept pictures to show people who might have seen him. It wasn't very up to date. None of the photographs was less than six years old.

  The first one was a wedding picture, showing a handsome man, grinning with delight. There was no sign of his bride. Julia had cut her out of the picture.

  He had dark hair and eyes, but, although his Italian ancestry was visible, his face was slightly too fleshy for the kind of dramatic looks that Vincenzo had. He lacked Vincenzo's intensity too, parading instead an air of self-satisfaction.

  She stopped and gave an exclamation of annoyance at herself. Forget Vincenzo! Comparing every other man with him was futile. For many reasons.

  But there was no way to forget Vincenzo. Piero had said, 'He's an all or nothing person. When he gives it's everything.'

  After last night she knew that it was true.

  But Piero had also said Vincenzo had too many women, 'all meaningless'.

  So he was like herself, she thought. Nature had shaped him one way, and hard lessons had shaped him differently.

  In that hot, dark night he'd become his true self again, giving generously, endlessly, revealing himself to her with no defences, nothing held back.

  And it shamed her that she'd only half responded, revelling in the physical pleasure that he gave so expertly, returning it with every skill at her command, but giving nothing else. Her heart was still safely hoarded in her own control.

  She remembered the scene in the kitchen that morning. He'd been tender and affectionate, seeking to evoke the same in her. She'd disappointed him because she was unable to do anything else.

  Blurting out that she'd been in prison had been an impulse, instantly regretted. After that she hadn't been able to get away from him fast enough, and he'd sensed it, and let her go, saying little.

  She returned to the pictures, trying to concentrate on them and forget Vincenzo.

  After the wedding snap came a selection of photographs taken over the next four years, during which the man put on a little weight, but continued to be good-looking and pleased with himself.

  'Whatever did I see in you?' she asked the grinning head. 'Well, I paid a heavy price for it.'

  He filled the first half of the book. In the second half there was a different set of pictures.

  They showed a baby, stalling with the day it was born. Then the child became gradually larger and prettier, with curly blonde hair and shining eyes. And always she was laughing.

  Julia slammed the album shut, closing her eyes and fighting back the tears. For a moment she sat there, rigid, aching, while heartbreak tore her apart.

  At last the storm passed, and she forced herself to return to reality and behave normally.

  'Not much longer,' she promised herself. 'Not much longer.'

  The weak moment was behind her.

  Her second visit to the house was equally fruitless. It was dark before she returned a third time.

  As she turned into the canal-side street she could see the lights in the windows. The door was opened by a pretty young girl.

  'Signora Montressi?' Julia asked.

  'Oh, no, she and her husband have gone until after Christmas. They're taking a Caribbean cruise. They left three days ago. I'm afraid that's all I know. I only come in to feed the cat. They'll be back in January.'

  She almost ran away, needing to be alone to absorb the shock. To have got so close and then have the prize snatched out of reach.

  She walked about aimlessly for a long time before catching the boat back across the lagoon. It was late but there were still plenty of travellers, and she stood looking over the rail at the black water. It would be a relief to get home.

  Home. How strange that she should think of the palazzo as home. Yet there would be a warm welcome for her there, and what else was home but that?

  'Scusi-scusi-'

  She moved as someone squeezed past her. At the same moment the boat ploughed into an extra high wave, causing it to lurch. As she grabbed the rail the strap of her bag began to slide down her arm. She twisted, trying to save it, and lost her grip.

  As she watched the bag went sailing down into the water, carrying with it her precious album of pictures.

  Vincenzo would have liked to get out of the dinner party at the Danieli Hotel, but he had promised and must keep his word. So he did his duty, sat next to an heiress who'd plainly heard of his circumstances, smiled, behaved with charm, concealed his boredom, and forgot her the moment the party was over.

  From the hotel it was a short walk home, past San Zaccaria, and across St Mark's. Preoccupied with his thoughts, he'd actually walked past the landing stage before he realised what he'd seen. He turned sharply back.

  'Piero,' he said. 'What are you doing here?'

  'Waiting for her boat,' the old man said.

  Vincenzo's heart sank. It was usually in the afternoons that Piero came here on his fruitless mission. If he'd started coming so late at night, he must be getting worse.

  'I don't think there are any more boats tonight,' he said, laying his hand on Piero's shoulder.

  'There's one more,' Piero said calmly. 'She'll be on that.'

  'Piero, please-' It tore him apart to see the frail old man standing in the cold wind, clinging onto futile hope.

  'There it is,' Piero said suddenly.

  In the distance they could see lights moving towards them. Sick at heart, Vincenzo watched as it made its slow journey.

  'She went to Murano,' Piero said. 'I put her on the boat here this morning.'

  'Her? You mean Julia?'

  'Of course. Who did you think I meant?'

  'Well-I was a bit confused. I probably had too much to drink. What's this about Murano?'

  'She went there looking for someone called Bruce Haydon.'

  After a moment they both saw her standing by the rail. As the boat drew nearer she seemed to notice them suddenly. A smile broke over her face and she waved.

 
The two men waved back, and Vincenzo saw that Piero's face wore a look of total happiness. He wondered who the old man was seeing on the approaching boat.

  At last it reached the landing stage and passengers came streaming off. Piero went forward, his arms outstretched, and Julia hugged him eagerly.

  'You're back,' he said. 'You came home.'

  'Home,' she said. 'Yes, that's what I was thinking.'

  'Thank goodness you got back safely,' Vincenzo said. 'We were a bit concerned.'

  She seemed to see him for the first time.

  'There was no need,' she replied. 'I wasn't lost.'

  'We didn't know that. Well, it doesn't matter. You're safe now.'

  The three of them began to walk back across St Mark's Piazza and into the labyrinth of canals and little alleys that led home. Vincenzo kept firm hold of her arm, until she firmly disengaged herself.

  She was angry with him again for knowing her secret-that she'd been in prison-even though she herself had disclosed it. And she was angry with herself for doing so.

  'I'm all right,' she said. 'I don't need help.'

  'Yes, you do. Even prickly, awkward you. And don't walk away from me when I'm trying to talk to you.'

  'Don't talk to me when I'm trying to walk away.'

  'If you aren't the most-'

  'It's no use trying to reason with her,' Piero said. 'I've tried, but it's pointless.' He added in a deliberately provocative tone, 'After all, she's a woman.'

  Julia turned and walked backwards, her eyes fixed on him.

  'I'd stamp on your feet if I had the energy,' she teased,

  Piero's answer to this was a little dance. 'You couldn't do it,' he asserted. 'I used to dance leading roles with the Royal Ballet in London.'

  She began to imitate him, and they hopped back and forth while passers-by gave them a wide berth, and Vincenzo watched them, grinning.

  Later, as the three of them sat by the stove Vincenzo said, 'Did things go well?'

  'No,' she said robustly, 'things went just about as badly as they could. The people I went to see are on a cruise. I missed them by three days, and they won't be back until January. I had an album of pictures of the man I'm seeking, and on the way home it fell overboard. So now I don't even have that.'