by Anne Mather
‘I—yes. Yes, of course I have,’ she exclaimed, keeping her hands in her pockets.
‘Then why are there these dark circles round your eyes?’ enquired Rafaello softly, his fingers brushing her cheek. ‘I think we are wasting time, Jaime. We should have slept together.’
‘No!’ Jaime turned sideways away from him. ‘I mean—I wish you would stop saying these things to me. You shouldn’t have come here. You shouldn’t have followed me. I have to go back to London tomorrow, and Nicola won’t stand for you making a fool of her.’
‘To hell with Nicola!’ said Rafaello, very distinctly, turning Jaime’s face towards him. ‘I am not interested in Nicola, I have never been interested in Nicola, and you make me very angry when you keep throwing her in my face!
CHAPTER FIVE
IT was very quiet in the castle room, and Jaime rolled unhappily on to her back. What was she doing? she fretted, reliving all these moments from the past. They would not help the present. They would not provide the answer to why Nicola was so unhappy. All they could do was stir uneasy memories, awaken a painful awareness that the past was not dead, only sleeping …
‘I’m sorry.’ She remembered how distressed she had been by his anger. ‘But, even if what you say is true, you have no right to assume—–’
‘It is no assumption.’ Rafaello spoke roughly. ‘You want me, Jaime, just as much as I want you.’
‘No—–’
‘What do you mean—no?’ His eyes were dark with passion. ‘My impatience—frightens you?’
‘No. I mean—well, yes.’ Jaime pressed herself against the bole of the tree. ‘Raf, I want to go back.’
‘Presently.’
Ignoring her anxious protest, Rafaello moved closer to her, lowering his mouth to brush the hectic swirl of colour that had come to her cheeks. Then, holding her eyes with his, he touched her mouth, and her uncertain lips parted in unknowing provocation.
‘Raf—–’
‘Jaime!’ he breathed against her mouth, silencing her, and the urgent pressure of his kiss destroyed any lingering shred of doubt.
Some minutes later he released her, and in the shining beauty of her face he found the answer he was seeking. ‘Come,’ he said taking her hand in his, ‘we will walk,’ and for the rest of the morning they tramped round the park, exchanging all the intimate facts of their existence.
Jaime told him about the break-up of her parents’ marriage, of her days at school, when she had had to suffer the ignominy of parents’ days when neither her father nor her mother came, and her subsequent determination to make a life for herself. Rafaello, meanwhile, spoke ruefully of his mother’s disappointment that as the eldest son of the family he had not yet found a wife. He told her about his younger brother and three sisters, all of whom were married with families of their own, and his home in Italy, where his great-great-grandfather had founded a vineyard. He spoke of his own country with evident pride and affection, describing its wooded hills and ice-cold springs, its fields of rich turf, where placid cattle grazed, its mountains and streams and winding rivers, all drowsing peacefully under the warm Italian sun.
Jaime supposed she should have realised at once that their relationship was doomed. In spite of his evident love for England, Rafaello was first and foremost a product of his background, and the kind of commitment his brother and sisters enjoyed was totally alien to Jaime’s principles. But she told herself that it didn’t matter, that his was only a passing infatuation, and that once he returned to Italy he would forget all about her.
Of course, when they got back to the house, the Temples’ disapproval was obvious, and Jaime was sure it was only the presence of their other house-guests and the unpleasantness it would cause that prevented Mrs Temple from asking her to leave. So far as they were concerned, she had betrayed their hospitality, and Nicola refused to speak to her.
The rest of Boxing Day passed quickly. Unlike her, Rafaello had no qualms about showing how he felt, and ignoring the Temples’ outrage, he gave every appearance of a man deeply in love. He had hired a car for the duration of his stay in England, and in the afternoon he took Jaime away from the dour condemnation of their hosts, driving the fifty or so miles to the coast and buying her afternoon tea at an hotel in Worthing. He behaved impeccably all afternoon, making no demands upon her, and only on the way back did his self-control falter.
‘When will I see you again?’ he asked, pulling the car off the road into a layby. ‘You said you are leaving tomorrow. You had better give me your address, so I may know where to find you.’
With the recollection of her dingy bedsitter in the back of her mind, Jaime was less than enthusiastic. ‘I—you can ring me at work,’ she temporised, giving him her office telephone number. ‘I don’t have a telephone where I live, and—and my landlady isn’t keen on anyone taking calls on her phone.’
‘But the address,’ said Rafaello patiently, flicking off the cap of his pen. ‘I want to know where you live, not where you are employed.’
Jaime sighed. ‘You wouldn’t like it. Where I live, I mean.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ replied Rafaello flatly. ‘Now, do you tell me, or do I have to get it from your office?’
It was Jaime’s first experience of his intransigence, and with a gesture of impatience, she acquiesced. ‘It’s 36 Sycamore Terrace,’ she told him stiffly. ‘That’s in Earls Court. And if you come by car, don’t blame me if you get your wheels stolen!’
She had hunched her shoulders as she spoke, half turning away from him, but now Rafaello’s arm came around her, drawing her back against the muscled strength of his chest. ‘Do not be so aggressive, cara,’ he breathed, his lips tracing the outline of her ear. ‘I am not interested in the area in which you live, only in you.’
Somehow, her jacket was unfastened, and his palms slid possessively up over her midriff to her breasts. Feeling their sudden tautness, his hands lingered, moulding their swollen urgency, making her overwhelmingly aware of how pleasurable their touch could be.
But, as before, when his fingers probed beneath the fine wool, she lifted her hands to stop him. Rafaello, allowing her to thwart him, twisted her mouth to his instead, and beneath the sensual probing of his kiss, her objections were forgotten. With a low sound of satisfaction Rafaello found what he was looking for, and her whole body trembled as he caressed her naked flesh.
His kisses became deeper, more passionate, robbing her of breath and resistance, arousing her to a reluctant awareness of her own sexuality. When he lifted his mouth now to seek the scented hollow at her nape, she went after him, her fingers gripping the hair at the back of his neck as her lips sought a sensual consummation.
It was Rafaello eventually who dragged himself away, smoothing back his hair with an unsteady hand. ‘You see how it is between us?’ he demanded, as Jaime endeavoured to slow her breathing. ‘Now tell me you do not want to see me again.’
She gazed at him with tremulous eyes. ‘I do want to see you again,’ she admitted, stroking back an errant strand of straight dark hair from his forehead. ‘Will you pick me up tomorrow night? After work?’
Rafaello was not proof against the tantalising touch of her fingers, but when her lips brushed his in open invitation, he put her firmly from him. ‘Tomorrow night,’ he said, tacitly accepting the fact that so long as Jaime was staying with the Temples, they could not abuse their hospitality.
During the next few weeks Jaime lived on a high of emotional excitement. For the first time in her life she neglected her studies to be with Rafaello, and their physical relationship was more satisfying than she had ever dreamed it could be.
Rafaello’s discovery that she was still a virgin had both amazed and delighted him. He had, he confessed ruefully, previously been of the opinion that English girls were easy game, and to find that Jaime had never been with a man before aroused his deepest emotions. She was, he told her, everything he had ever looked for in a woman, and even though she knew messages arrived from I
taly, bidding him to come home, he put off his departure time after time.
Things came to a head, Jaime remembered now, when Rafaello’s mother issued the invitation for Jaime to accompany him home. She wanted to meet the girl her son found so irresistible, she said, but Jaime knew what she really wanted to do was find out whether she was suitable to be Rafaello’s wife.
Up until that time, the question of marriage had been carefully avoided, on her part, at least, but suddenly it was thrust to centre stage, and she found she was no more ready to meet it now than she had been six weeks before. She cared about Rafaello, she could not have made love with him if she had not felt so strongly about him; but the idea of marriage was still anathema to her, and she had to tell him so.
The row took place in his hotel suite. During the past few weeks she had been there frequently, often meeting him at lunch time and spending the rest of the day with him, to the detriment of her job. But happily, working in the typing pool meant that there was always someone to cover for her, and the girls she worked with thought her affair with Rafaello very romantic.
And it was, thought Jaime ruefully, leaving her pillows to adopt a cross-legged position, one knee drawn up to rest her chin on. Probably none of her friends would have considered giving up an Italian count—albeit a courtesy title, these days—simply because they had this mental block concerning marital relationships. A need for independence was one thing; giving up the man one loved was quite another.
The trouble was, Jaime wasn’t at all sure she did love Rafaello, at least, not in the way he said he loved her. Even though their physical relationship was so fulfilling, she was still haunted by the memory of what had happened to her mother, and the determination which had sustained her through harrowing days at school persistently urged her to hang on to her freedom. What did she really know of Rafaello, after all? What did she know of his way of life? And would she really be happy giving up her career for the doubtful security of a wedding ring?
Appropriately enough, it was Nicola herself who destroyed the thing she had been instrumental in starting. Jaime had arranged to meet Rafaello for lunch, but at the last minute she received a message saying he couldn’t make it, that he was having lunch with his London bankers, and would she wait for him at the hotel. As it happened, Jaime had arranged to return to the office that afternoon, so that one of the other girls could go to a wedding, and in consequence she was forced to leave a message at the hotel, telling Rafaello she would meet him later.
It was almost six by the time she got to his suite, having had to stay later than she had expected, and the sudden downpour that had coincided with the rush-hour traffic had filled all the buses and taxis.
Rafaello was waiting for her, a grim brooding inquisitor, still wearing the dark business suit he had worn for lunch. Her knock brought him to the door of the suite to open it for her, but his usual kiss of welcome was absent as he abruptly turned away.
‘You are late!’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Jaime was removing her wet coat as she spoke. ‘Mr Forden gave me some letters to type just as I was getting ready to leave, and then—what with the rain—–’
‘You could not leave them, I suppose.’ Rafaello faced her across the luxurious expanse of Indian carpet, his hands pushed aggressively into the pockets of his pants.
‘The letters?’ Jaime made a helpless gesture. ‘No. How could I? It’s my job.’
‘And your job is important to you, is it not?’
Jaime was confused. ‘Well, of course.’
‘How important?’
Jaime put down her coat and moistened her lips. ‘I don’t understand …’
‘I asked, how important is your job?’ Rafaello incised harshly. ‘More important than us? Than our relationship? Than me?’
Jaime blinked. ‘Raf—–’
‘I want to know, Jaime. I have to know,’ he added, with sudden emotion. ‘Tell me that what I have been hearing is untrue. Tell me that this career you are making for yourself is not the most important thing in your life. Tell me that these weeks we have spent together have meant as much to you as they have meant to me.’
Jaime expelled her breath unsteadily. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said again. ‘What have you been hearing? And from whom? I thought you were having lunch with your bankers. Was that a lie?’
‘No, it was not a lie.’ Rafaello took one hand out of his pocket and pushed back his hair with a weary hand. Then, pacing restlessly across to the marble fireplace, he rested his arm on its mantel. ‘My bankers are Clay International,’ he said, turning his head to look at her. ‘The representative I had lunch with was Charles Temple.’
‘Oh!’ Jaime began to comprehend. ‘Nicola’s father.’
‘And Nicola,’ inserted Rafaello grimly. ‘She came along too.’
Jaime looked down at her hands and found they were trembling. ‘And what did they say?’
‘Charles?’ Raf shrugged. ‘Charles said nothing. What would you expect him to say? But—–’ he paused, ‘when lunch was over, he conveniently saw a business acquaintance across the restaurant he wanted to have a word with, and I was left to entertain Nicola.’
‘Instead of which, she entertained you,’ exclaimed Jaime bitterly.
‘Was she lying?’ Raf straightened away from the mantel. ‘If you tell me there was no element of truth in what she was saying, then naturally I will believe you.’
‘But you have doubts, don’t you?’ demanded Jaime unevenly. ‘You couldn’t just dismiss what she said without accusing me!’
Raf’s dark eyes held hers with smouldering passion. ‘You know why I could not dismiss what she said,’ he declared. ‘For two weeks now, I have been trying to get you to agree to come to Italy with me, to meet my family, but you will not come. You prevaricate, you make excuses; and more strongly I get the feeling that you never will.’
‘I can’t just take time off—–’ Jaime began, but Rafaello was ready for her.
‘Why not? What does it matter if they fire you, if you are going to marry me?’
‘M-marry you?’ Jaime swallowed convulsively.
‘Of course. You knew this was to come,’ exclaimed Raf roughly. ‘Dio mio, you cannot think, after everything we have been to one another, that I would be satisfied with anything less?’
Jaime shook her head. ‘But—marriage—–’
‘Yes, marriage,’ agreed Rafaello fiercely, crossing the room towards her. ‘Oh, Jaime,’ he muttered, his grip on her arms almost painful, ‘tell me my fears have all been for nothing! This afternoon, I have been almost out of my mind with the agony of not knowing whether she was lying. She said you had told her you had no intention of getting married, that everyone knew how you felt but me. Tell me it is not true, and I will believe you! Tell me she was only trying to hurt you. Jaime, in the name of all the saints, say something to put me out of my misery!’
‘Oh, Raf—–’ Jaime felt his urgent breath against her temple, and knew the almost overwhelming impulse to give in; to tell him Nicola was wrong, to promise that she would marry him, just as soon as the arrangements could be made. But she hesitated too long, and in her hesitation Rafaello sensed that Nicola had not spoken without reason.
‘She was right,’ he choked, drawing back far enough, so that he could look into her face. ‘Dio mio, she was right! And I, poor fool, have been trying to make excuses for you!’
‘No—–’ Jaime put out her hands towards him, but Rafaello held her back, his face contorted with emotion.
‘What do you mean—no? Are you telling me you will marry me, after all? That in spite of everything you are willing to submit?’
He almost spat the words at her, and Jaime moved her head helplessly from side to side. ‘Raf, you’ve got to give me time—–’
‘Time? Time? How much time do you need to decide between your life and mine?’
‘Raf, it’s not like that—–’
‘What is it like? Tell me!’ His lips twisted. ‘Am I
not rich enough, is that it? Were I some Brazilian millionaire, would I be looked upon more favourably?’
Jaime’s shoulders sagged. ‘That’s not fair, Raf! You are not trying to understand—–’
‘Make me.’
She sighed. ‘Raf, my parents split up when I was a very small girl. My father—well, my father wanted his freedom, and he didn’t much care what happened to us. My mother had to scrape and save to make ends meet.’
‘So?’ Rafaello shook his head impatiently. ‘What has this to do with you and me?’
‘You’re not making it easy for me—–’
‘Why should I?’
Jaime bent her head. ‘You don’t know what it’s like—having no money—–’
‘You went to a good school,’ he reminded her.
‘Only because a cousin of my mother’s took pity on us,’ exclaimed Jaime bitterly. ‘I—I swore then that—that no man would ever do that to me—–’
‘You think I would?’ Rafaello caught her shoulders and dragged her round to face him.
‘I—don’t know, do I?’
‘Cristo—–’
‘Rafaello, my parents were in love when they got married, really in love. My mother told me so. She—she was at college. She wanted to be a teacher. My father was in the Army, and he wouldn’t wait. She left college because she was expecting me.’
Rafaello raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Jaime, that was more than twenty years ago—–’
‘Has anything changed?’ Jaime looked up at him tensely. ‘A woman is still vulnerable, Raf. Marriage makes her vulnerable. Children make her vulnerable. I need time—–’
‘No!’
‘No?’ Jaime trembled. ‘I don’t understand—–’
‘Oh, I think you do.’ Rafaello was pale. ‘There is no more time. I have listened to what you have to say, and I tell you, I will not wait any longer. I regret what you have told me. I regret what happened to your mother. But I do not see what that has to do with us.’
‘Raf, I’m like my mother, don’t you see? I have a chance for a career, too—–’
