The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener. Sara Craven
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Ellie assured her swiftly and guiltily. ‘That seems to have gone.’
In her room, the bed had been turned down and her white lawn nightgown prettily fanned across the coverlet, but the helpful maid had also closed the windows for some abstruse reason, turning the room into a temporary oven.
Sighing a little, Ellie opened them again, drew the curtains, and switched on the ceiling fan. She took a quick cooling shower, cleaned her teeth, then folded back the coverlet to the bottom of the bed, deciding for once to dispense with her nightgown before sliding under the cover of the sheet.
She’d arranged to leave the Avortino office early that day, so she’d brought some remaining translation work with her to finish off. It was a simple enough task, and normally she’d have whizzed through it, but this time she found it well-nigh impossible to concentrate, and after struggling for almost an hour, she gave up.
If I go on, I’ll have a genuine headache, she thought, putting the script back in its folder, then switching off her lamp and composing herself for sleep instead.
She lay for a while, staring into the darkness, listening to the soft swish of the fan above her, while the events of the day played through her mind like a depressing newsreel. And most disturbing of all was the number of unwanted images of Angelo Manzini that kept intruding upon her.
She tried to tell herself it was hardly surprising, considering that blinding moment of unwelcome revelation about Silvia and its possible repercussions. But it was troubling nevertheless.
On the other hand, there was no point in losing sleep over it, so she turned on to her side, closing her eyes with resolution.
He should not, Angelo told himself grimly as he glanced at his watch, be contemplating this.
Having made the break, he should adhere to his decision and not be lured back, even if it was for ‘one last time’ as she’d breathed to him in that secluded corner of the garden before dinner. When she’d stood so close that the shape of her untrammelled breasts under the cling of her dress were clearly revealed, the nipples standing proud. So close that the familiar perfume she wore filled his senses, reviving memories that commonsense told him were best forgotten.
Although he knew of her relationship with the Principessa, he’d been frankly astonished and certainly not best pleased to find her here. In view of the serious purpose of his visit, she was a complication he did not need.
And yet when she’d looked up at him wistfully, touching her parted lips with her little pointed tongue, reminding him of its delicious artistry, and whispered, ‘Don’t you want me, mio caro?’, in spite of himself, he had found his body responding to her enticement with all its former urgency.
All the same, he would have drawn the line at traversing unfamiliar corridors to reach her, in the hope that the other members of the house party—his hostess in particular—would be safely asleep.
But as this would not be necessary, the promise of ‘one last time’ seemed worth the risk.
No-one, he told himself, would be likely to see him descending from the loggia outside his room, especially now he’d changed his white shirt for a thin dark sweater.
But if the worst happened, he could always explain he’d been unable to sleep, and decided to get some air.
Or, he could take the infinitely wiser course of resisting temptation altogether, and staying where he was. However disappointed his former innamorata might be, she could hardly make a scene over his dereliction. Not in this company.
And afterwards, he would be careful to avoid any encounters with her until she had found the inevitable someone to take his place.
Counsels of perfection, he thought cynically. Which he had, naturalmente, no intention of following. Not while that gloriously rapacious body was waiting to welcome him on this hot, starlit night.
Earlier, he’d fetched the flashlight from his car, and sliding it into his pocket, he went noiselessly out to the loggia and down the steps to the grounds below.
Ellie was never sure what woke her. For one sleepy moment, she wondered why, on such a still night, the pale curtains at her window seemed to be billowing into the room? Only to discover, with blank terror, that she was no longer alone. That a tall shadow, darker than all the rest, was standing beside the bed and a man’s voice was whispering teasingly, ‘Were you asleep, mia bella? Then I hope you were dreaming of me.’
Then before she could move or force her paralysed throat muscles to scream, the mattress beside her dipped under a new weight, and strong arms reached for her, drawing her against bare and aroused male flesh while a warm mouth took hers in the kind of deep and sensual kiss wholly outside her experience.
And for one brief, appalled instant, she felt her ungiven body arch against him in a response as instinctive as it was shocking.
Then, as sanity came racing back, she tore her lips from his and tried to push him away, raking her nails down the hair-roughened wall of his torso.
He swore and his grasp slackened fractionally, giving her the chance to fling herself across the bed away from him, her hand reaching desperately for the lamp switch.
And as light flooded the room, Ellie’s horrified, incredulous gaze met that of her assailant.
Angelo was the first to speak. He said hoarsely, ‘You? But I don’t understand …’
‘Get out of here.’ She was blushing from head to foot, burning with shame, as she delved for the sheet, dragging it up to cover her naked breasts. Trying at the same time not to look at him. ‘Just—go. Now. For God’s sake.’
But it was too late. There was a sharp knock at the door, followed by her godmother’s voice saying, ‘Is all well with you, Elena? An intruder has been seen in the garden.’
Angelo muttered something soft and violent under his breath, and dived for the sheet in his turn. And before Ellie could answer, think of some reassurance to send her latest visitor away, the door was flung wide, and the Principessa came in, swathed in an ivory silk dressing gown. And behind her, dignified in grey satin, the Contessa Manzini, with Carlo Barzado beside her, and Giovanni bringing up the rear.
Lucrezia Damiano stopped, a hand flying to her throat, her eyes widening in shock and dismay. There was a long and deadly silence, which the Contessa was the first to break, turning to request Signor Barzado and the gaping major domo to leave before she too stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.
She said, ‘Cosa succede, Angelo. What is happening here? Have you lost your mind or simply all sense of honour?’ She looked at Ellie, her face like stone. ‘Is my grandson here at your invitation, signorina? The truth, if you please.’
Angelo answered for her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘From first to last, Nonna, it was my own idea.’ He glanced down at the scratches on his chest, his mouth twisting wryly. ‘But clearly, I should have thought again—for several reasons.’
‘You are saying you have disgraced our family name—forced yourself on this girl—on a whim?’ The Contessa closed her eyes. ‘Dio mio, I cannot believe it.’
It occurred to Ellie that hoping to wake up and find she’d simply been having a nightmare wasn’t working. Neither was praying for death.
Clutching the sheet so tightly that her knuckles turned white, she said huskily, ‘Contessa—Godmother—I know how this must look but—really—nothing happened.’
‘I presume because he was interrupted.’ The Principessa’s voice was colder than her god-daughter had ever heard it, as she looked pointedly at Ellie’s nightgown lying on the floor beside the bed.
No, Ellie thought painfully. Because he discovered he was in the wrong room, with the wrong woman.
Thought it, but realised she couldn’t say it because it would only make matters a thousand times worse.
Angelo