The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco. Lucy Gordon
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undressing each other. There was barely time to strip off the last garments.
As passion mounted she became less aware of his gentleness and more aware of his vigour. For her sake he’d restrained himself until the last moment, but now he was beyond even his own control, and he held her in a strong grip as he moved over her, claimed her totally.
She had lived without lovemaking long enough to find the experience unfamiliar, but even as distant memories returned she knew that nothing had ever been like this. No other man had held her with such urgency and reverence combined, or taken her as deeply, satisfyingly, powerfully. It was like being reborn, or born for the first time.
Nothing had ever been like it before, and nothing would ever be like it after him. She knew that even then.
When their moment came he looked into her eyes, seeking complicity as well as union. Two of them became one, then two again, but not the same two. Now she was a part of him, as he was a part of her, and would always be. And that had never been true before.
He slept first, like any healthy animal whose senses had been satiated. For a while Della lay still, enjoying the weight of his head against her breasts, the gentle pleasure of running her fingers through his hair, the warmth of his breath against her skin.
The whole sensation was unbearably sweet; so unbearable that after a while she slid away from under him and left the bed. She could not think straight while his warm, loving body was nestled against hers.
She went to the window and stood looking out into the darkness, not thinking, letting her feelings have their way with her. But eventually she managed to order her thoughts.
I suppose I’m crazy, but so what? I love him, and I’ll always love him, but it won’t last. We’ll have this little time together, then go our separate ways—because that’s what has to happen. He’ll tire of me and find someone else, and that’s fine. The only heart broken will be mine. And that’s fine, too.
But when she awoke next morning all thoughts of broken hearts were far away. She opened her eyes to find Carlo propped on his elbows, looking down at her.
He was almost smiling, but there was also a question in his eyes, and with a sense of incredulity she realised that he was apprehensive. Last night he had been a confident lover, seducing her with practised skill. This morning he was unsure of himself.
Slowly she raised a hand and let her fingers drift down his cheek.
‘Hallo,’ she whispered, smiling.
He got the message, his face brightened, and the next moment he’d seized her into his arms, crushing her in an exuberant hug, laughing with something that sounded almost like relief.
‘No regrets?’ he whispered.
‘No regrets.’
‘You don’t want to turn back?’
He might have meant on their journey, but she understood his true meaning. They’d started on another journey, to an unknown destination. She’d made her mind up before this, but after a night of joy in his arms nothing would have held her back. Wherever the road led, she was ready and eager for it.
As they left the hotel he saw her giving yearning looks at his car.
‘If you were a gentleman you’d offer to let me drive,’ Della sighed, It was comical how swiftly the ardent lover vanished, replaced by a man guarding his treasure like a lion defending its young.
‘An Italian car on Italian roads?’ he said, aghast.
‘I’ve driven in France,’ she told him. ‘So I have an international licence, and I’m used to driving on the wrong side of the road.’
He glared. ‘It’s the English who drive on the wrong side of the road. And this is my new car. Forget it. I’m not that much of a gentleman.’
‘I was afraid of that,’ she said sorrowfully.
‘Get in—the passenger seat.’
She assumed a robot voice to say croakily, ‘I obey!’ That made him grin, but he didn’t yield. Not yet.
He headed the car down the hill and drove for an hour, before pulling up in a quiet country lane and demanding to see her international licence, which he examined with all the punctilious care of a beaurocrat.
‘It’s a clean licence,’ she pointed out. ‘It says that I’m absolutely safe to drive on continental roads.’
‘It says nothing of the kind,’ he growled. ‘It simply says you haven’t been caught out yet.’
‘You’re not very gallant.’
‘No man is gallant where his new car is concerned. This licence doesn’t mean anything. The English give them out like confetti. That’s how little road sense they have.’
‘Or I might have forged it,’ she offered helpfully.
He gave her a dark look and got out of the car.
‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
He instructed her in the vehicle’s finer points and they set off. Five minutes became ten, then half an hour. She was instantly at home in the lovely vehicle, for fast, expensive cars were her secret weakness. In England she didn’t even own a car, since life in central London made it impractical, so this was a treat that seldom came her way, and she made the most of it, feeling her sedate, respectable side falling away with every mile.
Even Carlo had to admit that she was a natural driver. He might groan all he pleased, but she could sense him relaxing beside her as her skill became increasingly clear.
‘Well, I suppose you’re not too bad,’ he said at last.
‘Thank you,’ she said wryly.
‘All right—you’re much better than I expected, and I’m sorry I doubted you.’ Then he ruined the effect by saying, ‘But let’s stop for lunch while my nerves can stand it.’
She chuckled, and pulled into an inn that had appeared just ahead.
After lunch he reclaimed the driver’s seat, and as they continued south he explained about Badolato, their next destination.
‘It’s near the coast. I know it pretty well because I’ve been researching the Holy Grail.’
‘Here? But surely the Grail is—?’ she stopped.
‘That’s the point. Nobody knows where it is—or even what it was. But supposedly the Knights Templar used Badolato as a base, and they brought the Grail to the town for a while. Some people say it’s still there, hidden.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I believe it’s a very curious place. There are thirteen churches for a population of three and a half thousand, and the purity of the spring water is legendary. People come from miles around to fill up on it. They come to swim, too. It has its own beach down below, and the town is just above. In fact, there it is.’
She looked up and saw a medieval village rising steeply on the hillside in the distance.
‘I called ahead to the hotel where I normally stay,’ he said.
‘I hope you booked only one room this time?’
He grinned. ‘Yes, I did.’
Then she saw the beach.
‘It’s perfect!’ she breathed. ‘I’ve never seen such white sand or such blue sea—no, not blue. It’s practically violet.’
‘That’s a common trick of the light, especially this late in the afternoon. Shall we stop?’
‘Oh, yes, please. I’m dying for a swim.’
She felt sticky after the drive. Luckily the Badolato Marina was geared for bathers, and they were able to secure a hut. A run