The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco. Lucy Gordon
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never mind what I thought. Just tell me this. Did you plan every single detail?’
‘Of course not. How could I? You know that things happened that nobody could have planned.’
‘Do I? I’m not sure what I understand any more. I know that you’ve been clever—subtle enough for an Italian. I congratulate you. It was a masterly performance.’
‘It wasn’t all a performance,’ she said swiftly.
‘You know, I think I’d rather believe that it was. It makes things simpler. I was a fool, but at least I found out before any real harm was done.’
‘Carlo, please—if you’d just listen to me—’
‘I’ve done enough of that,’ he said, in a deceptively affable tone. ‘Let’s call it a day. You’d better text George back and tell him that you tracked me down and I said to hell with you. Goodbye.’
He was gone, closing the door behind him.
She wanted to scream with frustration and hurl the phone against the door. Instead she turned out the light and went onto the balcony. From there she could see Carlo’s car, parked in front of the hotel, then Carlo himself, hurtling out of the front door and leaping into the driver’s seat.
She drew back in case he looked up and saw her, but he only sat for a long moment, hunched behind the wheel, brooding. When at last he roused himself, it was to give the wheel a sharp thump that made the horn blast. After his ironic restraint the sudden spurt of temper was startling.
Then he fired the engine, swung out of the forecourt and vanished down the road. He hadn’t once looked up at Della’s window.
CHAPTER THREE
AT SEVENTEEN she might have wept into her pillow. At thirty-seven she lay staring into the darkness, sad but composed, before finally nodding off.
She even managed a prosaic, unromantic night’s sleep. But next morning Della awoke early and the memories came flooding back, bringing regretful thoughts.
It would have been nice, she thought. We could have been fond of each other for a while, before he found someone his own age. But, oh boy, did I ever make a mess of it! If there were a prize for handling things as badly as possible, I’d win the gold. I should have known better than to hide the truth, but I wasn’t thinking straight.
At this point she found herself smiling wistfully.
But had any woman ever thought straight in his company? She doubted it. Not guilty on the grounds of impaired judgment. She’d wanted to make the moment last, and she had never thought how it would seem to him.
What now? Return to Pompeii and try to find him? After all, he’s ideal for the programme.
Nuts to that! She just wanted an excuse to see him again. He was like a light coming on and then going out too soon. But what was done was done. She’d just chalk it up to experience and leave Naples today.
It was a relief to have made up her mind. Jumping out of bed, she stripped and headed for the shower, running it very cold to infuse herself with common sense. She was just drying off when there was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Room Service.’
She hadn’t ordered anything, but perhaps this was courtesy of the hotel. Huddling on a silk dressing gown, she opened the door.
Outside stood a tall man, dressed as a waiter. That was all she could tell, as he was holding the tray high, balanced on the fingers of one hand, at just the right angle to conceal his face.
‘Scusi, signora.’
He seemed to glide into the room, contriving to keep his features hidden as he headed for the little table by the window and set down the tray.
Della’s heart began to dance. He might hide his face, but his hair was unmistakable. Instinctively she pulled together the edges of her thin dressing gown, conscious of how inadequately the silk covered her.
‘Orange juice,’ he said, turning to her with a flourish. ‘Fruit? Cereal?’
‘So you’re not still angry with me?’ she asked, laughing.
‘No, I got over my sulk fairly quickly. Forgive me?’
It was so good to see Carlo standing there that she forgot everything else and opened her arms to him. He took two swift steps across the room, and the next moment she was enfolded in an embrace that threatened to crush the breath out of her.
‘I was afraid you’d have packed your bags and left last night,’ he said between kisses.
‘I was afraid I’d never see you again. I’m sorry. I never meant it to happen the way it did—it just sort of—’
‘It doesn’t matter. It was my fault for making a fuss about nothing.’
‘I always meant to tell you, but things just happened, and I lost track of what I was supposed to be thinking—’
‘Yes,’ he said with meaning. ‘Me too.’
He kissed her again before she could speak, moving his mouth hungrily over hers, pressing her body close against his own. Now she could feel everything she had suspected yesterday, the hard, lean length of him, muscular, sensuously graceful, thrilling.
But it was dangerous to hold him like this when she was nearly naked. The gossamer delicacy of her gown was no protection against the excitement she could sense in him, nor against her own excitement, rising equally fast. Nearly naked wasn’t enough. Only complete nakedness would do, for herself and him.
There was an increasingly urgent sense of purpose in the movements of his hands, and her answering desire threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted this. She wanted him.
It was the very power of that wanting that made her take fright. Twenty-four hours ago she hadn’t met this man. Now she was indulging fantasies of fierce passion, desire with no limits. She must stop this now. She forced herself to tense against him, drawing her head back a little so that he could see her shake it from side to side.
‘No—Carlo—please—’
‘Della—’ His voice was edgy, and it seemed as though he couldn’t stop.
‘Please—wait—’
She felt his body trembling against hers with the effort of his own restraint, and at last he was still. Now he would think her a tease. But when she looked into his eyes she saw only understanding.
‘You’re right,’ he whispered.
‘It’s just that—’
‘I know—I know—not—not yet.’
He spoke raggedly, but he was in command of himself. Della only wished she could say the same about her own body, which was raging out of control, defying her wise words. She pulled herself free, grabbed some clothes, and vanished into the bathroom.
When she emerged, safely dressed, he had discarded his waiter’s jacket and was sitting at the table by the window, pouring her coffee. He seemed calm, with no sign of his recent agitation—except that she thought his hand shook a little.
‘Here’s food,’ he said, indicating rolls and honey. ‘But if you need something more substantial I’ll buy you a big lunch after we’ve been to Pompeii.’
‘We’re going back there?’
‘Just for an hour, while I give my team their instructions. Then we’ll have the rest of the day free.’
His manner was demure while he served her, as if their moment of blazing physical awareness had never been. But then she glanced up to find him watching her, and it was there in his eyes, memory and, more than that, an anticipation amounting to certainty.
‘I’m