In the Italian's Sights Page 11

  Whatever had possessed her? She sat down with a little plump on the bed. Both dresses were not the sort of clothes she would normally buy, but in the shop, where there had been rack upon rack of wildly seductive frocks, they had seemed quite respectable. They still were, she supposed, but just not her. Mind you, over the last days she had lost sight of who she was. The emotions and feelings which had taken her over were far removed from the person she’d thought she was.

  There was a knock at the bedroom door, and as she called, ‘Come in,’ Sophia came into the room—much as she had done that first evening a week ago. Vittorio’s sister had been resting in her room for most of the day, but round about this time every night the debilitating nausea seemed to lift until the next morning. Cherry just hoped it had lessened when the wedding, four weeks away, took place. A bride who was distinctly green about the gills wouldn’t exactly add the right touch to the occasion.

  ‘You look lovely,’ Sophia said warmly, her hands on her hips as she surveyed Cherry. ‘That dress is perfect for you.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Cherry peered anxiously into the mirror once more. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Si, it is so. But maybe your hair…’ Sophia put her head on one side like a bird. ‘I know. Wait here.’

  While Sophia had gone, Cherry turned her attention from the dress to her hair. What was wrong with it? She’d put it up in a coil at the back of her head, feeling the elegant dress deserved a more sophisticated style.

  Sophia returned with a box of pins and several tiny crystal clips. ‘Sit,’ she said imperiously, pushing Cherry down on the velvet stool in front of the sleek dressing table before whipping out the clip holding her hair in place. ‘I like playing with the hairstyles. I used to do the same with my dollies when I was a little girl.’

  Great. Now she was Barbie. Cherry shut her eyes, knowing protest was useless. This was a Carella after all.

  After a few minutes, and with laughter in her voice, Sophia said, ‘You can open your eyes now, Cherry, and see what a bird’s nest your hair has become.’

  It wasn’t, of course. In fact Cherry couldn’t believe what Sophia had accomplished in such a short time. Her hair was caught in a soft loose style that emphasised her slender neck without being too formal, cleverly held in place with the pins which were now invisible and the odd shining coil emphasised by the crystal clips which glittered in the light. It was the sort of feminine modern hairdo Cherry had seen in glossy magazines and imagined it would take hours and cans of hairspray to accomplish, but Sophia had worked her transformation in minutes.

  Throughout her childhood and youth Cherry had never been one to make close girlfriends—Angela had always poached them immediately if she thought they preferred Cherry to her—and she wasn’t used to the way females could support members of their own sex when called to do so. She had got used to keeping herself to herself, she supposed, but Sophia’s genuine affection and friendliness touched something deep inside that brought tears to her eyes.

  ‘It’s wonderful.’ She turned on the stool, smiling, blinking the telltale moisture away. ‘You’re a marvel.’

  ‘No, I think it is you who is the marvel for staying to help me,’ Sophia said softly. ‘And I know Vittorio thinks so too, although being a man he probably would not say.’ She took Cherry’s hands, drawing her up from the stool. ‘Now, go and have a lovely time, Cherry, and dance the night away.’

  Feeling ridiculously shy, Cherry followed Sophia out of the room and down the stairs to where Vittorio was already waiting in the vast hall. He had dressed up too—black dinner jacket and tie—and he dominated the light-coloured surroundings with his dark brooding attractiveness. He moved to meet her at the bottom of the stairs, his grey eyes hot and glittering but his voice deliberately gentle as he said, ‘You look quite beautiful, mia piccola. I am honoured to be accompanying you this evening.’

  It was so Italian, so different from what a date in England might say, that curiously it relaxed her. This was a brief, enchanting interlude in her life, something that wouldn’t—couldn’t—last, but enchanting nonetheless, and just for tonight she was going to enjoy herself. She didn’t know it but her smile was radiant.

  ‘Thank you.’ Turning to Sophia at the side of her, she gave Vittorio’s sister a hug. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Sophia hugged her back. ‘Arrivederci—and, remember, have a good time.’

  Once in the Ferrari, Cherry turned to look at Vittorio as the engine sprang into life and he negotiated the powerful car in a semi-circle and away from the villa. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Not too far.’ He glanced at her before returning his attention to the road. ‘I have a friend who owns a nightclub in Altamura. It is a town eight or nine miles from here.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of it. Isn’t that where they recently discovered a prehistoric man in a cave, dating back some four hundred thousand years, as well as various megaliths?’ Cherry asked interestedly. It had been on her list ‘to see’ before she left the region.

  ‘Uomo di Altamura, si. But we will not be visiting the cave tonight,’ Vittorio said drily. ‘Perhaps another time.’

  She nodded. ‘I’d like that.’

  He flashed a smile. ‘Then it is a date. Altamura, like so much of Italy, has lived many lives and died many deaths, first dominated by one culture and then another, with much blood spilt. But it is this which gives my country its diversity and love of independence, so it is not a bad thing, I think.’

  She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the proud, autocratic profile. ‘You love this country, don’t you?’ she said softly.

  ‘It is my blood, my bones, my heart.’ Again the dark eyes raked her face for a moment. ‘But it is this way with most people of every nation, is it not?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she disagreed thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it was once, but not now. Modern society seems intent on ripping itself to pieces from the inside out, from what I can see, never satisfied with its politicians or lifestyle, always wanting more, whatever the cost to community or family life.’

  ‘It is not this way in Puglia,’ Vittorio said firmly.

  She agreed with him. It wasn’t. The slow pace of life and sleepy ambience was seductively sweet, and within a day or two of being in the region it had become apparent to her that Italians in this part of the world very much worked to live, rather than the other way round. Along with the custom of the siesta, she’d been charmed by what the Italians called the passeggiata—an evening stroll taken by whole families through the streets as the towns and villages awoke and people came together for coffee, an ice cream and a gossip. It was a charming way of life and would be a deeply satisfying environment in which to bring up children.

  Determinedly wrenching her mind from following that path, Cherry settled in her seat and looked out of the window, trying to ignore what the faint scent of clean, sharp aftershave combined with a hint of primitive, virile male was doing to her senses. It was a glorious evening, and as the journey got underway the road wound through the inevitable olive groves and vineyards, along with cherry and almond orchards and walnut trees. The sun-baked landscape was peaceful and serene—sunstruck white-walled villas and the odd trulli house or two dozing in the warm air, kinder now the fierce heat of the day had mellowed.

  She didn’t want to leave this heavenly part of the world. Cherry’s mind was whirling behind her calm façade. And she didn’t want to leave Vittorio either. Admitting that to herself was half the battle in dealing with the emotions he’d aroused.

  ‘You are very quiet.’ His smoky voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I have not forgotten our agreement, if that is what is worrying you.’

  ‘I’m not worried,’ she returned swiftly. ‘I’m just admiring the view.’ In more ways than one. He looked good enough to eat normally, but tonight he was devastating. All men seemed to acquire a certain something in a dinner jacket and tie but Vittorio took it to a new dimension; forget James Bond, she thought wryly. He
wouldn’t have stood a chance with the ladies tonight.

  ‘This is good. I want you to appreciate my beautiful country and forget anything that is not Italian from henceforth.’

  Cherry glanced at him to see if he was joking, but the handsome face was perfectly serious. ‘That wouldn’t be very practical. I do have to go home eventually, you know.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked with deceptive mildness. ‘To watch your troubled sister wreck more lives? I do not think you wish this. Do you, Cherry?’

  She fiddled with her bracelet. She had known this man only a week or so and yet here he was asking personal, probing questions which he must know she couldn’t answer. Yet what was even more disturbing was that she wanted to answer him, to pour out her thoughts and feelings, to tell him all about herself. Which would be utter emotional suicide. ‘I don’t normally have anything much to do with Angela or my mother,’ she hedged carefully.

  ‘So you have no real ties in England?’

  That wasn’t what she’d meant. ‘I have friends, aunts, uncles, cousins,’ she answered slowly. ‘OK?’

  ‘No grandparents?’ he persisted silkily. ‘No one that close?’

  ‘No, not now. Satisfied?’ she asked a trifle tersely.

  ‘And you see these friends and other family members often?’

  She frowned, staring pointedly at him. ‘Is this an interrogation?’

  ‘Is that what it feels like?’ he returned smoothly.

  ‘Please stop answering a question with another,’ she said irritably.

  ‘Is that what I am doing?’ And then he chuckled. ‘Si, I see what you mean. I apologise. I would like to know more about you, that is all. I feel at a disadvantage. You are living in my house, you are friends with my sister—you know a great deal about me and the life I lead, do you not?’

  She stared at him disbelievingly. She knew nothing about him. Nothing that really mattered, that was. OK, his love-life, in effect. But even the little she’d gleaned about Caterina had come from Sophia; he’d given her no specifics. Not one.

  He waited a moment or two. ‘You do not agree?’

  She shrugged. There was no way she was going to humiliate herself by asking about other women. ‘I think you are a very private person who only lets people see what you want them to see,’ she prevaricated uneasily.

  Now it was Vittorio’s turn to frown. ‘You think I have the secrets? Is that what you are saying?’

  ‘Not secrets exactly, no.’ She was floundering. ‘Like I said once before, you’re a closed book, that’s all.’

  ‘I do not think this is so,’ he said firmly.

  ‘Then we’ll have to agree to disagree on the matter,’ Cherry said with equal firmness.

  They drove in silence the rest of the way to Altamura—Vittorio concentrating on driving and Cherry staring through the window at a view which had lost its interest. The unresolved issue and the way the conversation had gone had made her feel tense and awkward, taking the anticipation and excitement out of the evening and making her feel flat and miserable.

  The town was bustling when they arrived, full of families eating out or sitting in the last of the sunshine outside the little trattorias and osterias and pizzerias which were everywhere.

  When Vittorio swung the Ferrari off the road into a large palm-fringed courtyard and cut the engine, he made no move to open the door. Turning to her, he said quietly, ‘For a long time now I have taken care of Sophia. It was important after the death of our parents to give her stability and a sense of security, you understand? To try and be all our father and mother would have been and to shoulder any responsibility or difficulties. I think this is possibly why I have become the closed book of which you speak, but it is not intentional. I was betrothed to an Italian girl when my parents were killed—the daughter of friends of theirs. This did not work out, and since that time I have not brought any women to the villa for Sophia’s sake. That is not to say that I have not had an active social life, but I have not been used to—what is the English expression?—wearing my heart on my sleeve with anyone. My relationships have been… transitory.’

  Cherry listened, afraid to breathe.

  ‘I did not mean to ask anything of you I would not be willing to give myself, or to play the clever games, si? There should be no secrets between friends, I feel.’

  Friends. Well, it was what she had insisted on. She remained silent, trying to reconcile what she was hearing with the Vittorio she had built up in her mind, and failing.

  ‘I wanted tonight to be enjoyable—a thank-you for all your hard work so far and for taking the burden of the arrangements off Sophia’s shoulders more successfully than I had anticipated. I am grateful, Cherry. I wish you to know this.’

  She didn’t want gratitude, she wanted—She slammed a door in her mind, forcing herself to say as quietly as he’d spoken, ‘Thank you, but you don’t have to do things like this to show your gratitude. Besides which, I’m staying in your beautiful home and having a lovely time—really.’

  Ignoring the latter words, he said fiercely, ‘I do not have to escort you tonight. I want to, and that is different.’ He bent his head quickly and kissed her before she realised his intention. A hard kiss, unapologetically hungry but over in a moment.

  Nevertheless, everything changed and the night was magical again as he opened the car door and walked round to her door to help her alight. And this time she refused to acknowledge the little warning light in the back of her mind that was glowing red.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THEIR table for two was in a prime position at the edge of the dance floor. The nightclub was crowded and clearly popular, but a bottle of champagne was on ice at their table and within moments of their arrival Vittorio’s friend, Domenico, was at their side, greeting them effusively as he poured the champagne.

  Initial introductions over, Domenico—who was as portly and small as Vittorio was lean and tall—beamed at Cherry. ‘I hear all about you,’ he declared somewhat dramatically. ‘You help Sophia, si? Ah, Sophia—so like her mother in looks but with her father’s spirit, eh, Vittorio?’

  ‘Unfortunately this is so,’ Vittorio drawled drily.

  Cherry surmised—rightly—that Domenico was acquainted with the full facts regarding the hasty wedding, but thought it prudent merely to smile.

  ‘And this Santo. He is a good boy at heart, I hear, Cherry? You think this also?’ Domenico asked, as though her opinion mattered. ‘You think he will take good care of Sophia?’

  Taken aback, she nodded. ‘Santo’s great,’ she said warmly, ‘and I’m sure they’ll be very happy together.’

  ‘This is good. I would not like my old friend to go grey before his time, eh, Vittorio?’ Domenico gave a belly laugh. Then, turning to Cherry again, he added, ‘He has been the best brother a sister could have, but now he needs to find a good woman and have plenty of bambini to keep him busy, eh? What do you say, Cherry?’

  ‘She says she does not think my private life is any of your concern,’ Vittorio interrupted, but without heat. ‘You look after Maria and your own bambini and leave me to sort out my own life.’

  Domenico grinned, clearly not offended. ‘Talking of which, there will be a new arrival just after Christmas,’ he said contentedly. ‘Or an early Christmas present, perhaps.’

  ‘Another?’ Vittorio stood up and hugged his friend before saying to Cherry as he sat down again, ‘This will be bambino number seven. I am surprised Maria has not insisted on separate bedrooms before this.’

  ‘It is Maria who has set her heart on a girl,’ Domenico protested. ‘She has had the name chosen for the last three pregnancies. Crista Maria, and she will be beautiful.’

  ‘You have six boys?’ Cherry stared at Domenico in amazement.

  ‘Si.’ Domenico couldn’t hide his pride. He was clearly an out-and-out family man. ‘You like children, Cherry?’

  Somewhat bemused, she nodded, sipping her champagne.

  ‘Then Vittorio must bring you to meet them on
e day soon, si? Maria, she will be pleased to show her bambini to you.’

  Cherry smiled and nodded, but again said nothing. She was beginning to wonder if Vittorio’s friend had got the wrong idea about her staying at the Carella villa and her relationship with its charismatic owner.

  After a few more words Domenico disappeared, and Vittorio leaned forward and touched her hand. ‘He does not mean anything. He is the good friend, that is all,’ he said softly. ‘Do not be concerned, Cherry.’

  She wasn’t exactly concerned. In fact she had been wishing that things were different—that this was a real date, that she was a nice Italian girl, the sort of woman Vittorio was eventually bound to marry, being so fiercely Latin. She forced a smile. ‘I think your friend is charming,’ she said with patent sincerity. ‘He clearly thinks the world of you.’

  Vittorio smiled back. ‘We have been through some good and bad times together,’ he agreed quietly. ‘Domenico lost his parents and brother when he was a small child and came here from San Severo to live with his grandparents. But he spent most of his time with my family when we became friends. He is more than a friend, he is like a brother, and the three of us—Domenico, another friend, Lorenzo, and myself—were inseparable. It is good to have such friends, I think.’

  Lorenzo. That was the man who had married Vittorio’s fiancée, wasn’t it? The thought was barely there when Vittorio’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at a point over her shoulder and swore very softly under his breath.

  Before Cherry could even turn her head she was aware of a blast of heavy sickly perfume as a woman came up behind her and paused at their table. ‘Vittorio…’