The Passionate Italian 11 DECEMBER EPUB (8 page)

He brought his finger to her lips before she could reply. “Don’t worry. It will be the latter. Our bedrooms are separate; there will be no inconvenient passion to disturb your days—or nights.”

 
She closed her eyes briefly against the frustration. He must know that she wanted his passion more than anything. His jealousies and controlling behavior seemed nothing to her now.

“I see the thought that I do not insist you lie with me relieves you.”

“As if you could insist.”

He leaned in to her. “You know I could, dolce cuore. And not by insisting. Rather by persuasion. But I choose not to.”

“So why are you chauffeuring me from the office to the Palazzo? Think your wife might be led astray by an amorous Italian?”

She could see the barb found its mark but he recovered quickly. “It is always wise to protect one’s investment,” he smiled lightly. “Otherwise it ceases to have value.”

She glared at him.

“And what exactly is it that you want from your investment at this moment?”

“I want your assurance that your work remains completely confidential. I don’t want names mentioned to your team; I don’t want specific findings revealed. They must only ever know a small piece of the whole. It will be only you who knows the full picture. I need your assurance on this.”

Surprised, she nodded. “That’s standard. Why the secrecy?”

“The ‘why’ is not your concern. Simply do your job, fulfill your contract and then you will be free once more. Just as you wish to be.”

“Fine.”

As they pulled up outside the Palazzo, Rose didn’t wait for Simon and turned to let herself out of the car.

“And, Rose, don’t wait up, I doubt I’ll be home for dinner.”

She jumped out without a backward glance.

Rose looked down the length of the rosewood table at the antique grandfather clock that mournfully chimed two long strokes—wrong, as usual—and sipped her glass of wine.

Apart from those last few months, she couldn’t remember a time when Giovanni had not spent the evening with her. More often than not, business had to be mixed with pleasure, but it had never taken precedence before.

Times had changed, obviously. She would be dining alone.

She shook out her napkin, helped herself to dinner and looked around the oppressive room.

Alone, surrounded by the ornate paintings of his ancestors, Rose felt suffocated by the weight of his family’s history. Her eyes ranged from the older paintings depicting grim-faced ancestors to the modern-day paintings of Giovanni’s own family.

The artist had caught Giovanni’s strength and pride but not his passion: that, even the finest artist had been unable to convey.

Her eyes shifted to his brother—his only sibling. There, the artist had been more successful. Alberto’s eyes gazed upon the watcher with a bored, sardonic humor. His full upper lip was curled slightly as if irritated by the whole exercise. It was the face of a spoilt young man, with more ambition than ability.
 

Her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest and she studied her wine as she tried to calm herself. Alberto wasn’t here. Apparently wasn’t even due back until well after her contract expired. Without him, things could continue as they were before. She could plan her future, back in New Zealand, and make her escape before his return. She loved Giovanni and it was for his sake that she needed to leave before Alberto returned.

Because she wouldn’t be able to hide from Giovanni the fact that his brother had attacked her in an attempt to rape her, destroying their baby in the process. And she didn’t know whether he’d be able to control his rage at her hurt. What if his worst fears came to pass and he attacked his brother, just as his father had when he’d nearly killed a man? She daren’t risk him discovering her secret, risk his passionate rage that might know no bounds.
 

She took another mouthful of food and studiously avoided looking at Giovanni’s portrait.

How could she have let herself fall back into his life again? Her love for him had continued unabated, but his passion for her had been like a distress flare—powerful, lighting up her whole life, but, seemingly, quick to extinguish.
 

And here she was, loving him, wanting him, but leaving him quite untouched. There was nothing but coolness from him now.

What she’d give to see that heat once more.
 

She sipped from her glass of wine, pushed back the half-eaten plate of food, and wondered where he was and what he was doing.

It wasn’t like him. They’d always made sure that everything stopped for their time together. But not now. And how could she expect otherwise? She’d left him believing that she’d had enough of his over-the-top passions that reminded her of the histrionics of her unstable mother.

A man with his pride would never forgive her. He was probably out now with one of the many young, beautiful Italian women that flocked around him in the up-market restaurants and clubs that he frequented. Yes, she could just see it: blonde hair flicked artfully to one side and head inclined slightly as the woman listened to him, the accidental graze of her hand upon his thigh, shifting in her seat as she indicated her receptiveness to his sexuality.

She sat back in the chair, shook her head and groaned.

He’d been right. She
was
disappointed because he’d wanted her for the work, rather than for anything else. She suddenly realized the depth of her need for him. Perhaps she should track him down and flirt with him, make him see what he was missing. Make him see her as a woman, not a business colleague. Then it occurred to her. She wouldn’t need to track him down. She could use his jealousy for once and lure him to her. She’d go to the club that was his second home. Giovanni would be told in minutes that she was there.

It was hot in the streets of Milan. She walked cautiously down the front steps of the Palazzo in her stiletto heels. They were one of the things she’d been glad to leave behind in Italy. But now? They might just prove useful. Once she’d got the hang of them again.

Rose carefully negotiated the cobbled street that led to her destination. It was the only place Giovanni ever went. Portofino. A complex of intimate dining rooms, bars and lounges, it met every mood of its wealthy patrons.

“Signora Visconti! How lovely to see you again. I’d heard that you were back.”

Could Rose hear a certain panic in the maitre d’s voice or was she getting paranoid?

“A table for one please—in your main bar.”

“Si, Signora. Come this way. We are always pleased to accommodate you.”

True to his word, the maitre d’ found a table in the busy bar and Rose let him seat her before she looked around. No sign of Giovanni yet. But he’d be here. The maitre d’ would make sure of that. Wherever Giovanni was, he’d be informed of her presence here within the hour.

Two hours later she was the centre of attention. She didn’t kid herself that it was her sparkling conversation or any deep connection she was making with the half-a-dozen men vying for her smile. She wriggled uncomfortably in the slim-fitting dress that she’d bought in a fit of pique three years ago and had never worn. Like all the rest of her clothes she’d left behind, it had remained in the wardrobe, as if Giovanni had always expected her to return. She’d never worn this particular dress. It had been too revealing, Giovanni had claimed, and so she’d gone along with his wishes and it had remained unworn. But tonight it was having the exact effect she’d planned—except with the wrong men. Where was he? She tugged the dress down over her thighs, crossed her legs and sipped yet more wine for courage.

Her glass was immediately refilled. She wondered, briefly, how many glasses she’d had before the thought evaporated hazily at the sensation of her straight and silky hair tickling the heated skin of her bare shoulders and back.

“You have beautiful hair, bella.” One of the young men—younger than her, she estimated—emboldened perhaps by her unfocussed gaze, leant forward and ran his hands through it before tickling her breast with a lock that had begun to curl in the heat.

That focused her sharply. “Enough,” she batted away his hand and stood up, ignoring the urgings from her companions to remain. Either Giovanni hadn’t heard about her presence in the notorious bar, or he didn’t care. If he’d cared, he would have been there fighting the men off. Time to go.

She rose and felt the room move. She must have drunk more wine than she’d thought. She walked unsteadily out to the balcony, followed by a couple of the men. Suddenly the cool English tones of Giovanni’s assistant, Simon, rang out.

“Signora Rose, allow me.”

She’d never been so pleased to see anybody in her life. She took his arm and left the building.

“Am I glad to see you Simon.”

“So it would seem Signora Rose.”

He held her firmly as they walked the block back to the palazzo.

“Do you often go there, Simon?”

“Rarely. But it was suggested that you might need some assistance tonight. I’d been there a while before I thought it timely to make my move.”

“Who did the suggesting?”

“Signore Visconti of course. He wanted to make sure you arrived home safely.”

She stopped in astonishment and stood unsteadily. “How did he know I was there?”

“I think it would be more fitting for him to tell you that. But he was aware of your, er, evening out, but—”

“But didn’t want to do anything about it himself. Thought he’d get you to do the dirty work.”

“Now, Signora Rose. Firstly we should move. You’ll get us both run over standing in the middle of the road like this. And secondly escorting you from the club was hardly dirty work.”

“Hmm!” Rose began walking once more, her shoes stabbing the cobbled stones with irritation. He’d been there, or had known she was, and had deliberately sent one of his employees to sort her out. Just like an errant child who needed to be watched over by an impartial carer. Damn it! He hadn’t even cared enough to make sure she was all right himself!

She could feel the tears begin. She really must have drunk more wine than she’d thought. Those guys must have been topping up her glass without her noticing.
 

So that’s all she was to him. Someone to be organized, cared for from a distance, just like one of his employees. She’d tried to find him, to spend time with him, but instead she’d found interest from the wrong men and even Giovanni’s jealousy had failed to respond. It was stupid: jealousy didn’t equal love. She knew that. But it was his total lack of response that got to her. It could only mean one thing. He didn’t love her any more.
 

“Please don’t cry.” Simon’s voice held an edge of panic.

“I’m not crying.”

She continued not to cry all the way back to the Palazzo where she used Simon’s scarf to wipe away the mascara rings before entering. He opened the door for her.

“Good night, signora, I’ll leave you now.”

“Night.” Once inside she fell back against the closed door and listened to his muffled steps retreat to his nearby apartment. None of the staff lived in the house. She was quite alone. Except for Giovanni, somewhere in the depths of the house.

She breathed in the polished dark emptiness of the grand hall. The clock clanged two chimes, for once on time. He’d be in bed by now. She slipped off her shoes and began to walk down the hall. Head down, watching her step, intent on getting to her bedroom unnoticed.

Suddenly the top of her head bumped into something. She screamed and jumped back.

“Walking around without looking where you’re going; is that a New Zealand habit that you’ve acquired?”

“Where the hell did you come from?”

“I’ve been waiting for you. Come in here.”

She followed him into his study, desperately trying to keep the waves of nausea at bay and clear her head. She sat down in the soft suede chair and realized that there was little chance of recovering sufficiently to win a game of wits with him. But she’d give it her best shot.

“What do you want Giovanni? To tell me off for having fun?”

“Did you?”

“What? Have fun? Of course. How could I not? Good wine and good company.
Very
good company.”

She watched carefully, noticing a tightening around his jaw. “You certainly appear to have had a surfeit of both.”

“How would you know? You sent Simon to watch over me.”

He glanced quickly at her before pouring himself a drink and sitting down at his desk. She watched him suspiciously.

“You were there, weren’t you?”

“Of course. I was told that you were dining there and thought I would join you. But even after half an hour you’d acquired quite a gathering around your table.”

“So you left?”

“No. I watched and waited. But got bored watching your awkward flirtations and decided to leave the job to Simon. Whatever your reason for such behavior, I thought it might best if I weren’t there to witness it.”

“Didn’t like seeing your wife with other men?”

“Didn’t like seeing my employee make a fool of herself.” Giovanni snapped back. “Don’t do it again Rose. You are hopelessly inept and besides, your obvious intention has failed. You have not made me jealous.”

Giovanni sat back and watched as she swayed slightly in her chair, about to deny his charge but then, for whatever reason, changing her mind.

He’d like to wring the neck of each one of the young men who had devoured Rose with their eyes. He’d seen what they’d seen and he’d imagined what each one of them had imagined. They were new to the establishment otherwise they wouldn’t have dared to try to ensnare his wife from under his nose.
 

But for all the lusting after her body, and for all the jealousy of watching other men covet what should be his, it was his overwhelming sense of tenderness he felt for her that shocked him.

When she’d looked uneasy at some remark he’d wanted to kiss away the frown on her forehead; when she’d flicked away her hair from her breasts that one of the bastards had lain there, he’d wanted to smooth it away and kiss the place where it had touched; when she’d finally risen to go, he’d wanted to wrap her in his arms and carry her away to safety.