…
Polly knelt, opening the bottom drawer of the chest, searching with feverish fingers. There were some oddments of winter clothing here, she knew. Among them …
She drew out the pyjamas with a sigh of relief. They were worn out, washed out, and she’d never liked them, but they were good old-fashioned winceyette, and they covered her from her throat down to her feet.
She was just fastening the last button on the mandarin-style jacket when Sandro returned, and stopped dead at the sight of her.
‘Santa Madonna,’ he breathed, with a kind of fascinated horror. ‘No wonder you sleep alone. I think I shall have to choose your trousseau myself, particularly the biancheria intima.’
‘Thank you,’ Polly returned icily. ‘But I prefer to pick my own lingerie. And if you don’t like the way I look, you can close your eyes too,’ she added triumphantly.
‘That is one solution,’ he admitted musingly. ‘But I can think of others that I would enjoy more.’ He saw her blench, and grinned. ‘Calm down, cara mia. I intend to keep my word. But sometimes to cover too much can be a mistake, because it excites the imagination.’ He paused. ‘I suppose a spare blanket is too much to hope for.’
She wanted to scream at him that she hoped he caught galloping pneumonia and died alone in a ditch. Instead she heard herself say unwillingly, ‘Yes, there is one.’
She fetched it from the corner cupboard, pale blue and still in its wrappings. ‘I bought it for Charlie,’ she told him, gruffly. ‘For when he moves into a bed instead of his cot.’
There was a silence. ‘Then I am doubly grateful,’ he said quite gently. ‘Because this is a sacrifice for you. And I will make sure it goes with us to his new home.’
For a moment, there was a note in his voice that made her want to cry. She turned away hurriedly, and got into bed, pulling the covers over her, the metal base creaking its usual protest as she settled herself.
‘Dio,’ Sandro muttered. ‘And that—atrocity will remain here.’
Well, she wasn’t going to argue about that, Polly thought wearily. Aloud, she said, past the constriction in her throat, ‘Will you turn the light off, please? When you’re ready.’
‘I am ready now.’
She lay, eyes tight shut, as he went past her, and the room was plunged into darkness. Waited for him to return to the chair.
Instead, she was aware of him standing beside her. He said quietly, ‘Paola, do you ever wish you could turn back the clock? Wipe out what has been?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Because I know it’s impossible, and I prefer to deal with reality.’
He sighed. ‘Then could we not declare a truce for this one night? Be together for old times’ sake?’
She wanted so badly to yield. To reach up and draw him down to her. She was starving for him, her body quivering with need, aching for him. Reminding her that she’d never shared a room with him before without eventually falling asleep in his arms in the drugged sweetness of sensual exhaustion.
But if she surrendered, she would be lost forever. And if she resisted, as she knew she must, at least she would retain what remained of her pride. Which might be all she had left to sustain her in the weeks, months, even years ahead.
‘Even if I was in the mood for casual sex,’ she said stonily, ‘you gave me your word.’ And paused. ‘Besides, you flatter yourself, signore,’ she added, coolly and distinctly. ‘The old times weren’t that special.’
She heard his swift intake of breath, and flinched, knowing she had gone too far. Waiting for a retribution which seemed inevitable.
But there was nothing.
She felt rather than heard the moment he moved away. Listened, all her senses tingling, as he wrapped himself in the blanket. Then, in the heavy silence which followed, she turned her face into the single pillow, and lay like a dead thing.
It had never occurred to her that she would sleep. She was too aware of his even breathing only a few feet away, demonstrating quite clearly, she realised, that her rejection couldn’t have weighed too heavily with him after all.
She sighed silently, searching for a cool place on the pillow. She needed to look calm and rested in the morning, not wan and heavy-eyed.
Because Sandro must not be allowed to think that he still mattered to her.
That was what she needed to remember above all. Anything else would be a disaster, because, as those few moments in the darkness had proved all over again, it was going to be difficult to remain immune to the devastating allure of his sexuality.
But that, she thought, had always been her downfall from their first meeting. She had been too much in love, too blinded by the passion and glamour of him to ask the right questions and demand answers that made sense.
Her first major surprise had been his brilliant command of English, but when she’d asked him about it he’d simply said he’d had good teachers.
Polly had wondered, with a pang, whether he meant other women, and decided not to probe any further. Now she suspected that he’d gone to school in England, and probably university too, either here or in America.
He’d told her too that he worked at the Grand Hotel Comadora, but she’d never gone there to see him because its sheer expensive exclusivity discouraged casual visitors. The entrances were controlled by security guards, and the staff were subject to strict rules, so she’d stayed away. Otherwise she’d have soon found out that he wasn’t simply an employee, but the owner. And that had been the last thing he wanted her to know.
Her own naïveté made her cringe now. The way she’d trusted him with all her small, loving dreams of their future.
‘I’d like a tiny house,’ she told him once. ‘In one of the villages high above the sea, with a terraced garden, and its own lemon tree.’
‘Mm.’ He’d stroked her hair back from her love-flushed face with gentle fingers. ‘And will you make me limoncello from our tree?’
He was talking about the lethally potent liqueur that was brewed locally, and she’d laughed.
‘Well, I could try.’
God, what a fool she’d been, and how he must have been secretly amused at her, knowing full well that he was going to dump her once their warm, rapturous summer together was over.
He’d found himself an inexperienced virgin, and cynically turned her into an instrument for his pleasure.
I bet he couldn’t believe his own luck. I must have been the perfect mistress, she thought, wincing. Easily duped, and ecstatically wanton. He didn’t even have to kiss me. The sound of his voice—the warmth of his skin as he stood next to me were enough.
And, as she’d discovered tonight, they still were.
So how was she going to deal with the bleak sterility of the future that awaited her in Italy? A wife who was not a wife, she thought, living
