snapped Rafaello harshly, and Jaime nodded.
‘Why not?’
His jaw hardened. ‘I take it you don’t regret—anything.’
‘No. Why should I?’ She paused. ‘Do you?’
Rafaello’s thick lashes narrowed his eyes as he turned back again to the road. ‘What have I to regret?’ he stated bleakly. ‘I never knew you.’
There was silence for a time after that, while Jaime endeavoured to recover her composure. Much to her dismay, Rafaello’s last words had scraped a nerve, and she found to her chagrin that her hands were shaking and her knees felt disturbingly weak. She had thought that nothing he could say would disconcert her, but she had been wrong. His final denunciation had left her feeling raw and vulnerable, and she wished with all her heart that Nicola had not abandoned her to her husband’s less than tender mercies.
About thirty kilometres east of Pisa, Rafaello drove off the autostrada on to the narrower country roads that led up into the Tuscan hills. All about them now was the rolling Italian countryside, with its patchwork of green fields interspersed with silvery-green olive groves and acres of vines. Thickly-wooded hills overlooked valleys where the wheat was already turning golden in the heat, and as the late afternoon sunlight shimmered hazily over church spires and cast shadows across the glistening curve of the river, Jaime forgot her misgivings in the sheer delight of being there.
‘It’s beautiful!’ she breathed, as the Maserati crested a rise and the whole panorama of a milk-and-honey valley was spread out below them. ‘I didn’t know—I never dreamed it would be like this!’
‘Would it have made any difference?’ asked Rafaello flatly, and then, as if prepared to meet her halfway, he added: ‘They say nature outdid herself in Tuscany. I love it, of course. It is my home, my land, my heritage! I could never give it up.’
Jaime shook her head. ‘I can understand that.’ She lifted her eyes. ‘Is that a monastery up there?’
Rafaello followed her gaze. Clinging to the hillside several hundred feet above them, the white walls of an ancient building stood out in sharp relief, and his lips curved in a wry smile. It was the first time she had seen anything close to humour soften his stern features since they had met at the airport, and the difference it made was amazing. Gone were the grim lines that bracketed his mouth; gone, too, was the frowning cleft between his dark brows; and the parting of his lips revealed the uneven attractiveness of strong white teeth.
‘It was,’ he conceded, turning his attention to the road again, as they descended a sharp series of bends into the little town of Santo Giustino. ‘It is an hotel now; small and spartan, it is true, but capable of accommodating perhaps a dozen people.’
‘I’d like to stay there,’ said Jaime, looking back over her shoulder. ‘The view must be magnificent.’
‘I imagine it must be.’ Rafaello negotiated the narrow entry to the main square of the town. He glanced at his watch. ‘You must be thirsty. We will stop here for a drink before continuing our journey.’
Jaime was surprised. ‘Is it much further?’ she asked, as he pulled the Maserati off the road and into a narrow parking space.
‘Maybe forty kilometres,’ answered Rafaello carelessly, pushing open his door. ‘Come, we will have a drink at the café.’
Jaime got out of the car with some reluctance. Forty kilometres was not far – a matter of some twenty-five miles. Hardly a great distance. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to drive straight to the Castello? After what Rafaello had said, she couldn’t believe he had any desire to prolong this journey.
But it was too late now for misgivings. Rafaello was locking the car doors, and as her jacket was locked inside, Jaime had no choice but to accompany him as she was. Not that what she was wearing was in any way out of place in a town that catered frequently for tourists. But she was aware of Rafaello’s eyes upon her, and that was what troubled her most.
Santo Giustino was a pretty little town, made the more so by the strings of coloured bunting strung out across the narrow streets. It was very old, with shops and houses set close together, and backed by a beautiful little cathedral, also decorated with flowers.
‘It is carnival time,’ explained Rafaello, as they crossed the square to where several tables had been set outside the doors of a small restaurant. ‘Tomorrow there will be a procession of floats, and a festa with fireworks, celebrating the feast of Santo Gennaro.’ He grimaced ruefully. ‘In fact, the feast of Santo Gennaro should take place in January, but who can enjoy a festa when there is snow on the hills and a cold wind blows down from the Alps?’
Jaime smiled at him. She couldn’t help herself, and for a moment Rafaello shared her amusement. His lean, attractive features mirrored her enjoyment, and then, as if a barrier had dropped between them, he turned away, gesturing to her to take a seat while he went to find the proprietor.
They drank Campari and soda, sitting on opposite sides of the small table, with its blue and white chequered cloth. As the shadows lengthened, more people emerged to stroll in and out of the shops that edged the square, or joined them at the tables, to talk and share a bottle of wine. It was all very peaceful and civilised, but Jaime felt anything but calm. She was only conscious of Rafaello’s brooding preoccupation, and the knowledge that despite his concern for her welfare, he could not relax in her presence.
‘Could we—could we spend a moment in the cathedral?’ she ventured, when both their glasses were empty and it was obvious he was about to suggest going back to the car. ‘I adore old churches, and this one is very old, isn’t it? La Cattedrale de Santo Giustino—I read it on that notice over there,’ she added apologetically. ‘Please. I’d like to see inside.’
Rafaello glanced at his watch once again and got to his feet. ‘If you wish,’ he declared, without expression, and taking a deep breath, Jaime accompanied him round the square and up the four shallow stone steps that led into the candelit interior of the small cathedral.
It was not like any cathedral Jaime had seen before. Its size precluded any impressive displays of architecture, but its atmosphere was instilled with the generations of believers who had worshipped here. She noticed Rafaello crossed himself as they entered the nave, dipping his hand into the holy water and making a silent obeisance. Not having been brought up in any particular belief herself, Jaime nonetheless envied him his faith, and she bowed her head respectfully as she wandered up the aisle.
The altar was lit by two tall candelabra, and to one side there was a statue of the Virgin and child, with several unlit candles waiting to be used. ‘To light a candle for someone you love is an act of faith,’ remarked Rafaello behind her, stretching past her to put several coins in the collection box. ‘But faith is not something you know much about, is it, Jaime?’ he added, as she turned quickly to look at him.
He was close, too close, in the shadowy confines of the beautiful little church. The neck of his cream shirt was open, exposing the strong column of his throat, and from the opening she could smell the warm scent of his body. It was a disturbing scent, clean and essentially male, and her breath caught in her throat. ‘The last time I saw you was in a cathedral, did you know that?’ she asked huskily, her voice revealing a little of the strain she was under, and Rafaello looked at her from between narrowed lids.
‘You came to the church?’ he demanded. And then, with rough passion: ‘Why?’
Jaime forced a lighter tone. ‘I—was
