her lashes, turning her head away from the Italian as a slow flush of guilt covered her face. Potty had remarked on her father’s lateness, but she, Venetia, hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. She’d been too busy lying in wait for Carlo, plotting how to get him to go with her to Natasha’s party. She should have gone to his room to check, she castigated herself, instead of trying to attract a man who was plainly bored by what he called her infatuation, who had taunted her cruelly, as good as telling her that a man would have to be paid in hard currency before he could bring himself to be seen with her on his arm in a public place!
Thankfully, she heard the sounds of the doctor’s arrival and hurried to meet him, grateful, at least, for the colour that was gradually returning to her father’s face. And, over an hour later, with the elderly man safely tucked up in bed, she walked with the doctor to his car.
‘Grumbling appendix,’ he told her, opening the door of the sturdy Volvo, putting his bag on the passenger seat. He had kind eyes in a weary face and he glanced up at Carlo, who had followed them out, ‘Nothing to panic about, but call me if the pains recur. And liquids only for twenty-four hours. He should be fine in a couple of days.’
‘I’ll go up to him,’ Venetia stated as the Volvo left, her voice stiff. She couldn’t bear to look at Carlo. She would burst into noisy sobs if she did, remember just how cruel he had been, how he’d reduced what she felt for him to the level of juvenile infatuation, remember that by this time tomorrow he would be gone, and she would never see him again. Already her whole body was starting to shake.
‘No.’ His hand on her shoulder stopped her in her tracks, and she froze and closed her eyes, afraid that he would see the pain, the humiliation, the sheer blinding power of her love for him in the revealing depths. ‘He was already falling asleep when I left him,’ he stated. ‘He had a restless night; a peaceful few hours will do him more good than anything. Besides—’ he had two hands on her shoulders now, turning her round to face him ‘—Potty has promised to look in from time to time, to keep an eye on him.’
He was so close to her now. So close. She could feel the warmth of his body, the nearness of him, the indefinable, exquisitely potent force field of his masculinity as it reached out, as always, to enthral her, hold her spellbound.
Her lips began to tremble. Why couldn’t he feel it too? Why did the only man she could ever love feel nothing for her except exasperation? She couldn’t stay here with him a moment longer; it was too much to bear! Venetia felt the build-up of a sob inside her and tried to contain it, pushing at his body with her fists as the shameful tears welled up in her eyes, spilled over.
And he saw them, of course he did. He didn’t miss a trick. And he would begin to taunt her again, call her a child; she knew he would, she thought hysterically, trying to hold her body rigid to counteract the weak trembling that was such a give-away.
But there was no cruelty in his husky voice as he pulled her into his arms.
‘Ssh,’ he whispered, dipping his dark head so that his cheek lay on hers. ‘Don’t cry. It’s been a worrying couple of hours for you, but it’s over now. Your father’s going to be fine. You’re suffering from reaction, that’s all.’
All? Her sobs began in earnest as he held her, allowing her to cry all over his shirt, his hands gentling her as she clung to him, sliding rhythmically from her shoulders to her waist and back again. The way he was holding her, their bodies so close they might be one being, would have been sheer ecstasy if she hadn’t already known he thought of her as a silly child, with as much sense in her head, as much capacity for real emotion, as a gaudy butterfly. The knowledge that he was leaving tomorrow was breaking her heart.
Gulping back a renewed spasm of sobbing, she tightened her arms around him, as if the sheer force of her love could keep him with her, now and for always. And felt his hands grow still against her back, felt the hard warmth of his palms burn through the thin fabric of her loose, sleeveless top, felt, beneath the pressure of her lush breasts and hips, the sudden rigidity of his lean masculine body.
And knew he was about to draw away, that he had been comforting her as he would have comforted an upset child, but, in the moment of her sexual initiative, the instinctive movements of her body against his, the way she had tried to use the power of her love for him to hold him, she had reminded him of her sexuality.
She wouldn’t let him push her away, withdraw again behind that wall. She couldn’t let him. She had broken through that wall. She had! He could no longer pretend she was a tiresome, overgrown child! Never more would he push her away!
But he did. Did it with a stark suddenness that left her reeling, searching his suddenly tight features with hurt, uncomprehending eyes.
Desperately her hands reached for him, but he took them in the iron-hard grip of one of his own, stepping back, holding her at a distance she felt as an aching void, making her throat tighten with anguish. And her huge, translucent eyes brimmed with unshed tears as she protested chokily, ‘Don’t push me away.’
‘Just thank your lucky stars I have some self-control,’ he came back tautly, his black eyes burning into hers with a ferocity she had never encountered before. ‘If you were five years older, things might be different.’ His magnificent eyes hardened to chips of jet, his browline a frowning black bar as he told her tightly, ‘But you’re just a child.’
‘I’m not,’ she cried wildly, twisting her hands within his iron grip. If she could only touch him again, tenderly yet with all the passion she now knew she was capable of, he would know she was all woman. She would show him that much. But his grip was cruel, ungiving, and she blurted frantically, her pride in tatters, ‘I love you, Carlo! Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me!’ And heard him draw a rough breath deep into his lungs, his voice all ragged edges as he bit back ferociously,
‘You tempt me too much! Do you know what you’re doing to me? Do you?’ He gave her a long black stare, his mouth tight, then dropped her hands as if her touch disgusted him, and walked rapidly back towards the house, taking her poor bruised heart with him.
* * *
Venetia woke feeling smothered, anxious to the point of panic, not knowing the cause.
Agitatedly she pushed at the bedcovers, flinging them off the bed, till they lay in a slithery scarlet satin pool on the thick white carpet, and gazed around her with wide, bewildered eyes.
Then the feeling of being in a waking nightmare subsided as she pin-pointed the source of her anxiety. It wasn’t her father, that was for sure. Oh, she was still concerned after yesterday’s fright, but nothing more than that. As long as he kept to a liquid-only diet today and took a few days off work, there was every reason to expect that the grumbling appendix would behave itself.
The root of her misery lay with her beloved Carlo. She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them, her long black hair all over the place. Despite her protestations of love, the way she’d pleaded with him to stay—she went hot with shame when she recalled her impassioned outburst—he had every intention of leaving, setting out for the airport in his hired car at noon.
After he’d walked away from her, back to the house, she had felt more alone and miserable than ever before in her young life. She hadn’t known how to handle the sensation of utter despair, especially when, a few minutes later, she’d seen him shoot off down the drive in the hired Fiesta.
In between checking on her father, she’d hung around waiting for Carlo to return, restlessly pacing the terrace, trying to work out what she should say to him when she saw him next. She’d felt physically and mentally shattered
