TWO
FOR heaven’s sake, Lucy castigated herself wearily, not for the first time. You’re not a child. You’ve been in love with a man. You’ve lived with him. So one kiss, even from a complete stranger, is no big deal. Pull yourself together.
She was lying on the bed in her room at the villa, staring at the ceiling. Trying to get all that had happened into some kind of perspective.
The others had been genuinely shocked and concerned when they’d returned from their boutique trip and found out what had happened to her. At first, they’d wanted to call the police, but Lucy had vetoed this. She had neither the number of the motorcycle nor any adequate description of its riders. Besides, apart from the ruin of her bag and trousers, she’d lost nothing, and her only witness had driven off into oblivion.
She’d described him solely as a passer-by. It seemed wiser not to revive Nina’s interest, or lay herself open to any inconvenient questions, she’d decided, passing the tip of her tongue over her still tingling lips.
Nina had driven the Fiat back to the Villa Dante with exaggerated care, while Sandie and Fee had plied Lucy with offers of everything from grappa to a homely cup of tea.
They’d been frankly sceptical, however, when she’d told them about Tommaso. The collective feeling was that she’d gone to the wrong address.
‘I mean, would a man who owns a place like this be camping out in some kind of slum?’ Nina had demanded, and Lucy had to admit it seemed unlikely. Tomorrow, she’d thought, she would make proper enquiries.
However, there was still no sign of Maddalena, which meant Nina and the others had to prepare for their party themselves.
Lucy, however, was not expected to help. Nina had escorted her somewhat perfunctorily upstairs, asked if she wanted anything, and vanished at Lucy’s polite negative.
Once alone, she’d filled the big sunken tub which took pride of place in the adjoining bathroom, and soaked herself luxuriously, letting the warm water soothe as well as cleanse.
She had superficial grazing on her knees and elbows, and there would undoubtedly be bruising to follow, but she would survive, she’d decided with a faint sigh.
But her injured feelings were not as easily mollified, she’d thought as she’d dried herself carefully and put on her lemon silk robe.
It was galling to be classified with the man-hungry Nina, but probably unavoidable under the circumstances. However, she would never have to face her tormentor again, so the only sensible course was to put the whole basically trivial incident behind her, and enjoy the rest of her holiday.
Hers was not the largest bedroom, but it had the best view across the valley, and she liked the uncluttered lines of its furnishings and the plain, heavy cream drapes. It occurred to her now that the room was almost masculine in concept. Maybe this was where Tommaso usually slept, she thought, her flesh creeping at the very idea.
Someone had brought up a pitcher of fruit juice and some paracetemol while she was in the bath. It was a genuinely kind thought, and maybe it would mark a new phase in her somewhat chequered relationship with her companions.
They were younger than her, even if it was only by a matter of a few months, perfectly aware of their own considerable attractions, and looking for a good time. And where was the real harm in all that?
You should stop being so critical and join in more, she told herself forcefully. Make the best of things, starting with tonight’s party. Remember that you’re single too now, instead of half of a couple.
Aided by the painkillers, she slept for a while, her dreams confused and disturbing. And, throughout them all, a man’s dark figure walked on the edge of her consciousness, his face as proud and beautiful as a fallen angel’s.
She awoke in the twilight with a start, her hands reaching across the empty bed for a presence that didn’t exist, and lay still, waiting for the drumming of her pulses to subside.
Philip, she thought. I must be missing Philip.
She did not feel particularly rested, and she was beginning to stiffen up, too, her bruises announcing their existence. It wouldn’t have taken much for her to cry off from the evening’s festivities and stay in her room, she acknowledged, hauling herself gingerly off the bed and over to the big, heavily carved guardaroba. But then solitude had no particular appeal either. It gave her imagination too much scope, she decided wryly.
Most of the clothing she’d brought with her was casual, but at the last moment she’d thrown in a dress that was strictly after-dark gear.
She looked at it without enthusiasm. Philip had urged her to buy it, against her better judgement, during the last week they’d been together. It wasn’t her style, being brief-skirted and body-hugging, with the neckline slashed, back and front, to a deep V, which did no favours at all for her slender curves. And that shade of dark red was wrong for her too, draining her own natural colour.
It seemed to have been designed for a very different woman, and having caught a brief, piercing glimpse of Philip emerging from a fashionable Knightsbridge restaurant with his new lady—a vivid brunette built on voluptuous lines—she could guess only too well who’d he’d been thinking of when he’d picked it out.
But it was the only party wear she had, she thought as she zipped herself into it. And maybe it would do her good to wear it, as a tangible reminder of how little her relationship with Philip had come to mean.
She had spent days and nights since their break-up tormenting herself with self-blame. Asking how she could have been so blind, or why she hadn’t suspected in time to put things right—win him back.
Now, as she brushed her hair into a smooth curve swinging just above her shoulders, she knew there was nothing she could have done. And found herself questioning for the first time whether she should even have tried.
For the truth was, she realised almost dispassionately, that the magic had gone out of their lives long before he’d left.
In the first, euphoric flush of love, she’d ignored the fact that their lovemaking fell short of rapture for her. That Philip had always seemed more concerned for his own satisfaction than hers. That, invariably, she was left stranded, aching for a fulfilment which she could only guess at, having never actually experienced it in reality. And, towards the end, it had become perfunctory—almost a mechanical ritual because they shared a bed.
But how was it that she could suddenly see all this so clearly? she wondered, biting her lip in confusion.
Because today a man had kissed her—someone she would never meet again—and in those few moments when his mouth had possessed hers she had been shaken to the depths of her being, her body shocked into an instant arousal she had never known before.
In her dreams, it was not Philip she had sensed at all, but this other man—the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the scent of his skin, the casual strength of the arms which held her. And in her dreams she had wanted more—much more—than his kiss alone.
She looked at herself, half-wonderingly, in the mirror, her hand going once more to her lips.
She thought, Dear God, what’s happening to me? And could find no answer in her heart.
In
