The Italian's Perfect Lover (11 page)

She swallowed hard. The light was too bright
up here. She just couldn’t. Not yet.

“I’ve got, well, reading to do.”

He laughed. “Reading? Are you mad?” He kissed
her long and slow on her lips, his finger now sliding between the
elastic of her panties and her super-sensitive skin.

She gasped. “Alessandro! Someone might come
in.”

“No, they won’t. It would be more than their
life or their job is worth. But we can go to the bedroom if you
like. I’ll take off your clothes one by one and make love to you
under the brilliant sun of the Alps.”

She shook her head. “No. I’ll stay here if
you don’t—”

“That’s fine with me.” With one swift
movement he yanked down her panties. “Don’t move an inch. I promise
not to rumple your beautiful new clothes.” He flicked back her seat
and she landed on her back on the cushions with a yelp, that turned
into a sigh, that turned into a small cry of ecstasy that was
drowned by the thrum of the jet as it flew high across Europe.

She took a deep breath and smoothed down her
jacket and skirt.

He dropped a kiss on her head as she bobbed
down to enter the limo. “You see, not a wrinkle.”

“You’re an expert at this, obviously.”

“Everyone has their talents, cara, what can I
say?”

“Nothing. Actions speak louder than
words.”

He took her hand and squeezed it in a
demonstration of affection and warmth that thrilled her. There was
something in the familiarity of the gesture that made her very
happy. She looked out the window at Paris: soft, grey, drizzly and
impossibly beautiful. She’d been there only once before and had
loved it instantly.

“First stop, the hotel bedroom.” His whisper
tickled her ear. He turned to instruct the driver but Emily put a
hand on his arm and pressed the intercom instead.

“Musee d’Orsay.” She turned to Alessandro.
“Please. It’s years since I’ve been.”

He sighed. “You’ll simply have to make up for
lost time later Miss M.” He turned to the driver. “Musee
d’Orsay.”

Emily knew exactly where she wanted to go.
She drew Alessandro on, beyond the immaculate sculptures, beyond
the huge scale of Monet’s paintings and the blistering impact of
the Picassos, to a dimly lit corner of the museum.

There she stopped and felt the atmosphere
take her back, back to her early days of convalescence when she’d
come here and first seen the Lautrecs.

Would it be here? Her favourite picture, the
one that spoke to her the most. It wasn’t always on display. But
today?

“Ah. So it’s Toulouse Lautrec who has
captured your heart.”

“Everything is wonderful in here but there’s
something about these that get to me.” She stood in front of the
painting for which she’d been searching. “Look.” She must have
conveyed something of the awe she felt because he didn’t look at
the painting first, but at her. Then he turned to the painting.

“The colors are extraordinary.”

“Greys, mauves, pale golds and then there’s
her red hair. Apparently he liked redheads best. And it’s, well,
just ordinary. An ordinary scene—La Toilette—but made
extraordinary. He’s not doing the ‘I’m a great artist and painting
this masterpiece’ thing. He’s there, in it, like he
is
that
woman, he feels for her so.” She stepped away from the picture as
she felt her emotions beginning to run away with her. “I don’t
know. Silly really.”

“Not silly at all.” He pulled her close to
him, his arm tight around her as they both stood in front of the
painting.

“It’s there, in everything, even in the
hatching of the crayons or oils or whatever he used. It’s an
empathy with the subject. He’s not trying to own it, do something
to it, just to reveal it. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t know
anything about paintings. Just,” her hand hovered, “it’s so moving.
And he’s not even showing her face.”

“No, he has no need. Her bare back shows
everything—a slight tension in the shoulders coming down to a
sensuously soft middle and her skin, creamy yellow, is
beautiful.”

“Flawless.” She pulled her light coat around
her, tying the belt more tightly.

“You’re pale, cara. Come.” He took her by the
hand and pulled her out onto the balcony. She took a deep breath
and absorbed the display of Parisian rooftops all around them. She
could be nowhere else but Paris.

“I liked the way the artist was looking at
her.” She looked up at him. “He wasn’t trying to own her, to
control her. He wouldn’t have hurt her would he?”

He shook his head, his brows contracting
slightly as if in puzzlement, and then pulled her tight to him.

“Come. We should get to the hotel now. We
don’t have much time.”

“Sure.”

He hadn’t got it. He didn’t understand.

He was right. By the time they reached the
hotel, showered and changed they were back out again, walking down
through the Marais district with its grand medieval and
seventeenth-century buildings.

The rain had cleared and they walked, hand in
hand, down the leafy streets, cars speeding by, beautiful people
venturing out for the evening. And for once in her life, Emily felt
a deep sense of happiness.

He might never understand her fully. But why
should he? His experiences were so totally different to hers. But
here, now, with this man, she had everything she wanted.

“You’re happy, I think.”

She nodded, unable to let herself speak for
fear of tearing up.

“Good. I want you always to be happy, mio
tesoro.”

“‘Always’ is a big ask; ‘now’, is fine.”

He laughed. “You’re even beginning to sound
like me.
For now
. For the present.”

She cast him a quick glance. There was an
edge to his last few words that made her wonder. He pushed open a
creaking wrought-iron gate and pulled her into a deserted garden
square. Behind the barrier of trees and walls, the sounds of the
street faded. It was just them.

“Tell me, Emily. Is that enough for you.
Truthfully?”

The moon had risen over the tall buildings
and showered them both with silvered light. Dark, light. All,
nothing. It was always extremes. She had been used to nothing all
her life. And with Alessandro she had found happiness—a happiness
that had no future because Alessandro wanted it that way. How could
she possibly want anything more? But she did.

Did he want her to agree with him, say that
now was enough? Or did he want the truth. She lowered her lids. But
she knew the truth would scare him away.

“And what if I say it isn’t enough? What
then?”

For the first time she sensed an underlying
tension within him. He frowned and stroked her cheek, tenderly.
“I’ve always been honest with you. Told you what I want.”

“You have.”

“I’m just afraid that you’ll want something I
can’t give. I’m not the man to build a future with, Emily. And if
you want that, then you will be disappointed.”

She swallowed hard, willing the sadness that
flickered under the surface to descend further, somewhere where he,
or she, could never see it.

She leant towards him and broke the tension
with a deep, passionate kiss.

“I’d be mad to want more than this.” Her
voice didn’t sound like her own. Husky, like that of a woman who
also lived for the present. Perhaps she could be that other woman.
Perhaps she’d always been her.

But he didn’t smile, merely put his arm
around her and guided her back to the footpath. “Good.”

They strolled up the Rue St Antoine in
silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Hers were filled with
confusion. One minute she felt like she belonged with Alessandro.
She could do it: she could live the life, could feel the things he
wanted her to feel. The next? Reality checks. She’d never lied to
herself before. And wanting, simply wanting to be that other woman
who lived in the present, wasn’t enough.

He stopped outside a renaissance style, early
seventeenth-century building. Uniformed staff allowed them entry
into a courtyard. From there they walked into a further inner
courtyard that lay at the heart of the beautiful building. Emily
had never seen anything like it before in her life. The
baroque-style architecture was designed to look like a theatre. At
the centre of the theatre, musicians played, while all around
people mingled. It was lit by thousands of candles, hooked up in
sconces around the walls, high up to the third story, and by dozens
of huge black wrought-iron standard candelabra. It was surreal.

“Some hotel this,” she whispered to
Alessandro while she ran her hand around the bas reliefs that
decorated the walls.

He dropped his head to hers. “It’s a private
residence, Emily.”

“Oh!” She could feel the heat of
embarrassment flooding her face. If this was a private home, it
wasn’t like any she’d been in before. But, then, that was the
difference between them, wasn’t it?

“Darling Alex!”

Emily smelt the tall blonde’s expensive
perfume before she heard her. “How has it been slumming it in
Naples, darling, mixing with all those tradespeople?”

“Carisma, I’d like you to meet Emily.”

Carisma turned to her for the first time.
“Emily,” she said uncertainly. “Welcome.”

If only the tone of her voice and her body
language echoed the sentiment, Emily reckoned she might have felt
welcome.

“Hello. I’m one of those tradespeople.”

Carisma’s polite smile, widened stiffly
before she turned once more to Alessandro. “So glad you came,
darling. Come back to us as soon as you can. You must be missing
your crowd.” She glanced briefly towards Emily as if she were some
strange memento from a parallel universe and walked away.

“Nice friends,” Emily said curtly.

“Give them a chance, Emily. Carisma’s led a
sheltered life. You have to make allowances.”

“Why should I make allowances for someone
who’s had a privileged life?”

“You don’t, of course. Not, unless, that is,
you want to get on with her. Which might be nice, don’t you
think.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a directive and
Emily could feel her heels digging in, particularly easy as she had
her highest heels on that night: black, patent with very, very thin
spikes.

They walked further into the courtyard,
Alessandro greeting people here and there. Emily took a glass from
the waiter, along with a handful of nibbles while a group of
beautiful people clustered around Alessandro.

“Alex!”

Alessandro introduced them, leaving the most
beautiful until last.

“And this, Emily, is Ursula.”

Ursula smiled with a warmth that made Emily
forget, for just a moment, that she was an outsider.

As the others dominated Alessandro in
conversation, Ursula drew Emily aside. She was a tall, statuesque,
Swedish blonde.

“So, you’re the reason for his
disappearance,” she said in a disarmingly accented English.

“Me? No. His work, his father…” Emily
blustered and felt even more embarrassed when Ursula laughed.

“No. I think you are. You’re different to his
usual sort.”

“That’s not exactly a news flash, you
know.”

Ursula laughed. “Interesting, very
interesting. I hope he sees what he has with you. I think he
must.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because he usually comes alone to
Paris.”

“Really?”

“It is one of the rare times that we are able
to meet. Our schedules are busy.”

“Oh!” How could she have been so dumb? Ursula
and Alessandro. Obviously. They were two beautiful people who no
doubt had some kind of beautiful thing going on.

Ursula laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s not like
that. I’d hoped it would be once. But now, it’s just friendship. A
close friendship.”

Emily was trying to figure out how to
establish exactly how close their friendship was when Ursula
abruptly changed the subject.

“Now, tell me Emily, has Alessandro yet told
you all about himself and about—”

Whatever Ursula was going to say was lost
under the smothering bonhomie of a large group of people who had
just arrived. They seemed to swallow Ursula whole and whisk her
away with Ursula only able to wave. “Good luck, Emily, you’re going
to need it.”

Emily was left alone, watching Ursula
disappear. If Alessandro couldn’t even commit to someone like
Ursula, what hope did she have?

She turned to rejoin Alessandro but he’d
moved away and was talking to a small group of people. If they’d
all turned and smiled at that moment it would have looked like a
photo from a society page in a fashion magazine. Emily sighed,
sipped her wine and leant against the pillar feeling defeated. He
looked in his element: smiling, joking, totally engaged in that
moment with his friends.

So different, so obviously different. The
clothes didn’t make her fit in. Nothing would make her fit in. She
wasn’t meant for him. She’d known it all along.

She looked up suddenly and saw him watching
her. “Emily!” he beckoned for her to come. She could see that he
couldn’t easily move, trapped by the crowd of people.

She smiled and waved him off. “I’m going to
find something to eat.”

She didn’t look back. He didn’t need her.

The smell of food decided her route. In her
discomfort, she’d downed several glasses of champagne in quick
succession but it was food that she wanted now.

“Looking for someone?” A tall,
picture-perfect Englishman stood before her.

‘No. Something. Food to be exact.’

He laughed. “Allow me to show you.” He cocked
his head to one side and extended an arm. It was the best offer
she’d had all night.

They filled up their plates and he took her
to a secluded table.

“So, what brings you here, all alone.”

“I’m not alone. My, er,” for the life of her
she didn’t know how to describe her relationship with Alessandro.
“My
friend
is circulating.”