The Italian's Perfect Lover (19 page)

“Tired?”

He sat down and slipped his around her,
pulling her close to his side.

“A little.” She nestled into his shoulder and
chest, relaxing under the bliss of his touch. “Also wondering
what’s wrong with these people. Don’t they know how to treat a kid?
Even the kid doesn’t know how to act like a kid.”

He laughed and bent his head to hers. “You
can see why I had to leave my home, my family, now?”

He halted a passing waiter and offered the
tray to Emily.

She shook her head. “Not hungry.”

“Don’t let those curves fade, Emily.”

She smiled wanly. She couldn’t tell him the
real reason she was off her food.

“No chance of that. The curves will only grow
I’m afraid.”

“Curvier curves do not fill me with fear.
Quite the contrary.”

She slapped his hand down, as it threatened
to touch the underside of her breast.

“I’ll get you a drink instead. Wine?”

“Juice please.”

She watched him disappear and stood up and
stretched, her hands unconsciously fingering her stomach. When
would it start to show? She had no idea—knew nothing of families,
children. She had only her instincts to rely on. And they seemed to
have failed her in her choice of mate. He’d made it clear he wanted
no ties and what bigger tie was there than a child?

She watched him walk back into the house in
search of a drink and wondered what it would be like to grow up in
a place like this, surrounded by freakishly adult entertainment,
impossibly valuable artefacts and ancient and grand estates.

Her musings were interrupted by a light tap
on the arm as a slighter, blond version of Alessandro came to a
halt beside her.

“Signorina Carlyle. At last I get to speak
with you. Apologies for not welcoming you earlier, but my brother
seems intent on monopolizing you all evening.”

“Yeh, he kind of does that, doesn’t he? You
must be Giovanni.”

Giovanni smiled, amusement filling his face.
“Indeed. And yes, he kind of does. But I can easily see why in your
case.”

She raised an eyebrow in query. “Demanding,
embarrassing, that kind of thing?”

He laughed. “Hardly. Wanting you all to
himself I should imagine. My brother never did like to share his
toys.”

It was Emily’s turn to laugh.

“He’s not changed much then.”

“Umm. In his taste in women, I think, he
has.”

She felt her smile drift from her face. She
tried to halt it at her lips, but failed.

“Improved, no doubt.” When filled with doubt
Emily had always found it useful to show more confidence than she
felt.

“Absolutely. You are very different to his
wife.”

His wife!
A sickening blend of
betrayal and pain slammed into her gut and drained her body of
strength. She sat down before she fell down and shakily swept her
fingers through her hair as if insisting on a control she did not
feel. She swallowed hard, trying to keep the bile from rising,
trying to keep the panic tight inside her. She’d never heard so
much as a whisper about his wife. He was Emily’s lover and yet he
had a wife? She cleared her throat, aware that Giovanni was
watching her closely and determined to give no-one the satisfaction
of seeing her pain.

“How different?”

“Did you know her?”

She shook her head, unable to speak after
that effort, unwilling to show her complete ignorance that
Alessandro was married. But she noted the past tense and the barest
thread of hope rose from nowhere.

“She suited Alessandro to start with. She was
very beautiful and you know, I’m sure, how Alessandro needs to be
surrounded by beauty.”

“Of course.” If Giovanni was trying to make
her miserable he was going the right way about it.

“But then, there was little more to her than
beauty. She needed to be adored and her whole world revolved around
that. And that is not something someone of Alessandro’s integrity
and intelligence could admire, or live with.”

“So, he left her.”

Giovanni looked at her sharply. “He hasn’t
told you anything about her or his son has he?”

She pushed her fingers against her throbbing
brow, trying to erase the feeling that her world was crashing down
on her. She shook her head.

“No.”

“Then get him to. He’s been hiding it for too
long.” He touched Emily on the shoulder. “I’m sorry if I shocked
you with this news. But it is best you know and best if you talk to
him about it. It’s not good for him to bury these things.” Giovanni
looked over at Alessandro who was walking towards them and then he
looked at Emily once more. “But you are—good for him, I mean. He
needs to do what father brought him here to do. Face his past. And
you need to help him because he’s not going to do it alone.”

Alessandro slipped his arm around her.
“Giovanni, filling my lover’s ears with family gossip?”

“You should tell her about Eva and Niccy,
Alessandro.”

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed and his lips
tightened, white. “It’s nothing to do with Emily.”

“Tell her.” Giovanni wandered off, apparently
unconcerned that he’d just left a storm in his wake.

“I’m just getting a little ticked off about
all the stuff that has ‘nothing to do with Emily’.”

“Sit. You look pale.”

She remained standing. “Are you going to tell
me?”

The broad-leafed leathery tropical plants
hung heavy over the swimming pool: as heavy as the atmosphere that
now lay between them and as heavy as Emily’s heart. The party
continued but at a distance from them. She felt isolated like never
before. Tears pressed at her lids but she refused to allow them to
surface and refused to break the silence.

“OK. What do you want to know?”

“About your wife and child. Where are
they?”

“Dead.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I had no idea. The way
Giovanni spoke of them, I thought that they simply lived
elsewhere.”

“No. Dead. Five years now.”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated hardly able to
frame a reply when her mind and emotions whirled with the
implications of his words. She sat down. “How did they die?”

“You want to know all the details? OK then.
I’d grown bored with my wife. There was nothing beyond her beauty
and I’d grown tired of continually pandering to her
needs—superficial and shallow. She’d taken a lover and the two of
them were going to leave, providing I gave them sufficient money to
start a new life with. And they used my son as a bargaining pawn.
They’d take him with them unless I paid them in full. I hit the
lover—repeatedly. My wife, erroneously believing I was about to do
the same to her, fled with my son. They died the instant the car
hit the tree. So there you have it. I am responsible for killing my
own son.”

“No!” Her shout made people look across at
them, over the pool. “No. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Emily. It is not open for discussion or
analysis. You wanted to know what happened and I’ve told you.”

“And you’ve kept on running ever since,” she
said quietly, understanding creeping into place.

“I have no future without my son. Nothing can
replace him. Nothing.” The bitterness and deep, deep sadness
shocked Emily.

“You can’t say that. You’re young, you will
marry again, have children, whatever you say.”

The coldness in his eyes shocked Emily
further.

“I will never marry again. I will never have
children. I couldn’t take care of my son. I lost him. He is not a
commodity to be replaced.”

“But that’s not how it is. That’s not how it
could be.” Emily could feel the strain, the tension of her profound
distress at seeing a possible future—albeit one that she’d already
decided she couldn’t have—taken away from her. Before, there had
still been possibilities because it had been her choice. Now there
were none. Alessandro did not want to settle down and share his
future with someone. Now she could understand why.

“Emily. Don’t talk about what you don’t know.
Come, I have told you what you wanted to know. Let’s go back to the
party.”

“Party, yes.” She spoke as if she were a
sleepwalker trying to shed the vestiges of a ragged nightmare. “A
party without clowns. Who needs surprises, when we can bring our
own?”

He looked at her strangely.

She was glad there weren’t any clowns.

Alessandro took her arm and guided her across
the garden, back to the house.

“Where are we going?”

“To meet my sister-in-law. At least she can
be trusted not to gossip, unlike my dear brother.”

She wanted to go home. But where was home?
Alessandro evidently believed that his news was not enough to
curtail the evening and so he introduced her to Allegra. Emily met
the cool, suspicious, uncomfortable looks of Allegra and her
friends with an expression that Emily knew was incapable of
revealing anything. She felt too numb. Within minutes, Alessandro
had make his excuses and wandered off, leaving Emily alone in the
crowd, wondering where everything had gone wrong.

Alessandro looked down at her through the
myriad reflections and windows that intervened between her and him.
Even the distortions of perspective and reflections couldn’t take
away the knowledge that she’d decided to leave him.

It didn’t need to be spelt out to him.

She didn’t want what he could offer and so
she was leaving.

He watched her as, bored with small talk, she
turned away without noticing that her companion was still talking
to her.

He watched her as she eyed a passing tray of
food but turned, tray untouched and sipped her drink.

He watched her as her eyes strayed to his
nephew and stuck there, watching him, oblivious to anyone else
around.

She was like no other person with her
strength of character, her ability to be herself amid the
vacillations of others—not like his deceased wife, not any
girlfriend, not any relation. But it wasn’t her uniqueness that
held him. It was the fact that he could feel her pain from this
distance; he could feel her—everything about her—as if she were a
part of him and he were feeling her emotions first-hand.

That
was the difference.

But if that difference had a name, he didn’t
know it, couldn’t form it on his tongue.

And until he could, he had to let events run
their course. He might not like them but he was powerless to stop
them. Because he had no
right
to promise her anything he
couldn’t deliver.

She’d decided to leave and he’d let her go.
But not too far. He couldn’t let her leave the estate yet. The
thought was simply untenable.

It was late before they got to bed.

The wind blew the curtains back and forth. It
was quiet, black as pitch outside and Emily felt strangely
peaceful, as one is when one makes a decision that has proved
inevitable.

She hadn’t known how to tell Alessandro about
her pregnancy before. But now it was clear. She didn’t need to. He
wanted no more children, no more family, so what was the point? And
if one thing was also clear to her it was that she wanted this
child more than anything and she wanted him or her to be needed and
loved more than anything. There would be no second-rate affection
or foster home for her child. Her child would be loved by her birth
parent.

They lay side by side silently.

It was the first time they hadn’t made love
the moment they were alone. And she knew what he was thinking and
feeling.

He’d returned to the party later in the
evening. And she watched as he talked and flirted his way around
the room. She wasn’t jealous, just hurting for him. Because she
knew he was trying to drown the memories that had surfaced. She was
now part of that past. She was no longer wanted.

Except his hand reached over and held hers in
the dark. Neither could see each other’s faces, only the shadows,
the edges. But she could feel the heaviness of their souls.

He stroked her hand and his fingers tenderly
moved up her arm and around her body. Still he didn’t move.

Her limbs felt heavy but her body couldn’t
help but respond to his touch. Bitter-sweet, the sensations filled
her body as before, but filled her mind as never before.

She had to leave. This would be their last
night together. She couldn’t hide the fact any longer that their
“present” was ending. Her future was beginning—it was growing
inside of her—and she needed to give him or her the best chance
possible. Her future would be alone—with the child.

But she had tonight.

She closed her eyes to hide the pain of
emotion that flooded her as his hand lazily trailed over her
breasts and stomach, down to her sex. She gasped as he lightly
played with her.

“Move closer,” she whispered.

He rolled over onto his side so he was
looking down on her, his hand resting gently on the curve of her
hips.

“Alessandro?”

“Emily.”

“Hold me. Please?”

He pulled her close and she could feel the
heat and strength of his body pressed against her softness. She
tried to enfold each touch, each sensation into the recesses of her
memory so she could revisit it when he was no longer with her.

“Emily? Are you well?”

She nodded, smiling, her eyes still
closed.

“Just tired.” Her voice was cracked, parched
as if unable to assuage her thirst.

“You wish to sleep instead of making
love?”

“Not
that
tired.” She squeezed her
eyes closed, praying that the tears that pooled there wouldn’t
spill down her cheeks. Then she opened them.

She caught her breath.

His hair: her hand automatically rose to feel
the strength of its curl, the silkiness of its texture; his eyes:
brown-black in the dark, they reflected the light from the solitary
candle. The passion in them tore at her heart.