The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco: The Italian's Wife by Sunset. Lucy GordonЧитать онлайн книгу.
But as the minutes passed, with no sound of his footsteps, she was forced to recognise the truth. He would not return and she had mistaken him, seeing only his sweet temper and laughing disposition, missing the steely core that had made him fight her with a touch of cruelty.
She’d been prepared for his pain, but not for his rage and scorn.
‘That’s the getting of wisdom,’ she thought wryly. ‘We neither of us knew or understood the other well. It’s better as it is.’
After a while she forced herself to rise, call the airport, and book a seat on the afternoon flight to London. Then she set about packing her things, leaving out the clothes she would wear to travel while she showered.
It was finished. He would stay away until she’d left, and then she would never see him again. She said it over and over, trying to make herself believe it, accept it.
Lost in her sad thoughts, covered by cascading water, she failed to hear the bathroom door open, and had no idea that anyone was there until she turned off the water and opened the shower door. The shock caused her to slip, and she would have fallen if his arm hadn’t shot out and curled around her waist, holding her firmly.
He reached up for a towel, then carried her back into the bedroom, still holding her with one arm, set her on her feet and began to dry her. He didn’t speak. Nor did she expect him to. His face showed too much sadness for words.
When he’d finished she tried to take the towel, to cover herself, but he tossed it away and drew her against his chest. He hadn’t bothered to do up his shirt, and the feel of his bare skin came as a shock, as though she’d never felt it before.
And in a sense that was true. In the last hour they had moved into a new world where everything was unfamiliar—everything for the first time, everything for the last time.
He drew her down on the bed and removed the rest of his clothes so that they were naked together. She tried to protest that this wasn’t a good idea, but he simply laid his face between her breasts, his eyes closed. Unable to stop herself, she clasped her hands tenderly behind his head. Whatever came later, she would have this.
He began to kiss her everywhere, murmuring softly as he did so. Bittersweet pleasure and happiness warred within her. It was the last time, but the joy of the moment was there, hot and fierce, driving out any other thought. She would love him now, and afterwards she would survive somehow.
His lovemaking was like never before, yet still the culmination of all the other times. He drew on everything he’d learned about her to increase her pleasure, calling up a storm of memories with each movement, prolonging the moments while her tension rose and she wanted to cry out for her release. But he made her wait, reminding her of how she loved this, how long the years ahead would be without the warmth of his love, asking whether she could live without it.
The answer terrified her. But she had made her decision, and she wouldn’t let him suspect that her heart was already breaking.
‘Don’t go,’ he whispered. ‘Stay with me.’
Before she could answer he entered her, moving against her with passion and tenderness until she wanted to weep. As her climax came she clung to him, looking up into his face, filled with love and fear.
Their parting was a kind of death, and brutal reality was still there, waiting, remorseless.
‘Stay with me,’ he whispered again. But even as he said the words he saw the desperation in her face, not what he was searching for.
‘It’s changed nothing, has it?’ he asked bleakly.
‘Nothing. I’m sorry.’
He rose and left the room without looking at her. After that there was nothing to do but get dressed and prepare to leave.
‘I’ll take you to the airport,’ he said when she joined him.
‘There’s no need. I’ll take a taxi.’
‘I’ll take you to the airport,’ he repeated obstinately.
The journey was a surreal experience. They travelled mostly in silence, and when they spoke it was about mundane matters—her ticket, her luggage.
At Naples Airport he came inside with her, watching as she checked in her luggage.
‘I’m a bit late for the plane,’ she said, looking anxiously at the board. ‘I should go.’
‘Yes, you’ll have to hurry. By the way—about the series—of course I can’t be in it.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘But you’ll find another frontman,’ he said coolly. ‘They’re ten a penny.’
Then, without warning, he broke.
‘I can’t stay angry with you,’ he whispered. ‘Della, for pity’s sake, forget everything—forget what I’ve said—what you’ve said. None of it matters. Let’s put all this behind us and love each other as we did before.’
She shook her head violently.
‘I’ll always love you,’ she said. ‘But it was only a dream—’
‘And you can let it go just like that? Did it mean so little to you?’
‘Don’t,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘You’ll never know what it meant to me. But we can’t build a life on it, and one day you’ll know I was right.’
He grasped her hand so hard that it hurt.
‘But you’re not right. You’re taking us to disaster and you can’t see it. Della, I’ll beg you one last time—don’t do this to us both.’
‘This is the final call …’
‘No,’ he said fiercely, taking hold of her. ‘I won’t let you go. You’re staying with me.’
She didn’t answer in words, just shook her head in dumb misery, and at last he released her with a gesture of despair. She walked through the gate, meaning to go on without looking back. But at the last minute she had to know if he was still there, and turned slowly.
The crowd was building up, other faces passing in front of his. But she could just make him out, watching her until the very last moment, motionless, like a man whose life was ebbing away, until the crowd moved again and she could no longer see him.
CHAPTER NINE
DELLA took off from Naples in sunshine and landed in England in pouring rain. The perfect comment on her situation, she thought, if you were of a dramatic turn of mind.
Sol was at the airport, relieved that she had arrived to sort out his problems.
‘Good to have you back, Mum,’ he said, hugging her.
They’d had this conversation before, and her next line was, It’s lovely to be back, darling.
But this time the words wouldn’t come, and she was glad to hurry to the waiting taxi.
As they reached the houseboat Sol said, ‘I’ve done some cleaning up, so that it’s perfect for you.’
‘You’ve done some cleaning up?’ she queried.
‘Jackie helped me a bit,’ he conceded.
‘Hmm!’
The place was spotless, which convinced her that this was mostly her secretary’s work, but she let the subject drop. Sol was on his best behaviour—carrying her bags into the bedroom, telling her to sit down, making her coffee.
‘The situation must be pretty bad to make you such a perfect gentleman,’ she said, slightly amused despite her unhappiness.
‘I just don’t know what to think. What am I going to do with a baby?’
‘I