The Italian Next Door. Anna ClearyЧитать онлайн книгу.
rigidly secured. His uncle’s view appeared slightly different. Possibly tinged with awe, even a little envy.
The old boy winked at him. ‘Still playing the field, eh, Tino?’
‘That’s enough,’ his aunt snapped. ‘When are you coming home to settle down, Tino?’
They didn’t hazard any enquiries about his work. His job as a Criminal Intelligence Officer with Interpol was not an occupation to warm the hearts of family members. They preferred to gloss over it, always slightly on their guards with him for fear he’d be listening to their every word with a view to collecting evidence.
They needn’t have worried. He’d run checks on them all and they were depressingly upright and moral.
His aunt began to regale him with the latest on her eldest daughter. Maria was a shining family example. Decently married, blessedly pregnant, in fact on the very verge of delivering them another grandchild as every good son and daughter should. While the couple argued over all the minor details of Maria’s health, their youngest son scowled and tried to act as if he didn’t belong to them.
Valentino exchanged a sympathetic grin with the boy, musing that, while listening was his speciality, there were times when tuning out was of even more strategic importance.
He was overwhelmed with a sudden longing to escape the grim realities of his life. For a second he allowed himself to imagine how it might have been zooming along the autostrada with the pretty blonde to rest his eyes on, a slim knee to fondle.
His fingers curved into his palm in regret for the silky knee they would never know.
How long had it been since he’d caressed a woman? There must be some left in the world who weren’t set on dragging a man to the altar.
Those serious blue eyes, rosy lips and delicate cheekbones in intriguing contradiction to the sprinkling of freckles across her quite charming nose had potential to enchant a man, for a few days at least. There’d been a chemistry, he felt sure. The trip would have been a perfect opportunity to lay the groundwork for a little vacation romance.
He frowned. No doubt she’d receive other offers before the end of the day, though he hoped she wouldn’t accept any of them. For her sake he hoped she’d choose the bus. With the degrees of human inventiveness for evil he’d witnessed over the years he began to doubt if any woman should travel alone, anywhere.
He scanned the suspects coming and going around him. How many of these innocent-looking pillars of society were engaged in criminal activity?
It weighed a man down, this constant policing. Lately, wherever he looked he saw corruption. Sometimes he wished he could shrug it all off like an unwanted skin. Forget about crime and rid his mind of terrorism threats, narcotics, human trafficking, credit-card fraud and the constant thievery of national treasures. Just relax and enjoy a vacation like anyone else. Enjoy a pretty woman and take her at face value.
And what a face. He sighed.
Waking suddenly to his surroundings, Valentino noticed that the car-hire queue had swelled in number, while even more people were flocking to the neighbouring booths. He tapped his uncle’s elbow to alert him to the rush, but by the time the old boy inserted himself into the line it was too late.
Da Vinci Auto was all out of cars. ‘Per carita,’ his uncle wailed, slapping his forehead. ‘Now it’s a bus strike. First the trains, now the buses. What’s the country coming to? What are we to do?’
At once Valentino’s thoughts switched to the Australiana. What would she do? He felt a twinge of remorse about his intervention, though he’d only acted for the best. It was his duty as a citizen to uphold public safety, surely.
Though if she was stranded he couldn’t help feeling some responsibility. He weighed his car keys in his hand.
Pia received the news like a blow.
The drivers were meeting, the harassed attendant explained earnestly to the small angry crowd before the bus link counter. Everything was on hold.
Exactly what Pia didn’t want to hear. On hold was what her life had been for more than half a year, and she’d come all this way across the world, determined to break out of her security cocoon, plunge back into sweet lovely life and wring from it every last ounce of pleasure and excitement.
None of it could happen until she escaped from the numbing blandness of airport world.
Groaning about what could be a wait of potential days, she collapsed onto a chair and closed her eyes. As usual there was a man at the root of her troubles. She should have been cruising along the Amalfi coastline by now. If only she hadn’t engaged in conversation with the guy. She should have ignored his eyebrows, never even made eye contact.
Maybe it was an omen and she’d made a terrible mistake agreeing to house-sit for Lauren. Then she chided herself for that backsliding thought.
Concentrate on the positive. She’d come a long way from that timid mouse who’d cowered inside her terrace in Balmain day and night, padlocks on the doors and all the lights turned on. Every night the same predictable curry in the microwave. Every night, her lonely bed all to herself.
She’d made great strides since that first conscious decision to grasp life in both hands and plunge in again with a hopeful heart and positive attitude. Her spirits, her confidence had lifted a thousandfold. How else could she have walked onto the plane? She’d even come round to thinking it was time to chance her luck again with the other species, though she’d be more careful this time.
Where she’d gone wrong had been in allowing herself to fall in love and trust the love to last into the future ad infinitum. Big mistake.
It was time for a brand-new paradigm. Love was a madness that ended in tears. Much better to be fond of someone, love them while they were fun, leave them on a high note. And no more of these slick, fast-talking, sport-obsessed guys who loved a woman when she was well and whole, as long as she looked good enough to flash around at friends’ parties.
She’d ensure her next man had a vestige of sensitivity. So he might not be a tall, blond sex-god with rippling muscles. She was prepared, quite prepared, to look for someone less athletic. Big strong men were too domineering, anyway.
Yeah. The more she considered the subject, the more she felt ready for some sweet, gentle guy with a slighter build who didn’t much care for sport. Who needed handsome? Handsome men were only too likely to be arrogant, egotistical narcissists who saw women as prey. Fine for the occasional fling, perhaps, the odd wild weekend of passion, but in the long term on a day-to-day basis she’d be much better off with someone who could understand her. Perhaps someone from the arts who shared the creative temperament. A sculptor. Maybe even a musician.
She picked up a newspaper someone had left on the seat and tried to fathom one of the front-page stories with the remnants of her high-school Italian. From what she could make out, some enterprising thief had stolen another little-known painting from a museum in Cairo. A Monet, this time. There was a photo of the picture, which couldn’t have done it justice. From its grainy quality she could just make out some reeds and a couple of water lilies.
Her sparse Italian wasn’t up to interpreting the finer details, so after a minute she cast the paper aside and lifted her feet to stretch out along the seats with her head on her arm. Closing her eyes, she made herself concentrate on the future.
Beautiful Positano, where no one knew that eleven months ago in the Balmain branch of the Unity Bank a man in a ski mask had shoved a gun into the side of her head and made her believe she was going to die.
Thank heavens for this opportunity to escape to a place where no one would ever dream how for a time that little drama had changed her entire life. What a wimp she’d been for months. One minute there she’d been, swanning through her reckless life with total disregard for what was around the corner, taking pleasure in her man, her friends, her blossoming work, her growing reputation, while the next minute …
Until then she’d never known