Mistress Material

Suzanna could have kicked herself for her blundering insensitivity. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she groaned softly. ‘I didn’t mean to put my foot in it.’

He gave a small smile. ‘Time gives a certain immunity against pain, Suzanna.’ And his accent deepened. ‘Didn’t your own father die very suddenly?’

Suzanna went very quiet. ‘Francesca told you?’

‘Yes.’ He paused, and the dark eyes were very direct. ‘It was a car crash, I believe?’

If it had been anyone else but him, she suspected that she would have found the question a gross intrusion, but Pasquale asking it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. ‘Yes,’ she said, and swallowed.

‘You were thinking of him by the pool—when you began to cry?’

His perception quite took her breath away. ‘How on earth could you know that?’

‘I know quite well the difference between shock and grief. And bottling it up won’t help, you know.’ He gave her a gentle smile. ‘Now drink your coffee and I will take you out for lunch. Will that cheer you up?’

‘Lunch?’ She felt like Cinderella. ‘Are you sure?’

His mouth moved in an enigmatic smile. ‘Quite sure,’ he said drily. ‘You see, another characteristic of Italian men is their enjoyment of being seen with an exceptionally beautiful young lady.’

She knew that he had deliberately emphasised the young bit, but she didn’t care. Pasquale was taking her for lunch and that was all that mattered.

In the event, that lunch ruined her for every future meal of her life. He took her to a lovely restaurant, and he was charm personified. The food was delicious and the half-glass of wine he allowed her incomparable. He seemed so at home in the discreetly elegant surroundings, and she tried to emulate his cool confidence. The down side was that at least three women came over to greet him—women with stacks more experience and poise than Suzanna—and she found herself wishing that they might totter and trip on the ridiculously high heels they all seemed to be wearing!

It was past three when they drove back, and she felt warm and contented and wondered what he would suggest doing that afternoon. But he did not get out of the car.

‘I will leave you to amuse yourself,’ he told her, and he gave her a stern look. ‘But pleaseno more swimming—not today!’

She found it hard to hide the disappointment. ‘But where are you going?’

‘To work. Be so kind as to tell Papa and Francesca that I shall be late—and that I shall not be in for supper.’

Suzanna felt as flat as a pancake as she walked slowly back into the flower-covered villa. She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to write a letter, but it was difficult, because outside a wind was insidiously whipping up, while in the distance she heard the ominous rumble of thunder.

She began to long for the return of the others, but no one came back. No Francesca or Signor Caliandro. The villa suddenly seemed awfully big and awfully empty with just her and the cook, who was busy in the kitchen.

Francesca rang at six to say that she would be staying at her godmother’s. ‘The storm is very bad here,’ she explained. ‘And it’s moving down towards your part of the city. Will you be all right? Is Pasquale or Papà back yet?’

Suzanna didn’t want to worry her friend, so she didn’t bother telling her that Pasquale was not in for supper and that there was no sign of her father.

She decided to keep herself busy, and there were enough adult toys in that house to amuse anyone—rows doute of film classics in the room where the video and large viewing screen were kept and a whole library of books, with an English section which would have kept an avid reader going for years.

So Suzanna passed the rest of the day amusing herself as best she could. She gave herself a manicure and a pedicure. She borrowed Francesca’s tongs and made her curls hang in brightly coloured corkscrews.

The cook was clearly worried about the weather, and so Suzanna told her to go home early.

But later, as she perched upon the stool in the kitchen, eating the chicken and salad which had been prepared for supper, Suzanna could hear the distant rumbling of the storm growing in intensity.

At the best of times she wasn’t fond of storms, but when she was marooned and isolated in a large villa in a strange country—well...

She went around securing the windows as the wind began to howl like a hungry animal outside, and the rain spattered and thundered in huge, unforgiving drops against the glass.

She was sitting up in bed reading a book, when the room was plunged into darkness and she screamed aloud at the unexpected blackness which enveloped her like a suffocating blanket.

She tried to reason with herself that it was just a power-cut, not unusual in a storm of this ferocity, but it was no good—she began to scream anew as a branch hurled itself against the window-pane, like an intruder banging to come inside.

She didn’t know how long she lay there, cowering with fear, but suddenly she felt the cover being whipped back and there stood Pasquale, his clothes spattered with rain, his dark, luxuriant hair plastered to his beautifully shaped head.

He took hold of her shoulders and levered her up towards him to stare down intently into her face.

‘You’re OK?’ he asked succinctly for the second time that day, and she nodded tremulously.

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are the others?’

‘Francesca says the storm’s too bad to travel back. I don’t know about your father.’

‘They’ve closed the airport,’ he said briefly, and then his eyes softened. ‘Were you very frightened here, on your own?’

Bravado made her lie. ‘Not—really,’ she said in a small voice, but as she stared up at him all in her world suddenly felt very, very safe.

‘Wait here,’ he told her. ‘Don’t move. I’m going to try to do something about the lights.’

She had no intention of going anywhere! So she sank back obediently against the pillows until she heard him calling her, then leapt out of bed to find him outside the door, holding a candelabra in his hand, with three flickering candles casting strange, enticing shadows onto his face. He looked like someone who had stepped out of a painting; someone from another age, she thought fleetingly.

‘Come downstairs and get warm,’ he said, and she followed him downstairs, watching while he built a fire and fetched two brandies, which he placed on a small table in front of the roaring blaze.

He’d changed, she noticed. Gone was the sodden suit, replaced by a black cashmere sweater and black jeans. On his feet he wore nothing, and she couldn’t help noticing how beautifully shaped his toes were. Imagine even finding someone’s feet attractive! She really was in a bad way! Her mouth dried and her heart thundered as he looked up from the logs and answered her shy smile almost reluctantly.

‘Brandy?’ he asked coolly.

She remembered him policing her at lunchtime and allowing her only half a glass of wine, and perhaps he remembered it too, because he laughed.

‘It’s purely for medicinal purposes. You look white and shocked to me. This has been quite a day for you, Suzanna.’

It would sound extremely naïve to say she’d never tried brandy before, wouldn’t it? she thought. Besides which, his words were accurate enough, and she felt shocked. ‘I’d love some,’ she agreed, and sat on the rug, holding her hands out towards the blaze.

The brandy was hot and bitter-sweet in her throat, but she felt its effect stealing over her immediately, and she wriggled her toes as the warmth invaded her.

‘Feeling better now?’ he asked.

‘Mmm! Much!’ She briefly closed her eyes and gave a blissful smile and when she opened them again it was to find him staring at her intently, something unfathomable written on his face, and, quite suddenly, he got to his feet.

‘Bedtime,’ he said abruptly, in a firm voice. ‘It’s late. I’ll tidy up down here—you go on up. Here, take this candle, but don’t leave it lit.’

But Suzanna couldn’t sleep. Outside the storm raged, but inside her own storm was raging. She recalled the feel of his arms as he’d carried her upstairs from the pool. The feel of those firm hands freeing her breasts, removing the bikini.

Restlessly, she tossed and turned, until she gave up the whole idea of trying to sleep. She decided to go in search of some matches to light the candle and read her book.

She pulled on her silken wrap and silently made her way downstairs to the kitchen, and after a bit of hunting around she found the matches she was after.

She was just creeping back along the corridor towards her bedroom when a dark figure loomed up in front of her and she almost collided with Pasquale.

He wore black silk pyjama trousers and nothing else. She found her eyes drawn to the beautiful breadth of his hair-roughened chest. His dark hair was ruffled and his chin shadowed in the strange yellow light of the storm.

‘What are you doing creeping around the house?’ he demanded in a voice which managed to sound both dangerous and soft, his eyes briefly flicking to the rise and fall of her breasts beneath their thin layer of silk. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’

He made it sound as if she’d been committing some sort of crime. ‘Because I couldn’t sleep,’ she told him defensively.

There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the harsh sound of his breathing. ‘Neither could I,’ he said eventually, and then his voice softened. ‘Does the sound of the storm frighten you?’

She nodded. ‘A little.’

‘There is nothing to be frightened of,’ he said, and with his hand in the small of her back he propelled her along to her bedroom door. ‘Don’t you know that it’s simply the gods clapping their hands? Didn’t they tell you that when you were a little girl?’

But at that moment an enormous clap of thunder seemed to rock the very foundations of the house, and Suzanna jumped in fright.

‘Get into bed,’ he told her brusquely.

She did as he asked, but her eyes were huge in her face as she stared up at him in mute appeal.

He shook his head. ‘No, Suzanna. No. You don’t know what it is you’re asking,’ he told her obliquely.

She hadn’t really been aware that she was asking anything, but now it dawned on her that she wanted him to stay. She wanted him to shield her from the elements which raged outside.

And those within? she wondered briefly.

She heard his reluctant sigh.

‘Very well—I’ll sit here until you fall asleep,’ he said in an oddly resigned kind of voice.

Suzanna slithered down beneath the duvet, hearing the slow, steady thump of her heart beating loudly in her ears.

Pasquale sat on the edge of the bed, as far away from her as possible. ‘Now sleep,’ he urged softly. ‘Nothing can hurt you while I am here.’

She awoke to find herself wrapped tightly in his arms beneath the duvet, her head resting on his shoulder while he slept. She heard the comforting steadiness of his breathing, and, acting purely on the instincts of one who was only halfawake, she nestled even closer into his embrace. He tightened his arms around her, and she had never felt so cosseted or so safe in her whole life. She let her head drift down so that her cheek lay on his bare chest and she could hear his heart beating loud and steady as a drum.

She couldn’t resist it; she simply couldn’t help herself. Lifting her mouth, she kissed his neck, and he sighed and stirred, his hand moving lazily from her waist to cup her breast over the thin silk of her nightdress, finding its tip and inciting it into immediate tingling life, stroke by glorious stroke.

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