An Elusive Desire

Jaime smiled at him. She couldn’t help herself, and for a moment Rafaello shared her amusement. His lean, attractive features mirrored her enjoyment, and then, as if a barrier had dropped between them, he turned away, gesturing to her to take a seat while he went to find the proprietor.

They drank Campari and soda, sitting on opposite sides of the small table, with its blue and white chequered cloth. As the shadows lengthened, more people emerged to stroll in and out of the shops that edged the square, or joined them at the tables, to talk and share a bottle of wine. It was all very peaceful and civilised, but Jaime felt anything but calm. She was only conscious of Rafaello’s brooding preoccupation, and the knowledge that despite his concern for her welfare, he could not relax in her presence.

‘Could we—could we spend a moment in the cathedral?’ she ventured, when both their glasses were empty and it was obvious he was about to suggest going back to the car. ‘I adore old churches, and this one is very old, isn’t it? La Cattedrale de Santo Giustino—I read it on that notice over there,’ she added apologetically. ‘Please. I’d like to see inside.’

Rafaello glanced at his watch once again and got to his feet. ‘If you wish,’ he declared, without expression, and taking a deep breath, Jaime accompanied him round the square and up the four shallow stone steps that led into the candelit interior of the small cathedral.

It was not like any cathedral Jaime had seen before. Its size precluded any impressive displays of architecture, but its atmosphere was instilled with the generations of believers who had worshipped here. She noticed Rafaello crossed himself as they entered the nave, dipping his hand into the holy water and making a silent obeisance. Not having been brought up in any particular belief herself, Jaime nonetheless envied him his faith, and she bowed her head respectfully as she wandered up the aisle.

The altar was lit by two tall candelabra, and to one side there was a statue of the Virgin and child, with several unlit candles waiting to be used. ‘To light a candle for someone you love is an act of faith,’ remarked Rafaello behind her, stretching past her to put several coins in the collection box. ‘But faith is not something you know much about, is it, Jaime?’ he added, as she turned quickly to look at him.

He was close, too close, in the shadowy confines of the beautiful little church. The neck of his cream shirt was open, exposing the strong column of his throat, and from the opening she could smell the warm scent of his body. It was a disturbing scent, clean and essentially male, and her breath caught in her throat. ‘The last time I saw you was in a cathedral, did you know that?’ she asked huskily, her voice revealing a little of the strain she was under, and Rafaello looked at her from between narrowed lids.

‘You came to the church?’ he demanded. And then, with rough passion: ‘Why?’

Jaime forced a lighter tone. ‘I—was invited, remember?’

‘You said you would not come.’

‘I changed my mind.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘A woman’s prerogative.’

Rafaello’s breathing was ragged. ‘You would have made a beautiful bride,’ he said unsteadily. ‘So tall—so slender—so fair.’ In the flickering light from the candles, his dark face was taut with emotion, and because Jaime was wearing high-heeled sandals, their eyes were almost on a level. Compulsively, it seemed, he lifted his hand to slide its length against the curve of her cheek, and in the incense-laden atmosphere, Jaime’s senses spun away …

‘A che ora si parte, padre?’

The youthful voice of a boy, dressed in the robes of a novice and speaking to an elderly man attired in a priest’s hassock, broke the spell. One moment, Rafaello’s hand was against her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips, his cool fingers incredibly sensuous against her heated skin, his dark eyes moving over her face with something akin to hunger—and the next, he had turned from her and was striding down the nave and out of the cathedral, his long legs extending the distance between them, as if by doing so he could put her out of his life.

Jaime followed more slowly. Pausing for a moment to light one of the candles and secure it in place, she nodded diffidently to the elderly priest, who had watched Rafaello’s departure with evident perplexity. ‘Vada con Dio, signorina,’ he murmured, making the sign of the cross, and Jaime bowed her head respectfully as she emerged from the cathedral into the slanting sunlight of the evening.

CHAPTER THREE

JAIME’S room overlooked the curve of the valley and the lower, wooded slopes of the mountains that gave it protection. It did not have the most impressive view of any of the rooms in the Castello, nor was it the largest apartment in the castle, but Jaime had been so relieved to see it, she had cared little for its size or situation.

Awakening the next morning in a bed whose proportions were totally out of place in such modest surroundings, Jaime lay for several minutes wishing she did not have to get up. The prospect of the day ahead filled her with apprehension, and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she should not have given in to Nicola’s pleading.

The night before, they had arrived at the Castello when the drifting shadows of evening were casting a misty insubstantiality over the surrounding countryside. The latter part of the journey had been by far the most arduous, not only because of Rafaello’s brooding silence, but also because the last few miles had been a twisting turning climb through picture-book scenery that nevertheless was harrowing on the nerves. Perhaps if Rafaello had driven less aggressively, more consideringly, Jaime would not have felt as if her head was spinning by the time they reached the little town of Vaggio su Ravino, but as it was, nausea was her most obvious reaction when she first saw Rafaello’s home.

The Castello di Vaggio was about half a mile from the town, at the head of a winding road that Jaime guessed would be treacherous in winter. And it was a castle, she discovered in amazement, clinging to the mountains in much the same way as the monastery she had admired earlier. Somehow, she had imagined that the name castello was just the courtesy title for a rather large villa, and to discover that Rafaello’s ancestors had built the castle hundreds of years before had come as quite a shock. He had never boasted of his antecedents. He had never even mentioned that the di Vaggio family had lived in this part of Italy for more than eight hundred years. But Nicola had told her, spilling the castle’s history carelessly as she showed Jaime to her room, answering her questions without enthusiasm, and obviously finding the subject tiresome when she wanted to talk about herself.

Nicola had been waiting for them the night before. When the sleek Maserati swept beneath the stone gateway that gave access to the courtyard, she had emerged from the castle, her flowing velvet caftan giving an impression of an earlier age.

Rafaello, who had not spoken since they left Santo Giustino, paused to give Jaime a tight look before thrusting his door open. ‘My wife appears to have recovered,’ he remarked, rescuing her jacket from the back of the car and tossing it into her lap. ‘You will find she often has these attacks. But do not worry, she is not as fragile as she looks.’

‘But—–’

Jaime started to speak, but Rafaello was not listening to her. He had already thrust his legs out of the car, and as he got to his feet, Nicola reached them.

‘You’re late,’ she pouted, looking up at her husband with resentful eyes. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages. Was Jaime’s plane late?’

‘So far as I know, it was on time,’ replied Rafaello, flexing his weary shoulder muscles. ‘We came as quickly as we could. However, you will appreciate that I do not have the ability to rid our roads of other traffic!’

‘Don’t be cross.’ Nicola’s lips tilted. ‘What must Jaime think of us?’ She reached up to press her lips against his taut cheek, her eyes darting sideways as the other girl got out of the car. ‘Caro,’ she murmured huskily, her fingers seeking the parted vee of his shirt, and then stepped back with a provoking smile as Rafaello dashed her hands away. Without looking at his wife again, he strode away across the courtyard, disappearing through the doorway that Nicola previously had used.

Jaime, not knowing what to make of what she had seen, made an effort to behave naturally. Going round to the back of the car, she fumbled awkwardly for the catch of the boot, but Nicola, after following her husband’s retreating figure with her eyes, seemed to remember her manners, and came eagerly to embrace her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the look of provocation quite gone now, and replaced by a distinctly tearful expression. ‘Oh, Jaime,’ she hugged her very close, ‘you don’t know how good it is to see you again! You must forgive me if I seem thoughtless, but Raf can be so cruel at times.’

‘That’s all right. It’s good to see you, too, Nicola.’ Jaime drew away determinedly, immediately aware of how gauche Nicola always made her feel. She had changed little, hardly at all, in fact, and her diminutive height of a little over five feet had always made Jaime feel like an Amazon. A cap of glossy dark hair framed a face that might have modelled a Botticelli angel, and in those early days Jaime had often marvelled that Rafaello had not chosen Nicola from the beginning. She was so much more to his taste, after all, not least because Nicola had had no ambitions beyond making a good marriage, and she had done her best to catch his attention before Jaime came on the scene.

‘Leave your luggage,’ exclaimed Nicola impatiently now. ‘Giulio will attend to it. You must be starving. We’ll go and have dinner, and then I’ll show you your room.’

After the journey Jaime had just had, she would have preferred to go straight to her room. A shower and a change of clothes would have been very welcome, but as Nicola’s guest, she felt obliged to fall in with her wishes. But afterwards …

It was deliciously cool inside the thick walls of the castle. Outside, the evening was quite humid, but inside an air-conditioning system that required no electricity kept the atmosphere fresh.

‘I thought it would be incredibly cold in winter,’ confessed Nicola, leading the way across a marble-tiled hall, with suits of armour set beneath fading tapestries, ‘but it’s not. As a matter of fact, it can be quite cosy; although I must admit I prefer the apartment in Rome.’

‘The apartment?’ echoed Jaime, gazing about her with fascinated eyes. An inlaid marble staircase swept above them in a veined pinkish semi-circle, and a vaulted ceiling arched above a mural gallery.

‘Of course.’ Nicola led the way into an oblong-shaped dining room, where a rectangular table was set with three places. ‘Didn’t you know Raf had an apartment in Rome? He has a house in Florence, too, and a palazzo in Venice. He’s a rich man, Jaime. Surely you knew that.’

‘I knew.’ Jaime schooled her features not to show any expression but one of polite interest. ‘You live here, though.’

‘Most of the time—unfortunately,’ declared Nicola, with a tightening of her lips. ‘Raf insists on being near his blasted vines. All the other vigneti leave the growing of the grapes to their estate capos. But not Raf!’

She pulled impatiently at a velvet cord, hanging beside a screened fireplace, and presently a woman, dressed all in black, appeared. ‘We will eat now, Maria,’ Nicola declared, as Jaime moved to look out of the long windows. ‘Will you tell the signore we are waiting?’

‘Credo che sia partito, signora,’ murmured the woman apologetically, and Jaime, turning from the window, saw the look of anger that crossed Nicola’s face.

‘Speak English, can’t you?’ she exclaimed, her fists clenching tightly at her sides. ‘Where is he? Where has he gone? He knew we were about to have dinner.’

‘I’ll conte—the signore—he has gone to the—to the vigneti, signora,’ stammered Maria, spreading her hands. ‘Mi spiace—–’

‘Oh, bring in the food!’ ordered Nicola shortly, lifting the carafe the woman had left on the table, and pouring herself a glass of red wine. ‘Pronto, Maria!’

‘Si, signora.’

Maria withdrew and Nicola raised the glass to her lips. ‘I suppose you think I was hard on her,’ she remarked, observing Jaime’s doubtful expression. She swallowed a mouthful, of the wine. ‘The woman’s a fool! She should have told me immediately where Raf had gone.’

‘Where—has he gone?’ asked Jaime, not sure she had interpreted Maria’s words correctly, and Nicola waved the hand holding the glass in a gesture of resignation.

‘He’s gone down to the winery,’ she declared carelessly. ‘I told you, Raf cares more about his vines than he does about—practically anything.’ She pulled a heavily carved chair away from the table. ‘Sit down, can’t you? We don’t stand on ceremony here.’

The meal that followed was deliciously flavoured and expertly presented. Slices of cured ham were offered with cubes of iced melon; there was a fragrant vegetable soup, and eggs served with pasta, and pizza, piled high with tomatoes and cheese and anchovies. There was crisp salad, and fresh fruit, and cheeses, both sweet and savoury, and wine of various vintages, looking magnificent in tall, long-stemmed glasses.

But Jaime had no stomach to appreciate any of it. She didn’t like the undercurrents here. She didn’t care for the way Nicola treated the servants, or understand her mood that alternated between a touching gentleness and a brittle impatience. One moment she seemed subdued and appealing, arousing Jaime’s compassion when she spoke of the loneliness she suffered here, miles from her friends and family. She scarcely understood the language, she said, and although most of the servants could speak English, they lapsed into their own tongue whenever she came near.

Yet, to counter this impression of devoted womanhood, was Nicola’s attitude when Jaime suggested she should talk to Rafaello, explain the situation and try to make him see the problems she was experiencing. Then Nicola became quite agitated, dismissing Jaime’s words with an hysterical outburst, declaring that Rafaello wouldn’t talk to her, that he didn’t understand her, and that there were times when she wished she was dead.

Lying in bed now, Jaime felt the faintest trace of a headache stirring just behind her temples. It was probably the amount of wine she had drunk the night before, she decided, refusing to admit the possibility that her unease about her visit here could be responsible. After all, Nicola was not in any immediate danger. She was disturbed, certainly, but given time they might be able to work something out. It was not her problem. She had come here at Nicola’s request and she would leave as soon as she had convinced her that this was something she had to handle herself. She was not a psychiatrist, she was not even a marriage guidance counsellor, and Nicola had to be made to see that Rafaello was the obvious person to turn to.

Sliding out of bed, Jaime padded barefoot across the carpeted floor and peered weakly through the blinds. It was another sunlit morning, and when she pushed the window open she could smell the fragrance of newly-cut grass. It was still early, barely eight o’clock, but the sound of horse’s hooves from the yard below drew her attention from the shining curve of the river and its banks starred with daisies. Rafaello and another man were leading two horses out of the courtyard and on to the hillside beyond, and Jaime drew back out of sight, afraid that he might think she was spying on him.

He had not returned when Nicola showed her to her room the night before, and although the other girl would have lingered, Jaime begged to be excused. She was confused and she was tired, and she wanted desperately to be alone to think about everything that had happened. Nicola had eventually left her with the somewhat disturbing injunction that they would have plenty of time to talk today.

Yet now here was Rafaello, the cause of her friend’s unhappiness, if Nicola was to be believed, embarking on an early morning outing with every sign of pleasured anticipation at the prospect. This morning, too, he looked more relaxed than he had done last evening. Gone were the expensive jacket and well-cut trousers he had worn the day before. In their place, tight-fitting jeans clung to his thighs, pushed into knee-length leather boots; and instead of the fine silk shirt Jaime remembered, a rough cotton jerkin was stretched across his chest. It exposed the upper part of his chest, exposed the brown skin, the muscles taut beneath, and Jaime knew a sudden dizziness at the remembrance of how smooth his skin had felt against hers. ‘Skin on skin,’ he had said, pulling her down on top of him in his suite at the hotel in London, and the afternoon had slid away as so many afternoons had done …

Jaime turned back from the window abruptly, pushing back the tumbled weight of her hair with an unsteady hand. This would not do, she told herself fiercely. She had not come here to re-live old memories. She had come because Nicola had begged her to do so, and the sooner she set about achieving her objective the better.

Ignoring the sounds from beyond the windows, she pushed her feet into fluffy mules and went into the bathroom. Like her room, which had only the minimum of furnishings, the bathroom, too, was of spartan design. A huge white bath with clawed feet, a matching basin, and a lavatory set up on a kind of dais completed its fitments, along with a noisy water-tank, that protested every time she turned on the taps. She had taken a bath the night before, so now she contented herself with a rather lukewarm wash before returning to the bedroom.

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