In the Italian's Sights (19 page)

She felt him shudder in pleasure and felt a wild exultation, accepting his hands, his mouth, with no thought of drawing back. No thought of anything besides Vittorio.

When they fell on the bed she was beneath him, but his mouth hadn’t left hers for one moment. She felt his hands on the skirt of her dress and the silky material obeyed him instantly, moving up her body so the full length of her tanned slim legs was exposed. As he touched her thighs she was galvanised with such blistering sensation that she arched beneath him in an action as old as time—an action that begged for total fulfilment.

When he drew back from her she couldn’t believe it at first. For a moment or two she thought he was divesting himself of his clothes, but he was strangely still, his breathing as ragged and sharp as her own, and when she lifted her arms to pull him back to her he slid off the bed, standing tall and dark in the shadowed room.

It was another few moments before he spoke, and by then she had regained enough sense to pull down
her dress and sit up, trembling uncontrollably. He had stopped. Why, why had he stopped?

As though in answer to her unspoken thoughts, he said, ‘I will not have you like this.’ Despite everything, his voice was steady and controlled, with just the faintest tremor betraying the desire which still had him in its grip. ‘I did not mean for this to happen when I came up the stairs. You must believe that. I had no intention of taking your will captive.’

Her brain wouldn’t compute at first. She stared at him, blinking, absolutely shattered and utterly bereft. ‘I—I don’t understand,’ she whispered at last.

‘I promised myself weeks ago that I would not rush you.’ He shook his head, whether in annoyance at himself or her she couldn’t tell. ‘Your innocence is a terrible weapon, do you know that?’ he murmured grimly. ‘But, no, of course you do not. That is the problem. You do not play games or act the coquette.’

She had no idea of what he was talking about. All she knew was that he had stopped making love to her. That he was able to control this sexual attraction he had for her to the end. She was that unimportant. She was going to cry, and it would be the final humiliation if he saw.

Somehow she pulled herself together enough to whisper, ‘Will you go now? Please.’

‘Cherry—’

‘Please.’

And he went. He walked across the room, opened the door and left. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared across the dark expanse, unable to believe for a moment that he had really walked out.

And then the tears came.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

C
HERRY
fell asleep some time before dawn simply through exhaustion, but could only have slept for an hour or two before the burgeoning light of a new day touched her senses. She opened heavy eyes and immediately a crushing weight descended on her heart and mind as the events of the night before surged in. And it was Sophia’s wedding day. She groaned, burying her head in the pillow for a minute or two and wishing she could go to sleep again and never wake up.

Enough
. She sat up, throwing aside the cotton covers which always smelt of fresh air and flowers. Today wasn’t about her. It was Vittorio’s sister’s day, and all the hard work of the last weeks was about to come together. She had promised Sophia she would help her with her dress and veil, along with her make-up and hair, and there would be a hundred and one things to check throughout the day. She was going to be busy and that was great—work would get her through this day—and then tomorrow…

She couldn’t think about tomorrow. She shut her eyes tightly for a moment and then padded into the
en-suite
bathroom—only to come to an abrupt halt as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Horror-struck, she stared at the demented woman looking back at her. Bird’s nest
hair, swollen blotched skin and pink-rimmed eyes. Car crash, or what?

It took an hour of hard work, but by the time the sun was well and truly up in a brilliant blue sky she looked presentable. Not exactly herself, she thought, on her final check in the mirror before she left the bedroom, but no one would notice. And all eyes were going to be on Sophia today anyway.

For once Sophia was up enjoying an early breakfast when Cherry walked into the breakfast room. Vittorio was sitting at the table, but Sophia’s excited squeal as she saw Cherry and then the barrage of comments and questions that followed took the edge off what could have been an awkward moment.

From that point it was all go. Sophia had turned into a whirling dervish, full of a nervous energy that was at distinct odds with her tiredness of the last weeks.

All the bridesmaids and pageboys were going to be waiting at the church for the horse and carriage that would transport Sophia to and from the church—first with Vittorio, who was giving her away, and then after the service with her new husband. It was the tradition that most wedding parties followed the bride and groom back from the church on foot, with the newly married couple leading the way, but in view of the fact that the Carella estate was some little way from the village they’d decided that Sophia had a legitimate excuse for doing away with this custom—which in view of her pregnancy wasn’t ideal.

By mid-morning, when Sophia was ready to leave for the church, Vittorio’s sister looked beautiful in the frothy, white lace and satin creation which had been her mother’s wedding dress and which suited her dark Italian looks perfectly. Sophia was very emotional, and had cried
happy tears on and off all morning, but Cherry found
she
was all cried out. She was working on automatic, saying the right things, smiling in the right places, but always with a churning stomach and leaden heart. Nevertheless, her acting ability was such that Sophia didn’t suspect anything was wrong.

Apart from at breakfast she hadn’t seen Vittorio, having been closeted with his sister in Sophia’s bedroom before hastily getting ready herself, but as she followed the bride down the stairs to the hall—with handfuls of Sophia’s magnificent lace train draped over her arms—he was waiting.

It was a nasty moment. She hadn’t seen him in his wedding suit and he looked like every girl’s Christmases rolled into one—a dark, brooding, wildly handsome Heathcliff who was as sexy as hell.

He stepped forward, taking Sophia’s hand as his sister reached him, smiling as he said, ‘You look beautiful. Our mother would have been so proud of you today, wearing her dress to perfection, and our father would have felt like a king giving you away. I am a poor substitute, but I love you—you know this?’

The tears had started again. Cherry could tell by the sniff Sophia gave before she whispered, ‘And I you.’

Vittorio looked over her head to where Cherry was standing. ‘And you too look beautiful,
mia piccola
,’ he said, very softly.

It was almost too much. She was holding herself together by a thread. She managed a smile, but didn’t trust herself to speak, and then Sophia saved her by turning round and saying, ‘You need to go before us, Cherry,’ as though she didn’t know.

Once outside in the summer-scented air, she hurried over to the car in which Gilda and the two maids already
sat, getting into the passenger seat by the driver. Vittorio had hired an army of cars to transport his guests to and fro during the day. No expense had been spared. They were away at once, and by the time they arrived at the beautiful village church she had herself under control again and had vowed that would be the last time she faltered.

The scent of a million flowers filled the interior of the incredibly ornate church, the stained-glass windows lit by bright sunshine and the exquisite wood and stone work shown off to perfection in the glowing golden light.

Cherry took her place among the congregation after checking that all the bridesmaids and pageboys had arrived and knew their roles, smiling at Santo when he turned round to raise his hand to her. He looked scared to death, poor lamb, she thought, a dart of amusement piercing the sadness for a moment. He was naturally shy and reserved, and this sort of grand occasion—especially as he was one of the prime players—was his worst nightmare. Nevertheless, the more she had got to know Santo and his family over the last weeks, the more she had been sure that Sophia would be very happy and well cared for in their fold. And there had been the odd time—just once or twice—when she had seen Santo put his foot down with his bride-to-be over something or other, which had reassured her the marriage wouldn’t be as unequally yoked as Vittorio had feared.

The music changed, a rustle of anticipation went round the assembled throng, heads turned and the service began. Sophia looked lovely as she walked up the aisle on Vittorio’s arm, and as they passed Cherry drew in a long, deep, tortuous breath.

This was the worst part, she told herself desperately. Once the service was over it wouldn’t be so poignant. She
felt a pair of eyes on her, and turned her head slightly to see Caterina to the far left of her. They stared at one another for a split second—there was a small, curling smile of satisfaction on Lorenzo’s wife’s face at what she had clearly read in Cherry’s—before Cherry broke the hold of the big-cat amber eyes.

Strangely, the fleeting moment provided a dose of adrenaline straight into Cherry’s veins, straightening her backbone, lifting her chin and wiping her face clean of all emotion save that which one would expect at a wedding. There was no way she was going to crumble now, she told herself with iron in her spirit. This was possibly the worst day of her life, and tomorrow, when she left the Carella estate, was going to be worse still, but she wasn’t a British bulldog for nothing. The stiff British upper lip might be mocked on occasion, but today she welcomed her heritage.

The service was in Italian, as one might expect, and full of conventions and rituals Cherry didn’t know, but overall it was charming—if a great deal longer than the average English marriage service. But then it was over, and a smiling Sophia and a proud Santo were sailing down the aisle followed by their bright-eyed and chattering little army of bridesmaids and pageboys, who had been amazingly well behaved throughout. Once outside in the hot Italian sunshine the noise was overwhelming as folk hugged and laughed and called to children who, having been quiet and still for over an hour, were running and shouting and screaming with gay abandon. Everyone was happy and everyone knew everyone else—Cherry had never felt so lost and forlorn in all her life.

And then Vittorio was at her elbow, taking her arm and tucking it through his as he greeted guests and chatted, using English when he could and introducing her
around. It was an exquisite torture, so bittersweet that for ever after she couldn’t remember anything of those minutes beyond the smell and feel of him and the hot sun beating down—along with the look on Caterina’s face, which made her appear as though she’d swallowed something which was choking her.

On the way back to the villa Cherry determinedly cleared her mind of everything but the view out of the window, her eyes picking out the beauty of silver spindrift olive trees against the flat blue backdrop of sky, a bird circling high above in the thermals, and the luxuriant foliage of the Carella gardens when they entered its confines and the honey-coloured building came into view. Vittorio had asked her to ride back with him, but she’d made the valid excuse that she and Margherita and the maids were needed at the villa, to check everything was in order and supervise the team of caterers.

He’d stared at her, an intent look, before saying softly, ‘You are a guest now. You can relax and enjoy the day.’ Something she’d considered an insult in the circumstances.
He
might be able to forget last night and dismiss it from his mind as unimportant, she’d thought as she had smiled coolly and declined his offer again,
she
actually had feelings.

She had been back at the house for about fifteen minutes when the bridal carriage appeared, a long stream of cars following it. From that moment the celebrations began in earnest, and even in her present state of misery Cherry was affected by the easy, joy-filled atmosphere and lazy, leisurely pace of the proceedings. Italians loved children—Cherry had discovered since being in the country there was none of the ‘be seen and not heard’ attitude which prevailed in some countries—and little ones were everywhere, being scooped up in people’s arms,
playing games and running hither and thither, clambering on to the carousel and shrieking with laughter and in some cases fright, and just generally turning the occasion into a huge, happy family gathering.

The call into the marquee for lunch was at least two hours late by Cherry’s reckoning, but no one, least of all the caterers, seemed to mind, and once inside folk sat where they wanted to sit, with nothing so formal as place-names to spoil the get-together. The only exception was the head table at the top of the marquee, where the bride and groom, Vittorio and his grandmother and Santo’s parents with the best man were sitting.

Cherry had been careful to avoid Vittorio since his return from church, busying herself with this and that and pretending to be occupied even when she wasn’t, so when she walked into the marquee and took a seat with a nice Italian family she’d been speaking to, who had a good grasp of English, she was surprised when she found herself being raised up by a firm hand at her elbow.

‘Vittorio, what are you doing?’ she protested quietly, trying to jerk herself free without attracting notice.

‘I was going to ask you the same question.’ The grey eyes were stormy. ‘Why is there not a place for you at the head table?’

‘Me?’ She was genuinely taken aback and it showed. ‘Why should there be? I’m not family.’

‘You have enabled this wedding to take place—besides which I will not tolerate you sitting anywhere else. There is now a setting for you next to me.’

She stared at him, not knowing if she wanted to laugh or cry. This was so
Vittorio
. The most conventional of men, he could sweep tradition and decorum out of the window when it seemed right to him. Hadn’t he considered how she’d feel, sitting next to him and on show to
everyone? It was almost a statement of intent, and she would be the only one in the marquee who knew it for what it was—kindness. And she didn’t want his kindness.