When the Siren Calls (30 page)

“And I’m almost done,” said Jay, picking up his pen as if to continue.

“You’re done,” she said, with a tone that dared him to dispute it, and she took the pen from his fingers and put it to her lips, circling the tip of her tongue around it.

She shut the door with her heel and pushed him to the wall on his swivel chair, her eyes full of the hunger she felt for him.

He watched in excitement as she rested her palms on the desk and spread her legs, leaning back to show him everything. Jay hesitated, though his loins ached with excitement. He was, after all, in his office, and the hamlet was by no means deserted. Eamon, if not Davide, was still around somewhere.

But Isobel’s head was now back, her hair hanging clear of her shoulders. He looked at what was before him; the tight skirt pinstriped, almost business-like, against her thighs, the blouse hung from her hard nipples like cascading water. Sensing some hesitation, Isobel brought her knee up, her skirt riding north with it, revealing the decidedly un-business-like delights beneath. She closed her eyes, and moved her hand across her chest, undoing the top button of her blouse as she did so and continuing, in one uninterrupted movement, until her hand was lost inside the silk. She held her left breast, her fingers tensing and easing again and again until finding her nipple and pinching it hard; she let out a muffled sound as pleasure and pain ran through her, before she brought her head forward and opened her eyes to look fully into Jay’s.

He skated forward, still on his swivel chair, his hands reaching to the hem of her skirt, and he inched his palms up the back of her thighs, the movement alone sending bolts of sensation through her body. He pushed her skirt up onto her hips, his wrists trapped in its tightness as he breathed into the silk of her panties, his hot breath against her wetness making her murmur with delight and anticipation.

She pushed him away, loving the thrill of denying herself.

“You better make sure we can’t be disturbed,” she said coolly, stepping back from the desk to watch him. He moved to the door and turned the key, then went to the venetian blinds, which shuttered closed, blocking them from the outside world.

“Ok if I leave the light on?” he asked without caring for any answer; she did not reply, as it was of no consequence to her.

By the time Jay turned from the window, she had left the desk, discarded the blouse, and was slouched across the dark leather sofa, one knee flung across the heavy studded armrest.

“Will this go on my appraisal, sir?” she asked.

Jay advanced stealthily as a hungry lion across the office, loosening his tie as he went. “Give me your wrists, Miss Roberts,” he commanded, now stretching the tie wound around his fists.

She offered her wrists. “You won’t hurt me, will you, sir?”

“No promises, Miss Roberts, no promises,” he replied as he bound her hands together, her flesh fluttering under his touch.Thirty-five

As Isobel meandered past the tall fir trees that lined the drive, shading her eyes from the spears of sunlight in their branches, Gina bounced out of reception, bursting into conversation before Isobel had a chance to say hello.

“Perhaps you would like to go riding again today, Isobel?”

The two women were fast becoming friends, bonding over their shared love of the outdoors, of riding, and of art.

“I think it will be much too warm for that,” said Isobel, already feeling a trickle of perspiration on her spine; the temperature was already touching thirty and it was only a few minutes after ten.

“But much pleasure is to be had in the woods, no? One does not only have fun in the saddle.”

Isobel looked at the girl, wondering if she detected some innuendo in her question, but dismissed it immediately as a clumsy translation.

“I think not, Gina,” she said apologetically, “a cool drink and a good book by the pool feels more like it today.”

“Then I will walk with you to the courtyard,” said the younger woman, looping her arm through Isobel’s in happy familiarity. “You may have something in the enoteca; they will still be serving breakfast, and we have many visitors here. So you will not be short of company, if you wish it, that is.”

Gina was almost skipping along in her joy at her friendship with such a refined and elegant guest as Isobel — and someone who it seemed was so important too, given the attention that she merited from all the staff, and of course from Mr. Brooke himself.

“I was wondering if you have somewhere I could change into my costume later?” asked Isobel. “An empty room perhaps?”

“But Isobel, no one at Capadelli today is more important than you,” said Gina, pulling her closer and dropping her voice to a whisper, “except perhaps the handsome Mr. Brooke.” She giggled like a schoolgirl before continuing. “I will have housekeeping prepare a suite for you in the Villa; you may change, and rest there too, at your leisure. I will ensure everything you might need is available for you.”

Isobel took a seat outside the enoteca, and, despite the heat, ordered an English breakfast tea. She took out her book and sat back, watching the world go by and hoping that Jay would come with it. Even in her loneliness she could not ever remember such happiness, such expectation. Her husband was on the other side of the planet and her lover was somewhere close by. She was so content that she resolved not to distract Jay from his duties; she would spend the day independently, in his midst but not in his way. She could enjoy herself perfectly well without his presence. And yet her eyes came up from her book at the sound of each approaching voice, and her head turned at every crackle of footsteps on the gravel behind.

As she drained the last of the tea, Gina reappeared, dancing towards her and looking very pleased with herself.

“It will be busy around the pool today, Isobel. Already I see many people putting out the towels.”

“The Germans?” said Isobel, smiling.

Gina laughed, “Yes, the Germans of course, but also the English, because today is very hot and they wish to be very red. So I have reserved you a place, everything is set out for you; you have a nice quiet spot with your own parasol. You may come and go as you wish from it.”

Isobel smiled and thanked her, watching her running off across the courtyard with perplexed affection. Gina’s mood seemed to echo her own and Isobel mused with delight that she might be in love too. A stray black cat that fed off the kitchen scraps settled at her feet, and she luxuriated in the feel of its coat as it rubbed against her ankles, and she leant down to stroke it, running her fingers through the fur, a now familiar restless ache stirring within her.

She shook herself out of her thoughts and tucked away her novel in preparation for her poolside paradise, but as she looked about for a waiter her eye again caught the elderly couple sitting two tables away that, she noticed, were throwing regular glances in her direction, as if summoning up the courage to approach her. She saw a sadness about them that embarrassed her, as if her own happiness must somehow aggravate whatever plight had befallen the sorrowful pair.

“It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it,” she called over, giving them her most encouraging smile, and dropping some coins on a saucer as she rose to leave. But the lady lifted her cup and made her way across, now smiling, with her partner gathering up their bits and pieces to join her.

They introduced themselves as Rosie and Geoff Barker, a retired couple from Derby.

“We were wondering if you were British,” said Rosie, a tiny woman with a pink lined face and glum brown eyes, “because we heard you ordering in Italian, but noticed your novel is in English.”

The couple seemed anxious to establish Isobel’s credentials, whether she was a visitor, an owner, or connected to the developers. Her delicate answers seemed to reassure them, and they moved onto the business at hand.

“We want to arrange a meeting amongst all the owners,” said Geoff, who had the kind face of a tippler, with a bloated nose and cracked veins, “to discuss the situation.”

“What situation?” said Isobel, perturbed by their earnest looks and conspiratorial manner and feeling the pull of the pool with increasing intensity.

“Well, we can’t be sure of anything,” said Rosie, “you never can be in this place, and people only tell you what they want you to hear. But what we do know is we are owed some money, and we think there might be other people in our situation.”

“Oh,” said Isobel, already feeling some disloyalty to Jay for even listening to such tittle-tattle. “I’m sure it must be a misunderstanding.”

“But we are so worried,” said Rosie, “we have put all our savings into buying our dream holiday home, and we’ve taken a mortgage on our cottage in England.”

This was all too much for Isobel, for whom the concept of a budget was an alien one. She decided she had indulged the old couple enough.

“I’m afraid I must dash,” she said, scribbling a note on a piece of paper. “My email address is here; perhaps you can send me details of the meeting when you have arranged it?”

As Isobel lounged by the pool, applying a further layer of sunscreen, something about the ambience was puzzling her. She had noticed it before though thought nothing of it, but now as she looked around at the groups of people, they all seemed to be huddled in the same guarded way, as if sharing dark secrets and fearing being overheard. She dwelt again on the hapless Barkers. A naïve but harmless old couple who had bought a home in Italy, and now found they could not afford it. They were not the first, and would not be the last, she thought with a sigh. Nevertheless, she decided she would talk about it to Jay; maybe he could help in some way. But still she saw no sign of him. She debated going inside; the anxious faces round the pool made her nervous. She had felt them watching her ever since she’d arrived and she sensed that it was not her appearance that attracted them, but rather her position; a mysterious lone woman who seemed to command the deference of every employee who passed her way.

But the midday sun was merciless and she could not resist the subtle sheen of the water. She dived in and swam the length of the pool underwater, exhilarated by how it cleansed the heat from her body. She broke the surface like a salmon, throwing her shining body from the water and pulling her wet hair into a ponytail. But as she did so she was struck by horror, where was her wedding ring? She dropped down in panic, searching the area around her feet, but seeing only water and tiles. She surfaced, a thousand thoughts flashing through her mind. How could she possibly explain it to Peter? He would surely think she had removed it in the act of betrayal. She filled her lungs and dived, working back along the bottom, her hands desperately sweeping left and right. Just as she felt her insides would burst, a finger brushed metal, and she surfaced with the ring in the palm of her hand.

She filled her lungs, the relief overwhelming. But as she stood looking at the gold band she hesitated. What if she did not put the ring back on? What if she never put it on again? She closed her eyes and nibbled her lip. What if she never went back to Cobham, to her life of emptiness? Who would really miss her? Peter could devote his energies with more vigour to his work, and her fickle and superficial friends could entertain themselves with gossip about the lady of the manor who fled to Tuscany for the pleasures of the flesh. And she would be sad for Peter, but she would be living her own life, for herself, for the first time.

When she pulled herself from her self-indulgence and opened her eyes, her ring still poised at the nail of her wedding finger, she looked up to the terracing above the pool. Her eyes met Jay’s, and she knew he was watching her, studying her. He waved, as if to hide his thoughts, and she slipped the ring along her finger, the sunscreen aiding its easy progress, hoping he would not notice. When she looked up again he was gone, and she felt a shiver of fear run through her, afraid of what he might know.

After her morning in the sun, Isobel chose the coolness of the enoteca for lunch, rather than the shade outside in the courtyard. She sat at the same table where Jay first signalled his interest in exploring romance. She felt a warm contentment as she replayed the scene in her mind, remembering every look and every phrase with which he enchanted her and, as she now realised, seduced her. The sight of Eamon peering in, his scraggy neck extended like a wary heron, interrupted her thoughts, and she gave an encouraging wave, frustrated that Jay had not appeared instead of the genial Irishman, but glad of his company nevertheless.

They exchanged pleasantries but Eamon refused her hospitality with a polite “not while I’m working,” as if alcohol were the only option for refreshment. He asked her about her morning.

“I met a couple, they seemed to be in some distress,” said Isobel, without specifying who the couple were. Eamon could have pondered a long list of suspects, but had spied the conversation from the lofty vantage point of Jay’s office.

“Oh, you must mean Hansel and Gretel,” said Eamon, grinning at Isobel’s bewilderment. “Geoff and Rosie Barker?”

“Yes,” said Isobel, relieved that the affliction from which the two unfortunates suffered was not widespread. “I think at one point Rosie was almost in tears.”

“Wine can sometimes do that to women,” said Eamon, but his chauvinistic humour was not appreciated, so he quickly continued. “I expect they were still agonizing over the rental scheme?” Isobel nodded. “I did my best for them,” said the garrulous Dubliner, his eyes mournful and voice heavy. “They have a very hard to let apartment. A broom cupboard of a place with no view up in the eaves. I advised them against the purchase, but they were insistent.” He lowered his voice, “Strictly between the two of us, I think it was the only one within their price range. I took it on as a rental proposition more in sympathy than anticipation.”