An Innocent Abroad: A Jazz Age Romance (7 page)

Isobel
stiffened. Having a chaperone did not form part of her plan. Then Frances
caught her eye, and winked, and Isobel remembered their first trip into
Positano, when Frances had abandoned her to run an ‘errand’. No doubt she’d
been to visit her lover.

And
tomorrow she’d meet him again, just as Isobel planned to do.

She
nodded infinitesimally. “Yes, Frances can keep me company.”

Peering
down through the window in Frances’ room, Isobel watched Uncle Padraig’s
horse-drawn carriage disappear around a bend in the road, followed more
sedately by the hack Adam had hired for the excursion. No-one remained in the
house but the two young women and the servants. She closed the window and
turned back to the room.

“Try
this one.” Frances took a dress of ivory-coloured silk overlaid with fine lace
from her cupboard and laid it across the foot of her bed.

“I
can’t wear that in broad daylight!”

“Who’s
to know what you wear today?” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial
whisper. “You’re not really going to draw pictures, are you?”

Isobel
stuck out a tongue, then giggled. “And you’re not really going to sit and read.”

For
days, Frances had worn a haggard look in her eyes, but this morning she’d
regained her usual spark. The prospect of seeing her lover again had brought
roses back to her cheeks. “I don’t even plan to go down to the village with
you. Not as long as I have the whole house to myself.”

Seeing
her glow, and the air of suppressed excitement about her, Isobel wondered that
no-one else in their party had questioned Frances’ plans for the day. With her
irrepressible energy and liveliness, Frances would never sit and read quietly
all day.

Frances
stretched out on the bed, moving with all the sensual satisfaction of a cat.
This was the same bed where she’d made love to her Italian lover. Where she no
doubt planned to make love to him again today.

A
knot tightened in Isobel’s chest. Would
she
wear that same glowing,
satisfied look by the end of the day?

Encouraged
by Frances’ honesty, she answered, “No, I don’t intend to paint all day.”

Before
she could change her mind, she unbuttoned her dress and reached for the one
Frances suggested.

“Oh
no!” Frances whipped the dress away. “You can’t wear
those
.”

Isobel
looked down at the white cotton petticoat that covered her more intimate
undergarments.

Her
cousin rose from the bed and dug in the top drawer of her dresser, tossing
clothing at Isobel, leaving her no choice but to strip down and change into the
offered garments. When she was done, Frances handed her the ivory silk dress.

Isobel
stepped into it and twirled before the mirror. The silken undergarments she now
wore left her feeling naked beneath the sheath of silk.

The
dress was modish. It was also the shortest skirt Isobel had ever worn, the
hemline above her knees and the back decadently bare.

What
would her mother say?

She
wished she had her hair bobbed, as Frances wore hers. But there was nothing she
could do about that now. So she left her hair loose and flowing about her
shoulders instead of dressing it up. Exactly the way Stefano had admired it.
The soft, sensual sway of it against her skin imbued her with a sense of
daring.

“He’ll
love it,” Frances said, grinning impishly. She didn’t ask who
he
was,
this man that Isobel planned to meet. Isobel was glad. She didn’t want to share
Stefano with anyone. He was her guilty secret.

Isobel
looked back at the mirror and her nerves jangled. She hardly recognised the
young woman in the mirror. A modern young woman, with feverish eyes.

Her
body thrummed with energy. But she was terrified too. Less by what she planned
to do, more by the intensity of her desire.

Today
she would lose her virginity to a man who wasn’t her husband. When her future
husband discovered she was not a virgin, it would be too late to undo.

“I’m
ready,” she said.

#

Armed
with nothing more than her purse and sketch pad, Isobel emerged through the
front doors of the villa onto the flight of wide, shallow steps that connected
the villa to the state road.

A
crunch of gravel drew her attention, and she turned to see one of the
gardeners, his face masked by an armful of tall mauve gladioli.

“Flowers
for the house,” he said, his voice rough and heavily accented. Though she’d
never seen his face, she knew who he was. Carlo. Frances’ lover.

A
gardener! What was Frances thinking?

But
she wasn’t thinking. And with a sinking heart, Isobel realised that she was as
lost to sense as her cousin.

Did
it really matter to her that Stefano was of noble blood, rather than the
fisherman she’d first thought him? Would she have acted on this driving need if
he hadn’t been an aristocrat? She didn’t know.

As
Carlo passed, his gaze swept over her. She shivered. The dress left little to
the imagination, and his eyes were coldly shrewd, leaving her naked and
vulnerable.

He
was boyishly good looking, younger than Stefano, yet she far preferred Stefano’s
more rugged charm, the easy grin and casual grace. At the thought of Stefano,
her insecurity vanished. She drew back her shoulders and straightened her back,
and without a backward glance, headed down to the road.

She
walked briskly, heading away from Positano, until she reached the stairs to
Arienzo. The stairway descended the steep slope to the rocky shore below,
nearly a quarter mile of steps cut out of the mountainside. Used as she was to
tramping around the estate at home, she’d had more exercise in these weeks in
Italy than she’d ever known. She skipped down the stairs.

She
lost count of their number, too absorbed in the bird song and the soft, scented
breeze swirling around her. The only sign of life was the muleteers, leading a
couple of braying mules loaded with baskets up towards Montepertuso high above.

The
tiny hamlet of Arienzo came into view, a cluster of cottages, and above them on
the forested hillside red rooftops that hinted at a sprawling villa. The
luxuriant vegetation on either side of her path gave way to hand-built stone
walls, decorated with hanging baskets spilling blooms and swathes of livid
purple bougainvillea.

It
was almost nine o’clock. She raced down the steps to the crescent of beach,
arriving breathless and flushed.

Waves
rolled onto the beach, their filigree of foam breaking apart on the sand. A
handful of rag-tag children played among the nets and fishing detritus on the
beach.

There
was no sign of Stefano.

A
single boat rocked against the simple stone jetty that jutted out from an even
simpler stone boat house. Though it was not a large boat, it gleamed in the
sunlight, painted and polished as no ordinary fishing boat ever was.

At
the sound of a whistle, she turned her head, as Stefano emerged from the path
behind the boat house, from the direction of the villa. Her stomach fluttered
at sight of him, no longer from nerves, but from joy.

“
Buon
giorno
, Isabella.”

This
wasn’t the sophisticated Conte di Cilento. This was the Stefano she knew, warm,
smiling. His eyes flared as he took in the loose hair and the sheer dress. She
tore her gaze away from his, letting her eyes slide down the length of him
instead.

He
wore fawn-coloured trousers, and a plain cotton shirt, open at the neck to
reveal the tanned skin at his throat, golden against the whiteness of the
shirt.

“Shall
we go?” he asked.

“Where
are we going?”

“Capri.”

He
took her hand and led her along the jetty, then helped her up onto the deck of
his boat. She glanced around. “Are you able to sail this by yourself?”
Oh please
let there not be a sailing crew.

He
smiled, his cheek dimpling. “It’s a motor boat as well as a sail boat. We will
be all alone.” He led her into the glassed-in cockpit in the centre of the deck
and beneath it, reached down a steep ladder, was a tiny cabin.

As
Stefano did a quick inspection of the boat, she climbed down into the cabin to
stow away her purse and sketch pad. The room was tiny, with a kitchen top on
one side, a bunk on the other.

Back
on deck, she stood in the prow as he cast off. The motor engaged, sending a
vibration up through the soles of her feet. Though the engine was contained in
a powerhouse at the aft of the boat, the roar blotted out the sound of the
birds, the children on the beach, even the crash of the waves. She turned her
face to the sea, loving the cool spray against her skin as the boat sliced
through the deepening water. She lifted the hair off her neck, allowing the
cool air across her skin.

Then
she turned to look at him, standing firm at the helm, his feet planted apart
against the sway of the boat as it moved over the growing swell. His smile
reeled her in, as helpless as any fish on a lure. The wind whipped across her
face as she made her way towards him, until she ducked into the shelter of the
cockpit and the safety of his arms.

“Would
you like to steer?” he asked, his voice silken against her ear. He guided her
hands to the wheel and when he let go she felt the power gathered beneath her
hands. She laughed at the thrill of it.

Then
his arm snaked around her, holding her steady, pulling her back against him. Her
nerves tingled with the awareness, all her senses heightened. At her back, his
arousal pushed gently against her and the knowledge of her affect on him was exhilarating.

She
shifted against him, rubbing herself against him, instantly aware of the effect
the movement had on him.

He
stepped back, placing a little distance between them. “You tempt me,
cara
.
But it is too soon. Have patience.”

How
could she be patient, when every part of her ached with a crushing need to feel
him, to know him? When she wanted beyond reason or thought for him to possess
her body and turn her into the woman she so desperately wanted to be?

The
blue shadow of Capri edged closer, growing larger. The blues changed to greens
as the thickly forested coastline came into sharp relief. Too soon for Isobel’s
liking, steep, verdant cliffs soared above them, bringing their journey to an
end.

Stefano
slowed the boat, swinging in towards one of the coves.

On
the clear water of the bay, a number of small rowing boats bobbed around a
floating barge. Instantly aware of watching eyes, she moved away from him to
stand in the prow, but distance did not lesson the heightened awareness of her
body to his. Behind her, the engine’s motor died away and the boat drifted into
the cove on the waves. Stefano waved to the men lounging on the deck of the
barge.

“What
are they waiting for?” She called to Stefano.

“For
the steam packet that brings tourists from Naples and Sorrento.”

She
bit her lip and he smiled reassurance. “It’s early yet in the day for the
tourists.”

She
searched for the mouth of the sea cave and when she spotted it, nothing more
than a dark slash at the base of a cliff, her heart stuttered. “How do we get
in there?”

He
grinned. “You’ll see.”

Stefano
anchored his motor boat and came to stand beside her in the prow. On the
platform, one of the men climbed into a row boat and headed for them.

“The
row boat will take us inside the grotto.” He helped her down into the narrow rowing
boat as it came alongside them. The boat had no benches, only cushions for them
to sit on.

“Will
this boat through that little hole?” she asked, eying the low entrance of the
cave with trepidation.

“It
will.” Stefano climbed into the boat behind her, rocking it as he settled in.

“
Grazie
,
Franco,” he said to their rower, who grinned back at him, doffing his cap.

The
tiny boat rocked treacherously as they approached the narrow cave entrance.
“Lie back now,” Stefano ordered.

Obediently,
Isobel lay down, back into Stefano’s waiting arms, her body encased between his
long, muscular thighs. Her head rested on his chest, rising and falling with
each breath he took. For a moment she closed her eyes, relaxing back into the
safety and warmth of his embrace.

Her
eyes fluttered open as the heavy rock overhang shut out the light. A wave
swelled beneath them, lifting the little boat high enough that she could reach
up and touch the rock above their heads.

Then
suddenly they were inside the cavern, and Isobel gasped. The cave roof arched
up into a high dome, light dancing patterns across the rocky surface. She
understood now why this was known as the Blue Grotto. The walls and roof
shimmered with colour, reflecting the brilliant turquoise of the water which
seemed illuminated by enchantment.

“The
Emperor Tiberius used this grotto as his private swimming pool.” Stefano’s
whisper rose into the vast echo of the vaulted dome.

Now
they were inside, and the roof was higher, she could have sat up. But she
didn’t. She lay cushioned against Stefano’s chest, enjoying the unfamiliar
hardness of his body, and watched the strange exotic light play over the cavern
roof.

Franco
kept his back turned to them, looking around the cave with a rapt attention
that seemed improbable in someone who saw this sight every day.

The
waves slapped a mesmerising rhythm against the sides of their little boat as it
rocked gently. Against her lower back she felt the stirring of Stefano’s body
and it took her a moment to realise that it was arousal.

“It’s
beautiful,” she whispered.

“Yes,
it is.” His voice was low and husky in her ear, sending shivers through her,
and she knew he wasn’t talking about the grotto.

His
arm snaked over her stomach, holding her close and he rubbed himself against
the curve of her bottom. He seemed to grow harder and longer, and he shifted to
accommodate his swelling manhood. She longed to reach out and touch, to learn.

A
slow ache throbbed between her legs.

Instead,
she raised herself up on her elbow and trailed a hand over the side of the boat.
Her hand gleamed silver, the water warm and sensual as silk against her skin.
She wondered how it would feel to strip off her clothes and slip into that
water, to swim as the Emperors had. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the salty
sea scent, the stillness, and imagined herself in the water. Naked. With
nothing between her skin and the caress of the water. Her breath quickened.

Stefano
stroked his hand over her stomach, slowly and steadily sliding over her hip and
upwards, towards her breast, his touch fuelling an ache as her nipples pulled
taut against the loose silk of her camisole.

Was
this slight friction between their bodies, through layers of clothes, all it
took to arouse desire? Or was the electric tension between them something
special, a unique bond? Then a traitorous thought intruded: had he done this
before, and brought other women here to seduce them in the same way?

Through
the thin silk of her dress, the warm pressure of his body set her alight, made
her want dark and dangerous things. What did it matter that she was not his
first? Was it not better to give herself this first time to a man who knew how
to pleasure her, rather than to some unskilled lover?

She
banished the fleeting image of Christopher’s soft hands with a shudder.

Yes,
far rather would she have Stefano’s hands on her. Even though she might never
have more than this one magical day with him.

It
was sin. It could be the ruin of her. And she didn’t care.

For
the first time in her life she felt truly alive and truly aware.

Voices
broke the cave’s serenity, intruding into their idyll. The sound was as good as
a splash of icy water in her face. She shrugged Stefano’s hand away and sat up,
putting as much distance between them as she could in the tiny space of the
rowing boat.

“Sunlight
passing through an underwater cavity creates the blue light that illuminates
the cave,” the new guide explained in accented English.

Isobel
cast her eyes downward, though she’d never felt less demure. Despite the space
between them, and the fear of discovery, her body was still on fire for
Stefano. She risked a glance at the other boat. A little of the tension in her
shoulders dissolved when she did not recognise the other tourists.

Stefano
laughed softly behind her, as though her sudden concern for her reputation
amused him. “Perhaps it is time we go.”

Franco
steered the little boat back towards the cave’s entrance, greeting the other
guide as the boats passed. She caught snatches of the intruders’ conversation,
recognised their accents as American, and a wave of relief washed over her.

No-one
who might know her family. No-one who could report back to her parents that she
was alone and intimate with a man, and a foreigner at that.

Stefano
lazed behind her in the boat, still as relaxed and unconcerned as before. His
easy confidence was strangely seductive. She wished she could share his
indifference to what people thought.

As
they approached the narrow cave mouth she was forced to lie back against
Stefano once again, this time her body rigid with tension.

“Relax,”
he said.

She
wanted to, but it was impossible. The desire for release throbbed too
insistently through her veins, a need that demanded satisfaction.