The House in Amalfi (28 page)

Affare was snoring gently, but when Lorenzo rose to leave she was up in an instant. “That dog loves you very much,” I said, watching her dance excitedly on her hind legs.

“I find love is a very good commodity to have,” he said.

“Me, too,” I said. We stood looking at each other. Electricity trembled between us, sending responsive tremors through my body. He held out his hand and I took it. It was warm, hard, but his lips were gentle as he bent and kissed it.

“Thank you,” he said as our eyes linked again.

“You’re welcome,” was all I could think of to say, but my voice was deeper, throatier.

We walked silently to the elevator.

“I’m sorry about dinner,” I said, apologizing all over again. He held up a hand to stop me.

“It was wonderful,” he said.

Then with a smile he stepped into the elevator. The doors closed and he was gone.

I always knew when Lorenzo was home. I’d hear the helicopter clattering low over the cliff, and if I was in the garden I’d wave and see Affare’s inquisitive head pop out and I’d laugh, knowing that soon I’d be seeing Lorenzo. He’d turned out to be a good friend, and I could imagine no nicer evening than one spent in his company, playing backgammon on the Castello terrace, or at an evening concert in Ravello, or sharing a simple meal on my terrace, mostly, I admit, takeout from Umberto’s. I’ll never make a great cook, but I know what’s good, and fortunately for me, Umberto usually has it.

It was different with Nico. He would drop in and take me to lunch in Amalfi or Sorrento.

Then one Friday evening as I was pouring Nico a glass of Pellegrino—he had a hangover and was temporarily on the wagon—I heard the helicopter overhead.

“Your father’s home,” I said.

He gave me a long, smoldering look. “Ha! Not that he’s there much anymore. He’s always here with you.”

I looked at him, brows raised. “So?”

“So is he planning on seducing you? Or you him?”

“Nico! How dare you say that?”

He shrugged. “Jealousy, I guess.”

“You’re behaving like a child,” I said sharply.

He threw me another smoldering look. “You’ve got it all
wrong,
cara
,” he said softly. “I’m no child, and I’d like to prove it to you.”

I turned away, ignoring what Nico had said. “Come on, Lamour,” he said. “Why are you holding out on me? Haven’t I proven my feelings for you?”

I laughed then. “What feelings? That you enjoy flirting with me? Oh, come on; you flirt with every woman, Nico. It’s second nature, as easy as drinking this water.” I slammed the glass of Pellegrino on the table with a hand that shook.

He got up and came round the table. He stood next to me, fixed me with his eyes.

“Nico, stop this,” I said angrily. “You’re going to spoil our friendship.”

He heaved a frustrated sigh. “What’s all this nonsense about friendship? I want you. Don’t you understand that?”

“I don’t want to hear this. . . .”

“Yes, you do; you feel the way I do, Lamour. You just don’t want to admit it. Come on,
cara;
tell the truth now.”

I edged away, back around the other side of the table. “Stop it, Nico; please stop this,” I said, afraid of the hot look in his eyes.

“No, you stop,” he said, reaching out and grabbing hold of me. “I want you, Lamour, and you want me. . . .”

“Get off me!” I tried to push him away, but he had his arms wrapped around me. I felt him tremble, felt his excitement. . . .

“Nico!” Lorenzo was standing in the doorway. His face was so tight with anger, even Affare slid, subdued, behind him.

Nico looked at his father. “Perfect timing, Pa,” he said bitterly. “Just before Lamour and I made it upstairs to the bedroom.”

“Nico! You know that’s not true.” I threw an anxious glance at Lorenzo. His face had turned to stone. He moved
aside to let Nico pass. Nico did not look back or say anything more. He’d already caused enough trouble.

I sank into a chair. Lorenzo came toward me. He laid his hands flat on the table and put his face close to mine. “You are too good for my son,” he said quietly. Then he walked to the door.

He turned. His eyes burned into mine. “And besides,” he added,
“I want you.”
Then he walked away.

My breath caught in my throat, I couldn’t speak. It was the sexiest thing any man had ever said to me. And I knew I wanted him, too.

I couldn’t sleep that night and I was up at first light. Pulling on a bathing suit, I headed to the cove.

I waded out, enjoying the cool water against my thighs; then I dived. Eyes open, I let the sea slide past me. I burst to the surface, laughing with the sheer physical joy. Then I drove through the water, feet kicking up little puffs of spray, sleek as any seal. My worries were temporarily forgotten. This was my idea of heaven.

I swam for about ten minutes, then trod water, looking up at the flawless sky, pale blue tinged with rose, and at the green cliff side that hid my little house so well there I could catch only a glimpse of its blue and green tiled dome. I looked at the shoreline with its secret inlets and villages accessed only from the sea, where fishermen had lived for centuries. And at Pirata across the bay. I thought of Lorenzo and his story of how he had rescued the silly little girl who had swum out too far, and I laughed out loud.

After a while I swam slowly back to shore and was surprised to see Lorenzo waiting on the jetty, with the dog. I waded out of the water, feeling ridiculously like Ursula Andress in the Bond movie. Dashing droplets from my lashes, I shook out my hair, then stood, arms folded across my breasts.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, knowing I sounded sulky.

“Looking for you,” he said. “Oh.” I shook out my hair some more, sending more drops flying.

“I see you still like red bathing suits.”

I glanced suspiciously at him. Was he laughing at me? He was wearing bathing shorts and he looked pretty darn good in them. A lion of a man, hard bodied, powerful. I busied myself with a towel. “Why did you want to see me anyway?”

“Unfinished business.”

He walked toward me. I stood my ground, though my heart had shifted its rhythm and was thundering hard. “Oh,” I said again, for the good reason that I couldn’t think of anything else. “What business?”

“I needed to kiss you.”

I gaped at him, like a fish caught on his line. He came closer, put a finger under my chin, tilted my face up to his. I closed my eyes, waiting. Then his lips were on mine.

It was a gentle, sweet kiss. I slid my arms around his neck and moved closer. He pulled me to him and we were locked in an embrace I wanted never to end. Everything was forgotten with that kiss. There was only Lorenzo and me in the world. My knees began to tremble.

“Cara,”
he murmured,
“Lamour, cara.”
And he kissed me some more. “I wanted to come back to you last night,” he murmured. “I wanted to kiss you; I wanted to be lost in your eyes, in the sound of your voice . . . in your laughter. I wanted to hold you like this,
mia carina;
I wanted to feel your softness next to me, to touch you. . . .”

His hand on my naked back sent a shiver the length of my spine. His eyes asked a question and mine gave the answer. Taking my hand, he led me to his old fishing boat. There was a tiny cabin down below with a simple couch. It was small
but plenty big enough for a pair of eager new lovers. For that was what we were about to become.

I stopped asking myself how or why or even whether I should be doing this. I no longer cared. I wanted him. And he wanted me. Rocked by the gentle swells, we made love.

We must have made love for a long time, because when we finally came to our senses the sun was riding high in the sky. Lorenzo pulled me to my feet. He stared admiringly at my long, lean body with its new “pasta” curves and then he kissed me hard. “I’ll race you across the bay,” he said.

Of course he beat me, because by then I was limp as a newborn kitten and still abuzz with pleasure. It had been a long time since I’d made love, and anyway, I’d never felt this overwhelming passion, where nothing else mattered, not even the risk of being caught red-handed in the old boat. All I’d wanted was Lorenzo.

After he’d beaten me easily, we swam back to shore. Wrapped in a huge towel, I told him I’d make breakfast, and we climbed back through the garden to my house. I sent him upstairs to shower while I fed Affare an odd breakfast of leftovers, and busied myself in the kitchen, fixing coffee and French toast. I arranged everything on a round wicker tray and turned to call him. He was standing in the doorway, watching me.

“Oh,” I said, blushing, something I hadn’t known I could still do. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“I enjoy watching you,” he said, with that slow smile of his, the one that started in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, then the corners of his mouth, and traveled until it lit up his whole face. I thought Lorenzo Pirata was a good smiler.

I ran upstairs and put on a robe; then we ate breakfast at my kitchen table, like an old married couple. I poured more coffee.
Elbows on the table, Lorenzo said, “So what would you like to do today?”

“I’d like to be alone with you,” I said honestly.

He knew I meant I didn’t want to be around the Castello with Nico and Aurora and their friends, not now when it was so obvious we were lovers. “Then we’ll go to Positano,” he said. “It’ll be quiet at this time of year, and I know a place where we can be absolutely private.”

An hour later, with Affare tucked behind us in the helicopter, we flew to Positano and the Hotel San Pietro. Lorenzo had taken the penthouse suite with the private pool and the loggia with the fabulous view that even beat the one from my own terrace. Affare had her own bed, and we had ours. It was so big Lorenzo said he had to shout
“hallooo”
to me across the great white divide of linen sheets, but we soon found our way to each other.

We didn’t leave that suite for three days and three nights. We ordered room service and champagne, and someone came to walk Affare. It was the most wonderful, passionate three days of my life and I wanted it never to end. Though of course it did.

The weeks that followed passed in a happy haze. Fortunately for me, Aurora was back at the university and Nico stayed in Rome, which meant Lorenzo and I had the Castello to ourselves. Not that we meant to keep our love affair a secret; it just worked out that way, and for the moment it seemed easier.

I was glad that the tower bedroom had not been Marella’s and I had no need to feel uncomfortable there. It was completely ours, the place we retreated to at the end of the day—or in the afternoon or, in fact, any old time we could—to fall into bed, lost in the pleasure of our bodies. Lorenzo was a beautiful man. In his arms there was no difference in our ages. We were simply one.

Of course I e-mailed Jammy to tell her all this. Worried that she might think I’d gone crazy, I asked her did she think I was doing the right thing?
Jammy, I’m in love with him
, I said.
Help! What shall I do?

I got a one-line answer:
Do what you always do, which is whatever you like.
Jammy knew me too well. I wasn’t asking for advice, simply confirmation that since I was doing it anyway, it had to be all right.