The Passionate Italian 11 DECEMBER EPUB (19 page)

Six a.m. She’d start ringing around. Someone must know where he was.

The hours passed. In between intermittent flurries of telephone activity Rose found herself back at her window watching and waiting.

It was only when the street lamps flicked on that she realized. She’d tried everyone but Giovanni was untraceable, unable to be contacted.
 

And now it was evening once more.

A warm, damp mist had descended into the wide valley, unmoving and smothering. There was a sense of expectancy in the still air, of an end drawing near. And, now that she was physically stronger, she realized that Giovanni had made himself quite clear. He was simply not coming back while she was still here.
 
It was up to her to bring closure.

She owed him that much.

But there was one last thing she wanted to do. She’d have to wait one more night.

The taxi driver tossed her bags into the back of the taxi.

“You may have to wait, signora, until it opens. It will cost you for me to wait.”

“That’s fine. I don’t have to be at the airport until late morning.”

He drove like a lunatic through the streets that were relatively quiet as darkness seeped away to the west, the rising sun igniting the top of the high towers with fire.

She sat on the bench in the small piazza and waited and watched: watched as her taxi driver ordered a coffee and chatted with a street vendor; watched as joggers, immaculately attired even at that hour, ran through the streets and watched the pigeons whirl in the damp mist as the sun slowly rose in the sky, casting its rays through the high towers down to street level.
 

As the church bells chimed the hour an officious looking, perfectly coiffured woman opened up the church. Rose took a deep breath to calm her nerves. It was always hard saying goodbye. And it was here that she felt closest to him, now that he’d left her. The memory of their connection, of that moment when he’d asked her to marry him, was all she had of him now.

Rose’s shoes clicked lightly on the floor of the Santa Maria presso San Satiro. The elaborate decoration on the walls—gold and black—soared all around her as she walked slowly towards the apse. There, she marveled once more at the artistry in the frescoes. Looking up, she could see the distant pink flush of sunrise coming through the high window.

She closed her eyes.

If there was still any magic, let it come now, let it work for her.

She opened her eyes but nothing had changed. Early tourists were beginning to enter, wide-eyed, cameras clicking, along with genuine worshipers who silently slipped into the pews and bowed their heads.

She realized, then, that the magic hadn’t come from the church, but from themselves. It had simply felt so powerful that she couldn’t believe it had come from within.

She shivered. Just as she had all those years ago with Giovanni. But then, he’d put his arm around her and held her close, transferring his body heat to hers and making the miracle of love happen. Before they’d left he’d insisted that they light a candle. She hadn’t understood it then. But she did now.

She walked over to the altar and dropped some coins into a box and picked up a candle. By the time it had sputtered and died, she would be out of the city.

“Where is she?”

“Signore, I—”

“Simon, where the hell is Rose?”

“She’s not here, signore.”

“What the hell do you mean? She was sick, she was recuperating. It’s only three nights I’ve been away. How could she leave with injuries like hers?

She refused to see anyone, signore. Even the doctor. She insisted she was well.”

“You should have made her see someone. Broken the door down if necessary. Anything. What the hell do I pay you for?”

Giovanni paced the floor, stabbing his cell phone for messages, while he continued to berate his assistant, who knew better than to answer such questions.

“When did she leave?” He continued to pace, looking into her closet, checking what had been taken.

“Early, signore. No-one was around.”

“I told you specifically that someone should stay on the premises.”

“They did, signore, but they also need to sleep. She must have left before dawn.”

Suddenly Giovanni stopped pacing and sat heavily in the chair, rested his arms on his legs and looked down at the floor.

“She’s gone.”

“Yes, signore, she has.”

“You should have told me that she wasn’t letting anyone see her. You should have contacted me and I’d have come.”

“We tried, signore.
She
tried, many times. But we were unable to find you.”

Damn Allegra. She’d always been too literal, too gullible. She’d obviously blamed Rose for what had happened to her, decided she’d been in league with Alberto. And who could blame her, because that’s what it looked like. That’s what everybody was saying after all.

Only he knew the truth. And that wasn’t down to evidence, but instinct.

“So you have no idea where she is?

“No.”

“Cuzzo!” He threw the phone to the ground; it skidded across the floor. “Cazzarola!” He turned to Simon. “Find her.”

The quietness of his last words had Simon moving faster than he’d ever done before.

An hour later he’d established that no cabs had taken her to the airport; that she hadn’t gone to Lugano, the office or the island villa.

Just the thought of their time there—so brief and so precious—was enough to drive him crazy.

He had to do something. He couldn’t wait a moment longer. He slammed the front door closed and started walking.

Collar up against the damp, hands thrust into his pockets, he walked quickly through the busy streets, his head and heart lost in confusion and misery.

Why had he rushed off like that? He’d known what she was trying to tell him but he’d been so angry with her. And so angry with himself. It had been
his
brother that had done this to her.
His
family. And he hadn’t been able to make everything right.

He’d been punishing her for his deep feelings of guilt.

He’d driven all day and lain awake all night.
 

Three nights. Three nights wasted when he could have been with Rose.

He found himself walking down the streets where he’d walked with her, instinctively following where she’d been. Stupid, he told himself, as he crossed a busy street, narrowly dodging the cars that raced by.

Anger still pulsed in his veins at the fact that she hadn’t told him everything, hadn’t trusted him after all they’d been through.

But, as she’d said, trust had to be earned.

A blare of car horns made him stop and look around.

Where the hell was he?

The streets were still relatively quiet: few tourists around at this hour. It would be easier to find her.

Then it hit him. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The flight to Singapore and New Zealand wasn’t leaving until early afternoon. Why else would she leave now but to go somewhere early, somewhere that was usually busy? Somewhere she could feel the love that they’d shared.

He was standing right in front of it.

A shadow passed over the light of the flame that filtered through Rose’s close eyelids.
 

She rose shakily to her feet.

“Giovanni? What…?”

“What am I doing here? Looking for you.” He paced around her. She could feel his anger emanating in waves from him.

“Why?”

“Unfinished business.”

“Business? Is that what this is about? Work? Allegra must have found all my documents by now.”

“I don’t want your documents.”

“What then? Tell me now and tell me quickly.” She could feel hope surge within. She needed to know quickly.

“To give you a chance…”

He trailed off, as if, for once, he were at a loss for words.

“A chance to apologize? You want me to apologize? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You were right.” She waited, trembling. What would he do now? Turn around and leave?

“I don’t want your apologies.”

“What do you want then? For Christ’s sake tell me what you’re here for.” Her head throbbed from her wounds and she sat back down back on the hard pew.

“I want you.”

Hope sprang into her heart.

“Because I haven’t finished with you yet.”

Only to be immediately extinguished.

“I’m not your plaything. Stop messing with me, Giovanni. I thought this was all over. How did you find me anyway?”

“You covered your tracks well this time Rose. Fortunately for me, I wasn’t using tracks. It’s instinct I live my life by, remember? Gut instinct. I feel it here.” He touched his stomach. “And here,” he grabbed her hand and touched his heart with it.

Shocked and speechless she stood with her hand still pressed against his heart.

“And you can’t deal with that can you? My passion.”

She shook her head. “You’ve got it wrong. I can’t live without it. I’m tired of living in fear of life, in fear of passion. Without it? I have nothing. Only a half life; no life. I need you Giovanni, like I need the air to breathe. I need you to touch and hold me. Otherwise there is nothing.”

She waited for his response. There was none. Seconds past and he looked at her, his face a mask in the dim light of the church.

“You don’t like making life easy for me do you, cara?”

She shook her head and pressed her forehead against his chest. She couldn’t stop shivering.

“I’m cold, Giovanni. I’m so cold.”

He drew her to him, oblivious to the people milling around, and held her tight against his chest. She could hear his heart beating against her face.
 

He pressed his cheek to the top of her head.

“I’ll warm you.”

“I think it will take a lifetime to thaw me out.”

He touched her cheek, covered with a dressing and kissed the top of her head where stitches were visible in her hair.

“Lucky for you, I have a lifetime.”

“But how can you forgive me?”

“I needed to earn your trust, Rose. Give me time. Let me show you. Whatever you can give me, I will hold and cherish. You will not be the less for having given it to me. It will not weaken you; it will strengthen you. I swear.”

She held him tight, trying to stop the shaking, feeling his warmth and love force the fear from her soul. Trusting in Giovanni would be like trusting in herself—they were as one.

The magic of the church was still there. But she knew, now, that it wasn’t external; it came from their hearts. And it was a magic that would stay with them, wherever they went, their whole life through.

The End

The Italian’s Perfect Lover

Available now from
All Romance

CHAPTER ONE

Alessandro Cavour, Conte di Montecorvio Rovella, watched as the voluptuous blonde, who had just gate-crashed his party, popped a third piece of bruschetta into her mouth.

If she was trying to fit in she was going the wrong way about it. Women in his world barely ate; they wore only black—not a blood-red sheath—and curves were not an option.

“Shall I have her removed, sir?”

Alessandro shook his head and drank the last of his whisky, relishing its fire. He needed fire. He needed a diversion. And he’d just found one.

“No. Leave her to me.”

Where was he?

Emily Carlyle brushed the crumbs from her dress and anxiously scanned the room for the elderly count upon whom all her hopes were pinned.

She needed to mingle. God, how did she do that?

She needed to fit in. And she certainly didn’t do that.

Her hand rose to push her glasses more firmly on her nose before she remembered she’d left them off tonight. Not, she thought, peering around the room, that there had been any point.

She was surrounded by the cream of Neopolitan society: moneyed, elegant, perfect. And she was none of these things. And never would be.

She tugged the wrap more securely around her shoulders. She might not be ashamed of her imperfections but there was no reason to display them—not tonight—not when so much was riding on it.

Where the hell was he?

Suddenly she felt a chill of awareness slither down her spine: someone was watching her. She turned slowly to see a man—blurred a little at first—moving through the crowded room towards her, staring directly at her. When he came into focus she could see his coal-black eyes held both heat and cool control: predator’s eyes.

Her heart pounded once, fiercely, before settling into a fast tattoo that sent adrenalin racing through her veins, stimulating her body into a state of readiness. Fight or flight? At that instant, she could do neither.

Then the crowd parted and the man emerged and stood before her. There was nothing about his appearance that contradicted her first instinct. A predator took whatever he wanted and she knew this man could do just that. It wasn’t just that he was the most striking man she’d ever seen; it wasn’t simply that he was the most charismatic—although conversations had stalled in his wake and all eyes were on him; it was his difference to the others that signaled his power.

In a room of immaculately dressed people, this man stood before her disheveled and arrogant. His black tie hung loosely either side of his open shirt and his hair—raked back as if by careless fingers—hung in tactile curls on his collar. He either didn’t notice he was flouting convention or he didn’t care. She’d bet her life it was the latter.

This was a man who was used to getting his own way; this was a man who didn’t want to be here.

There, they had something in common.

She stepped back to move out of his way. Because she hadn’t lived twenty-six years without knowing that men, that gorgeous, didn’t make a bee-line for her.

But he also side-stepped so he stood squarely in front of her.

He looked even better close up. She was preternaturally aware of the textures on his face: a day’s worth of stubble, the lines that bracketed his mouth and of an errant curl that fell like a question mark on his forehead.

She swallowed hard.

That men like this existed, she’d never imagined. That one could be touching her arm, with an intimacy that sent shivers down her spine, was impossible.