Lucy Gordon: Hot Nights with...the Italian

His father had always seemed so alive and full of vigour, with never a hint of ill health, so tonight’s attack must have been a particularly unpleasant shock to her, he thought sombrely, resolving to call on her in person to thank her for her prompt and potentially life-saving efforts on Guillermo’s behalf. By doing so he might also make it clear that any initial resentment of her role in his father’s life had long since dissipated.

Besides, he thought ruefully, his own personal life was hardly such a blazing success that he could afford to be critical of anyone else’s. And maybe it was really his bitter sense of grievance over being cornered into marriage that had brought about the coldness that had grown up between his father and himself.

But he could not allow any lingering animosity, he told himself as he stepped out of the shower and began to dry himself. He had to put the past behind him, where it belonged. Tonight had indeed been a warning—in a number of ways. It was indeed more than time he abandoned his bachelor lifestyle and applied himself to becoming a husband and, in due course, a father.

If, of course, he could obtain the co-operation of his bride—something he’d signally failed to do so far, he thought, staring broodingly in the mirror as he raked his damp hair back from his face with his fingers.

If he was honest, he could admit that he was a man who’d never had to try too hard with women. It wasn’t something he was proud of, but, nevertheless, it remained an indisputable fact. And it remained a terrible irony that his wife was the only one who’d greeted his attempts to woo her with indifference at best and hostility at worst.

He’d become aware that he might have a fight on his hands when he’d paid his first visit to her cousin’s house in London, ostensibly to invite Marisa to Tuscany for a party his father was planning to celebrate her nineteenth birthday.

Julia Gratton had received him alone, her hard eyes travelling over him in an assessment that had managed to be critical and salacious at the same time, he’d thought with distaste.

‘So, you’ve come courting at last, signore .’ Her laugh was like the yap of a small, unfriendly dog. ‘I’d begun to think it would never happen. I sent Marisa up to change,’ she added abruptly. ‘She’ll be down presently. In the meantime, let me offer you some coffee.’

He was glad that she’d told him what was being served in those wide, shallow porcelain cups, because there was no other clue in the thin, tasteless fluid that he forced himself to swallow.

So when the drawing room door opened he was glad to put it aside and get to his feet. Where he paused, motionless, the formal smile freezing on his lips as he saw her.

He could tell by the look of displeasure that flitted across Mrs Gratton’s thin face that Marisa had not changed her clothes, as instructed, but he was not, he thought, repining.

She was still shy, looking down at the carpet rather than at him, her long curling lashes brushing her cheeks, but everything else about her was different. Gloriously so. And he allowed the connoisseur in him to enjoy the moment. She was slim now, he realised, instead of gawky, and her face was fuller so that her features no longer seemed too large for its pallor.

Her breasts were not large but, outlined by her thin tee shirt, they were exquisitely shaped. Her waist was a handspan, her hips a gentle curve. And those endless legs— Santa Madonna —even encased as they were in tight denim jeans he could imagine how they would feel clasped around him, naked, as she explored under his tuition the pleasures of sex.

Hurriedly he dragged his mind back to the social niceties. Took a step forward, attempting a friendly smile. ‘ Buongiorno , Maria Lisa.’ He deliberately used the version of her name he’d teased her with in childhood. ‘Come stai?’

She looked back at him then, and for the briefest instant he seemed to see in those long-lashed grey-green eyes such a glint of withering scorn that it stopped him dead. Then, next moment, she was responding quietly and politely to his greeting, even allowing him to take her hand, and he told himself that it must have been his imagination.

Because that was what his ego wanted him to think, he told himself bitterly. That it was an honour for this girl to have been chosen as a Santangeli bride, and if he had no objections, especially now that he had seen her again, it must follow that she could have none either.

Prompted sharply by her cousin, she accepted the party invitation, and agreed expressionlessly to his suggestion that he should return the next day to discuss the arrangements.

And although she knew—had obviously been told—that the real reason for his visit was to request her formally to become his wife, she gave no sign of either pleasure or dismay at the prospect.

And that in itself should have warned him, he thought in self-condemnation. Instead he’d attributed her lack of reaction to nervousness at the prospect of marriage.

In the past, his sexual partners had certainly not been chosen for their inexperience, but innocence was an essential quality for the girl who would one day bear the Santangeli heir. He had told himself the least he could do was offer her some reassurance about how their relationship would be conducted in its early days—and nights.

Therefore, he’d resolved to promise her that their honeymoon would be an opportunity for them to become properly reacquainted, even be friends, and that he would be prepared to wait patiently until she felt ready to take him as her husband in any true sense.

And he’d meant every word of it, he thought, remembering how she’d listened in silence, her head half-turned from him, her creamy skin tinged with colour as he spoke.

All the same, he knew he’d been hoping for some reaction—some slight encouragement for him to take her in his arms and kiss her gently to mark their engagement.

But there’d been nothing, then or later. She’d never signalled in any way that she wanted him to touch her, and by offering forbearance he’d fallen, he realised, annoyed, into a trap of his own making.

Because as time had passed, and their wedding day had approached, he’d found himself as awkward as a boy in her cool, unrevealing company, unable to make even the slightest approach to her—something which had never happened to him before.

But what he had not bargained for was losing his temper. And it was the guilt of that which still haunted him.

He sighed abruptly as he knotted a dry towel round his hips. Well, there was no point in torturing himself afresh over that. He ought to go to bed, he thought, and try to catch some sleep for what little remained of the night. But he knew he was far too restless to relax, and that the time could be used to better effect in planning the coming campaign.

He walked purposefully out of the bathroom, ignoring the invitation of the turned-down bed in the room beyond, and proceeded instead down the hallway to the salotto .

It was an impressive room, its size accentuated by the pale walls and a signal lack of clutter. He’d furnished it in light colours too, with deep, lavishly cushioned sofas in cream leather, and occasional tables in muted, ashy shades.

The only apparently discordant note in all this pastel restraint was the massive desk, which he loved because it had once belonged to his grandfather, and which now occupied a whole corner of the room in all its mahogany magnificence.

In banking circles he knew that he was viewed as a moderniser, a man with his sights firmly set on the future, alert to any changes in the market. But anyone seeing that desk, he’d always thought dryly, would have guessed immediately that underlying this was a strong respect for tradition and an awareness of what he owed to the past.