An Elusive Desire

‘Is there anything wrong with that?’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘You have flown high and wide since those early days. The humble typist becomes the sophisticated business executive. Tell me, have you found your job as satisfying as you thought it would be?’

‘Completely,’ replied Jaime crisply, concentrating on the curve of the road ahead, though she was aware of Rafaello’s eyes upon her.

‘In all ways?’ he persisted, the tenor of his voice deepening as he spoke, and Jaime’s resentment grew at the deliberate way he was attempting to disrupt her self-possession.

‘In all ways,’ she assured him, meeting his scornful gaze. ‘There’s more to life than meekly accommodating a man’s sexual instincts, if that’s what you mean. A woman should learn to use her head as well as her body.’

‘As you have?’ snapped Rafaello harshly, and Jaime nodded.

‘Why not?’

His jaw hardened. ‘I take it you don’t regret—anything.’

‘No. Why should I?’ She paused. ‘Do you?’

Rafaello’s thick lashes narrowed his eyes as he turned back again to the road. ‘What have I to regret?’ he stated bleakly. ‘I never knew you.’

There was silence for a time after that, while Jaime endeavoured to recover her composure. Much to her dismay, Rafaello’s last words had scraped a nerve, and she found to her chagrin that her hands were shaking and her knees felt disturbingly weak. She had thought that nothing he could say would disconcert her, but she had been wrong. His final denunciation had left her feeling raw and vulnerable, and she wished with all her heart that Nicola had not abandoned her to her husband’s less than tender mercies.

About thirty kilometres east of Pisa, Rafaello drove off the autostrada on to the narrower country roads that led up into the Tuscan hills. All about them now was the rolling Italian countryside, with its patchwork of green fields interspersed with silvery-green olive groves and acres of vines. Thickly-wooded hills overlooked valleys where the wheat was already turning golden in the heat, and as the late afternoon sunlight shimmered hazily over church spires and cast shadows across the glistening curve of the river, Jaime forgot her misgivings in the sheer delight of being there.

‘It’s beautiful!’ she breathed, as the Maserati crested a rise and the whole panorama of a milk-and-honey valley was spread out below them. ‘I didn’t know—I never dreamed it would be like this!’

‘Would it have made any difference?’ asked Rafaello flatly, and then, as if prepared to meet her halfway, he added: ‘They say nature outdid herself in Tuscany. I love it, of course. It is my home, my land, my heritage! I could never give it up.’

Jaime shook her head. ‘I can understand that.’ She lifted her eyes. ‘Is that a monastery up there?’

Rafaello followed her gaze. Clinging to the hillside several hundred feet above them, the white walls of an ancient building stood out in sharp relief, and his lips curved in a wry smile. It was the first time she had seen anything close to humour soften his stern features since they had met at the airport, and the difference it made was amazing. Gone were the grim lines that bracketed his mouth; gone, too, was the frowning cleft between his dark brows; and the parting of his lips revealed the uneven attractiveness of strong white teeth.

‘It was,’ he conceded, turning his attention to the road again, as they descended a sharp series of bends into the little town of Santo Giustino. ‘It is an hotel now; small and spartan, it is true, but capable of accommodating perhaps a dozen people.’

‘I’d like to stay there,’ said Jaime, looking back over her shoulder. ‘The view must be magnificent.’

‘I imagine it must be.’ Rafaello negotiated the narrow entry to the main square of the town. He glanced at his watch. ‘You must be thirsty. We will stop here for a drink before continuing our journey.’

Jaime was surprised. ‘Is it much further?’ she asked, as he pulled the Maserati off the road and into a narrow parking space.

‘Maybe forty kilometres,’ answered Rafaello carelessly, pushing open his door. ‘Come, we will have a drink at the café.’

Jaime got out of the car with some reluctance. Forty kilometres was not far – a matter of some twenty-five miles. Hardly a great distance. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to drive straight to the Castello? After what Rafaello had said, she couldn’t believe he had any desire to prolong this journey.

But it was too late now for misgivings. Rafaello was locking the car doors, and as her jacket was locked inside, Jaime had no choice but to accompany him as she was. Not that what she was wearing was in any way out of place in a town that catered frequently for tourists. But she was aware of Rafaello’s eyes upon her, and that was what troubled her most.

Santo Giustino was a pretty little town, made the more so by the strings of coloured bunting strung out across the narrow streets. It was very old, with shops and houses set close together, and backed by a beautiful little cathedral, also decorated with flowers.

‘It is carnival time,’ explained Rafaello, as they crossed the square to where several tables had been set outside the doors of a small restaurant. ‘Tomorrow there will be a procession of floats, and a festa with fireworks, celebrating the feast of Santo Gennaro.’ He grimaced ruefully. ‘In fact, the feast of Santo Gennaro should take place in January, but who can enjoy a festa when there is snow on the hills and a cold wind blows down from the Alps?’

Jaime smiled at him. She couldn’t help herself, and for a moment Rafaello shared her amusement. His lean, attractive features mirrored her enjoyment, and then, as if a barrier had dropped between them, he turned away, gesturing to her to take a seat while he went to find the proprietor.

They drank Campari and soda, sitting on opposite sides of the small table, with its blue and white chequered cloth. As the shadows lengthened, more people emerged to stroll in and out of the shops that edged the square, or joined them at the tables, to talk and share a bottle of wine. It was all very peaceful and civilised, but Jaime felt anything but calm. She was only conscious of Rafaello’s brooding preoccupation, and the knowledge that despite his concern for her welfare, he could not relax in her presence.

‘Could we—could we spend a moment in the cathedral?’ she ventured, when both their glasses were empty and it was obvious he was about to suggest going back to the car. ‘I adore old churches, and this one is very old, isn’t it? La Cattedrale de Santo Giustino—I read it on that notice over there,’ she added apologetically. ‘Please. I’d like to see inside.’

Rafaello glanced at his watch once again and got to his feet. ‘If you wish,’ he declared, without expression, and taking a deep breath, Jaime accompanied him round the square and up the four shallow stone steps that led into the candelit interior of the small cathedral.

It was not like any cathedral Jaime had seen before. Its size precluded any impressive displays of architecture, but its atmosphere was instilled with the generations of believers who had worshipped here. She noticed Rafaello crossed himself as they entered the nave, dipping his hand into the holy water and making a silent obeisance. Not having been brought up in any particular belief herself, Jaime nonetheless envied him his faith, and she bowed her head respectfully as she wandered up the aisle.

The altar was lit by two tall candelabra, and to one side there was a statue of the Virgin and child, with several unlit candles waiting to be used. ‘To light a candle for someone you love is an act of faith,’ remarked Rafaello behind her, stretching past her to put several coins in the collection box. ‘But faith is not something you know much about, is it, Jaime?’ he added, as she turned quickly to look at him.

He was close, too close, in the shadowy confines of the beautiful little church. The neck of his cream shirt was open, exposing the strong column of his throat, and from the opening she could smell the warm scent of his body. It was a disturbing scent, clean and essentially male, and her breath caught in her throat. ‘The last time I saw you was in a cathedral, did you know that?’ she asked huskily, her voice revealing a little of the strain she was under, and Rafaello looked at her from between narrowed lids.

‘You came to the church?’ he demanded. And then, with rough passion: ‘Why?’

Jaime forced a lighter tone. ‘I—was invited, remember?’

‘You said you would not come.’

‘I changed my mind.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘A woman’s prerogative.’

Rafaello’s breathing was ragged. ‘You would have made a beautiful bride,’ he said unsteadily. ‘So tall—so slender—so fair.’ In the flickering light from the candles, his dark face was taut with emotion, and because Jaime was wearing high-heeled sandals, their eyes were almost on a level. Compulsively, it seemed, he lifted his hand to slide its length against the curve of her cheek, and in the incense-laden atmosphere, Jaime’s senses spun away …

‘A che ora si parte, padre?’

The youthful voice of a boy, dressed in the robes of a novice and speaking to an elderly man attired in a priest’s hassock, broke the spell. One moment, Rafaello’s hand was against her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips, his cool fingers incredibly sensuous against her heated skin, his dark eyes moving over her face with something akin to hunger—and the next, he had turned from her and was striding down the nave and out of the cathedral, his long legs extending the distance between them, as if by doing so he could put her out of his life.

Jaime followed more slowly. Pausing for a moment to light one of the candles and secure it in place, she nodded diffidently to the elderly priest, who had watched Rafaello’s departure with evident perplexity. ‘Vada con Dio, signorina,’ he murmured, making the sign of the cross, and Jaime bowed her head respectfully as she emerged from the cathedral into the slanting sunlight of the evening.

CHAPTER THREE (#u4f5c875e-cbfe-5e94-ac0a-70b1232a8122)

JAIME’S room overlooked the curve of the valley and the lower, wooded slopes of the mountains that gave it protection. It did not have the most impressive view of any of the rooms in the Castello, nor was it the largest apartment in the castle, but Jaime had been so relieved to see it, she had cared little for its size or situation.

Awakening the next morning in a bed whose proportions were totally out of place in such modest surroundings, Jaime lay for several minutes wishing she did not have to get up. The prospect of the day ahead filled her with apprehension, and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she should not have given in to Nicola’s pleading.

The night before, they had arrived at the Castello when the drifting shadows of evening were casting a misty insubstantiality over the surrounding countryside. The latter part of the journey had been by far the most arduous, not only because of Rafaello’s brooding silence, but also because the last few miles had been a twisting turning climb through picture-book scenery that nevertheless was harrowing on the nerves. Perhaps if Rafaello had driven less aggressively, more consideringly, Jaime would not have felt as if her head was spinning by the time they reached the little town of Vaggio su Ravino, but as it was, nausea was her most obvious reaction when she first saw Rafaello’s home.

The Castello di Vaggio was about half a mile from the town, at the head of a winding road that Jaime guessed would be treacherous in winter. And it was a castle, she discovered in amazement, clinging to the mountains in much the same way as the monastery she had admired earlier. Somehow, she had imagined that the name castello was just the courtesy title for a rather large villa, and to discover that Rafaello’s ancestors had built the castle hundreds of years before had come as quite a shock. He had never boasted of his antecedents. He had never even mentioned that the di Vaggio family had lived in this part of Italy for more than eight hundred years. But Nicola had told her, spilling the castle’s history carelessly as she showed Jaime to her room, answering her questions without enthusiasm, and obviously finding the subject tiresome when she wanted to talk about herself.

Nicola had been waiting for them the night before. When the sleek Maserati swept beneath the stone gateway that gave access to the courtyard, she had emerged from the castle, her flowing velvet caftan giving an impression of an earlier age.

Rafaello, who had not spoken since they left Santo Giustino, paused to give Jaime a tight look before thrusting his door open. ‘My wife appears to have recovered,’ he remarked, rescuing her jacket from the back of the car and tossing it into her lap. ‘You will find she often has these attacks. But do not worry, she is not as fragile as she looks.’

‘But—–’

Jaime started to speak, but Rafaello was not listening to her. He had already thrust his legs out of the car, and as he got to his feet, Nicola reached them.

‘You’re late,’ she pouted, looking up at her husband with resentful eyes. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages. Was Jaime’s plane late?’