Legacy Of Shame

‘Grumbling appendix,’ he told her, opening the door of the sturdy Volvo, putting his bag on the passenger seat. He had kind eyes in a weary face and he glanced up at Carlo, who had followed them out, ‘Nothing to panic about, but call me if the pains recur. And liquids only for twenty-four hours. He should be fine in a couple of days.’

‘I’ll go up to him,’ Venetia stated as the Volvo left, her voice stiff. She couldn’t bear to look at Carlo. She would burst into noisy sobs if she did, remember just how cruel he had been, how he’d reduced what she felt for him to the level of juvenile infatuation, remember that by this time tomorrow he would be gone, and she would never see him again. Already her whole body was starting to shake.

‘No.’ His hand on her shoulder stopped her in her tracks, and she froze and closed her eyes, afraid that he would see the pain, the humiliation, the sheer blinding power of her love for him in the revealing depths. ‘He was already falling asleep when I left him,’ he stated. ‘He had a restless night; a peaceful few hours will do him more good than anything. Besides—’ he had two hands on her shoulders now, turning her round to face him ‘—Potty has promised to look in from time to time, to keep an eye on him.’

He was so close to her now. So close. She could feel the warmth of his body, the nearness of him, the indefinable, exquisitely potent force field of his masculinity as it reached out, as always, to enthral her, hold her spellbound.

Her lips began to tremble. Why couldn’t he feel it too? Why did the only man she could ever love feel nothing for her except exasperation? She couldn’t stay here with him a moment longer; it was too much to bear! Venetia felt the build-up of a sob inside her and tried to contain it, pushing at his body with her fists as the shameful tears welled up in her eyes, spilled over.

And he saw them, of course he did. He didn’t miss a trick. And he would begin to taunt her again, call her a child; she knew he would, she thought hysterically, trying to hold her body rigid to counteract the weak trembling that was such a give-away.

But there was no cruelty in his husky voice as he pulled her into his arms.

‘Ssh,’ he whispered, dipping his dark head so that his cheek lay on hers. ‘Don’t cry. It’s been a worrying couple of hours for you, but it’s over now. Your father’s going to be fine. You’re suffering from reaction, that’s all.’

All? Her sobs began in earnest as he held her, allowing her to cry all over his shirt, his hands gentling her as she clung to him, sliding rhythmically from her shoulders to her waist and back again. The way he was holding her, their bodies so close they might be one being, would have been sheer ecstasy if she hadn’t already known he thought of her as a silly child, with as much sense in her head, as much capacity for real emotion, as a gaudy butterfly. The knowledge that he was leaving tomorrow was breaking her heart.

Gulping back a renewed spasm of sobbing, she tightened her arms around him, as if the sheer force of her love could keep him with her, now and for always. And felt his hands grow still against her back, felt the hard warmth of his palms burn through the thin fabric of her loose, sleeveless top, felt, beneath the pressure of her lush breasts and hips, the sudden rigidity of his lean masculine body.

And knew he was about to draw away, that he had been comforting her as he would have comforted an upset child, but, in the moment of her sexual initiative, the instinctive movements of her body against his, the way she had tried to use the power of her love for him to hold him, she had reminded him of her sexuality.

She wouldn’t let him push her away, withdraw again behind that wall. She couldn’t let him. She had broken through that wall. She had! He could no longer pretend she was a tiresome, overgrown child! Never more would he push her away!

But he did. Did it with a stark suddenness that left her reeling, searching his suddenly tight features with hurt, uncomprehending eyes.

Desperately her hands reached for him, but he took them in the iron-hard grip of one of his own, stepping back, holding her at a distance she felt as an aching void, making her throat tighten with anguish. And her huge, translucent eyes brimmed with unshed tears as she protested chokily, ‘Don’t push me away.’

‘Just thank your lucky stars I have some self-control,’ he came back tautly, his black eyes burning into hers with a ferocity she had never encountered before. ‘If you were five years older, things might be different.’ His magnificent eyes hardened to chips of jet, his browline a frowning black bar as he told her tightly, ‘But you’re just a child.’

‘I’m not,’ she cried wildly, twisting her hands within his iron grip. If she could only touch him again, tenderly yet with all the passion she now knew she was capable of, he would know she was all woman. She would show him that much. But his grip was cruel, ungiving, and she blurted frantically, her pride in tatters, ‘I love you, Carlo! Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me!’ And heard him draw a rough breath deep into his lungs, his voice all ragged edges as he bit back ferociously,

‘You tempt me too much! Do you know what you’re doing to me? Do you?’ He gave her a long black stare, his mouth tight, then dropped her hands as if her touch disgusted him, and walked rapidly back towards the house, taking her poor bruised heart with him.

* * *

Venetia woke feeling smothered, anxious to the point of panic, not knowing the cause.

Agitatedly she pushed at the bedcovers, flinging them off the bed, till they lay in a slithery scarlet satin pool on the thick white carpet, and gazed around her with wide, bewildered eyes.

Then the feeling of being in a waking nightmare subsided as she pin-pointed the source of her anxiety. It wasn’t her father, that was for sure. Oh, she was still concerned after yesterday’s fright, but nothing more than that. As long as he kept to a liquid-only diet today and took a few days off work, there was every reason to expect that the grumbling appendix would behave itself.

The root of her misery lay with her beloved Carlo. She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them, her long black hair all over the place. Despite her protestations of love, the way she’d pleaded with him to stay—she went hot with shame when she recalled her impassioned outburst—he had every intention of leaving, setting out for the airport in his hired car at noon.

After he’d walked away from her, back to the house, she had felt more alone and miserable than ever before in her young life. She hadn’t known how to handle the sensation of utter despair, especially when, a few minutes later, she’d seen him shoot off down the drive in the hired Fiesta.

In between checking on her father, she’d hung around waiting for Carlo to return, restlessly pacing the terrace, trying to work out what she should say to him when she saw him next. She’d felt physically and mentally shattered by what had happened, by the way she’d behaved.

But the hours had stretched into a day that had seemed endless. No sign of him. And she hadn’t been able to touch the salad Potty had given her for lunch, or the delicious grilled trout that had been produced at dinner.

‘He’s certainly making sure he sees plenty of the area before he leaves tomorrow,’ Potty had remarked drily as she’d removed the plate of fish Venetia had mangled with her fork, her shrewd eyes on the unused place-setting on the opposite side of the table, the empty chair.

Venetia had dredged up a pale smile, the small, defeated shrug of her shoulder telling all there was to tell, and Potty had said, her voice gruff, ‘Don’t take on so. He’s not the only pebble on the beach.’

Watching the housekeeper trundle out of the room, Venetia had cursed herself for being so transparent. She had laid herself open to Potty’s platitudes and Carlo’s scorn. He had known what she felt, even before she had told him she loved him, and had reduced it to the level of mere infatuation.

And Potty was wrong. As far as she was concerned he was the only man she would ever love with this level of passionate intensity. But it wasn’t any use, she thought miserably; he had made that very plain. So she was simply going to have to come to terms with it, somehow, and try to decide how she would react when she saw him next, what she would say.

But she needn’t have agonised so deeply because her confidence had taken the final annihilating blow when, while she’d been playing Scrabble with her father late last evening, Carlo had at last put in an appearance.

He hadn’t looked at her; she might not have been in the room as he’d made suitably concerned enquiries about the state of her father’s health.

And her face had turned pale when he’d gone on to say, ‘If you’re sure you’re on the mend, I’ll take my flight to Rome tomorrow, as arranged. But if you’ve the slightest doubt and would like me to stay on, I can cancel it.’

And Venetia had held her breath, willing her father to ask Carlo to stay. But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

‘I’m fine,’ the older man had stated. ‘Once I’ve survived the starvation diet I’ll be better than new! And I’ve asked Carew to drop by first thing in the morning. I’ll brief him to cover my absence for the next couple of days. So don’t alter your plans because I had a stomach-ache—there’s absolutely no need.’

‘If you’re sure...’

A flicker of something—relief?—had moved across the hard profile, then the sensual mouth had firmed as he’d added, ‘After a great deal of thought, I’ve reached a decision of some importance, and I’d like to discuss it with you. Tomorrow morning—after you’ve seen Carew?’

‘Why not now?’ The older man gestured to the armchair on the other side of his big old-fashioned bed, his smile expansive. ‘And pour yourself a Scotch, why don’t you? The decanter’s on top of the dressing-chest.’

Involuntarily, or so it seemed to Venetia, the black eyes were at last turned in her direction. And almost immediately back to her father, the slightly accented, fascinating voice uncompromising as he insisted, ‘Tomorrow would be better.’

So he had reached some decision, to do with business—what else?—and refused to discuss it in front of her, Venetia had thought on a spasm of stinging pain. He wouldn’t discuss anything of importance while she was around. He thought she was a bird-brain.

She had kept her eyes on her clenched hands during the short silence that had preceded his exit and had gone to bed herself soon after, every last bone in her body weakened by the myriad hurts he was so good at inflicting—intentionally or otherwise.

And this morning she felt no better, she decided hollowly as she pushed the hair back from her face and gazed blearily around her room. Twelve months ago she’d insisted on having it redecorated to her own specifications, sweeping away the girlish frills and flower-speckled wallpaper, the pink and fawn carpet and flounced pink curtains. Now the furniture was matt black and, apart from the white carpet, everything else was scarlet.

She had been thrilled with it, she remembered, revelling in the sensuous velvets and satin. Now, looking around her at the beginning of what promised to be another hot summer day, she knew it was tacky, and a part of her looked back and mourned the passing of her ebullient self, the wonderful adventure of her emergence from childhood, all that fantastic self-confidence that had been so ruthlessly destroyed when she’d fallen in love with the unattainable.

When she finally got out of bed and went to stand under the shower, she found she was shaking. Carlo was leaving today and they weren’t likely to meet again. Her father and Simon were more than capable of running the business he had shares in; it had ticked over for years without the Rossi family doing any more than pocket the dividends. Besides, he was running the diverse Rossi business empire virtually single-handedly now that his father had opted to take a back seat because of failing health. It wasn’t likely he’d visit England again in a hurry.

Covering her dripping, voluptuous nakedness with a bath-sheet, she wondered forlornly if he would ever spare her a passing thought, and decided he wouldn’t. The flock of lovely, elegant ladies whose undoubted existence Potty had guessed at would ensure that she, Venetia, the overgrown schoolgirl whose protestations of love must have embarrassed him so, would be pretty promptly erased from his memory.

Indifferent now to how she looked, she pulled on a pair of shabby cotton jeans and the only school blouse that hadn’t been cut up for polishing rags, then mooched along to see her father.

Potty had taken him a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, and his bed was covered with papers and files.

‘Should you be working?’ she asked concernedly, twisting her long, shiny hair back behind her head, wishing she’d taken the time to plait it, because today was going to be boiling.

‘I’m not,’ he told her, staring at her over the top of his glasses. ‘Just getting things in some sort of coherent order to pass on to Simon when he arrives. Which should be any time now. Would you like to ask him to stay to lunch, to keep you company?’

There was only one man’s company she wanted. Trouble was, he didn’t want hers. She shook her head mutely and her father frowned.

‘What’s wrong? You look drained. You’re not still worried about me? Because if you are—don’t.’