The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco: The Italian's Wife by Sunset

At this point she found herself smiling wistfully.

But had any woman ever thought straight in his company? She doubted it. Not guilty on the grounds of impaired judgment. She’d wanted to make the moment last, and she had never thought how it would seem to him.

What now? Return to Pompeii and try to find him? After all, he’s ideal for the programme.

Nuts to that! She just wanted an excuse to see him again. He was like a light coming on and then going out too soon. But what was done was done. She’d just chalk it up to experience and leave Naples today.

It was a relief to have made up her mind. Jumping out of bed, she stripped and headed for the shower, running it very cold to infuse herself with common sense. She was just drying off when there was a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Room Service.’

She hadn’t ordered anything, but perhaps this was courtesy of the hotel. Huddling on a silk dressing gown, she opened the door.

Outside stood a tall man, dressed as a waiter. That was all she could tell, as he was holding the tray high, balanced on the fingers of one hand, at just the right angle to conceal his face.

‘Scusi, signora.’

He seemed to glide into the room, contriving to keep his features hidden as he headed for the little table by the window and set down the tray.

Della’s heart began to dance. He might hide his face, but his hair was unmistakable. Instinctively she pulled together the edges of her thin dressing gown, conscious of how inadequately the silk covered her.

‘Orange juice,’ he said, turning to her with a flourish. ‘Fruit? Cereal?’

‘So you’re not still angry with me?’ she asked, laughing.

‘No, I got over my sulk fairly quickly. Forgive me?’

It was so good to see Carlo standing there that she forgot everything else and opened her arms to him. He took two swift steps across the room, and the next moment she was enfolded in an embrace that threatened to crush the breath out of her.

‘I was afraid you’d have packed your bags and left last night,’ he said between kisses.

‘I was afraid I’d never see you again. I’m sorry. I never meant it to happen the way it did—it just sort of—’

‘It doesn’t matter. It was my fault for making a fuss about nothing.’

‘I always meant to tell you, but things just happened, and I lost track of what I was supposed to be thinking—’

‘Yes,’ he said with meaning. ‘Me too.’

He kissed her again before she could speak, moving his mouth hungrily over hers, pressing her body close against his own. Now she could feel everything she had suspected yesterday, the hard, lean length of him, muscular, sensuously graceful, thrilling.

But it was dangerous to hold him like this when she was nearly naked. The gossamer delicacy of her gown was no protection against the excitement she could sense in him, nor against her own excitement, rising equally fast. Nearly naked wasn’t enough. Only complete nakedness would do, for herself and him.

There was an increasingly urgent sense of purpose in the movements of his hands, and her answering desire threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted this. She wanted him.

It was the very power of that wanting that made her take fright. Twenty-four hours ago she hadn’t met this man. Now she was indulging fantasies of fierce passion, desire with no limits. She must stop this now. She forced herself to tense against him, drawing her head back a little so that he could see her shake it from side to side.

‘No—Carlo—please—’

‘Della—’ His voice was edgy, and it seemed as though he couldn’t stop.

‘Please—wait—’

She felt his body trembling against hers with the effort of his own restraint, and at last he was still. Now he would think her a tease. But when she looked into his eyes she saw only understanding.

‘You’re right,’ he whispered.

‘It’s just that—’

‘I know—I know—not—not yet.’

He spoke raggedly, but he was in command of himself. Della only wished she could say the same about her own body, which was raging out of control, defying her wise words. She pulled herself free, grabbed some clothes, and vanished into the bathroom.

When she emerged, safely dressed, he had discarded his waiter’s jacket and was sitting at the table by the window, pouring her coffee. He seemed calm, with no sign of his recent agitation—except that she thought his hand shook a little.

‘Here’s food,’ he said, indicating rolls and honey. ‘But if you need something more substantial I’ll buy you a big lunch after we’ve been to Pompeii.’

‘We’re going back there?’

‘Just for an hour, while I give my team their instructions. Then we’ll have the rest of the day free.’

His manner was demure while he served her, as if their moment of blazing physical awareness had never been. But then she glanced up to find him watching her, and it was there in his eyes, memory and, more than that, an anticipation amounting to certainty.

‘I’m sorry for what happened,’ she said again. ‘I was going to tell you last night, but—’ She made a helpless gesture.

‘It was mostly my fault,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I just talked about myself all the time, which is a fault of mine. Mamma always says if I’d shut up now and then I might learn something.’

‘But you’ve never taken her advice long enough to find out if she’s right,’ Della chuckled.

He grinned. ‘You really do sound just like her. Besides, I know now that she was right. Today you’re going to do all the talking, and I won’t say a single word.’

‘Hmm!’ she said sceptically.

He looked alarmed. ‘You understand me too well.’

‘In that case we have nothing left to say to each other.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, isn’t that every man’s nightmare? A woman who understands him?’

‘I’m getting more scared of you every minute.’

‘Then you’d better steer well clear of me. If I call the airport now there’s bound to be a plane back to London today.’

At once his hand closed over hers, imprisoning it gently but firmly.