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

Della choked back her laughter while he buried his face in his hands.

‘I expect this happens everywhere you go,’ she said.

‘What do I say to that? If I agree I sound like a conceited jerk.’

‘And if you disagree it wouldn’t be true.’

‘Can we drop the subject?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

‘I’ve been watching the girls giving you the glad eye everywhere we go. Some of them are being hopeful, of course, but some look as if they’re trying to remind you of something.’

He had the grace to blush, but said nothing for a while. When he finally spoke it was in a different voice.

‘That was another life,’ he said quietly. ‘Too many passing ships—but that was just it. They all passed on their way, leaving no trace here.’ He laid his hand over his heart.

Then he refilled her glass, and didn’t look at her as he asked, ‘What about you?’

‘Two husbands, a child and a career,’ she reminded him. ‘I’ve had no time for distractions.’

‘I’m glad,’ he said quietly.

There was no mistaking his meaning. She met his eyes and nodded.

Soon after that they rose and went slowly upstairs. At his door he paused, half turning, waiting for her to make the next move. She put out her hand to him.

‘Come,’ she whispered.

He came to her slowly, as if unable to believe what was happening. She took hold of him, drawing him into her room and closing the door behind him, not putting on the light. With the curtains drawn back at the tall windows the moonlight came softly in, holding them in its glow while they stood, entranced.

His fingertips brushed her cheek softly, and it was the sweetest feeling she had ever known. She wanted him now with her whole body. Every inch of her was eager for him to hurry, to take her to the next moment of passion, and from there to the next.

Yet, contrarily, she wanted to prolong the leisurely tension of this moment, enjoying it to the full before it dissolved into urgency. He seemed to want the same, because he laid his lips over hers with a gentleness that suggested he was in no hurry. She leaned against him and felt his fingers in her hair, while his mouth explored hers slowly.

She relaxed into the kiss, letting it invade her subtly, then offering it back with all of herself. She began to explore his body, finding it just as it had been in her dreams: hard, strong, and all hers. He wanted her more than he could bear, and that knowledge was the sweetest aphrodisiac.

Neither knew who first began to undress the other, but her fingers were working on his buttons just as he was doing the same for her. Every moment there was some new revelation—smooth skin, a seductive curve—all managed in leisurely fashion until suddenly the delay became unbearable and they started to hurry. The hurry became urgency, and they had reached the bed before they’d quite finished undressing each other. There was barely time to strip off the last garments.

As passion mounted she became less aware of his gentleness and more aware of his vigour. For her sake he’d restrained himself until the last moment, but now he was beyond even his own control, and he held her in a strong grip as he moved over her, claimed her totally.

She had lived without lovemaking long enough to find the experience unfamiliar, but even as distant memories returned she knew that nothing had ever been like this. No other man had held her with such urgency and reverence combined, or taken her as deeply, satisfyingly, powerfully. It was like being reborn, or born for the first time.

Nothing had ever been like it before, and nothing would ever be like it after him. She knew that even then.

When their moment came he looked into her eyes, seeking complicity as well as union. Two of them became one, then two again, but not the same two. Now she was a part of him, as he was a part of her, and would always be. And that had never been true before.

He slept first, like any healthy animal whose senses had been satiated. For a while Della lay still, enjoying the weight of his head against her breasts, the gentle pleasure of running her fingers through his hair, the warmth of his breath against her skin.

The whole sensation was unbearably sweet; so unbearable that after a while she slid away from under him and left the bed. She could not think straight while his warm, loving body was nestled against hers.

She went to the window and stood looking out into the darkness, not thinking, letting her feelings have their way with her. But eventually she managed to order her thoughts.

I suppose I’m crazy, but so what? I love him, and I’ll always love him, but it won’t last. We’ll have this little time together, then go our separate ways—because that’s what has to happen. He’ll tire of me and find someone else, and that’s fine. The only heart broken will be mine. And that’s fine, too.

But when she awoke next morning all thoughts of broken hearts were far away. She opened her eyes to find Carlo propped on his elbows, looking down at her.

He was almost smiling, but there was also a question in his eyes, and with a sense of incredulity she realised that he was apprehensive. Last night he had been a confident lover, seducing her with practised skill. This morning he was unsure of himself.

Slowly she raised a hand and let her fingers drift down his cheek.

‘Hallo,’ she whispered, smiling.

He got the message, his face brightened, and the next moment he’d seized her into his arms, crushing her in an exuberant hug, laughing with something that sounded almost like relief.

‘No regrets?’ he whispered.

‘No regrets.’

‘You don’t want to turn back?’

He might have meant on their journey, but she understood his true meaning. They’d started on another journey, to an unknown destination. She’d made her mind up before this, but after a night of joy in his arms nothing would have held her back. Wherever the road led, she was ready and eager for it.

As they left the hotel he saw her giving yearning looks at his car.

‘If you were a gentleman you’d offer to let me drive,’ Della sighed, It was comical how swiftly the ardent lover vanished, replaced by a man guarding his treasure like a lion defending its young.

‘An Italian car on Italian roads?’ he said, aghast.

‘I’ve driven in France,’ she told him. ‘So I have an international licence, and I’m used to driving on the wrong side of the road.’

He glared. ‘It’s the English who drive on the wrong side of the road. And this is my new car. Forget it. I’m not that much of a gentleman.’

‘I was afraid of that,’ she said sorrowfully.

‘Get in—the passenger seat.’

She assumed a robot voice to say croakily, ‘I obey!’ That made him grin, but he didn’t yield. Not yet.

He headed the car down the hill and drove for an hour, before pulling up in a quiet country lane and demanding to see her international licence, which he examined with all the punctilious care of a beaurocrat.

‘It’s a clean licence,’ she pointed out. ‘It says that I’m absolutely safe to drive on continental roads.’

‘It says nothing of the kind,’ he growled. ‘It simply says you haven’t been caught out yet.’

‘You’re not very gallant.’

‘No man is gallant where his new car is concerned. This licence doesn’t mean anything. The English give them out like confetti. That’s how little road sense they have.’

‘Or I might have forged it,’ she offered helpfully.