Married Under The Italian Sun

CHAPTER THREE

ANGEL CRIED OUT AGAIN, and this time it wasn’t a word but a long scream of agony.

‘All right, I’m coming.’

At first she wasn’t sure she’d heard the words. The wind snatched them away, then returned them in an echo.

‘Help!’ she screamed again, frantic with hope and fear.

But she could hear no reply. She’d imagined it. Nobody was coming to help her, and very soon she would be dead.

‘I’m here.’

The next moment a head appeared above her. She thought she was hallucinating as she saw it was Vittorio, but he dropped to his knees, then lay flat on the ground.

‘All right,’ he called. ‘Don’t panic. Here—’

He was reaching out his hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist where she was still gripping the iron rail. Then the other hand, so that he held both wrists.

‘You’re going to have to let go of the rail,’ he said.

‘I can’t—’

‘You must,’ he said patiently. ‘I can’t pull you up while you’re holding it. Trust me.’

But her fingers seemed frozen, defying her will to move them. While she fought to make herself do what she must, there was an ominous crumbling sound, and a little more of the cliff slipped away beneath her. Looking up, she saw that most of it had come from the ground where he was lying, leaving a big hole beneath his upper body.

‘Don’t think about that,’ he said, his face just above her.

‘How can I? You’re lying on nothing.’

‘The hole gives me more room to pull you up. Be positive and trust me. Let go of that rail.’

Gasping, she did so, and immediately felt his hands tighten on her wrists, drawing her up, into the gap that crumbled further as she went through. He was inching back slowly—slowly—until he reached a place where he could draw himself up to his knees. As he did so his forearms were forced to take more of her weight, causing his fingers to tighten on her wrists. She gasped at the sheer power of that grip, and, with her eyes fixed on his face, she could see the terrible strain it cost him.

‘One more heave,’ he gasped.

On the words he yanked back sharply, so that Angel slid swiftly through the gap beneath the rail and landed on the ground, feeling it blessedly firm beneath her body.

She was safe, but that was only a word, and it had no power against the gasping and shuddering that seized her.

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, God!’

He put his arms right round her, pulling her hard against the length of his body and holding her there without moving or speaking. She clung to him in return, knowing that if he let her go she would start screaming. She tried to stop herself shaking but it was useless. The safety of the ground beneath her was an illusion, and only he could keep her safe.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked after a while.

‘No,’ she said abruptly. ‘I think—I’m going to have hysterics. Sorry about that.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said, almost impatiently. ‘Nothing wrong with hysterics. Have them if you like.’

After that nothing could have stopped her. Her gasps turned into whooping, her shaking became violent tremors, and tears poured helplessly down her face. It didn’t seem to faze Vittorio. He just tightened his arms, so that an already firm grip became one of steel.

There was nothing gentle or tender about this. It was less an embrace than an imprisonment, but that was what she needed to guard herself from the worst, until the world became steady again, the storm passed and she managed to say, ‘Damn, damn, damn! I thought I had more guts than that.’

He loosened his grip just enough to look at her face. His own was close enough for her to feel his breath fanning her lips.

‘Why?’ he asked mildly. ‘You were a hair’s breadth away from falling to your death. Has that ever happened before?’

‘No.’

‘Then why should you think you should cope?’

‘Well, we both know now that I can’t,’ she snapped, furious with herself and, obscurely, with him.

‘So what? Did someone pass a law saying that you had to be a superwoman? Or is that just what the rest of us are supposed to think?’

‘Will you shut up?’ she snapped.

He grinned. ‘That’s better. Come on. You’re ready to stand.’

She didn’t feel ready, but he seemed to know her better than she did herself, so she allowed him to help her to her feet.

‘Where’s your car?’ he asked.

‘I walked.’

‘Then it’ll have to be my car. It’s just over there.’

His car was small and shabby. Angel eased herself thankfully into the front passenger seat, closed her eyes, and didn’t open them again until they pulled up outside the villa.

‘The padrona needs a good, stiff drink,’ Vittorio told Berta, who bustled out.

‘We both do,’ Angel said, leading the way into the large room that opened onto the garden through tall windows.

Berta produced whisky and two glasses, and Vittorio poured for them both. Angel drank hers in one gulp.

‘Do you need another?’ he asked, holding out the bottle.

‘No, thanks. I don’t normally drink spirits at all, but this was different. Thank goodness you were there. How did that happen?’

‘You mean how dare I still be on your property after you ordered me off?’

‘Not exactly. After all, you saved my life. I owe you for that.’

‘You don’t owe me any favours. It wouldn’t have suited me at all for you to die. Everyone would have thought I’d murdered you.’

His brisk, common-sense manner was a relief. There would be no need for melodramatics along the lines of, My hero!