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Her heart was beating with anticipation and excitement. She knew what he was going to say, and she longed to hear it.
‘That depends how much you want to say them,’ she whispered, leaning close so that her breath brushed his face. ‘Perhaps you don’t really want to say this.’
‘Oh, yes, you don’t know how much it matters.’
But I do know, she thought happily. He was going to tell her how much she meant to him. In a moment her life would be transformed.
She took his hand in hers, sending him a silent message about her willingness to draw closer to him.
‘Go on,’ she whispered.
He hesitated and she regarded him, puzzled. Was it really so hard for him to reach out to her?
‘Natasha—I want to tell you—’
‘Yes—yes—tell me.’
‘I’m not good at this—’
‘You don’t need to be good at it,’ she urged, tightening her clasp on his hand. ‘Just say it—’
‘Well—’
‘Traitor!’
The screamed word stunned them both. Natasha looked up to see a woman standing by the table, glaring at them. She was in her thirties, voluptuous, and would have been beautiful but for the look of livid hatred she cast on Mario.
‘Traitor!’ she screamed. ‘Liar! Deceiver!’
Mario’s face was tense and pale as Natasha had never seen it before. He rose and confronted the woman, speaking angrily in Italian and pointing for her to leave. She screamed back at him in English. Then turned to Natasha.
‘It’s about time you knew what he is really like. One woman isn’t enough for him.’
She raved on until Mario drew her into a corner, arguing with her vigorously. Natasha could no longer hear the words but there was no mistaking the intensity between them. The dark-haired woman’s rage grew with every moment.
‘He’s a liar and a cheat,’ she screamed in perfect English.
‘Mario,’ Natasha said, ‘who is this woman? Do you really know her?’
‘Oh, yes, he knows me,’ the woman spat. ‘You wouldn’t believe how well he knows me.’
‘Tania, that’s enough,’ Mario said, white-faced. ‘I told you—’
‘Oh, yes, you told me. Traitor! Traitor! Traditore!’
For a moment Natasha was tempted to thrust herself between them and tell Mario what she thought of him in no uncertain terms. But then her impetuous temper flared even higher, driving her to a course of action even more fierce and desperate. While they were still absorbed in their furious encounter, she fled.
She ran every step of the way to the hotel, then up to her room, pausing at the desk to demand her bill. Nothing mattered but to get away from here before Mario returned. It had all been a deception. She’d believed in him because she’d wanted to believe, and she should have known better. Now she was paying the price.
‘You were right,’ she muttered to her mother’s ghost. ‘They’re all the same.’
The ghost was too tactful to say I told you so, but she was there in Natasha’s consciousness as she finished packing, paid her bill and fled.
She took a boat taxi across the water to the mainland, and from there she switched to a motor taxi.
‘Airport,’ she told the driver tensely.
Oh, Mario, she thought as the car roared away. Traitor.
Traditore.
