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He lifted up a lock of her hair and then let it fall on to her shoulders as though remembering their arrangement. ‘But I am not just Italian. I am a Carella,’ he said imperiously. ‘The normal rules do not apply.’
She opened her mouth to argue, saw the twinkle in his eye, and shut it again. He might have been joking, she thought darkly, as Vittorio brought the Range Rover to life again, but many a true word was spoken in jest.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN Cherry was to look back on the weeks that followed they seemed like a rollercoaster, full of climactic highs and lows.
Sophia’s morning sickness became all-day sickness, and Vittorio’s sister rose late and went to bed early, tired and wan and feeling very sorry for herself, so the practical working-out of the ideas Sophia had for the wedding was left almost entirely to Cherry. Fortunately things were relatively simple. The marriage was to take place in the rather splendid church in the next village, and the merrymaking which was to follow would be held in the grounds of the house, with a huge feast, dancing, and a carousel for the children.
Cherry found that at the heart of Puglian life was tradition—in all senses. The prevalence of Catholicism in the region meant that even the tiniest village boasted an often incongruously impressive church, or even a cathedral, and the church where Sophia was to be wed was no exception. It was remarkably beautiful, and Vittorio had written an open cheque for the wedding so the interior of the church was going to be filled with flowers, and the huge arched front door garlanded with the same.
Sophia was to wear her mother’s wedding dress, which had been carefully preserved and which mercifully would fit her without too many alterations, and Santo’s sisters’ children were all bridesmaids and pageboys—thirteen in all—with their dresses and outfits provided by one of the big shops in the town of Bari, again courtesy of Vittorio’s chequebook.
The arrangements were hard work, but Cherry found unlimited money paved the way most satisfactorily and ironed out any difficulties, leaving her with more spare time than she had expected—something Vittorio took full advantage of. He seemed determined to immerse her in his Italy, which was staunchly lived the classically Italian way, in all its interpretations—proud, traditional, family-orientated, and with people of the soil who had none of the fawning attitudes which could be found in places more reliant on vacation wallets.
She’d met Santo and his parents the day after Vittorio had taken her to Locorotondo and liked them immediately. Santo was quiet, even shy, but clearly head over heels in love with Sophia, and his parents were older than she’d expected—his father white-haired and craggy-faced and his mother small and rotund, with a warm, beaming smile.
She was introduced to Santo’s sisters when Vittorio took her to Bari for the purchase of the bridesmaids’ dresses and pageboy outfits. They met
the families at a restaurant where Vittorio treated everyone to lunch before they made their way to the shops, and although conversation was a little difficult—Santo’s sisters spoke no English—the women were friendly and kind and made her feel welcome.
Vittorio had hired a firm of caterers for the wedding, and Margherita had offered to take over the selection of the menu, the wines and so on, as well as the supervision of the team—something Cherry was extremely grateful for. The marriage ceremony was due to take place in the morning and the celebrations would continue all day until late at night; she had been quietly panicking at the prospect of organising enough food and drink for the three hundred or so guests.
At the end of her first week at the Carella villa, she sat by the pool late one afternoon, checking off the frighteningly long list she had initially made of things to do. The church was booked, Sophia’s wedding dress was being altered by a local seamstress, the bridesmaids’ dresses and pageboy outfits were ordered, the caterers chosen, a huge marquee arranged, and the carousel secured for the children. She still had to organise the flowers for both the church and the marquee, along with Sophia’s bouquet and posies for the bridesmaids, little gifts for the best man, bridesmaids and so on, a photographer, and several other things besides. But at least she had made a good start, she decided. She lay back on a sun-lounger and shut her eyes, and immediately thoughts of Vittorio intruded.
Apart from the trip to Bari for the wedding finery, he had insisted on taking her out the day before to Trani, a seaside town up the coast from Bari, which in the Middle Ages had been a thriving and important sea-trading centre and was rich with medieval churches and Baroque palazzi. She had objected when he had announced his intention over lunch, but within the hour had found herself sitting in the midnight-blue Ferrari as Vittorio drove them swiftly towards the coast.
They’d looked round Trani’s seafront fortress when they’d first arrived in the town, which was centuries old, before moving on to the neighbouring cathedral which dominated the harbour with its Romanesque rose-pink façade and elegant belltower. By then it had been late afternoon, and the sun had lost its heat haze. The beautiful building had basked in a wonderful rose light. The cathedral was breathtaking, with its vast bronze doors and exquisite marble columns in the crypt, but it had been Vittorio’s face and voice as he acted as her guide which had really had Cherry entranced. He was touchingly proud of his country and its remarkable history, she’d realised, and not afraid to show it.
They had eaten at a seafront ristorante—a grand building with immaculate white linen tablecloths and uniformed waiters—and Vittorio had been the perfect dinner companion: amusing, attentive and self-deprecating, making her laugh as he’d told her story after story against himself.
She realised what he’d been doing, she thought now, sitting up sharply and gazing at the blue water of the vast swimming pool in front of her. He’d been beguiling her, whittling away at her defences, getting under her skin. And it had worked. She groaned softly, lying down once again and shutting her eyes.
They had left the ristorante when the sky was black velvet studded with a million twinkling stars and the moon a big white ball in the sky, and she had fully expected him to take her into his arms once they reached the seclusion of the car. But he hadn’t. Nor had he stopped at a convenient point on the way home or, once they’d arrived back at the villa, asked her if she’d like coffee or a liqueur before she retired. No. He’d just smiled as he had wished her goodnight, kissed her hand Latin-style and watched her as she’d climbed the stairs to her lonely room.
Stop it. The admonition was strong. She had told him she wanted nothing romantic or intimate, hadn’t she? And it was for the best. Each day proved that, because each day she was more and more drawn to him. Vittorio was such a masculine man: strong, self-assured, even ruthless, but with a tender sensitivity she’d sensed more than once. And it was this, the softer side, that was so seductive. That and the fact that every gesture he made, every move of his head or action, held a male magnetism that was so sexy it made her ache.
It was blissfully peaceful in the Carella gardens, the only sound the gentle buzzing of insects in the vegetation and the subdued twittering of birds in the trees surrounding the pool, but Cherry didn’t feel peaceful inside. She didn’t think she’d ever know a moment’s peace again until she was far away from this place. Or from Vittorio, to be exact.
She was falling for him and there was nothing she could do about it. In fact, truthfully, she’d fallen for him the moment she’d seen him, and even then she’d sensed, deep in her subconscious, that this man could be her Waterloo. She had got over Liam without too much trouble, apart from bruised pride and a definite distrust in the male sex for a while, but Vittorio wasn’t the type of man you got over. Not if you’d been foolish enough to give yourself, body and soul. And unfortunately that was the only way she would be able to give herself.
He was looking for a brief affair, a pleasurable sharing of intimacy that would remain as a warm memory once it was over. She understood that. But it wouldn’t be like that for her, and no amount of wishing could change the fact that she had to distance herself from him. Self-preservation. She nodded at the thought. Definitely. Yesterday had proved that, if nothing else. She had been longing for him to make a move when they had left the ristorante, practically trembling at the knowledge he would kiss her—which was stupid. Stupid and pathetic. Hell, how had she got herself into this mess anyway?
She must have slept, because when the chinking of glasses woke her it was from a dream so intimate it was definitely X-rated. She opened her eyes and saw Vittorio carefully placing a tray holding a cocktail shaker and two glasses on the table at the side of the lounger. He was wearing the minuscule bathing trunks again, his body as brown as a chestnut and the long muscles in his arms flexing as he let go of the tray and straightened.
‘Did I wake you?’ he asked softly.
She tried not to stare at his hairy chest and the inverted vee running down his flat stomach to disappear in the trunks. ‘No,’ she lied. She was always lying around him, it seemed. ‘I just had my eyes shut.’
He nodded, taking the lounger beside her and pouring them both a pink cocktail before handing her one.
‘What is it?’ She’d sat up, pushing back her hair.
‘A drink,’ he said, poker-faced.
She wrinkled her nose at him. ‘You know what I mean. Is it another of your concoctions?’ By now she’d come to know that Vittorio’s cocktails carried a lethal sting in the tail. They appeared relatively innocuous when you were drinking them, but you had more than a couple at your peril.
He smiled. ‘This one is nothing more than pink champagne with a shot of Angostura bitters and a white sugar cube. I might serve this when everyone first arrives at the house after the marriage and I would like your opinion.’
