The Italian Next Door. Anna Cleary

words affected her against her will, coursing through her like a hot tingling aphrodisiac, and with a spurt of sudden anger she spun around to face him. ‘Stop this, Valentino. Please. There’s no use talking about it.’ Gazing at his gorgeous face, so dark and intense, so focused on her, all at once she felt breathless, furious, ready to strike. ‘Don’t say another word.’

      He threw up his hands. ‘Okay, okay. Don’t be upset. I am not one of these guys who argue and force themselves upon women. You have said no more and no more is how it shall be. Nothing more. Niente.’

      She strode on, wishing she weren’t so conscious of him behind her.

      ‘And don’t think you can arouse me by using Italian words, either,’ she tossed over her shoulder. She turned to reinforce the command with a glare and noticed a dark gleam in his eyes, but it might have been a trick of the sunlight.

      With chillingly elaborate courtesy he opened the car door for her. Before she got in, in a last—ditch effort to calm things down, she paused. She drew a long deep breath.

      ‘Look, Valentino …’

      His eyes glinted. ‘Sì?’

      ‘If for some reason you mistakenly thought …’

      ‘I thought nothing. You have every right to say no.’ There was a pride and dignity in his bearing that touched her, and she was so relieved to find him civilised and accepting of her rejection, she almost felt a rush of warmth towards him.

      ‘Oh, look. Thank you for being so …’ Her words dried up and she gestured instead.

      He shrugged. ‘Forget it. Una bella ragazza ha il diritto cambiare pensiero.’

      She had no idea what that meant, only that it slid down her spine like honey. But she could hardly beg him to stop breaking into his own language, especially in an emotional situation where it was only natural that it should spring first to his tongue.

      The journey into Positano was short, thank the Lord, with Valentino grimly polite. That didn’t succeed in alleviating the undercurrents smouldering between them. With almost punishing kindness he pointed out things to her as they drove the single road that snaked back and forth in its descent through the town to the sea. He showed her the main square, the market and the shops crammed along intriguing little alleyways, in the most courteous voice imaginable, while, confusingly, his accent deepened and became even more appealing to the ear.

      It was torture.

      Even worse than the aftermath of the kiss, if possible, was her awareness of the exhibition she’d made of herself during the journey, freezing with fear like that in the car. Her delight in her first sight of the amazing old village cascading down the cliff, the terraces and villas built seemingly on top of one another, was all but ruined.

      He drove her almost down as far as the sea, drawing up in a small square before the small church. Taking her bags from the car, he carried them up through a maze of narrow alleyways that here and there turned into steep stairs hewn from the rock face. Eventually he pushed open a gate that led into a terrace with a little courtyard.

      There were several apartments of pale pink stucco in the row, each with a balcony under an arcaded roof. Pia followed the apartment numbers with her eye and found Lauren’s at the end. She hoisted the canvas bag onto her shoulder while Valentino hefted her suitcase upstairs to the balcony.

      ‘Do you have a key?’ he said, pausing.

      ‘Above the mantel, Lauren said.’ Constraint made her voice sound unnatural even to her own ears. She reached up to the beam but he was there before her, his cool hand colliding with hers on the ledge.

      She drew hers sharply away.

      He gave her the key and she unlocked and stood aside for him to carry in her things. She barely noticed the apartment’s interior, she was so intensely aware of Valentino and the brooding vibrations.

      When her stuff was inside and he was outside on the balcony, ready to depart, she racked her brains for something to say to ease the strained atmosphere.

      ‘Where did you say you live?’ she enquired, in too much dismay to give the miraculous houses, apartment blocks and tiny terraced gardens crammed on the hillside above and adjacent to Lauren’s terrace more than a cursory glance.

      ‘There.’ He pointed below.

      Her eyes jolted wide open. The dwelling he indicated was nearby, all right. It was on the next level down, an elegant white villa with a broad terrace at the rear and a small, cultivated garden, with grape vines, peach and lemon trees. Set into the terrace, an irregularly shaped pool sparkled in the midday sun like a jewel, and beyond the villa was the sea.