shaking.
‘It must’ve been very frightening for you.’ Cesario wrapped both his arms securely round her slight body to comfort her and tugged her into full contact with him. ‘Clearly he had problems. Did you go to the police?’
‘The cards didn’t threaten me with violence, so he wasn’t committing an offence. The law’s been changed since, but back then a woman had very little protection from that sort of thing,’ Jess told him heavily. ‘I got really scared because it was obvious that he was spying on me. But hardly anyone saw him as a serious threat. In fact my friends tried to make a joke about his fixation on me. One evening I came back from class to the flat I shared, laden with books and shopping…’
‘And he was waiting for you?’ Cesario prompted darkly, his nostrils flaring.
Jess was pale but the words were flowing more freely now. ‘He just appeared round the corner of the landing and there was something weird about the way he looked at me. I just knew it had to be him and I ran back to the stairs. I dropped my bags but I wasn’t quick enough. When I saw the knife I put up my hands to protect my face and I don’t remember anything else but screaming. A neighbour came out and interrupted him and my attacker fled. He ran out into the road and got hit by a car. He died…he died and I wasn’t sorry,’ she admitted sickly. ‘But I would have lived in fear for ever more if he had survived.’
Cesario held her until the deep trembling slivering through her slim frame had subsided and she was breathing evenly again. ‘I’m sorry you had such a terrifying experience. I just needed to know what had happened,’ he volunteered wryly. ‘But I understand now why you’ve always played down your looks…’
‘After the attack I just couldn’t be comfortable wearing clothes that might attract male attention. Before that I was a normal teenager and I wore miniskirts and all the rest of it,’ Jess admitted ruefully. ‘It’s not that I think every man might have it in him to be violent, it’s more the way a woman’s looks can encourage a man to objectify her and see the outside without seeing that there’s a real living, breathing, feeling person underneath.’
‘I’ve been guilty of that miscalculation many times, bella mia,’ Cesario admitted with a grimace as he acknowledged the fact.
Jess lifted her curly head to send him a significant look that brought a frown to his lean, hard-boned face. ‘I should think so too with your reputation.’
‘If you’re basing your opinion on what’s been printed about me, keep in mind that the British press only began depicting me as a wild, promiscuous playboy after I dared to dump their darling, Gilly Carlton.’
His reference to one of the most popular soap stars on British television made her raise her brows. ‘I didn’t even know that you and she—’
‘We didn’t—she was always drunk. A couple of casual dates and I’d had enough of her falling out of chairs, cars and doorways!’
‘But my opinion of you wasn’t formed by anything I read in the newspapers,’ Jess confided, giving him a deliberately mysterious glance that was pure provocation. ‘To be honest, I had a source of information much closer to home.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m not telling.’ Throwing back the sheet, Jess pulled playfully free of his hold and slid off the bed. ‘Just for once I’m going to grab the first shower.’
‘I’m feeling lazy. We could stay here tonight, dine out and go home tomorrow. It is our last week.’
‘I would love that.’ Padding into the compact en suite bathroom, Jess was ridiculously pleased that he appeared to be as aware as she was that their honeymoon idyll was almost at an end. It touched her that he was keen to make the most of what time was left.
If she had not known that they had married simply to conceive a child, she would have described the last six weeks they had shared as a magical time of discovery and joy. As it was, she knew she had to keep her feet firmly pinned on the ground and pour cold water on her more fanciful thoughts and reactions for, within days, she would be returning to England, her job and usual routine. And since she was beginning to suspect that she might already have conceived she was wondering just how much she could hope to see of Cesario in the future.
Did he too suspect that she might have conceived? Had he noticed that her menstrual cycle had not once kicked in since they’d became lovers? Surely he must have noticed even though he hadn’t said anything? Perhaps she should visit the local doctor when they got back to Collina Verde. Could it have happened so fast? Her face warmed as she towelled herself dry and stood back to allow him access to the shower. They had had sex a lot. Some days they had barely got out of bed. And even now she could hardly keep her hands off him. It shocked her how much she craved him, how often they could make love and for how little time that fierce hot arrow of desire would remain satisfied. So, it was not beyond the bounds of belief that she might already have fallen pregnant. She was excited and apprehensive—excited at the prospect of a baby, but apprehensive that conception would mean the end of all intimacy between her and Cesario. After all, once a baby was officially on the way, their ‘project’ would be complete and there would no longer be a reason for them even to live below the same roof.
From the bedroom window, she looked out over the textured terracotta roofs that lent such warmth and colour to the panoramic view of the old town as the medieval houses beneath them stepped down the hillside. Her memory served up cherished images of the relationship they had created between them. He had bought her a gilded image of a saint in the market at Castelnuovo di Garfagnana, which he had insisted reminded him of her. She thought the resemblance was in his imagination alone. Possibly that was the first thing he had said and done that he should not have in the first forty eight hours of their stay in Italy, she mused unhappily. There was no room for such frills and fancies in a practical marriage of convenience.
But then there had been very little practical about the experiences they had shared. In the tour of Tuscany that Cesario had treated her to, he had walked hand in hand with her like a lover through winding streets and alleyways, happy to shop in tiny traditional workshops and sample the freshest of food in the picturesque restaurants. The same male who had warned her not to fall in love with him had moved the goalposts without telling her and she had been afraid to remark on it lest it change the wonderful ambience between them. They’d had picnics amongst the wildflowers on deserted hillsides and long chatty romantic evening meals on the elegant loggia at the house listening to the classical music she loved. She had adored Florence and Siena, but had found both cities too hot and crowded at this time of year and he had promised to bring her back once the height of the tourist season had passed. Now, she wondered if he would ever keep that promise.
She had learned that he was human too, once she came to appreciate that he occasionally suffered from shockingly bad migraines, which he flatly refused to talk about. Indeed he seemed to look on any admission of feeling unwell as the behaviour of a wimp and his ridiculous stoicism brought a tender smile of remembered amusement to her lips. Somewhere along the line, she acknowledged ruefully, their holiday had turned into a proper honeymoon.
He had bought her a fabulous designer bag in Florence and a painting that she found so ugly she had threatened to dump it while he believed it would grow on her and refine what he saw as her unsophisticated taste in art. And then there was the jewellery…he really loved to give her jewellery and to see her wear it. Her fingers touched the delicate choker of golden leaves that curved round her throat like an elegant question mark. He had bought it for her thirty-first birthday, which he had remembered without any prompting from her. He had also insisted that she had to have a diamond pendant and earrings if she was not to look only half dressed beside Alice when they dined out with the other couple.
He had shown her Etruscan tombs and magnificent palazzos and taught her to distinguish a good wine from an indifferent one. He had laughed when she’d told him that she had not known what cutlery to use on that disastrous first dinner date and she’d had to explain how intimidating she had found that because, born into wealth and fine dining as a way of life, Cesario had not initially understood the problem.