Carrying His Scandalous Heir Page 5
‘Good. Can you meet me before the performance? I’ll text you where. We can have a drink beforehand, eat afterwards. How would that suit you?’
Anything—anything would suit me! Anything at all!
The words had soared in Carla’s head, but she had not spoken them. Again, instinct had told her otherwise. Instead, she had simply smiled.
‘Lovely!’ she’d said. And then she’d reached for the door catch, letting herself out of the car as it hummed by the kerb. She’d lifted her hand, given a little wave of farewell. ‘See you then,’ she’d said airily.
Without looking back again she’d opened the doors to the inner courtyard and stepped inside. Then, and only then, had she clutched at her key and given a crow of joy, of pleasure and relief.
Yes! Yes, he wanted to see more of her, wanted more time with her. Wanted her again... As she—oh, as she wanted him...
Cesare! Oh, Cesare—
His name soared in her head again—filling her mind, her being.
Him and only him...
* * *
‘How’s the article coming along?’
Cesare half twisted his head to call back into the shaded bedroom from where he sat, long legs stretched out in tan chinos, lounging out on the sunlit balcony, his city shirt swapped for a knitted polo, feet in casual, handmade loafers.
Beyond, the darkly glinting waters of Lake Garda hid their glacial depths, reflecting the encircling mountains. He flicked open the tab on the beer he’d just taken out of the minibar in the hotel room. As he sipped its cool flavour his sense of ease deepened. The leisurely weekend ahead beckoned him, and the prospect not just of taking his ease, but of spending it with Carla, bestowed a sense of well-being on him.
The time he spent with Carla always did that to him.
I made a good choice in her. She’s worked out well—very, very well.
His eyelids drooped a moment as reminiscence played pleasurably in his head and anticipation of the night to come tonight did likewise. Carla might present a cool, composed front to the world, but when they were alone, when the lights went out... Oh, that was a different matter!
He felt his body quicken in memory. Like a struck match, when he reached for her she went up like a sheet of flame. Passion flared like phosphorous, incandescent and searing. Desire, unleashed, scorched between their bodies...
But it was not that alone—outstanding though it was—that had kept their affair going for so long. It had been six months now, and he showed no sign of tiring of her. But why should he tire of her, when passion still ran so strongly? And even when it was exhausted she was so very suitable for him—the ideal woman to have an affair with. She made no attempt to cling to him. Indeed, sometimes he found himself irked by her occasional unavailability, when she cited pressure of deadlines. But he respected her for it all the same. Made no demands on her when she was working.
His eyes shadowed for a moment. His father had shown no such respect for his mother—his mother’s role had been to be a docile contessa, arranging her life only around the requirements of her difficult husband. Even the weakness of her heart condition had not made his father tolerant of what he perceived as any dereliction in her primary duty to be the chatelaine of his estates.
It was not an attitude he would take when he himself married. Of course his contessa would need to be completely willing to play her role as his wife, just as he himself would shoulder the myriad responsibilities of his position, but that did not mean she could have no life of her own as well. In fact...
He snapped his mind away. It was inappropriate to dwell on the qualities his wife would have when he was here with a woman who could never have that title.
And who would not want to.
Nothing about Carla Charteris gave him any cause for disquiet in that respect. And for that he was entirely appreciative. So if, right now, he was having to wait for her to finish her article, then wait he would—as patiently as his temperament permitted.
Some ten minutes later, as he was nearing the end of his can of beer, it was rewarded.
‘Finished!’ came Carla’s voice from inside, with a sense of relief. ‘All submitted.’
She lifted the laptop off her knees, closing it down, glancing out towards the darkening balcony. She’d been slightly apprehensive in booking this hotel, in case it did not meet Cesare’s exacting standards, but its five-star rating was well deserved. Situated at the lake’s edge, its luxury was discreet rather than ostentatious, and a weekend here—following on from her trip to Venice to cover the opening of a new gallery, which had conveniently coincided with Cesare’s series of business appointments in Milan—should be extremely pleasant.
Pleasant? The mild word mocked her. The time she spent with Cesare was so much more than ‘pleasant’! It was—
Incredible—unbelievable—wonderful—unforgettable!
Her expression softened. Had it really been six months since that first night at his elegant little villa outside Rome? Since then they’d stayed there frequently, recapturing each and every time the scorching intimacy that had swept her away then as never before. Could she have experienced such passion with a man who was not Cesare? Impossible—just impossible! He dominated her consciousness each and every day, whether she was with him or not.
Yet she tried hard not to show it—instinctively knowing that any sign from her of being possessive would be fatal. It was that instinctive awareness that told her to be sure never to make any assumptions about him, never to ask him when they would next see each other. Never to rearrange her life for him.
I want to reassure him that he is safe with me. That I do not depend on him. That I have my own life, separate from my time with him.
It was an odd thought, and the reasons she was thinking it were skittering in the back of her mind, trying to land. But she would not let them. Instead, she would enjoy to the max the times they did have together—such as this weekend.
She padded on bare feet to the minibar, drawing out a miniature bottle of wine and a glass, then headed out to the balcony, sliding her hands over Cesare’s broad shoulders, squeezing lightly.
He turned his head, brushing the tops of her fingers with his mouth. The sensation sent familiar little tremors through her, but she only took a seat beside him on the other sundowner chair, gathering the loose cotton folds of the long printed sundress she’d changed into from her formal Venice outfit, and poured her wine.
‘Salute!’ he said lazily, and clinked his beer can against her glass.
She returned the toast and took a mouthful of chilled wine, turning to look out over the view. It really was spectacular, and she drank it in as Cesare was doing.
‘It’s good to see mountains again—though these are a bit too serrated for my tastes,’ he heard himself observing, letting his fingers intertwine with hers.
As he spoke, he found himself wondering why he’d made such a remark to Carla. As a rule, he never talked about his own home—even if it was only to contrast the high peaks of the jagged Dolomites with the lower, more rounded Apennines that were the ever-scenic background to the Castello di Mantegna. The castello wasn’t a place she would ever see, so there was no point mentioning it.
At the thought, a slight frown flickered across his eyes. He crumpled his beer can, tightening his fingers on Carla’s.
‘Shall we head down to the restaurant?’ he said.
He got to his feet, drawing her with him. His eyes went to her. She looked good—but then she always looked good. Always immaculately groomed, with her fantastic figure on show. Wearing what she did now—that loose dress—she looked different somehow. Still a knockout—always that—but more...medieval. Her hair was loose too, waving lushly down her back.
A ripple of desire went through him, but he put it aside. That was for later.
They heade
d downstairs, Cesare carrying her unfinished glass of white wine for her, and in the dining room, which still caught the roseate glow of the lowering sun, they took a table overlooking the lake.
Cesare’s sense of well-being deepened. This was good. It really was good. Being here, well away from Rome, from home, from responsibilities and social obligations, just having time to himself with the woman he wanted to be with.
How long will I keep this going? This affair...this liaison?
The question wound through his head as they got on with choosing from the menu. The answer came of its own accord.
While it stays good.
* * *
It had certainly stayed good for the rest of their long weekend together.
A sating, fulfilling night together, a slow, leisurely breakfast the next morning, before hiring a car to explore the lake’s circuit, and the following day taking a private launch out onto the water itself, lunching on one of the little islands in the lake.
The weekend passed too soon. And it was with regret that he announced at breakfast on Monday morning that he must leave for Milan again.
Carla nodded. ‘And I’ve promised my mother I’ll spend some time with her. I’ve somewhat neglected her these past months.’
Cesare reached for his coffee. As ever, Carla had made no demur at their parting, and he was glad of it. After Milan he must go home—put in some time there, attending to his affairs. His agenda was crowded—the never-ending maintenance work on the castello itself, a controversial wind turbine proposal to evaluate, a reforestation project to check up on, a request for the loan of artworks to yet another exhibition to decide on.
Maybe he should discuss that last item with Carla—
He pulled his mind back abruptly. No, that would be a bad move. That might set seeds growing that he did not want to see taking any kind of root. Impossible that they should do so.
Quite impossible.
They drove down towards Milan. Cesare would divert via the airport to let Carla catch her flight back to Rome.
As they drew near, he remarked, ‘What would you say to a visit to London?’ he asked. ‘I’ll need to go next month.’
Carla considered. ‘I’ll have to check my diary,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure what I’ve got coming up.’
Cesare nodded. ‘Let me know,’ he replied easily.
‘Will do,’ she agreed.
She kept her voice neutral, though inside she felt the familiar flutter of emotion that came whenever Cesare indicated that she was included in his future plans.
Short-term future plans, at any rate.
No, she mustn’t think like that. What they had was good. Very good. Incredibly good. Fantastically good. But—
I don’t know what the future will bring. I just don’t know. I don’t dare know.
She felt a hollowing inside her as the thoughts rushed into her head. Disquieting suddenly, as they echoed again. Why should she not dare know...?
An unfamiliar emotion swirled within her, disturbing her by its very presence. And as her eyes went to him now, that hollowing inside her was still there—that disturbing, unidentified emotion that seemed to deepen, to make her gaze cling to his profile as he drove along the autostrada, his dark eyes focussed on the road.
As if aware she was looking at him, he glanced sideways a moment. Instantly she schooled her expression. Not noticing the sudden flicker in his eyes before he spoke.
‘Do you have to be in Rome today?’ he said. ‘Why not stay in Milan with me? I’ll be busy all day, but surely the charms of the quadrilatera would while away the hours away for you!’ He spoke lightly, knowing that although Carla was always superbly attired, she was no fashionista obsessed with Milan’s famous haute couture quarter. ‘And, of course,’ he added, ‘there’s always the Da Vinci Last Supper to look in on!’
That might tempt her more...
He caught himself—was that what he was seeking to do? Tempt her to stay with him now instead of heading back to Rome?
Well, why not? Why shouldn’t I suggest she stay with me tonight and head down to Rome tomorrow? It’s a perfectly reasonable suggestion.
But that wasn’t the reason for his question to himself—he knew that perfectly well. The reason for the question was why he should object in any way to Carla getting back to her own life. Because he shouldn’t object—of course he shouldn’t. She was her own woman, with her own life, not in the slightest bit assuming that her life was melded to his—and that was very necessary. Essential, in fact, for their liaison to continue.
So why should I need to remind myself of that?
That question was displaced only when he heard Carla’s answer. Her tone was a little more clipped than usual, the quick shake of her head infinitesimal.
‘I can’t, I’m afraid. I’ve promised my mother, and I don’t want to let her down.’
Was there regret in her voice? Hesitation? As if she were reluctant to turn down his invitation to stay with him longer, issued on an impulse he did not wish to scrutinise beyond wanting their mutual enjoyment. If there was, Cesare couldn’t hear it. Could only hear her turning his suggestion down.
Could only feel the nip of...of what, precisely? Merely annoyance that he was going to have to do without her until they next met up again in Rome? It couldn’t be more than that—he would not permit it to be more.
Making himself give a slight shrug of polite regret, he nodded. ‘Ah, in that case, then, no,’ he murmured courteously.
The turning for the airport was coming up, and he steered off the autostrada. Yet after he’d dropped her off he was again conscious of a sense of displeasure. Even regret for himself, that Carla had not stayed with him when he’d wanted her to, despite her perfectly valid reason for not doing so. He would not wish her to neglect her mother for his sake.
Memory flickered in his mind, and he recalled his own mother. How she had always moulded herself around her husband’s wishes, whatever they had been, always at his side, always compliant.
It was something he recalled again as, returning home after Milan, he busied himself with the myriad items waiting for him at the castello.
Passing the doors of the trophy room—one of a series of staterooms, including the galleria containing priceless artworks such as the Luciezo-Caradino triptych—he paused to glance inside. It was his least favourite room, despite its imposing grandeur, for the walls were thick with the antlers and heads of creatures slaughtered by his forebears and added to copiously by his father.
His own open distaste for his father’s predilection for slaughtering wildlife had been frequently voiced to his mother, and he’d known she’d shared his disapproval, yet never had she criticised his father. She had acquiesced in that, as she had in everything to do with him, subjugating her views to his on all matters.
Her perpetually acquiescent attitude had both dismayed Cesare and exasperated him.
Cesare’s mouth tightened as he walked on into the more recent eighteenth-century part of the castello, where the family accommodation was. Every window of the magnificent enfilade of rooms looked out upon terraced gardens and dramatic views over the plunging river valley beyond, framed by the soaring upward slope on the far side that drew the eye to the stony peak of the mountainous summit.
Instinctively, his footsteps took him to the French windows of the drawing room, and he stepped out into the fresh air, drinking in the vista all around him. For a few pleasurable minutes he stood on the terrace in the breeze-filled sunshine, feeling the customary deep and abiding sense of possession of this landscape—this was his home, his domain, his patrimony. And, whatever the dissensions between himself and his father, he had done his best—would always do his best—to prove himself worthy of his inheritance, to shoulder his responsibilities and carry out all the duties of his title and estates.
Taking one last deep breath of the crisp, clean air, he went back indoors, made his way to his study at the furthest end of the enfilade. Although the windows gave out onto the same spectacular view he’d enjoyed from the terrace, he schooled himself to turn his attention to the stacks of paperwork neatly piled by his secretary on his desk.
Time to get down to work.
A swift perusal of the files and business correspondence enabled him to select his priorities for the morning, and he was just about to open his emails when his eye caught a glimpse of the handwriting on an envelope in the in-tray containing his personal correspondence. For the most part this consisted of social invitations he would sort through later. But the sight of the handwriting arrested him.
He pulled the envelope out of the pile. Stared down at it a moment. It bore an airmail sticker and a US stamp—and Cesare knew exactly who it was from.
It was from the woman he was destined to marry.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘DARLING, HOW LOVELY to see you—it’s been such a long time!’
Carla’s mother’s embrace was reproachful, and Carla felt herself wincing guiltily. It had been a long time since she’d spent any amount of time with her mother. Their last meeting had been several weeks ago, and only for lunch while out shopping.
‘Well, I’m here now!’ she answered lightly, exchanging a careful cheek-to-cheek kiss with her mother. ‘And I’m in no rush to leave!’
She would stay at Guido’s villa for a few days—it would be at least a week before Cesare was back in Rome and she would see him again.
But you could still be in Milan with him tonight if you’d said yes to him!
The reminder was like a little stab. On the short flight down to Rome she’d replayed that brief exchange a dozen times—and a dozen times wished she’d not given him that short, cool answer. Yet at the time it had seemed essential to say what she had.