Moth to the Flame (9 page)

could pinpoint, that. Santino could meet her mother—visit her home

and see the kind of background she and Jan had come from. It

might not have the material wealth of his own family life, but surely

he couldn't be blind to all that was good in it. He would be forced to

admit that by denigrating Jan, he had been unjust to all the

Laurences.

Yet why was it important that Santino should make any kind of

admission? That was the question that began to hum at the back of

her mind and which she found herself increasingly reluctant to

answer. She'd already admitted to herself that he was out of her

league, so the kind of speculation that she had been indulging in

was unprofitable to say the very least.

She glanced again at the rose, glowing against her dress, and

shivered as she recalled the brush of his fingers against her breasts

as he had placed the flower there. Even that slight physical contact

with him had been like an electric < current, brushing through her

nerve-endings, so what would it be like to be held closely in his

arms—to be kissed by him? Her face flamed hotly as she realised

the exact tenor of her thoughts.

She gave a little shuddering sigh. It was utterly ridiculous to admit

even to herself that she could feel a measure of attraction for

someone like Santino. And such an acknowledgment, even uttered

privately in her heart, was in. some way disloyal to Jan. She could

not respect anyone who held her own sister in such total and cynical

disrespect.

She shook her head in disbelief. What in the world was happening

to her? All the most important considerations seemed suddenly to

have been eroded by these new and frankly overwhelming

sensations that she was experiencing. She knew—or rather she had

always told herself that she knew—what she wanted from a man.

Could it be possible that only a few short hours spent in the

company of someone totally alien to her experience could set all her

ideas, all her principles madly on their respective heads?

If so, it was an unhappy prospect. Would she find herself judging

each future relationship—she grimaced slightly at the word—in

comparison with a man whose eyes gleamed like a mountain lion's,

and whose icy tongue was quite capable of flaying the skin from

your body?

And was that really all it took—that fleeting physical contact and a

dinner at a candlelit restaurant—to begin this insidious bewitchment

of her senses, against all reason and all logic?

No, she told herself decisively, she was not going to allow this to

happen. She picked up her evening purse and rose, outwardly cool

and composed, but inwardly seething with conflicting and mainly

unwelcome emotions.

This mental admission of her attraction to Santino made her

departure to England even more imperative. She needed to escape

quickly while she was still comparatively heart-whole. She gave a

small bitter smile as she turned away. What strange and disturbing

byways her impulse to impersonate Jan had led her into! She had

wondered what it would be like to live her sister's life. Well, now

she knew, and it had not been a comfortable experience. She would

be glad to revert to being plain Juliet Laurence again, she told

herself firmly.

And if she hurried back to England, she might still be in time to join

that barge holiday she'd been offered. She would need something to

take her mind off the past couple of days. If she simply sat at home

brooding, Mim might guess that there was something wrong, and

start leaping to all kinds of conclusions. Juliet shuddered at the

thought of trying to evade her mother's gentle persistence once her

suspicions were aroused.

But for now, she had to get through the homeward journey. The

powder room door swung open at her approach and two women

entered, giving her an incurious look as they swept past on a cloud

of expensive scent. For a moment she lingered, wondering wildly

whether she could evade Santino altogether and get a lift back to

Rome from another patron of the restaurant—perhaps even these

very women.

But common sense soon disabused her of that notion. How was she

going to make herself understood with her limited knowledge of

Italian for one thing? She could hardly go round the terrace until she

found a driver who spoke sufficient English to comprehend her

requirements. And did she really think Santino would stand tamely

by while she stood him up—or appeared to, at least—in front of the

fascinated gaze of a section of Roman high society?

No, she would have to leave with him as she had arrived, and part

from him when they returned to the flat with a semblance of

insouciance.

She bit her lip as she walked across the terrace to the table where

he sat smoking. Why couldn't she be honest with herself, and admit

that she wanted to spend just a little more time in his company, in

spite of everything that he had said and the enormous gulf that

must, perforce, yawn between them? The truth was that when they

did part, she wanted him to think not quite as badly of her in the

role she was playing as he did now, and that when the truth finally

emerged, he might look back on the evening they had spent together

with even a little regret.

Romantic idiocy, she told herself caustically. When he does find out

what I've done, he'll probably want to break my neck.

He rose courteously at her approach, and held the chair for her to sit

down again. He looked incredibly tall as he stood over her, and

more formidable than ever, although he was smiling slightly.

'I have ordered fresh coffee,' he said. 'What little was left in the pot

was getting stale and bitter.'

Juliet glanced down at the cup in front of her. She didn't really want

any more coffee. If she drank too much of it in the evening then she

didn't sleep properly. But then she didn't actually expect to get

much sleep under the circumstances anyway, she thought wryly,

and lifted the cup to her lips.

The fresh, brew was hot, but it still had that faint bitterness Santino

had mentioned, and she put the cup down after a tentative sip with a

faint grimace.

'Can we go now?' she asked. 'I'm a working girl, remember? I can't

take too many late nights.'

'Your looks do not seem to have suffered from them so far,' he

commented, blowing a reflective smoke-ring.

She flushed and drank some more coffee to mask her

embarrassment. He sat, watching her, his eyes hooded and

meditative.

'I ask you one last time, Janina,' he said, and she wished, with a

sudden pang to hear her own name on his lips and not her sister's.

'Will you accept the money I have offered, go back to your own

country and leave my brother in peace?'

He sounded almost tired, she thought in surprise, perhaps even a

little dispirited. Maybe he wasn't used to people rejecting any offers

he decided to make them, whether on a personal or a business level.

She swallowed some more of the coffee, then said quickly, 'I can't.

It—it's too late. Please take my word for that.'

Later, much later, she thought, he would know what she'd meant by

her hurried words.

'Your word!' he repeated, and to her dismay all the former cynicism

and contempt had returned to his voice to wound her. Then he

laughed shortly. 'Finish your coffee,
cara
, and we'll go. There's

clearly no more to be said.'

Juliet finished the coffee and replaced the cup in its saucer. So it

was all over. Waiters were bowing and smiling as they left, and she

guessed that he must have settled the bill in her absence and added

a generous tip.

Fate played some strange tricks, she decided as she sat beside him

in the car and heard the engine purr into life. For one evening she

had lived like a millionairess, only to be accused of being a

gold-digger. That was an element that had been missing from all the

best fairy tales, she told herself. Prince Charming had never

accused Cinderella of being out for what she could get, nor had any

of King Cophetua's relatives offered to buy off the beggar-maid.

It was much easier to be Juliet Laurence, schoolteacher, she

thought, or would she find, when it came to it, that nothing was

going to be easy for her again? That was depressive talk, she

criticised herself robustly. Her pathetic charade had to come to an

end sooner or later, and it was better that it was sooner rather than

later when she considered some of the self-revelations that had

come to her during the evening. And she wanted it to be over.

There was pain and danger waiting on the path she had embarked

on so recklessly. Her own life might be dull in comparison, but at

least it was safe and real.

It was very warm in the car even though the side windows were

open to admit the evening air. In spite of herself, she could feel an

almost irresistible urge to yawn taking hold of her, and stifled it

guiltily, brushing a concealing hand across her mouth. Santino

Vallone, she thought, would definitely not be accustomed to women

who yawned in his company.

Yet it certainly wasn't boredom she was assailed by—she felt too

keyed up for that—but a sudden and inexplicable drowsiness which

she found herself fighting with a strange urgency.

Santino leaned forward and flicked a switch on the dashboard and

music began to play softly, with a slow sensuous beat which had an

increasingly soporific effect. She forced her weighted eyelids to

remain open and pulled herself into a more upright position in the

seat. There was no way— no way at all in which she was going to

sleep.

Now if she had been with Barry she would simply have succumbed,

putting her head on his shoulder and letting her drowsiness have its

way with her, but such an action would be unthinkable with a man

like Santino. Even if they had merely spent a pleasant evening in

each other's company with no ulterior motives on either side, she

would still have been chary at putting herself so completely at his

mercy.

She found another yawn threatening, and turned her head away to

hide it, gazing rather desperately out of the window. Darkness

outside the car, darkness within it, and the soft insistent rhythm of

the music—all of it lapping her like a warm blanket, infinitely

comforting, infinitely appealing. And all she had to do was let go

and slide down into the darkness, closing her weary eyes and not

even thinking any more because thinking, reasoning was too hard

when you were so nearly falling asleep.

Through the mists that were drowning her, smothering her, he heard

him say softly but with an underlying note of faint amusement,

'Why fight it,
cara?
Just close your eyes and enjoy the ride.'

It was the amusement that told her, and she grasped at it with the

last remnants of reason. Her mouth felt stiff as if it didn't belong to

her, and her voice seemed to come from a long way away as she

heard herself say, 'The coffee —what did you put in the coffee?'

His laughter, mocking and enigmatic, was the last thing she heard

as she fell asleep.

She came awake slowly, her hand automatically reaching out to

grope for the alarm clock that she felt .must have triggered her

subconscious. But it wasn't the usual clutter of clock, lamp, the

novel she had been reading that her hand encountered. And as the

sun began to filter through her still-closed eyelids, she thought,

'How stupid. Of course, I'm still in Rome at Jan's flat. But I've been

dreaming about being at home.'

Then she opened her eyes and her first thought was that she was

dreaming still. For the room around her bore not the slightest

resemblance to the streamlined luxury at the flat. It was completely

and totally unfamiliar.

She sat up, accepting that there was a slight dull ache across her

forehead, her eyes questing round the room with increasing alarm.

It wasn't particularly large, but it had a formidable air which was

immediately apparent. Stone walls, their austerity unrelieved by any

kind of hangings or colour wash, massive furniture belonging to a

previous generation, small-paned windows set in deeply ledged