The Passionate Italian 11 DECEMBER EPUB (15 page)

Halfway between Lugano in Switzerland and Campione in Italy, the islet had always been a haven from politics and law—its sole habitation having been a monastery.
 

That sense of retreat existed still.

Within minutes they were drawing up at the jetty, above which curled huge, ancient, gnarled olive trees: their aged grey trunks framing the entrance to the winding pathway that led up to the house.

They climbed the hill along a footpath lined with Cyprus trees, passing through remnants of the monastery gardens with its walled gardens and paved cloisters.

At the top of the path, elevated on a plateau, the villa lay spread before them, its front walls replaced by windows that contrasted with the rough plaster finish of the walls. Giovanni had renovated the villa: simultaneously taking it back in time, to its austerity and simplicity and yet also bringing it into the future with its vast windows and luxurious interior finishes. It had no Visconti history attached to it. It was bought for its inaccessibility and its lack of modern conveniences. No phones, no computer connections, no unwanted interruptions. Just plenty of books, peace and time to reflect.

In the garden, too, fashions had changed over the years and the utility of the monastery gardens had first been transformed into a structured garden of terraces and symmetry. This, in turn, had given way to the rambling, overgrown English style of garden. The terraces that climbed up to the centre of the island, behind the villa, were now overgrown, wild with thyme and rosemary, herbs once grown by the monks for their healing properties.

Rose needed time to heal and he didn’t intend to rush her.

The household staff had left the island earlier, as instructed. They had the place to themselves. He led her onto the terrazza and pulled her to him. She rested her head against his chest and they sat in silence, listening to each other’s heartbeats, sensing and experiencing the peace of being together. They watched the lights flick on one by one in the long twilight in the villages that dotted the shore of the mainland. Splashes of bougainvillea and brightly-colored geraniums seemed to glow in the fading light. And they watched the fireworks over the lake gather momentum and climax in a spectacular explosion of color, light and sound.

Giovanni didn’t know how long they sat together: one of his arms holding her close, the other stroking her hand. But he did know that he’d never felt so close to anyone in his life. It was dark now and he dipped his head and kissed her gently on the top of her head.
 

“Rose,” he called softly. But there was no movement. Her breathing was soft and regular. She was fast asleep. He smiled to himself. It wasn’t exactly how he’d planned to spend the evening. He lifted her gently into his arms and took her inside the villa, lay her softly onto their bed and covered her with a quilt. The nights could be cool. And it didn’t look as if he’d be warming her tonight.

Rose awoke with a start. She stretched, realized she was still fully clothed and grinned. So, their evening hadn’t gone to plan. But, here she was, the sun streaming into the room, alone with Giovanni on the island.
 

Yesterday she’d felt drained after discovering Giovanni had known about Carina. Today, after a good night’s sleep she felt nothing but utter relief. He’d discovered one of her secrets and he’d understood. She would tell him everything today. It was now or never. He’d understand; he’d said he would. And she felt the truth of his words in her heart.

She just had to find him.

There was no sign of him in the huge open-plan living room that was flooded with light from its eastern windows. In the kitchen, she poured herself a coffee before wandering into his study. Still no sign. Pushing open the back door she walked outside, into the walled garden.

Espaliered fruit trees lined the walls and bees hummed around heavily scented flowers that tumbled in profusion. Head height hedges divided the garden further and it was from behind one of these that she could hear Giovanni’s voice.

“I’ll leave it to you. I’ll give you the evidence you need. Just make sure you use it.”

“Giovanni?”

She stepped into the quiet of the small herb parterre. Giovanni looked up at her briefly and then clicked his cell phone shut.

“What’s going on? Anything I should know about?”

She waited a few moments for him to speak.

He didn’t.

“Are you going to tell me?”

He glanced at her briefly, his look enigmatic, unreadable.

“It’s about Alberto.”

“Giovanni. I know about Alberto. I know why he hasn’t been around. I’m sorry for your family—despite everything he’s still your brother, but I do know.”

“Ahh. I wondered if you’d heard. I’d wanted to keep it from you.”

“Why? You know that I have no love for him. Or even liking come to that.”

“It was rape. The most despicable of crimes—using a man’s power against a woman. I wanted to protect you from such violence.”

She swallowed. She could see the anger rise in him at the thought of her in connection with such a crime. How could she tell him? What would he think of her if he knew of the attack and knew that she’d tried to save her child by not fighting back?

She swallowed hard.

“You can’t always protect me.”

“I can try. I’ve failed in the past. I won’t fail you again.” He dropped the cell phone onto a wooden bench. “The date of his trial has been set.”

“He’s still out on bail?”

“Si. But his court case begins tomorrow.”

“What’s the likely outcome?”

“If he’s found guilty—and I understand he will be—then he will be imprisoned for a long time. Probably not as long as he deserves.”

“They have all the evidence they need then.”

He nodded. “And the evidence you uncovered makes a direct connection to the victim’s family. It was a pre-meditated attack, not only on the girl but it was also a form of revenge on her family, who’d offended him in some way. Your evidence will show the connection and will ensure he receives the maximum sentence. We still need your final report, but I’ve advised them verbally of its contents.”

She felt stupid. She hadn’t made the connection. Hadn’t known the identity of the victim even. But it all fitted together.
 

“You brought me over from New Zealand in order to make sure that Alberto didn’t escape his crime?”

He nodded. “I’ve had my suspicions for a while but this time it was worse and he needed to be punished for his crimes; made to realize that he is the only one responsible for his actions. I knew the girl’s testimony alone wouldn’t do it. Alberto’s lawyers were the best money could buy—the best my family’s money could buy. But now? He won’t be free for many years.”

She bent down and smelt a heavily scented old-fashioned violet rose, in an attempt to hide the effect his news had on her. She couldn’t believe it—the specter of Alberto returning and destroying her fragile, uneasy truce with Giovanni had just vanished. Giovanni had no idea what he’d just given her.

Freedom.

It was as if a weight had lifted from her.

She took a deep gulp of the sweet soft air that filled the enclosed garden and laughed with sheer joy.

“You, Signore Giovanni Visconti, are one formidable foe. Remind me not to ever have you as my enemy.”

“There is no chance of that mia carenna.”

“You sure?” she teased coquettishly.

“I do not make love to my enemies.”

“And you haven’t made love to me in over two years.”

“Then it is time to remedy that.”

Giovanni pulled Rose to him and kissed her, hard. She felt his urgency in every fiber of her being. It had been too long. Gone was the time for waiting, for testing each other, for explanations. There was nothing left but pure need.

His mouth was hungry and demanding. All the emotion that had been simmering under the surface, day in, day out, erupted and was concentrated in that kiss. She could feel his need for her in every twist of his tongue and every caress of her lips. His grip upon her arms was too firm, too strong, but it didn’t hurt so much as awake her from the world where she only existed. It brought her to him, enmeshing his needs with her own until she didn’t know where one ended and the other began.
 

Finally they parted. Giovanni let go of her arms and stood back, breathless.

“Get in the house. Now.”

She made to move but had second thoughts, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Hey, you can’t tell me what to do.”

“Rose, if you don’t go inside now, I will take you here, in broad daylight.”

Her lips twitched. “And that would be bad because?”

He narrowed his eyes and pulled her to him once more.

But he didn’t kiss her this time.

Slowly, he unbuttoned her top. He pulled it open and rubbed his thumbs up and over her nipples, still covered by her sheer bra, sending corresponding shivers of sensation curling through her body, like flames licking and teasing her nerve endings until they sparked alight. An involuntary gasp escaped her lips as heat and sensation met and swirled deep inside her. His eyes never left hers but his mouth curled into a very male, satisfied smile at what he saw in her eyes.
 

He deftly unclipped her bra and lathed each nipple with his tongue.

Then he pulled back and looked at her again, a smile hovering on his lips.

She wondered if the pulse that was hammering in her neck was as visible as her hard, and now wet, nipples. He was still holding her gaze as he popped open the buttons on her jeans and pushed them down off her hips.

Rose stepped out of them, feeling the blush of the early morning sunshine upon her skin.

Their bodies and lips met and formed around each other, blending and merging like two pieces of a puzzle, two opposites finding respite in their opposing force, finding a rightness in their togetherness that was absent when they were apart.
 

They pulled apart and Giovanni, slowly, gently, lowered her onto a soft bed of chamomile grass, crushing it and bathing them in its fresh scent. He held himself above her as he sought her lips once more, his fingers, hesitantly at first, touching her shoulder, her arm, her hips, her stomach. It was as if he was discovering the curves and softness of her body for the first time.

Moved by his tenderness, Rose kissed his face, his eyes, one by one, touching the features she so loved with her lips. Then she returned to his lips. As his body pressed lightly down on hers, the kiss deepened and became more urgent.

She tore away the buttons from his shirt until it hung free and her hands could touch the skin that she so adored—smooth and taut across his muscles. She could feel them flex as he moved over her, caressing her as she was caressing him.

She pulled away from his lips and, instead, wriggled down beneath him and kissed his chest, inhaling his scent deeply. Then she moved again, feathering her kisses lower until she reached his jeans. Shakily she tried to undo them. But it was too difficult, his arousal too strong.

“Merde!”

Within seconds he’d shaken off his shirt and jeans and was on top of her once more. His mouth descended to her breasts; her nipples peaked and desperate for his touch.

But there was no teasing, no hesitation this time. Giovanni was as desperate to taste her as she was to be tasted. Together they feasted: he, on the sensory explosion of the feel of her nipple in his mouth, of the fragrance of her skin; she, on the deep sensation that his tongue, his teeth and his lips created on her body and that flowed through her until it made an intimate physical and emotional connection deep inside.
 

She arched her back, pulling away and increasing the tension that shot waves of delicious shivers through her body. Her gasp was cut short by his mouth on hers in a kiss in which all the longing and need of years of emptiness were expressed.

Never before had Rose felt such a suspension of thought, such an overpowering need to claim intimacy with someone. It was the destruction of the final barrier between them, an affirmation of their love.

But he stopped before she was ready. Pulling away his mouth from hers, his gaze sweeping her body briefly as he pushed her legs open with both his hands and ran a finger inside the scrap of silk that was all that was left of her clothing, leaving it there for one tantalizing second, during which Rose thought she’d explode with need.
 

Her breathing came short and hard.

And then he pulled down the only barrier that was left between them, his hand returning to explore the flesh now unclothed and so obviously needy.

Rose felt a pulse of moisture escape.

She moaned and he lowered himself onto her and kissed her again. There was no gentleness in this kiss, however. No diffidence in his touch.

They knew each other’s bodies intimately and responded instinctively: touching and caressing; circling, turning in each other’s arms, as one. Without knowing when they joined, only knowing its rightness, they moved together.
 

She wrapped her legs around him and there was no more time for thought, as he moved into and against her repeatedly. It was as if he were trying to break down any barriers between them—reducing them to one element. All she could do was hold on to him as they both came together in explosive release.

Some time later they both lay back, naked in the crushed chamomile, the hot sun heating their sweat-slicked bodies.

There was nothing in the world that could come between them now.
 

Rose watched as the lightest of clouds trailed across the sky from the west, darkening their bodies momentarily. She frowned as she felt the wind change and a cool breeze flicker across her stomach and breasts.

When she awoke much later in the bedroom, it was dark in the house. The only lights came from the opposite shore of the lake. The windows were open to an oncoming squall and rain had fallen on them in their bed.

But it wasn’t the rain that had awoken her.

His fingers gently trailed up her leg, to her stomach, caressing her breasts before rising to cup her face in his hand.