The Italian’s Wife by Sunset Read online

  Then the other children appeared, a dozen of them, hurling themselves into the game with delight.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ sighed the teacher.

  ‘Leave them to it,’ Della advised. ‘I’m Della Hadley, by the way.’

  ‘Hilda Preston. I’m supposed to be in charge of that lot. What am I going to do now?’

  ‘I don’t think you need to do anything,’ Della said, amused. ‘He’s doing it all.’

  It was true. The youngsters had crowded around the young man, and by some mysterious magic he had calmed them down, and was now leading them back to the teacher.

  Like the Pied Piper, Della thought, considering him with her head on one side.

  ‘OK, that’s enough,’ he said, approaching. ‘Cool it, kids.’

  ‘Whatever do you think you’re doing?’ Hilda demanded of the youngsters. ‘You know I told you to stay close to me.’

  ‘But it’s boring,’ complained the boy who’d made a run for it. ‘I don’t care if it is,’ she snapped, goaded into honesty. ‘I’ve brought you here to get some culture, and that’s what you’re going to get.’

  Della heard a soft choke nearby, and turned to see Carlo fighting back laughter. Since she was doing the same herself, a moment of perfect understanding flashed between them. They both put their hands over their mouths at the same moment.

  Predictably, the word culture had caused the pupils to emit groans of dismay. Some howled to heaven, others clutched their stomachs. One joker even rolled on the ground.

  ‘Now she’s done it,’ Carlo muttered to Della. ‘The forbidden word-one that should never be spoken, save in a terrified whisper. And she said it out loud.’

  ‘What word is that?’

  He looked wildly around, to be sure nobody was listening, before saying in a ghostly voice, ‘Culture.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see.’ She nodded knowingly.

  ‘You’d think a modern schoolteacher would know better. Does she do that often?’

  ‘I don’t know-I’m not-’ she began, realising that he thought she was one of the school party.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘It’s time for a rescue operation.’ Raising his voice, he said, ‘You can all calm down, because this place has nothing to do with culture. This place is about people dying.’ For good measure he added, ‘Horribly!’

  Hilda was aghast. ‘He mustn’t say things like that. They’re just children.’

  ‘Children love gore and horror,’ Della pointed out.

  ‘It’s about nightmares,’ Carlo went on, ‘and the greatest catastrophe the world has ever known. Thousands of people, living their ordinary lives, when there was an ominous rumble in the distance and Vesuvius erupted, engulfing the town. People died in the middle of fights, of meals-thousands of them, frozen in one place for nearly two thousand years.’

  He had them now. Everyone was listening.

  ‘Is it true they’ve got the dead bodies in the museum?’ someone asked, with relish.

  ‘Not the actual bodies,’ Carlo said, in the tone of a man making a reluctant admission, and there was a groan of disappointment.

  Bloodthirsty little tykes, Della thought, amused. But he’s right about them.

  ‘They were trapped and died in the lava,’ Carlo continued, ‘and when they were excavated, centuries later, the bodies had perished, leaving holes in the lava of the exact shapes. So the bodies could be reconstructed in plaster.’

  ‘And can we see them?’

  ‘Yes, you can see them.’

  A sigh of blissful content showed that his audience was with him. He began to expand on the subject, making it vibrantly alive. He spoke fluently, in barely accented English, with an actor’s sense of the dramatic. Suddenly the streets were populated with heroes and villains, beautiful heroines, going about their daily business, then running hopelessly for their lives.

  Della seized the chance to study him in action. It went against the grain to give him top marks, but she had to admit that he ticked every box. The looks she’d admired on the screen were enhanced by the fact that his hair needed a trim, and hung in shaggy curls about his face.

  He looked like Jack the Lad-a brawny roustabout without a thought in his head beyond the next beer, the next girl, or the next night spent living it up. What he didn’t look like was an academic with a swathe of degrees, one of them in philosophy.

  ‘History isn’t about culture,’ he finally reassured them. ‘It’s about people living and dying, loving and hating-just like us. Now, go with your teachers and behave yourself, or I’ll drown you in lava.’

  A cheer showed that this threat was much appreciated.

  ‘Thank you,’ Hilda said. ‘You really do have a gift with children.’

  He grinned, his teeth gleaming against the light tan of his face.

  ‘I’m just a born show-off,’ he laughed.

  That was true, Della mused. In fact, he was exactly what she needed.

  Hilda thanked her and turned to shepherd the children away. Carlo looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Aren’t you with them?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I just happened along,’ she said.

  ‘And found yourself in the middle of it, huh?’

  They both laughed.

  ‘That poor woman,’ Della said. ‘Whoever sent her here on a culture trip should have known better.’

  He put out his hand.

  ‘My name is Carlo Rinucci.’

  ‘Yes, I-’ She was about to say that she knew who he was, but hastily changed it to, ‘I’m Della Hadley.’

  ‘It is a great pleasure to meet you, signorina-or should that be signora?’

  ‘Technically, yes. I’m divorced.’

  He gave her a gentle, disarming smile, still holding her hand.

  ‘I’m so glad,’ he said.

  Watch it, warned a voice in her head. He plays this game too well.

  ‘Hey, Carlo,’ called the other man, ‘are you going to give the signora her hand back, or shall we put it in the museum with the others?’

  She snatched her hand back, suddenly self-conscious. Carlo, she noticed, wasn’t self-conscious at all. He just gave a grin that he clearly knew would always win him goodwill.

  ‘I forgot about Antonio,’ he admitted.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Antonio said genially. ‘I’ve just been doing the work while you do your party tricks.’

  ‘Why don’t we finish for the day?’ Carlo said. ‘Time’s getting on, and Signora Hadley wants a coffee.’

  ‘Yes, I want one desperately,’ she said, discovering it to be true.

  ‘Then let’s go.’ He looked her in the eye and said significantly, ‘We’ve lost too much time already.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  DELLA waited while he showered at top speed, then emerged casually dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and fawn trousers. Even in this simple attire he looked as though he could afford the world, and she guessed that he’d had a privileged upbringing.

  ‘Let’s get that coffee,’ Carlo said.

  But when they reached the self-service cafeteria they both stopped dead. The place was packed with tourists, all yelling with raucous good cheer.

  ‘I think not,’ he said firmly.

  He didn’t wait for her answer, but simply took her hand and walked away, adding, ‘I know lots of better places.’

  But then, abruptly, he stopped.

  ‘Where are my manners?’ he demanded, striking himself on the forehead. ‘I didn’t ask if you wanted to go into that place. Shall we turn back?’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said at once.

  He grinned, nodding, and they went on in perfect accord.

  His car was just what she would have expected-an elegant sports two-seater in dashing red-and, also as she would have expected, he ushered her into it with a flourish. His whole body was a clever combination of different effects. Built like a hunk, yet he moved with subtlety and grace. His hands on the steering wheel held her attention, lying there lightly, barely tou
ching, yet controlling the powerful machine effortlessly.

  Della’s mind was reeling.

  Just what I need, she thought. He’s ideal-for the programme. Handsome, charming, never at a loss for words-he won’t suddenly become tongue-tied in front of a camera, or anywhere else. The perfect-She paused in her thoughts and tried to remember that she was a television producer. ‘The perfect product. Yes, that’s it.

  She felt better once she’d settled that with herself.

  ‘Do you live around here?’ Carlo asked.

  ‘No, I’m just visiting. I’m staying at the Vallini in Naples.’

  ‘Are you planning to stay long?’

  ‘I-haven’t quite decided,’ she said carefully.

  He swung onto the coast road and they drove with the sea on their left, glittering in the late-afternoon sun. Naples lay ahead, but when they reached halfway he turned off into a tiny seaside village. Della could see fishing boats tied up at the water’s edge, and cobbled streets stretching away between old houses.

  He parked the car and made his way confidently to a small restaurant. As soon as they entered a man behind the counter yelled joyfully, ‘E, Carlo!’

  ‘Berto!’ he yelled back cheerfully, and guided Della to a table by a small window.

  Berto came hurrying over with coffee, which he contrived to pour while chattering and giving Della quick, appraising glances.

  I’ll bet they see him in here with a new companion every week, she thought, with an inner chuckle.

  The coffee was delicious, and she began to relax for the first time since she’d awoken that morning.

  ‘It was so good to get off that plane,’ she said, giving herself a little shake.

  ‘You just arrived from England?’

  ‘You could tell because I’m speaking English, right?’

  ‘It’s a bit more than that. My mother is English, and there’s something in your voice that sounds a little like her.’

  ‘That explains a lot about you, too.’

  ‘Such as what?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘You speak English with barely an accent.’

  He laughed. ‘That was Mamma’s doing. We all had to speak her language perfectly, or else.’

  ‘All? You have plenty of brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Just brothers. There are six of us, related in various ways.’

  ‘Various?’ She frowned. ‘I thought you just said you were brothers.’

  ‘Some of us are brothers, some of us are “sort of” brothers. When Mamma married Poppa she already had two sons, plus a stepson and an adopted son. Then they had two more.’

  ‘Six Rinucci brothers?’ she mused.

  ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’ he said solemnly. ‘It’s just terrible.’

  His droll manner made her chuckle, and he went on, ‘Even the most Italian of us are part English, but some are more English than others. The differences get blurred. Poppa says we’re all the devil’s spawn anyway, so what does it matter?’

  ‘It sounds like a lovely, big, happy family.’ She sighed enviously.

  ‘I suppose it is,’ he said, seeming to consider. ‘We fight a lot, but we always make up.’

  ‘And you’d always be there for each other. That’s the nicest thing.’

  ‘You said that like an only child,’ he observed, regarding her with interest.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ she asked.

  ‘It is to someone who has many siblings.’

  ‘I must admit that I really envy you that,’ she said. ‘Tell me some more about your brothers. You don’t fight all the time, surely?’

  ‘On and off. Mamma’s first husband was English, but his first wife had been Italian-a Rinucci. Primo is the son of that marriage, so he’s half-Italian, half-English. Luke, the adopted son of that marriage is all English. Are you with me?’

  ‘Struggling, but still there. Keep going.’

  ‘Primo and Luke have always traded insults, but that means nothing. It’s practically a way of communicating-especially while they were in love with the same woman.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Luckily that didn’t last very long. Primo married her, and Luke found someone else, and now their wives keep them in order, just as wives should.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ she said ironically.

  ‘No, really. Any man who’s grown up in this country knows that when the wife speaks the husband stands to attention-if he’s wise. Well, it’s what my father does, anyway.’

  ‘And when your turn comes you’ll choose a woman who knows how to keep you in order?’

  ‘No, my mother will choose her,’ he assured her solemnly. ‘She’s set her heart on six daughters-in-law, and so far she’s only achieved three. Every time a new woman enters the house I’ll swear she checks her for suitability and ticks off a list. When she finds the right one I’ll get my orders.’

  ‘And you’ll obey?’ she teased.

  His answering grin was rich with life, an invitation to join him in adventure.

  ‘That’s a while off yet,’ he said contentedly. ‘I’m in no rush.’

  ‘Life’s good, so why spoil it with a wife?’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly put it like that,’ he said uneasily.

  ‘Yes, you would,’ she said at once. ‘Not out loud, perhaps. But deep inside, where you think I can’t hear.’

  His answer was unexpected.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet against your being able to hear anything I was thinking.’

  Then he looked disconcerted, as though he had surprised even himself with the words, and his laugh had a touch of awkwardness that affected her strangely.

  Berto came to their table to tell them that the day’s catch of clams was excellent, and that spaghetti alle vongole could be rustled up in a moment.

  ‘Clam pasta,’ Carlo translated.

  ‘Sounds lovely.’

  ‘Wine?’ Berto queried.

  Carlo eyed her questioningly, and she hastened to say, ‘I leave everything to you.’

  He rattled off several names that Della didn’t recognise, and Berto bustled away.

  ‘I took the liberty of ordering a few other things as well,’ Carlo explained.

  ‘That’s fine. I wouldn’t have known what to ask for.’

  His eyes gleamed. ‘Playing the tactful card, huh?’

  ‘I’m a newcomer here. I listen to the expert.’

  Berto returned with white wine. When he had poured it and gone, Carlo said, ‘So, you reckon you can see right through me?’

  ‘No, you said I could. Not me.’

  ‘I have to admit that you got one or two things right.’

  ‘Let’s see how well I manage on the rest. I know Italian men often stay at home longer than others, but I don’t think that you do, because Mamma’s eagle eye might prove-shall we say, inhibiting?’

  ‘That’s as good a word as any,’ he conceded cautiously.

  ‘You’ve got a handy little bachelor apartment where you take the girls you can’t take home because they wouldn’t tick any of Mamma’s “suitability” boxes, and that’s just fine by you-’

  ‘Basta!’ He stopped her with a pleading voice. ‘Enough, enough! How did you learn all that?’

  ‘Easy. I just took one look at you.’

  ‘Obviously I don’t have any secrets,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘Well, perhaps I was a little unfair on you.’

  ‘No, you weren’t. I deserved it all. In fact, I’m worse. My mother would certainly say so.’

  She chuckled. ‘Then think of me as a second mother.’

  ‘Not in a million years,’ he said softly.

  His eyes, gliding significantly over her, made his meaning plain beyond words, and suddenly she was aware that she looked several years younger than her age, that her figure was ultra-slim and firm, thanks to hours in the gym, that her eyes were large and lustrous and her complexion flawless.

  Every detail of her body might have been designed to elicit a man’s
admiration. She knew it, and at this moment she was passionately glad of it.

  It might be fun.

  He was certainly fun.

  Berto arrived with clam pasta, breaking the mood-which was a relief, since she hadn’t decided where she wanted this to go. But a moment ago there had been no choice to make. What had happened?

  He was watching her face as she ate, relishing her enjoyment.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Good,’ she confirmed. ‘I love Italian food, but I don’t get much chance to eat it.’

  ‘You’ve never been here before?’

  ‘I had a holiday in Italy once, but mostly I depend on Italian restaurants near my home.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘In London, on a houseboat moored on the Thames.’

  ‘You live on the water? That’s great. Tell me about it.’

  At this point she should have talked about her serious day-to-day life, with its emphasis on work, and the occasional visit from her grown up son. Instead, unaccountably, Della found herself describing the river at dawn, when the first light caught the ripples and the banks emerged from the shadows.

  ‘Sometimes it feels really strange,’ she mused. ‘I’m right there, in the heart of a great city, yet it’s so quiet on the river just before everywhere comes alive. It’s as though the world belongs to me alone, just for a little while. But you have to catch the moment because it vanishes so quickly. The light grows and the magic dies.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he murmured.

  ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘No, I-I meant something else. Later. Tell me some more about yourself. What sort of work do you do?’

  ‘I’m in television,’ she said vaguely.

  ‘You’re a star-your face on every screen?’

  ‘No, I’m strictly behind the scenes.’

  ‘Ah, you’re one of those terrifyingly efficient production assistants who gets everyone scurrying about.’

  ‘I’ve been told I can be terrifying,’ she admitted. ‘And people have been known to scurry around when I want them to.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why I thought you were a schoolteacher?’

  ‘You’ve got quite a way with youngsters yourself.’