The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco. Lucy Gordon

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      ‘What is this place called?’ she asked.

      ‘I didn’t notice. It’s so tiny it may not even have a name.’

      That made everything perfect—an unknown place, set apart from the rest of the world, where they would find each other.

      A cheerful man in shirtsleeves appeared as they entered. In answer to Carlo’s query, he confirmed that he had two vacant rooms, one large, one small.

      ‘The small for me, the large one for the lady,’ Carlo said.

      A perfect gentleman, she thought, charmed by his refusal to take her for granted, even after the understanding that had passed between them.

      Their doors were immediately opposite, on a tiny landing, so that she gained a brief glimpse of his bedroom with its single bed, so different from the huge double one in her own room.

      They were the only guests. Donato, the proprietor, said that his wife would cook whatever they liked, so they dined on macaroni and beans in tomato soup, pickled veal, sausage with raisins, and cuccidatta—cookies filled with figs, nuts and raisins—washed down with the full bodied wines of the area.

      They talked very little, because their table soon became the focus of attention. Every few minutes one of Donato’s two pretty daughters would appear, to ask if there was anything else they wanted. Before leaving they would give the handsome Carlo a lingering look.

      Della choked back her laughter while he buried his face in his hands.

      ‘I expect this happens everywhere you go,’ she said.

      ‘What do I say to that? If I agree I sound like a conceited jerk.’

      ‘And if you disagree it wouldn’t be true.’

      ‘Can we drop the subject?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

      ‘I’ve been watching the girls giving you the glad eye everywhere we go. Some of them are being hopeful, of course, but some look as if they’re trying to remind you of something.’

      He had the grace to blush, but said nothing for a while. When he finally spoke it was in a different voice.

      ‘That was another life,’ he said quietly. ‘Too many passing ships—but that was just it. They all passed on their way, leaving no trace here.’ He laid his hand over his heart.

      Then he refilled her glass, and didn’t look at her as he asked, ‘What about you?’

      ‘Two husbands, a child and a career,’ she reminded him. ‘I’ve had no time for distractions.’

      ‘I’m glad,’ he said quietly.

      There was no mistaking his meaning. She met his eyes and nodded.

      Soon after that they rose and went slowly upstairs. At his door he paused, half turning, waiting for her to make the next move. She put out her hand to him.

      ‘Come,’ she whispered.

      He came to her slowly, as if unable to believe what was happening. She took hold of him, drawing him into her room and closing the door behind him, not putting on the light. With the curtains drawn back at the tall windows the moonlight came softly in, holding them in its glow while they stood, entranced.

      His fingertips brushed her cheek softly, and it was the sweetest feeling she had ever known. She wanted him now with her whole body. Every inch of her was eager for him to hurry, to take her to the next moment of passion, and from there to the next.

      Yet, contrarily, she wanted to prolong the leisurely tension of this moment, enjoying it to the full before it dissolved into urgency. He seemed to want the same, because he laid his lips over hers with a gentleness that suggested he was in no hurry. She leaned against him and felt his fingers in her hair, while his mouth explored hers slowly.

      She relaxed into the kiss, letting it invade her subtly, then offering it back with all of herself. She began to explore his body, finding it just as it had been in her dreams: hard, strong, and all hers. He wanted her more than he could bear, and that knowledge was the sweetest aphrodisiac.

      Neither knew who first began to undress the other, but her fingers were working on his buttons just as he was doing the same for her. Every moment there was some new revelation—smooth skin, a seductive curve—all managed in leisurely fashion until suddenly the delay became unbearable and they started to hurry. The hurry became urgency, and they had reached the bed before they’d quite finished undressing each other. There was barely time to strip off the last garments.

      As passion mounted she became less aware of his gentleness and more aware of his vigour. For her sake he’d restrained himself until the last moment, but now he was beyond even his own control, and he held her in a strong grip as he moved over her, claimed her totally.

      She had lived without lovemaking long enough to find the experience unfamiliar, but even as distant memories returned she knew that nothing had ever been like this. No other man had held her with such urgency and reverence combined, or taken her as deeply, satisfyingly, powerfully. It was like being reborn, or born for the first time.

      Nothing had ever been like it before, and nothing would ever be like it after him. She knew that even then.

      When their moment came he looked into her eyes, seeking complicity as well as union. Two of them became one, then two again, but not the same two. Now she was a part of him, as he was a part of her, and would always be. And that had never been true before.

      He slept first, like any healthy animal whose senses had been satiated. For a while Della lay still, enjoying the weight of his head against her breasts, the gentle pleasure of running her fingers through his hair, the warmth of his breath against her skin.

      The whole sensation was unbearably sweet; so unbearable that after a while she slid away from under him and left the bed. She could not think straight while his warm, loving body was nestled against hers.

      She went to the window and stood looking out into the darkness, not thinking, letting her feelings have their way with her. But eventually she managed to order her thoughts.

      I suppose I’m crazy, but so what? I love him, and I’ll always love him, but it won’t last. We’ll have this little time together, then go our separate ways—because that’s what has to happen. He’ll tire of me and find someone else, and that’s fine. The only heart broken will be mine. And that’s fine, too.

      But when she awoke next morning all thoughts of broken hearts were far away. She opened her eyes to find Carlo propped on his elbows, looking down at her.

      He was almost smiling, but there was also a question in his eyes, and with a sense of incredulity she realised that he was apprehensive. Last night he had been a confident lover, seducing her with practised skill. This morning he was unsure of himself.

      Slowly she raised a hand and let her fingers drift down his cheek.

      ‘Hallo,’ she whispered, smiling.

      He got the message, his face brightened, and the next moment he’d seized her into his arms, crushing her in an exuberant hug, laughing with something that sounded almost like relief.

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