Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
voice, ‘There’s nowhere else in the world I wish to go—and you know it.’
‘Ah, dolcezza mia,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes you tear me apart.’
She sat beside him, her hand clasped in his, and saw the envy in the eyes of the pretty girls who waited on them. Who thought she’d won the jackpot—sexually, as well as in money terms.
And she smiled back, and thanked them for the lunch and hot towels, because they might be right. Because for the next two weeks she was going to be spoiled and cosseted by day, and taken to heaven each night.
And then it would be over. Midnight would strike and Cinders would be back in the real world.
But, for now, she was having a wonderful time—of course she was—with even better to come. And she had no illusions—no crazy naïve dreams about the possibility of a future with the man at her side. Or not any longer, anyway, she amended swiftly.
Her time with him was finite, and she accepted that.
So, there was no need for this niggling feeling of unease. No need at all.
And if I say it often enough, she thought, I may even begin to believe it.
But no uncertainty could cloud her first view of San Silvestro.
As the helicopter began its descent Flora saw the sun-baked stones of the castello, gleaming pink, grey and cream in the afternoon light as it reared up from the riot of greenery which surrounded it.
That first heart-stopping glimpse showed her a cluster of buildings, roofed in faded terracotta and surmounted by a square tower. Its clifftop setting had clearly been chosen with an arrogant eye for impact, and it lay, like a watchful lion, overlooking the azure sea.
For Flora, it was a fairytale image—a vision of Renaissance power—but for the man beside her, she realised, it was home. Emphasising the very different worlds they inhabited, she thought with sudden bleakness, picking out the turquoise shimmer of a swimming pool.
As the helicopter landed on a flat sweep of lawn at the rear of the castello, Flora could see people descending the steps from the imposing terrace and coming to meet them.
Her stomach clenched in swift nervousness.
The man leading the charge was tall, with silver hair. He was dressed in dark trousers and a discreet grey jacket, and the austerity of his features was relieved by a smile of sheer delight.
That must be Alfredo, Flora thought, remembering what Marco had been saying on the flight down.
‘He is my maggiordomo, and Marta, his wife, is the housekeeper,’ he’d told her. ‘Alfredo’s father worked for my grandfather, so he was born at the castello, like myself, and loves it as much.’
She found herself swallowing as Marco helped her alight from the helicopter, maintaining his firm grip on her hand.
‘Avanti,’ he said briskly, and they set off across the lawn towards the welcoming party, Flora struggling to match his long-legged stride.
After the warmth of his greeting for his master, Flora found Alfredo’s calm correctness towards herself slightly daunting. She was also aware of the shrewdly assessing glances being directed at her by the rest of the staff as they were formally presented to her.
‘This is Ninetta, signorina.’ Alfredo indicated a plump, pretty girl in a dark dress and white apron. ‘She will unpack for you, and attend you during your time with us.’
‘Grazie,’ Flora murmured, wryly reviewing the modest contents of her luggage.
Alfredo gave a stately inclination of the head. ‘So, if you will follow me, signorina, I will show you to your room.’
As he went past Marco spoke to him softly and briefly in his own language. Just for a second the impassive mask slipped, and the major-domo let surprise show. But he recovered instantly, murmuring a respectful, ‘Si, signore, naturalamente,’ as he set off for the house, snapping his fingers at Ninetta to pick up Flora’s case.
Inside the castello, Flora received a whirlwind impression of large rooms with tiled floors, low ceilings and frescoed walls. Then she was ascending a wide stone staircase, walking along a gallery, navigating a long corridor and climbing another short flight of stone steps.
Alfredo opened the double doors at the top and bowed her into the room. Its square shape told her instantly that she was in the tower of the castello, and probably its oldest part, too.
She stared round her, her jaw dropping at the subdued magnificence of the tapestry-hung walls and vast canopied bed. There was little furniture, but the few pieces were clearly very old and valuable, and the ancient carpet spread on the gleaming wood floor was possibly priceless.
There were deep cushioned seats in the window embrasures, and on the wall opposite the bed long glass doors had been fitted into the stone, giving access to a balcony with a wrought-iron rail and a stunning view over the sea.
Alfredo, observing her reaction with discreet satisfaction, pointed to a door in the corner of the room. ‘That is the signore’s dressing room.’ He opened another door in the opposite corner. ‘And here—the bathroom, signorina.’
Peeping past him, Flora saw it contained a sunken bath as well as an imposing circular shower cubicle.
She said quietly, ‘It’s all—so beautiful. I can hardly believe I’m not dreaming.’
He bowed politely. ‘Please tell Ninetta if there is anything you need, signorina.’
While the maid dealt speedily with the contents of her case Flora opened the balcony doors and went outside. Below her was a tangle of trees, the silvery shimmer of olives punctuated by the deep green of cypresses standing like tall sentinels, and she could see amongst them the paler line of a track going down towards the sea.
The air was warm, and heavy with the scent of flowers and the hum of insects. Slowly, Flora felt herself begin to relax.
When you’re out of your depth—float, she told herself.
So when Marco came to stand behind her, and slid his arms round her waist, she leaned back in his embrace, smiling as his lips found the leaping pulse in her throat.
‘Do you think you can like it here?’ he whispered against her ear.
‘It’s really heaven on earth,’ Flora returned softly. ‘How can you bear to be away from it?’
‘We all have work—other duties.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes they take us to places where we would rather not be.’
She pointed. ‘Is that the path you used to take to the beach—you and Vittoria?’
‘You remember that?’ He sounded faintly surprised.
‘Of course.’ I remember, she thought, every word you’ve ever said to me. ‘Will you show it to me?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you everywhere and everything. But later, mia cara.’ His hands lifted, cupping her breasts. ‘At the moment I have—other priorities.’
He drew her back into the shaded quiet of the room and she went unresistingly, raising her mouth to his.
As their lips met everything changed. Suddenly his kiss was a hunger—the fierce, driving need of a starving man. Gasping, Flora responded, her senses going wild under the onslaught.
They swayed together, as if caught in a storm wind. She felt his hands seeking her, running over her breasts, hips and thighs with a kind of desperation through the thin layer of clothing as his kiss deepened almost savagely.
At last he lifted his head, staring down into her flushed face, his eyes glittering like emeralds.
She heard herself say his name on a husky, aching sigh of pure longing.
Roughly Marco pushed the jacket from her shoulders, tugged at the zip of her skirt, dragging the loosened