“It’s just so sad.” She laced her fingers through his, lifting his hand to her lips and kissing them, grateful for this moment in time, a slice out of her normal way of living, an opportunity to feel a closeness to another human knowing that nothing about what they shared could threaten her resolve to love Thom as much in death as she had in life.
“Yes and no. Without losing Camilla, Yaya might not have been so determined to grab hold of
us. We lost Camilla and Samir from our lives but gained each other – I have three cousins I grew up with like brothers.”
Lauren pushed up onto her elbows, just a little higher, so that their faces were only an inch apart. There were a thousand questions locked within her but here, like this, with the sun streaming down and the light rustling of the breeze, with Raf poised above her, words wouldn’t form. Instead, she lifted up and kissed him: a slow kiss, a movement of exploration and curiosity, her mouth trailing over his, her hand lifting to cup his cheek, her fingers gliding higher into his hair, before she pushed up, her body pressed to him so she could roll him onto his back and he let her, falling to the ground with a rumbly laugh before claiming her lips more passionately, with more fervour, his possession burning her through to her core.
She moved her hips in a silent invitation and he responded, his fingers digging into her waist, understanding her question, answering it wordlessly. She moaned into his mouth, and more questions formed – why after years of abstinence – easy abstinence – did she feel as though she couldn’t breathe unless they were touching? It was a physical infatuation, nothing more, and she knew it would burn itself out, but in that moment, she couldn’t help but doubt that. The flames were all around them and Lauren wasn’t sure there was an escape – nor that she wanted to find one.
Chapter Eight
HAD GRIEF NOT LEFT an indelible mark on Lauren, she might have put aside her book and gone out into the garden to see what was happening. From where she sat in the makeshift office she’d established, a flurry of activity had drawn her attention. The housekeeper Vittoria, several gardeners and one of the nurses – Gabi – were standing on the edge of the pool area, where pavers gave way to grass and then, eventually, the edge of the mountain. It sloped away steeply – she’d noticed that one on of her first days at the Villa, because Yaya had talked non-stop about the children and Lauren had mentally catalogued the dangers that might befall little ones. It was an inbuilt trait now to be on the alert, forever watchful for what might go wrong.
Her father had started a book club a year or so before Thom had died. It was just the three of them then, and in deference to Thom’s habits those first few books had been the science fiction and fantasy tomes he’d adored – Lord of the Rings and a heap of Isaac Asimov novels – but afterwards, her dad had started to select non-fiction. Memoirs principally, a heavy-handed attempt to show Lauren that life was filled with downs, ups, and sideways turns, but that it was important to keep moving regardless, and over time the selections had favoured his fascinations of the time. She was able to date her father’s hobbies by the books he’d chosen. This was a large investigation into the use of private data and the internet that Lauren found terrifying to contemplate in such detail. Important, certainly, but spine-chilling.
Perhaps if the book had been more engaging, or less frightening, she might have lost herself to the pages more completely, but on that warm morning, with the bright blue sky beyond, and now the obvious activity taking place across the terrace, she found even her usual instincts to keep to herself dissipating. Curiosity was winning.
She pressed a finger to her page, consulting the number at the bottom, then closed the cover, standing quickly as though she might change her mind unless she acted in haste.
Was there an animal down the hill? Or was it something else?
As she moved through the house, a part of her was on the lookout in a way she always seemed to be these days. Looking, listening, for a sign of Raf. They hadn’t discussed the fact that their situation would remain secret, and yet it had. They’d both taken measures to ensure there was no chance of anyone within the house learning that they were sleeping together. It meant desire was always building within Lauren – she ached for him, and lay in her bed at night wondering if it would break their unspoken rules to go to his room and stay there?
Surely that was still private and secret?
The waiting, the yearning, was almost impossible to live with, but at the same time, Lauren was glad for it. There was pain in yearning, and discipline too, and both reminded her of what they were doing, and of why this was just a strange aberration from her real life.
The day was warm as she emerged onto the courtyard. A burst of geranium grabbed her attention, as it often did, bright reds and beside it vibrant pinks. She knew that if she brushed close the iron-like fragrance would permeate her clothes. Voices reached her ears as she neared, fast-spoken Italian. She came towards them but at the last moment veered to the right, so she could stand a little apart and avoid conversation. Looking over the ravine, it took her a moment to see what was happening. And then, her heart skidded. And stopped. Then pounded so hard into her ribs she felt as though it might break free.
Adrenalin flooded her body. She began to shake and without meaning to give anything away – she wasn’t capable of such rational thought – her fingers lifted to her lips and clamped against them.
What the hell was he doing?
Halfway down the ravine and ascending with purposeful strength was Raf. Her eyes clung to his figure – small at this distance, like an animation against the rocky mountainside – and try as she might she couldn’t see any lines tethering his body to the earth. She stared at him, half-terrified, half-filled with jaw-dropping awe. He wore only a pair of shorts. His tanned, muscular back and long legs stood out against the pale rocks. He moved with apparent ease, lifting one arm to a bulbous piece of the mountain before a leg followed, and again. Every now and again he’d pause, and she could make out his dark head turning, and despite the fact she had no experience with the sport of rock-climbing she understood what he was doing – looking for the next best place to catch his grip, or place his foot.
“He’s crazy, no?” The nurse, Gabi, moved to Lauren’s side.
Lauren’s gaze slid sideways. She nodded once, a dull throb of her head echoed in her body language, and then turned back, unwilling to wrest her attention away, as though her eyes could somehow provide the tether he’d chosen to disregard. With her watchfulness, she could keep him safe. Couldn’t she?
Her heart continued to rattle against her ribs and a fine bead of perspiration had broken out between the valley of her breasts. He was nowhere near the top. The sun was high overhead, the day hot, even for Lauren standing where she was, in the dappled shade of the terrace. But for Raf, his body pitted against the inhospitable terrain, it must have been unbearable.
As she watched, people began to move away. The housekeeper first, then the gardeners and finally Gabi, so it was only Lauren who stood sentinel, guarding his ascent, her moods ranging from disbelief to fear to a blinding burst of anger. She found it hard to decode the final emotion but that didn’t matter. It ravaged her body and as the minutes groaned into an hour she felt reassured by its presence.
She held her breath as he neared the top. The mountain seemed to lurch forward, meaning that to successfully reach the flat grassed surface that spoke of safety he first needed to angle his body backwards, almost lying flat, to climb out of the rocky outcrop. Her lungs burned. At the very top, his fingers curved over the grass and then he dangled off the edge. She gasped, her stomach tightening into a god-awful ache. There was beauty in his body’s war with nature, in the battle of human strength against the adversity of this rugged land, but Lauren wasn’t inclined to admire that. Anger pummelled her.
He hung there for what felt like minutes, his body swaying and anger morphed into fear, her throat becoming thick with the salty taste of tears. He swung, and she knew that if he lost his grip he would fall and he would die. It was unbearable. She made a groaning noise and then he swung harder, forming a bigger arch, lifting one leg up onto the top of the ravine, using it to propel himself upwards and the other followed behind. He assumed a crawling position, then lay on his back and she stared at him for a long time, waiting to see him move, for one final reassurance. Eventually, he did, standing with his hands on his hips, looking every inch the virile, powerful athlete. He was to
o far away to see clearly, yet she recognised his smile, his even, white teeth visible even at this distance. Anger was back, dwarfed – only faintly – by relief.
She spun away quickly, her heart beating double-time as she stalked into the house. Grabbing her book from her office, she took the stairs two at a time, moving into her office and clicking the door shut before finally relaxing, leaning against it with her eyes shut – then, all she could see was his body hanging from the edge of the mountain top. He was strong and virile and yet compared to the height of the cliff he was nothing – flesh and blood and so easily disposed of.
Another noise – a groan – and she paced deeper into her room, collapsing onto her back in the middle of the bed, doing everything she could not to think of Raf – and what could have, so easily, happened to him. And how much that would have hurt her.
She was back to ignoring him.
In the week since he’d come to stay at Villa Fortune they’d worked out an easy rhythm. They spoke to one another with polite civility if anyone else was around. When they were alone, they were relaxed – friendly, even. But it was when they left the Villa that Lauren became her true self – the reserve dropped away and he caught a glimpse of the woman she might have been had she not lost her husband.
But now? They were alone in the kitchen and she was pretending fascination with the assembly of what looked to be a sandwich. He pulled a face without meaning to. He’d never understood the British predilection for something as, frankly, boring as a sandwich for lunch. Give him a long table groaning under the weight of pasta, bread, salad, wine, fruit, cheese, and he was at his happiest.