The Savage Garden

    'Do you have a brother?'

    'Yes.'

    'Is he a disaster?'

    She laughed. She laughed some more when he related the story of Harry's plight. She then poured them both a nightcap and apologized for being so short with him earlier in the evening. Lucrezia, one of the cooks, had shown up drunk again. Signora Fanelli sympathized—Lucrezia's husband was a violent brute, he had always been a violent brute, even as a boy—but the drinking was getting out of hand. She didn't know what to do. They talked her quandary to a standstill before making their way upstairs to bed.

    Adam's room lay on the corridor leading to her apartment. When they reached his door, he said good night to her. She didn't walk on, though; she didn't even reply, not at first. She stared at the floor, then looked up at him and said, 'Iacopo's not here tonight. He's staying with a friend.'

    He knew what the words meant—her son was away, she was alone—but he didn't know what she meant. And he wasn't going to risk making a fool of himself.

    He didn't have to. She took him by the hand and drew him into his room, closing the door behind them.

    There was nothing urgent in her actions, not at first. She led him through the darkness to the bed, then eased his shirt up and over his head, discarding it on the floor. She ran her hands over his skin, her fingers tugging at the desultory thicket that almost qualified as chest hair. When she raised her face toward his, he stooped to kiss her. Her tongue was small, pointed, inquisitive. She must have felt him stirring against her belly, because she placed a hand in the small of his back and drew him closer.

    They stood like this, kissing, for quite some while. His hands roamed, enjoying what they felt through the cotton dress, her nipples hardening beneath his touch.

    Slowly, she dropped to her knees and drew his pajama bottoms down over his thighs. He felt her breath against him, and for a moment she seemed to be contemplating what to do next. Then she closed her lips around him.

    She did almost nothing; she just let him grow there in the moist warmth of her mouth, the palms of her hands resting gently against his thighs.

    Then her mouth was gone and she was standing once more, turning her back to him.

    He slid the zipper down and eased the dress from her shoulders until it fell and gathered in a heap at her ankles. She didn't step free of it until he had released the clasp of her bra.

    She beat him to the panties, bending to remove them, before turning once more to face him. She was breathing hard now, and she gripped him firmly in her hand as they locked mouths again, her tongue stabbing at his this time.

    Without warning, she pushed him back onto the bed and was astride him before he had time to shuffle himself neatly to the middle of the mattress. Her pelvis pressing against his hardness, her hair dense, abrasive, already damp.

    She cupped a hand behind his neck and drew his head off the bed, guiding his mouth to her breasts.

    She arched low, pressing her lips to his ear. 'This is our secret,' she whispered. 'You understand?'

    He grunted.

    She removed her nipple from his mouth. 'Do you understand?'

    'Yes.'

    She forced him back onto the mattress. There was nothing he wanted more than to enter her there and then, but she wasn't having it, not yet.

    She edged her way up his body until her purpose was plain. Seizing the iron rail at the head of the bed to steady herself, she straddled his face and lowered herself toward him.

    TO ANYONE WHO DIDN'T KNOW, THERE WAS NOTHING IN their behavior to betray what had passed between them. The elderly Roman couple—the only other residents of the pensione still at their breakfast when Adam headed downstairs—smiled at him politely, as they had done for the past few mornings. No evidence there that Signora Fanelli had shared with them the details of her nocturnal romp with the Englishman. In fact, no evidence at all that it had ever occurred.

    It was only when she brought him his coffee that he detected something. She stood a fraction closer to him than she usually did when placing the cup and saucer on the table.

    He lingered over his breakfast in the hope that a private moment would present itself, an opportunity to at least acknowledge their steamy encounter. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered so much if she hadn't slipped from his bed while he was sleeping. His last memory had been of her astride him, exhorting him with words he didn't understand, the crucifix swinging at her neck, brushing his chest. That second time had done for him almost immediately. Had he even held her afterward? He hoped he had.

    The Romans finally pottered off, and when Signora Fanelli reappeared from the kitchen, she asked breezily, 'Another cappuccino?

    'Thank you.'

    The countertop coffee machine coughed and sputtered and hissed ominously. Adam pushed back his chair and strolled over.

    'Did you sleep well?' she asked.

    It sounded suspiciously like a dig.

    'I'm sorry,' he said.

    'Why?'