But in the shower there were other distractions, and by the time they had lathered and rinsed each other the conversation was no further advanced.
‘This is supposed to be a working trip,’ she murmured when they were lying naked in bed.
‘We’ve spent all day working,’ he complained, brushing one finger over the swell of her breast.
‘But I haven’t got enough for the series,’ she said, trying not to let her voice shake from the tremors going through her.
‘What are you looking for?’ he asked. ‘Do you just want tragic places, like Pompeii and the sunken liner, or dramatic, mysterious places like this?’
His own voice shook on the final words, because her hand had found him, the fingers caressing him softly in a way that made it hard for him to concentrate.
‘But what else is there?’ she asked.
‘Cheerful places.’
‘Are there any?’
‘Don’t you know your own country’s history? What about The Field of the Cloth of Gold?’
She frowned. ‘Wasn’t that-?’
‘If you wanted to be pompous you could call it the first great summit conference, but actually it was just a jumbo jolly.’
‘A jumbo jolly?’ She chuckled. ‘I like that.’
‘Four hundred years ago King Henry VIII of England and Francis I of France, plus their courts, met in a field outside Calais. They put up huge tents made of silk, satin and gold, and had a party that was so extravagant that the locals celebrate it to this day.’
He slid further down in the bed beside her, stroking the inside of her thigh in a way that made it hard to remember that she was supposed to be working. She tried to apply her mind.
‘I thought you said it was a summit conference,’ she gasped.
‘Officially it was about forging an alliance,’ he murmured against her warm skin, ‘but actually it was jousting by day, and wine, women and song in the evening. Francis and Henry were young men in their twenties, who still knew how to have fun. It went on for three weeks.’
‘Three weeks-?’
‘Then they had a wrestling match, and Henry landed flat on his royal ass. After that he decided it was time to go home.’
‘Very wise,’ she said in a daze. ‘You know what I think?’
‘What?’
She reached for him. ‘I think, to hell with Henry VIII.’
From there they drove further south, to the toe of Italy, from where they took the ferry to Sicily. They spent a day in Palermo, where Carlo underwent a transformation worthy of a sci-fi plot. The playboy disappeared, and in his place was the academic, enthused by being in one of his favourite places, eager to make her see it through his eyes. But for once he forgot to tailor his words to his audience.
‘What are you looking at?’ he asked once, seeing her staring into the sky above.
‘Trying to follow a word you’re saying,’ she said plaintively. ‘It’s all up there, above my head.’
‘Sorry, I’ll make it simpler.’
‘You’ll have to when you’re writing a script-but forget it for now. Can’t you talk anything but that serious stuff?’
‘I was auditioning,’ he said, sounding hurt.
‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you,’ she chuckled. ‘But I have something different to say.’
He looked mischievously into her eyes. ‘What would that be?’
‘Something you don’t need words for.’
He took her hand. ‘Let’s go.’
After that they more or less abandoned the idea of work. They spent the days exploring the scenery, the evenings over softly lit dinners, and the nights in tiny hillside hotels with nothing to think of but each other. It became indistinguishable from a holiday, and that was how she told herself to think of it-a perfect time, separate from the real world, to be looked back on later with nostalgia but no regret.
She took a hundred photographs, to last her through the years, and congratulated herself on being sensible.
‘It’s been a few days. Have I known you long enough yet to love you?’
‘You’re a very impatient man.’
‘I always was. When I want something I want it now. And I want you. Don’t you feel the same?’
‘Yes-’
‘Then can’t you say that you love me? Not just want, but love.’
‘Be patient. It all seems so unreal.’
‘Loving you is the only reality. I’ve never loved any woman before. I mean that. Casual infatuations don’t count against what I feel now. I was waiting for you, for my Della-because you’ve always been mine, even before we met-my Della, the only woman my heart will ever love, from this time on. Tell me that you believe me.’
‘I do believe you. I can feel your heart beneath my hand now.’
‘It’s all yours, now and for ever.’
‘Hush, don’t talk about for ever. It’s too far away.’
‘No, it’s here and now, and it always will be. Tell me that you love me-’
‘Not yet-not yet-’
‘Say it-say it-’
CHAPTER FIVE
DELLA sometimes wondered if the dream would have gone on for ever if blunt reality hadn’t dumped itself on them.
‘That was my brother Ruggiero,’ Carlo said reluctantly, as he finished a call on his cellphone. ‘Reminding me that he and I have a birthday in a few days, and there’s going to be a family party. If I’m not there, I’m a dead man.’
Reluctantly they turned back, took the ferry across the Strait of Messina, and headed north. On the way Della called the Vallini and booked a room.
It was nearly eight in the evening before Carlo dropped her at the door.
‘I must look into my apartment,’ he said, ‘pick up any mail, call my mother, then shower and make myself presentable. On second thoughts, reverse those two. I’ll call her when I’m presentable.’
‘But on the phone she can’t tell if you’re clean and tidy or not.’
He grinned. ‘You don’t know my mother. I’ll be back in an hour.’
He kissed her briefly and departed. As the porter carried her bags upstairs she tried to be sensible. Their perfect time together was over. Now she would do as she had always assured herself, and return to the real world.
But not just now. It could wait another night.
Standing at her window, she could just make out the sight of his car vanishing down the road. So much for common sense, she told herself wryly. But she’d be strong tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after.
As they’d travelled she had purchased some extra garments to supplement the meagre supply she’d brought from England, but now she had nothing that was not rumpled. She unpacked, trying to find something for that evening, but it was useless.
A knock on the door interrupted her musings. Wondering if Carlo could have returned, she hurried to open it.
It wasn’t Carlo who stood there, but a heavily built young man, beefily handsome, with a winning smile.
‘Sol!’ she cried in delight, opening her arms to her beloved son.
‘Hallo!’ he said, enveloping her in a huge hug and swinging her around while he kicked the door shut behind
