time, then a quick dash.
She managed the first bit all right, but she miscalculated the dash, fell short by several inches and collided hard with the sofa, making its occupant slide to the floor and awaken, tangled in the duvet and cursing vividly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, clinging onto the back of the sofa.
He was on his feet in a moment, a lithe, smooth-chested figure in shorts and nothing else. ‘It’s all right,’ he said quickly. ‘Here. Hold onto me.’
She did so, thankfully. ‘I thought I was better,’ she murmured, ‘but when I got up-I just don’t know-’
‘You don’t get over this sort of thing in five minutes. It’ll take a day or two. How’s your headache?’
‘It had gone, but it’s coming back.’
‘Let’s get you into bed then, and I’ll make you some tea and you can have two more of those pills. The doctor left me complete instructions.’
They had reached the bed but he put her into a chair and held up a finger to tell her to stay there. Then he descended on the bed in a whirl of activity, finding fresh pillowcases, smoothing the undersheet and shaking the duvet out until it was fluffy.
‘You’re very domesticated,’ she said admiringly.
‘My father taught me. He said you should never depend on women for these things because they weren’t reliable.’ He spoke with a straight face, but his eyes twinkled. ‘Back to bed.’
She made a move as if to undo the robe, but then remembered that she had nothing on underneath. He pointed to some drawers. ‘You’ll find some vests in there.’ He left.
She chose one of his vests and had slipped back into bed by the time he returned with tea. She drank it thankfully and took more pills for the headache which had returned with a vengeance.
‘There’s a little bell by the bed,’ he said, removing the cup and settling her. ‘Ring it if you need me.’
‘You’re a wonderful nurse,’ she murmured, sliding down contentedly.
‘Go to sleep.’
This time she slept long and awoke feeling refreshed. Throwing open the shutters she found a brilliant morning and took some long, deep breaths. Her head was better, although she still felt wobbly.
Donning the robe, she peered around the bedroom door, but found no sign of her host. In a small, single-floor apartment, with all rooms leading off the main one, it took no time to ascertain that he’d gone out.
It was a peaceful, pleasant place, with white walls, a cool terrazzo floor, and furniture that was sparse and functional. The only sign of flamboyance was the profusion of masks that hung on the walls. Some were simple, some fantastic with long noses and sinister slits for the eyes. They seemed to cover every wall, and Dulcie surveyed them with interest.
Looking at the tiny sofa she winced with sympathy for him. It seemed so unfair for him to sleep in that cramped place while she had his whole double bed at her disposal.
But of one thing there was no further possible doubt. This was a man who had very little money.
An inspection of her dress in the bathroom showed that it was unwearable after its drenching. An inspection of herself showed that the pink of her skin had faded, but still wasn’t a colour she’d have chosen. She was considering how matters stood when she heard the front door open, and went out to see him enter, loaded down with shopping. She hastened to rescue some bags that were slipping from his fingers.
‘Dump them in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘No, just these. I’ll take those.’ He whisked a couple of items away from her, dropped them on the sofa and guided her into the kitchen. ‘You’re looking better.’
‘I feel it. I just wish I looked it.’
‘Good healthy colour.’
‘T’isn’t! It just tells the world I’m an idiot.’
‘I’m not answering that. Let me sit down. I’ve been staggering under this lot for too long.’
‘Shall I make you some coffee?’
‘No thank you,’ he said with more speed than gallantry.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re English,’ he said, not mincing matters.
‘Meaning we don’t know how to make coffee?’
He just grinned and rose to his feet. ‘I’ll make the coffee for both of us, then I’ll get your breakfast. Something light I think. Soup, and then-yes, that would be it.’
He refused to say any more, watching her with a glint of mischief as she helped him unpack the food. He seemed to have shopped for an army.
‘I’ve been having a look at my dress,’ she said.
‘Did the shower leave it in a state? Sorry about that. I suppose I should have ripped it off you first.’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not complaining, you did the right thing. It’s just that I’m having visions of me going back to the Vittorio looking a fright.’
‘You don’t have to do that. Go and have a look at the bags in the other room.’
Puzzled, she did so, and her eyes widened at the contents.
‘I knew you’d be needing some fresh clothes,’ he said, standing in the kitchen doorway and watching her. ‘It’s just cheap stuff from market stalls, and not what you’re used to.’
That made her feel bad because it was exactly what she was used to. He’d bought her a pair of white jeans and two coloured tops to go with them. And he’d assessed her size perfectly, as she realised when she considered the other items.
‘You had the cheek to buy me-?’
‘You need underwear,’ he said defensively. ‘Excuse me, the coffee’s perking.’
He vanished into the kitchen and closed the door, leaving Dulcie examining the bras and panties that he’d chosen for her. They were lacy, delicate confections, designed to be seen. A woman would choose such things if she planned to undress in front of a man. And a man would choose them if he wanted to see them on a woman, or wanted to see the woman remove them, or wanted to think about her wearing and/or removing them.
Dulcie hastily silenced her thoughts. But what she couldn’t shut out was the way he’d hurried away and put a door between them. It was almost as though he was shy as well as shameless.
Further investigation revealed a nightgown. Unlike the underwear it was fiercely sexless, unadorned cotton, with a front that buttoned up to the neck. She sat for a while, contemplating the prosaic nightgown on the one hand and the sexy underwear on the other. There was no understanding him. Which was strange, considering how simple she’d expected him to be.
She glanced up as the kitchen door opened again, and one eye appeared. It looked nervous.
‘Oh, come on,’ she said, chuckling.
The other eye appeared. ‘The coffee’s ready. Am I forgiven?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said, joining him in the kitchen, where he set coffee before her. ‘You had a cheek buying me panties that look like that.’
‘But I like them,’ he said innocently.
‘And you had an even bigger cheek buying me a nightie that my grandmother could wear.’
His hint of mischief disappeared. ‘I think I was right,’ he said simply. ‘While you are ill it’s better that you look…’ he hesitated ‘…like a grandmother. At least, not a grandmother exactly because you could never look like that but- safe. You must feel safe.’ He tore his hair. ‘I’m not saying this very well-but perhaps you understand-’
‘Yes,’ she said, touched. ‘I do understand you. It’s very kind of you to think of my safety.’
‘Somebody has to think of it. You’re shut up here alone with a man of bad character, enfeebled by illness, nobody to protect you if you shout for help.’
‘Perhaps he isn’t a man of bad character.’
‘But he is. Definitely. You should dress in sensible clothes to prevent him indulging in disgraceful thoughts about-’ he caught her enquiring eyes on him ‘-about what you would look like if you weren’t wearing sensible clothes, or even if you weren’t wearing-I’ll start the soup,’ he finished hurriedly.
Dulcie’s lips twitched. She wasn’t fooled by this apparent boyish confusion, but she appreciated the way he’d paid her a compliment without getting heavy about it.
‘But I shan’t be here long,’ she said. ‘I can go back to the hotel when I’ve eaten.’
‘I don’t think so. You’re not well yet, and the doctor is coming for you again today. You feel strong now, but it won’t last.’
