Was she angry with him? And, if so, why did he like the idea so much? Why did he want to inspire that hot, fierce temper in her?
He dived underwater and swam the length of the pool, pretending not to notice as he passed her by and splashed water in her general direction.
When he surfaced she’d moved to the other end of the pool.
Was she hiding from him? The idea of her being the mouse to his cat was like a red rag to a bull. He dived underwater again and swam beneath the surface, stealthy and silent, and had the pleasure of seeing surprise on her face when he lifted himself up right beside her.
‘Nice evening?’ she murmured, her eyes scanning his face, her anger flashing more visibly now.
‘Not really,’ he said noncommittally.
Without developing some kind of mystical psychic ability she had no idea what he meant by that. She turned her head away, her eyes soaking in the view of Rome in the distance without really seeing it. Even at this early hour of the morning the city was alive, its buildings outlined with light, all its ancient stories winding around themselves, whispering through the walls to those who wanted to listen.
‘Do you do this often?’ He turned to face her, his body achingly close.
‘No.’
‘Nor do I. Strange that we both had the same idea tonight.’
‘Not really. It’s been muggy as hell today,’ she pointed out logically. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
He nodded, but his eyes were speculative. ‘And in general?’ he prompted.
God, she looked young like this—bathed in moonlight and the salt water of his pool.
Her eyes were blank. ‘What do you mean?’
He compressed his lips. ‘Are you settling in well to Rome?’
‘Oh.’ She was grateful for the night, grateful that it hid her blush. ‘Yes. I’ve sent off my enrolment forms. I’ll start university next term.’
‘What will you study?’
‘Psychology.’ She looked away from his intense gaze, feeling that he saw way too much. ‘It’s always interested me.’
‘I see.’ He frowned thoughtfully. ‘I would have imagined you doing history, or perhaps English literature.’
She lifted a hand and ran it over the water’s surface, feeling its thick undulations beneath her fingertips.
‘Why? Because I’m bookish? Because I look as though I’d be perfectly at home under bags of dust in an ancient library?’
His smile was perfunctory. ‘No.’
He moved closer towards her, and again she had the sense that he was chasing her. Ridiculous when they were simply floating at the same end of the pool. Besides, why would a man like Pietro Morelli chase her?
‘Because the last time I saw you, you spent the entire night staring at very old paintings as though they were the beginning and end of your existence.’
Emmeline’s smile was genuine. ‘I’d never seen works of art like that before. The Dutch Masters have always fascinated me.’
‘So you can see, then, why I thought of history—perhaps art history—as your university subject of choice?’
‘Oh, I love art.’ She nodded. ‘And old things in general.’ She tilted her head back into the water, wetting her hair. It draped down her back like a silken curtain. ‘But I’ve wanted to do psychology for almost as long as I can remember.’
Not quite true. She could recall the exact moment when it had dawned on her that a lot of people’s minds needed fixing.
Apparently Pietro was drawing the same conclusion. ‘When did you learn the truth about your mother’s death?’
‘I thought I told you?’ she murmured quietly, feeling the night wrapping around them like a blanket. ‘I knew at the time.’
‘I’m sorry you had to experience that loss. And so young.’
Emmeline rarely spoke about her mother. Her father never wanted to talk about her, and Emmeline didn’t really have anyone else to confide in about something of that nature. But, perhaps because Pietro had known Patrice, Emmeline felt her strongly held borders dropping.
‘She’d been unhappy for a long time. I didn’t expect her to die, but it wasn’t a complete surprise, somehow.’
‘Unhappy how?’ Pietro pushed, moving closer.
His recollections of Patrice were vague. She’d been drop-dead gorgeous, and kind enough. Perhaps there’d been a coldness to her, a sense of disconnection. He’d been a young man when he’d last seen her and his thoughts weren’t easy to recall.
‘Oh, you know...’ Emmeline’s smile was uneven, her eyes not quite meeting his.
‘No, I don’t. That’s why I asked you.’
How could Emmeline answer? There’d been that morning when she’d come downstairs to find her mother passed out, two empty bottles of gin at her feet, her make-up ruined by her tears. And there’d been all the little nips and tucks, of course. But the biggest clue had been the control she’d begun to exert over Emmeline.
Even as a teenager Emmeline had known it wasn’t right—that there was something unhealthy about her mother’s desire to infantilise Emmeline, to keep her from experimenting with clothes and fashion. Discouraging Emmeline’s attempts on improving her image had been one thing, but knowingly pushing her towards unflattering hairstyles and prohibiting her from anything except the wardrobe she, Patrice, had selected...
It had taken years for Emmeline to understand her mother’s motivations and they’d left her reeling.
‘Lots of things,’ she said vaguely, shaking her head.
Perhaps it was the raw pain in his wife’s voice that stalled Pietro from pushing further. For whatever reason, he let the matter go for a moment.
‘Psychology will no doubt be very interesting,’ he said quietly. ‘When do you begin?’
‘A month.’
He nodded. ‘There’s still time for you to adapt to life here, then.’
‘I think I’m just about adapted,’ she said quietly.
He was so close now that when he moved the water rippled in response and it almost felt as though he was touching her. She knew she should put some distance between them, but she’d hardly seen him for a month. This nearness was like a highly addictive form of crack cocaine.
‘You have been bunkered here in the villa,’ he said softly. ‘It’s time for you to start coming out with me. You are my wife.
