‘You’ll lie down and have a nap.’
‘A nap? I am not having a nap.’ But he was drained, the early-afternoon sun hot on his aching head, the light painfully bright despite the dark glasses, and secretly he couldn’t help thinking that a darkened room sounded rather enticing.
‘A siesta then. Does that make it sound more respectable?’
‘A sun lounger on the terrace.’ But Matteo knew when he was fighting a losing battle and accompanied Charlie back to the villa door with only the minimum of face-saving grumbling.
The villa door was wide open, Maria, the housekeeper, waiting for them, and Matteo subjected himself to her shocked outcry as she fussed over his cuts and bruises and scolded him for his carelessness, pausing only to embrace Charlie in loud, voluble Italian that his wife clearly couldn’t understand before switching to her excellent English. ‘Signor Matteo, welcome home. And to bring the beautiful signora with you. But you must rest. Your bags are in your room. Come, come.’
He clearly was going to have to assert his authority soon. Otherwise, between Charlie and Maria, he would find himself wrapped in a blanket and forbidden to move. ‘Grazie, Maria, it’s good to be home. I don’t suppose you have any of your excellent lemonade and those delicious biscuits of yours ready, do you?’
‘But of course, I will bring them to you,’ Maria said. ‘Signora, would you like yours on the terrace?’
‘Please. And do call me Charlie.’ Charlie grinned up at him as Maria bustled away. ‘Don’t tell me; she knew you when you were a baby?’
‘Practically. She’s worked here all her life—she is supposed to be retired now, just make sure that the villa is aired and organise cleaners every now and then, hire staff for when my mother is here, but whenever I manage to get here she insists on looking after me herself. She lives in the village with her family though. You don’t mind not having twenty-four-hour staff?’
‘A year of marriage hasn’t left me unable to make my own cup of tea or pick up my own clothes,’ Charlie assured him as they ascended the sweeping curved staircase that led from the large hallway to the upper floor. Since inheriting the villa Matteo usually took the corner suite with its sea views, sizeable en suite bathroom and dressing room and, sure enough, his small suitcase was already lying open in the dressing room; he hadn’t asked Charlie to pack much, he kept a wardrobe here for the too rare occasions he visited. The windows were flung open to let in the warm sea air but shuttered against the sun, the bed freshly made up.
‘Hang on, where’s your bag?’ He could only see his suitcase, already half unpacked, his washbag in the en suite bathroom.
‘I asked for a separate room to be made up for me,’ Charlie said and held up a hand as he tried to protest. ‘Rest, Matteo. Fluids and plenty of rest; that’s what the doctor said and that’s what you are going to get. Right now this isn’t a holiday and it definitely isn’t a honeymoon; it’s a place for you to get better. And that will take at least a week or two of early nights, late mornings and siestas.’
‘And what will you be doing while I’m re-enacting Sleeping Beauty?’ It struck him that he had no idea what Charlie did nowadays. Was she teaching? Doing something else? His wife was a mystery—one he was desperate to unravel. But not now, not while the pressure in his head began to tighten to vice-like proportions and his ribs ached.
‘Me? I’m planning to go dancing in the village, flirt with dark-eyed Italian men and drink Prosecco. That’s okay, isn’t it?’
‘Only if you wait for me.’ But the pain was intensifying and it was harder and harder to sound nonchalant. Matteo slipped his shoes off and gratefully lay down on the cool bed, closing his eyes as Charlie sat lightly next to him, stroking his hair with soft, soothing fingers.
‘Do you want me to go?’ she half whispered and he reached up to hold her hand in his.
‘No. Don’t leave me, Charlie. Promise you won’t leave,’ he managed as fatigue crashed down and carried him away. But as he fell into a deep sleep he could have sworn he heard his wife swallowing back a sob, and felt a tear fall onto his brow.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘EVERY MORNING I promise myself that I’m only going to have fresh fruit and some of this delicious yoghurt for breakfast.’ Charlie sat back, smothering a groan. ‘And yet every morning I somehow manage to not only heap my plate with bread and cheese and these little pastries, but I always finish off with lemon cake as well. Lemon cake! For breakfast! You’re going to have to roll me onto the plane to get me home if I carry on like this.’
It wasn’t just the breakfast. Lunches and dinners were ostensibly healthy, thanks to the concussion-friendly diet sheet the doctor had provided, involving lots of salad, fish and olive oil. But the meals also came with slices of warm home-made bread and meltingly delicious garlic-fried potatoes and were always followed by creamy tiramisu or delicate little sponge cakes served with lemon cream—and Charlie usually managed seconds of everything.
‘Maria’s lemon cake is the stuff of legend.’ Matteo reached for another sizeable slice with a grin. ‘You might as well make the most of it while you’re here because, I promise you, you’ll be dreaming about it for months.’
‘I can believe it. In fact, I’ll be dreaming about this whole place every night, wishing I was sitting here, eating my bodyweight in cake. Can you tell me again why we live in London when we could be living here?’
‘Right now, I’m not entirely sure,’ Matteo admitted. ‘But if this was normal life, would it feel this special or would you just gulp down a coffee and not even notice the view?’
‘I’m up for testing that theory.’ Charlie tilted her
