Chapter Eight #2
Sanzio gunned the engine. His mood was good.
Today he’d achieved exactly what he’d wanted.
It had given Eleanora the time and the space she’d needed.
In Rome, he’d turned her image of herself upside down and inside out, and though that was wonderful, she needed to reconcile the two images she had of herself.
Not that he had any problem with reconciling them.
From the first he’d realised that Eleanora was using her down-dressing as camouflage, was incapable, thanks to Tonia’s lifelong malign condemnation, of understanding that her slender figure, her fine-boned features, her luminous Oloroso eyes, had a beauty of their own utterly unlike her sister’s.
It had taken dressing her up in fashion-house finery and having the stylist’s ministrations lavished on her to convince her—finally—that she was beautiful in her own right.
As for himself, his reaction to that radiantly revealed beauty had overwhelmed him—testing his self-control to the limit.
But now—now he was calling off the fight. The resolve he’d come to last night out on the terrace filled him. He wasn’t going to hold back any longer. There was no reason to do so—and every reason not to.
His glance went to her again as he drove on, making for the agriturismo.
He doubted she would…could…believe it, but she was as lovely to him now, with her casual style, her hair loosely plaited, falling softly around her face, her honeyed, sun-kissed complexion…
as lovely to him as she had been when dressed up to the nines, poised and glamorous.
But tonight, oh, tonight, he would convince her of it.
Convince her of so, so much.
* * *
The agriturismo proved charming. An old farmhouse, carefully renovated, the guest accommodation converted outhouses with exposed beams and white plaster walls, simple but tastefully done, with solid furniture and as much rustic character as any tourist could possibly want.
Their little cottage comprised two modestly sized bedrooms separated by a linked bathroom, with a small seating area leading onto a secluded terrace overlooking a sloping lawn that led down to the pool.
In her newly purchased bikini, so much skimpier than the one-piece she wore at the Palazzo, Eleanora felt self-conscious, but Sanzio, already in the water, was focusing on clocking his lengths.
She contented herself with a gentle breaststroke, the water feeling like silk on her near-naked body, and was out of the pool and enveloped in a towel before Sanzio emerged.
As they did when he swam at the Palazzo, her eyes went automatically to his strong, muscled torso, his slicked-back dark hair and diamond-laden lashes. Hurriedly, she looked away.
‘Let’s shower, dress and find the bar,’ he said, reaching for his towel, looping it around his neck. The lowering sun turned his body to gold. Eleanora looked away again.
A skein of sadness plucked at her. All day she had focused only on how good it was to spend this enjoyable, relaxed time with him, wanting nothing more than his easygoing company. But now, as evening loomed, she felt emotion stir she must not allow. Emotion she had worked to keep at bay.
Must always keep at bay.
Even today. Especially today.
* * *
The bar turned out to be a corner of the dining room in the main farmhouse, which was as tastefully rustic in style as their own accommodation.
There was a wide terrace set with tables opening off, and Sanzio took their drinks out there.
There were only two other guests, a middle-aged Dutch couple who spoke excellent English.
They were touring the area and this was their second night at the agriturismo.
‘We went cycling today—bikes are provided here—and though it was hot, and hillier of course than we are used to at home, we do recommend it,’ said the husband.
Their host breezed out, asking if they would like to eat out on the terrace or indoors.
They opted for the former, and tacitly made a quartet with the Dutch couple.
It was pleasant and convivial and conversation flowed easily.
Dinner too was delicious, nothing formal, but specialising in local cuisine, the wines excellent.
By the time the dessert arrived the Dutch couple were yawning and, citing their early departure the next day, bade Eleanora and Sanzio goodnight, and took their leave.
‘Shall we do likewise? Have our coffee on our own terrace, and let our hosts clear up and shut down here?’ Sanzio posed. He’d been glad of the other couple’s company over dinner, helping to keep things relaxed with Eleanora.
But now—
Now I want her to myself.
He felt tension pull within him. His eyes rested on Eleanora.
She was wearing the cotton top and gathered skirt she’d bought at the petrol station shop.
After their swim she’d left her hair loose to dry naturally, held off her face with a ribbon.
He’d never seen it loose before. It was longer than he’d realised, waving softly over her shoulders.
Enhancing her loveliness.
He pulled his gaze away, getting to his feet, bidding their host goodnight. Then he held out a hand to Eleanora, who rose to her feet as well.
‘Shall we?’ he invited.
* * *
Eleanora took Sanzio’s outstretched hand.
It was warm and strong, easily enveloping hers.
She knew she must not read anything into it.
It was just Sanzio being considerate, as he had been earlier in the day in the same way.
As they made their way along the stone-paved path to their accommodation she was glad of it.
An uneven step made her stumble slightly, and he immediately steadied her.
‘No toppling over,’ he told her. ‘That wine at dinner was strong!’
‘I only had two glasses!’ she replied indignantly. ‘And you had a beer first, too—and more wine than me!’
‘And I fully intend to round the evening off with a brandy too, as well as coffee,’ he riposted.