Moth to the Flame(11)

wings whirring helplessly as it flew again and again against the

glass globe which protected the candle flame. As she watched, the

moth edged perilously near to the opening at the top of the globe.                       
       
           



       

'Oh, do something,' she appealed impulsively. 'It's going to get hurt!'

He gave her a long incredulous look, then he reached forward and

cupped a hand round the struggling insect.

'What now?' he demanded. 'Shall I kill it or let it go?'

'Let it go. What else?'

He rose and threaded his way through the other tables to the edge

of the terrace. His hand opened, and he tossed the frightened moth

away into the gathering darkness.

'Moths are foolish creatures,' he said almost meditatively as he took

his seat again opposite her. 'They seem to enjoy living dangerously,

yet because of this their existences are often cut short. Learn from

them, mia. Keep away from the candle flame tonight and you too

could live to play with fire again another day.'

Her head was aching suddenly with sheer tension and she had to

resist an impulse to cradle it in her hands. She did not want to think

too closely about the implications of what he had just said, or she

might be really frightened. Just how ruthless was this man, and

what power was, he able to wield in his determination to achieve

his own way?

If you're trying to threaten me,' she said wearily, 'it won't work. And

now I'd like to go home, please. We have nothing else to say to

each other.'

She spoke bravely enough, but in reality she felt as if a million

moths were fluttering with panic deep inside her. Suddenly she

needed very badly to be alone for a little while to regain her

composure, and she rose murmuring something idiotic about the

powder room.

In the privacy of the luxuriously fitted cloakroom, she dropped on

to the velvet-covered bench in front of the vanitory unit and stared

at herself in the mirror. The parallel he had drawn between her

situation and the moth's had been an unpleasant one. She was very

much aware that he made her feel that he held her too in the palm of

his hand and would extend mercy or not as he chose.

'Oh, stop it,' she told herself angrily. 'You're being much too

imaginative.' Like the rich food and the wine, Santino Vallone was

far too heady a mixture for a suburban schoolteacher from England,

and she was thankful to her heart, she told herself defensively, that

she would never have to see him again after tonight.

She looked again more searchingly at her reflection, and after a

moment added a touch of blusher to her cheeks. What had he said

about her-'the face and body of a Botticelli angel'. Natural colour

rose to enhance the artificial. It was a ridiculous tiling to say, she

thought, an unnecessary and unwanted compliment. And it was

untrue. Jan was the beautiful one, and always had been. If he saw

them together, he would know that. It was merely that he did not

know what Jan was like, either physically or mentally.

In a way, she felt fiercely glad that she had been there in Rome to

deal with this onslaught on her sister's behalf. If he had got to Jan

first, it would have been a sour note on which to start her married

life.

What in the world did he have against Jan anyway? He had uttered

a lot of threats and cryptic remarks, but he had not produced one

shred of tangible evidence to support his view that she was not a

suitable bride for his brother. Juliet did not deceive herself that Jan

had led the life of a recluse since she arrived in Italy, but this was

the twentieth century after all, and Santino Vallone would have to

come to the realisation that there could no longer be one moral law

for men and another for women.

One thing was certain. Not one word of all this must ever reach

Mim's ears. She found herself wishing, for no good reason that she

could pinpoint, that. Santino could meet her mother-visit her home

and see the kind of background she and Jan had come from. It

might not have the material wealth of his own family life, but surely

he couldn't be blind to all that was good in it. He would be forced to

admit that by denigrating Jan, he had been unjust to all the

Laurences.

Yet why was it important that Santino should make any kind of

admission? That was the question that began to hum at the back of

her mind and which she found herself increasingly reluctant to

answer. She'd already admitted to herself that he was out of her

league, so the kind of speculation that she had been indulging in

was unprofitable to say the very least.

She glanced again at the rose, glowing against her dress, and

shivered as she recalled the brush of his fingers against her breasts

as he had placed the flower there. Even that slight physical contact

with him had been like an electric < current, brushing through her

nerve-endings, so what would it be like to be held closely in his

arms-to be kissed by him? Her face flamed hotly as she realised

the exact tenor of her thoughts.

She gave a little shuddering sigh. It was utterly ridiculous to admit                       
       
           



       

even to herself that she could feel a measure of attraction for

someone like Santino. And such an acknowledgment, even uttered

privately in her heart, was in. some way disloyal to Jan. She could

not respect anyone who held her own sister in such total and cynical

disrespect.

She shook her head in disbelief. What in the world was happening

to her? All the most important considerations seemed suddenly to

have been eroded by these new and frankly overwhelming

sensations that she was experiencing. She knew-or rather she had

always told herself that she knew-what she wanted from a man.

Could it be possible that only a few short hours spent in the

company of someone totally alien to her experience could set all her

ideas, all her principles madly on their respective heads?

If so, it was an unhappy prospect. Would she find herself judging

each future relationship-she grimaced slightly at the word-in

comparison with a man whose eyes gleamed like a mountain lion's,

and whose icy tongue was quite capable of flaying the skin from

your body?

And was that really all it took-that fleeting physical contact and a

dinner at a candlelit restaurant-to begin this insidious bewitchment

of her senses, against all reason and all logic?

No, she told herself decisively, she was not going to allow this to

happen. She picked up her evening purse and rose, outwardly cool

and composed, but inwardly seething with conflicting and mainly

unwelcome emotions.

This mental admission of her attraction to Santino made her

departure to England even more imperative. She needed to escape

quickly while she was still comparatively heart-whole. She gave a

small bitter smile as she turned away. What strange and disturbing

byways her impulse to impersonate Jan had led her into! She had

wondered what it would be like to live her sister's life. Well, now

she knew, and it had not been a comfortable experience. She would

be glad to revert to being plain Juliet Laurence again, she told

herself firmly.

And if she hurried back to England, she might still be in time to join

that barge holiday she'd been offered. She would need something to

take her mind off the past couple of days. If she simply sat at home

brooding, Mim might guess that there was something wrong, and

start leaping to all kinds of conclusions. Juliet shuddered at the

thought of trying to evade her mother's gentle persistence once her

suspicions were aroused.

But for now, she had to get through the homeward journey. The

powder room door swung open at her approach and two women

entered, giving her an incurious look as they swept past on a cloud

of expensive scent. For a moment she lingered, wondering wildly

whether she could evade Santino altogether and get a lift back to

Rome from another patron of the restaurant-perhaps even these

very women.

But common sense soon disabused her of that notion. How was she

going to make herself understood with her limited knowledge of

Italian for one thing? She could hardly go round the terrace until she

found a driver who spoke sufficient English to comprehend her

requirements. And did she really think Santino would stand tamely

by while she stood him up-or appeared to, at least-in front of the

fascinated gaze of a section of Roman high society?

No, she would have to leave with him as she had arrived, and part

from him when they returned to the flat with a semblance of

insouciance.

She bit her lip as she walked across the terrace to the table where

he sat smoking. Why couldn't she be honest with herself, and admit

that she wanted to spend just a little more time in his company, in

spite of everything that he had said and the enormous gulf that

must, perforce, yawn between them? The truth was that when they

did part, she wanted him to think not quite as badly of her in the

role she was playing as he did now, and that when the truth finally

emerged, he might look back on the evening they had spent together

with even a little regret.

Romantic idiocy, she told herself caustically. When he does find out

what I've done, he'll probably want to break my neck.