reality, a charmed circle in which they were caught for all eternity.
For no reason, she found herself remembering that moth which had
kept circling their table at the restaurant-was it only twenty-four
hours ago? It seemed like a lifetime. The moth too had been drawn
by that circle of light, she thought, drawn closer and closer towards
disaster. It might so easily have blundered into the protective globe
and died there, its wings singed irrevocably by the flame.
And was she any better than the moth? She was drawn too, but the
flame that threatened to engulf her was the power, the attraction
that she felt emanating from Santino -a flame that was capable of
breaking down all her powers of resistance, her defences, and even
her self-respect.
As if in a dream, she heard his voice asking her courteously if she
had finished and realised, her face flaming, that she was sitting with
her spoon suspended above an empty plate, transfixed by her
thoughts and the quivering emotions that they were engendering.
He reached out and rang a small silver handbell which had been
placed beside him, and Annunziata was quick to obey its summons.
Watching her deftly remove the plates and bring the grilled sardines
which formed the next course, Juliet thought with some bitterness
that she must be well used to waiting for the sound of the bell. If it
did not ring, she would know that her master and his guest would
not want to be disturbed.
Studying her under her lashes, Juliet wondered what Annunziata
must think of the frequent changes of female visitor. Was she
shocked? She wore a silver crucifix at the neck of her plain black
dress, so presumably she was a Catholic. But perhaps the wages
that Santino paid her were sufficient to assuage her conscience.
After all, as Juliet knew to her cost, he believed that everyone could
be bought.
She forced herself to eat because she did not want Santino to guess
at the confusion of thought and emotions that was preying on her
mind, but she had no real appetite. She was only glad that he was
not making conversation. Yet his silence was equally disturbing in
its own way. Perhaps it was deliberate, she thought, pushing the
crisp little fish unwillingly round her plate. Another ploy intended to
rattle her, make her even more vulnerable than she was already.
The wine in her glass was cold and dry and she was glad of it,
grateful for the warmth it seemed to spread through her veins.
Annunziata came again, tutting a little over the amount Juliet left on
her plate, her plump face anxious, but at the same time confident
that the signorina would find the next course perhaps more to her
taste. Juliet nodded and smiled as the chicken simmered with wine
and cream and mushrooms was placed lovingly in front of her, but
she was only too aware that mocking tawny eyes across the table
were assessing her and probably knew as well as she did that her
throat had almost closed with her nervousness, and that she would
find it difficult to swallow even a bite of the deliriously fragrant
concoction in front of her even helped down by the wine that was
spreading such a false glow of confidence through her body.
Santino reached for the bottle and refilled her glass, lifting his own
towards her.
'Alla salute, cara," he murmured.
She raised her own glass in reply but said nothing. She wondered if
it was significant that he had drunk to her health instead of a toast
that would have bound them together, such as 'To us.'
As he turned to help himself from the heaped dish of broccoli
spears which Annunziata had placed on the table, she studied him
unobtrusively, taking the first long look at him that she had dared to
since she had come downstairs.
He was wearing a faultlessly cut velvet dinner jacket in some dark
colour-black, she thought, or maybe navy-and the shirt beneath
it was white, elaborately frilled and beautifully laundered. Every
last detail about his appearance spoke of money.
He glanced up suddenly and caught her eyes full on him. One
eyebrow rose sardonically, but before he could ask the inevitable
question, she herself rushed into speech, a thought that had
preoccupied her more than once finding utterance at last.
'Is it because my-I'm poor, because I have to work for a living that
you don't want me to marry your brother?' Her haste had made her
careless. She had nearly said 'my sister', and hoped he hadn't
noticed the slip.
But he was plainly too astonished by the remainder of the question
to pay any heed to that fleeting stumble over words.
'Are you trying to be funny?' he asked at last, contemptuously.
'No.' Juliet shook her head vehemently. 'It-it's just that I'm at a loss
to understand why you're so opposed to the idea. You-you've
never really told me the reason, you know-just left me to infer
things from what you've said.'
'And the inferences you have drawn have not been clear to you?' He
refilled his own glass, flicking the lace ruffle back from his wrist
with a practised gesture. 'I'm sorry, cara, if I've been obscure. I
thought we understood -one another.'
'I'm not sure I understand anything any more,' she said wearily.
'Then understand this.' He laid down his fork and stared at her, the .
tawny eyes intent and curiously bright beneath the dark brows. 'I
would never despise an honourable poverty. Do you imagine my
family has always been wealthy? That I have always lived in
surroundings such as this-had servants at my beck and call? You
know nothing. What I have achieved has been done with these.' He
extended his hands in front of him. 'Tomorrow I will take you to the
village, Janina, and you will see the house where my father was
born. You will ask yourself how anyone could survive in such a
place, let alone bear and raise a family.'
'Were you born there too?' Juliet asked almost timidly.
He shook his head. 'I first saw the light of day in the slums of
Reggio,' he said tiredly. 'A beginning that has even less to
recommend it than a hovel in Roccaforte. You need a will to
survive there too, bella mia, and that's what I had-a will and a
passion to learn that by some miracle was recognised.' He leaned
back in the high carved chair, the sudden emotion dying out of his
face, leaving it dark and enigmatic again. 'Has Mario told you
nothing of this?' he demanded.
She shook her head, hoping that he would not press for any further
explanation of Mario's obviously unexpected reticence.
He smiled coldly. 'He must have believed that his present good
fortune would have been more acceptable to you, cam, than his
humble beginnings.' His voice bit. 'Not that his struggle was ever
overwhelming. As he was so much younger, his path was made
easier by my own early successes. Perhaps too easy.'
'Will you please get it into your head that I am not after Mario for
his money!' she said hotly. Oh, Jan, let it be true, she thought
agonisingly.
He shrugged a shoulder. 'I believe you. Why not? There have been
richer men in your life, cara, as I am sure you don't mind admitting
as you are urging me to speak frankly. But Mario, being young and
a fool, was the only one who offered marriage, wasn't that it,
Janina? A young, wealthy husband and instant respectability was
what you opted for. I do not altogether blame you. In your own
rather permissive little circle you must have been becoming rather
notorious. Mario must have seemed like a lifeline tossed to a
drowning man, only I'm afraid I am going to have to let you drown,
because my plans for Mario do not include his marriage to a
puttana like you.'
She cried out-even her scanty knowledge of Italian was sufficient
to translate that term for her-and before she could recapture her
self-control she flung the contents of her wine glass straight in his
face.
'Dio!' He was on his feet, reaching furiously for a table napkin,
dabbing at the spots of wine marking his once immaculate shirt and
jacket, mopping the rivulets of liquid that were running down his
face.
Juliet sat as if she had been turned to stone, waiting for the moment
when he would turn his attention to her. There was something
inherently comical in someone having something thrown all over
him, so why was it she had never fell less like laughing in her life?
He picked up the handbell and rang it imperiously, his fingers
closing round the fragile silver stem as if it was her neck, swearing
softly under his breath as he did so. >
When the flustered Annunziata arrived almost at the gallop, he
gestured to her to clear the table. He offered no explanation, but
Juliet thought Annunziata would easily be able to draw her own
conclusions from the soaking tablecloth and Santino's own suddenly
dishevelled appearance.
She sat and looked down at her fingers linked tensely together in
her lap. She was ashamed now of what she had done, but it had
been an instinctive reaction. She could not have sat quietly by and
heard Janina labelled as a prostitute. She felt cold and sick inside.
Santino walked round to her side of the table and his fingers hurt as
they closed around her wrist, jerking her to her feet.