Moth to the Flame(21)

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.