She blinked back tears. ‘I don’t deserve you. I feel guilty for being so happy.’
‘Don’t feel guilty, my darling. Go on, open it.’
Tentatively, she loosened the little rope and peered inside. The present glittered through the darkness. He had bought her real jewellery. She opened her hand and poured the contents into her palm. When she saw the size of the diamonds she let out a gasp. She stared at the drop earrings as if they were stolen goods. ‘You bought these for me? They’re stunning.’
‘They’re antique. Put them on.’
With trembling fingers she took off her usual gold studs and replaced them with the new diamond earrings. The stones shone out against her milk chocolate skin, accentuating her white teeth and the clear whites of her eyes. The pear-shaped drops dangled as she moved her head.
‘Put your hair up,’ he said, longing to run his lips over the soft skin of her neck. She pulled a band off her wrist and swiftly tied her hair into a high pony-tail. ‘Now they look spectacular.’ Unable to contain her excitement she rushed around the table to embrace him.
‘I have to see them on. I’ll go and look in the bathroom mirror. Back in a second!’
Luca lit a cigarette and smiled with satisfaction. Giving had never afforded him such pleasure.
When she came back she walked slowly, the curve of her waist and hips emphasised by her clingy cotton dress. She leaned across the table, her eyes full of lust. ‘Let’s go to the folly and make love,’ she breathed, her voice low and husky.
Luca needed no encouragement. He paid the bill and they left, running to the car like a pair of teenagers. Before he let her inside, he pressed her against the door and kissed her, running his lips over her neck and behind her ear where her new diamonds sparkled. He could feel the heat of her body and the rise and fall of her breasts. The smell of lemons, warm on her damp skin, was invitingly tangy. The drive to the palazzo only increased their ardour. Luca parked the car a little distance away from the front door and they crept through the trees. The moon lit up the sky like a Chinese lantern, illuminating their way through the damp undergrowth until they reached the folly. Luca was too hot with desire to care about the intruder. He lit a candle while Cosima pulled back the silk bedspread, unzipped her dress and dropped her panties to the floor. She was naked but for her diamond earrings and the lust that glinted in her eyes. He took off his jacket but before he had time to undress further, she moved towards him and unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it over his shoulders. Then she buried her face in his chest, kissing every inch of skin. The tension grew thick in the air with the scent of candle wax and lemons as they took their pleasure in that small folly designed for love.
Suddenly they were alerted to the sound of movement outside. Then, the rattling noise of a key in the lock, unsuccessfully attempting to turn against Luca’s key. Then the shuffling of footsteps. Luca and Cosima froze. They lay entwined on the bed, barely daring to breathe. They sensed the person circling the folly, spying perhaps through the windows.
‘Can he see us?’ Cosima whispered.
‘I hope not.’ Were he dressed, Luca would have flung open the door to confront the intruder, man or woman. His nakedness rendered that idea farcical. By the time he struggled into his clothes the voyeur would be gone.
‘What do we do?’ she hissed.
‘Nothing. We remain very still.’ She made to speak again but he silenced her with a finger across her lips. ‘Shhh, my darling. Nothing’s going to ruin our night.’
23
The following morning, as Luca had not come downstairs, Romina took Fiyona to the trattoria in the hope of finding Rosa. If anyone could help with her research it was sweet, garrulous Rosa.
It was a cloudy day. A grey front was approaching from the east, threatening rain. Fiyona had changed out of her red fishnet tights and skirt into a pair of jeans, pink flipflops and a denim jacket over a white T-shirt, her large handbag hanging over her shoulder like a penance. Romina’s nostrils flared at the musky spice of her perfume. She looked like she could benefit from a thorough scrub. Molto Inglese, Romina thought. What was it about that type of English girl? She always looked grubby.
They found Rosa sitting outside chatting to Fiero. When she saw Romina, Rosa smiled and waved. ‘Buon giorno,’ she said.
‘Buon giorno, Rosa. I have someone to see you.’ Romina ushered Fiyona forward.
‘My name is Fiyona Pritchett, I’m a journalist for the Sunday Times magazine,’ she said in fluent Italian.
Rosa was impressed. ‘You speak very well!’
‘I do my best,’ Fiyona replied modestly. ‘I like to practise. The only opportunity I get in London is with waiters.’ She looked at Fiero and the young man’s eyes lit up, responding enthusiastically to an unspoken message.