The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco: The Italian's Wife by Sunset

CHAPTER TWO

DELLA waited while he showered at top speed, then emerged casually dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and fawn trousers. Even in this simple attire he looked as though he could afford the world, and she guessed that he’d had a privileged upbringing.

‘Let’s get that coffee,’ Carlo said.

But when they reached the self-service cafeteria they both stopped dead. The place was packed with tourists, all yelling with raucous good cheer.

‘I think not,’ he said firmly.

He didn’t wait for her answer, but simply took her hand and walked away, adding, ‘I know lots of better places.’

But then, abruptly, he stopped.

‘Where are my manners?’ he demanded, striking himself on the forehead. ‘I didn’t ask if you wanted to go into that place. Shall we turn back?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ she said at once.

He grinned, nodding, and they went on in perfect accord.

His car was just what she would have expected—an elegant sports two-seater in dashing red—and, also as she would have expected, he ushered her into it with a flourish. His whole body was a clever combination of different effects. Built like a hunk, yet he moved with subtlety and grace. His hands on the steering wheel held her attention, lying there lightly, barely touching, yet controlling the powerful machine effortlessly.

Della’s mind was reeling.

Just what I need, she thought. He’s ideal—for the programme. Handsome, charming, never at a loss for words—he won’t suddenly become tongue-tied in front of a camera, or anywhere else. The perfect—She paused in her thoughts and tried to remember that she was a television producer. ‘The perfect product. Yes, that’s it.

She felt better once she’d settled that with herself.

‘Do you live around here?’ Carlo asked.

‘No, I’m just visiting. I’m staying at the Vallini in Naples.’

‘Are you planning to stay long?’

‘I—haven’t quite decided,’ she said carefully.

He swung onto the coast road and they drove with the sea on their left, glittering in the late-afternoon sun. Naples lay ahead, but when they reached halfway he turned off into a tiny seaside village. Della could see fishing boats tied up at the water’s edge, and cobbled streets stretching away between old houses.

He parked the car and made his way confidently to a small restaurant. As soon as they entered a man behind the counter yelled joyfully, ‘E, Carlo!’

‘Berto!’ he yelled back cheerfully, and guided Della to a table by a small window.

Berto came hurrying over with coffee, which he contrived to pour while chattering and giving Della quick, appraising glances.

I’ll bet they see him in here with a new companion every week, she thought, with an inner chuckle.

The coffee was delicious, and she began to relax for the first time since she’d awoken that morning.

‘It was so good to get off that plane,’ she said, giving herself a little shake.

‘You just arrived from England?’

‘You could tell because I’m speaking English, right?’

‘It’s a bit more than that. My mother is English, and there’s something in your voice that sounds a little like her.’

‘That explains a lot about you, too.’

‘Such as what?’ he asked curiously.

‘You speak English with barely an accent.’

He laughed. ‘That was Mamma’s doing. We all had to speak her language perfectly, or else.’

‘All? You have plenty of brothers and sisters?’

‘Just brothers. There are six of us, related in various ways.’

‘Various?’ She frowned. ‘I thought you just said you were brothers.’

‘Some of us are brothers, some of us are “sort of” brothers. When Mamma married Poppa she already had two sons, plus a stepson and an adopted son. Then they had two more.’

‘Six Rinucci brothers?’ she mused.

‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’ he said solemnly. ‘It’s just terrible.’

His droll manner made her chuckle, and he went on, ‘Even the most Italian of us are part English, but some are more English than others. The differences get blurred. Poppa says we’re all the devil’s spawn anyway, so what does it matter?’

‘It sounds like a lovely, big, happy family.’ She sighed enviously.

‘I suppose it is,’ he said, seeming to consider. ‘We fight a lot, but we always make up.’

‘And you’d always be there for each other. That’s the nicest thing.’

‘You said that like an only child,’ he observed, regarding her with interest.

‘Is it that obvious?’ she asked.

‘It is to someone who has many siblings.’

‘I must admit that I really envy you that,’ she said. ‘Tell me some more about your brothers. You don’t fight all the time, surely?’

‘On and off. Mamma’s first husband was English, but his first wife had been Italian—a Rinucci. Primo is the son of that marriage, so he’s half-Italian, half-English. Luke, the adopted son of that marriage is all English. Are you with me?’

‘Struggling, but still there. Keep going.’

‘Primo and Luke have always traded insults, but that means nothing. It’s practically a way of communicating—especially while they were in love with the same woman.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Luckily that didn’t last very long. Primo married her, and Luke found someone else, and now their wives keep them in order, just as wives should.’

‘Oh, really?’ she said ironically.

‘No, really. Any man who’s grown up in this country knows that when the wife speaks the husband stands to attention—if he’s wise. Well, it’s what my father does, anyway.’

‘And when your turn comes you’ll choose a woman who knows how to keep you in order?’

‘No, my mother will choose her,’ he assured her solemnly. ‘She’s set her heart on six daughters-in-law, and so far she’s only achieved three. Every time a new woman enters the house I’ll swear she checks her for suitability and ticks off a list. When she finds the right one I’ll get my orders.’

‘And you’ll obey?’ she teased.

His answering grin was rich with life, an invitation to join him in adventure.

‘That’s a while off yet,’ he said contentedly. ‘I’m in no rush.’

‘Life’s good, so why spoil it with a wife?’

‘I wouldn’t exactly put it like that,’ he said uneasily.

‘Yes, you would,’ she said at once. ‘Not out loud, perhaps. But deep inside, where you think I can’t hear.’

His answer was unexpected.

‘I wouldn’t bet against your being able to hear anything I was thinking.’

Then he looked disconcerted, as though he had surprised even himself with the words, and his laugh had a touch of awkwardness that affected her strangely.

Berto came to their table to tell them that the day’s catch of clams was excellent, and that spaghetti alle vongole could be rustled up in a moment.

‘Clam pasta,’ Carlo translated.

‘Sounds lovely.’

‘Wine?’ Berto queried.

Carlo eyed her questioningly, and she hastened to say, ‘I leave everything to you.’

He rattled off several names that Della didn’t recognise, and Berto bustled away.

‘I took the liberty of ordering a few other things as well,’ Carlo explained.

‘That’s fine. I wouldn’t have known what to ask for.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Playing the tactful card, huh?’

‘I’m a newcomer here. I listen to the expert.’

Berto returned with white wine. When he had poured it and gone, Carlo said, ‘So, you reckon you can see right through me?’

‘No, you said I could. Not me.’

‘I have to admit that you got one or two things right.’

‘Let’s see how well I manage on the rest. I know Italian men often stay at home longer than others, but I don’t think that you do, because Mamma’s eagle eye might prove—shall we say, inhibiting?’

‘That’s as good a word as any,’ he conceded cautiously.

‘You’ve got a handy little bachelor apartment where you take the girls you can’t take home because they wouldn’t tick any of Mamma’s “suitability” boxes, and that’s just fine by you—’

‘Basta!’ He stopped her with a pleading voice. ‘Enough, enough! How did you learn all that?’

‘Easy. I just took one look at you.’

‘Obviously I don’t have any secrets,’ he said ruefully.

‘Well, perhaps I was a little unfair on you.’

‘No, you weren’t. I deserved it all. In fact, I’m worse. My mother would certainly say so.’

She chuckled. ‘Then think of me as a second mother.’

‘Not in a million years,’ he said softly.

His eyes, gliding significantly over her, made his meaning plain beyond words, and suddenly she was aware that she looked several years younger than her age, that her figure was ultra-slim and firm, thanks to hours in the gym, that her eyes were large and lustrous and her complexion flawless.

Every detail of her body might have been designed to elicit a man’s admiration. She knew it, and at this moment she was passionately glad of it.

It might be fun.

He was certainly fun.

Berto arrived with clam pasta, breaking the mood—which was a relief, since she hadn’t decided where she wanted this to go. But a moment ago there had been no choice to make. What had happened?

He was watching her face as she ate, relishing her enjoyment.

‘Good?’

‘Good,’ she confirmed. ‘I love Italian food, but I don’t get much chance to eat it.’

‘You’ve never been here before?’

‘I had a holiday in Italy once, but mostly I depend on Italian restaurants near my home.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘In London, on a houseboat moored on the Thames.’

‘You live on the water? That’s great. Tell me about it.’

At this point she should have talked about her serious day-to-day life, with its emphasis on work, and the occasional visit from her grown up son. Instead, unaccountably, Della found herself describing the river at dawn, when the first light caught the ripples and the banks emerged from the shadows.

‘Sometimes it feels really strange,’ she mused. ‘I’m right there, in the heart of a great city, yet it’s so quiet on the river just before everywhere comes alive. It’s as though the world belongs to me alone, just for a little while. But you have to catch the moment because it vanishes so quickly. The light grows and the magic dies.’

‘I know what you mean,’ he murmured.

‘You’ve been there?’

‘No, I—I meant something else. Later. Tell me some more about yourself. What sort of work do you do?’

‘I’m in television,’ she said vaguely.

‘You’re a star—your face on every screen?’

‘No, I’m strictly behind the scenes.’

‘Ah, you’re one of those terrifyingly efficient production assistants who gets everyone scurrying about.’

‘I’ve been told I can be terrifying,’ she admitted. ‘And people have been known to scurry around when I want them to.’

‘Maybe that’s why I thought you were a schoolteacher?’

‘You’ve got quite a way with youngsters yourself.’

But he dismissed the suggestion with a gesture of his hand.

‘I’d be a terrible teacher. I could never keep discipline. They’d all see through me and know that I was just one of the kids at heart.’

‘You had them hanging on your every word.’

‘That’s because I’m crazy about my subject and I want everyone else to be crazy, too. I believe it can make me a bit of a bore.’

‘Sure, I’m sitting here fainting with boredom. Tell me about your subject.’

‘Archaeology. No, don’t say it—’ He interrupted himself quickly. ‘I don’t look like an archaeologist, more like a hippie—’

‘I was thinking a hobo myself,’ she said mischievously. ‘Someone not very respectable, anyway.’

‘Thank you. I take that as a compliment. I’m not respectable. I don’t pretend to be. Who needs it?’

‘Nobody, as long as you know your stuff—and you obviously do.’

Carlo grinned. ‘Why? Because I kept a few youngsters quiet? That’s the easy part, being a showman. It’s not what really counts.’

She’d actually been thinking of his string of qualifications, but remembered in time that she wasn’t supposed to know about them.

‘What does really count?’ she asked, fascinated.

That was all he needed. Words poured from him. Some she understood, some were above her head, but what was crystal-clear was his devotion, amounting to a love affair, to ancient times and other worlds.

All his life he’d had soaring ambitions, hating the thought of being earthbound.

‘I used to play truant at school,’ he recalled, ‘and my teachers all predicted I’d come to a bad end because I was bound to fail my exams. But I fooled ‘em. I used to sit up the night before, memorising everything just long enough to pass with honours.’ He sighed with happy recollection. ‘Lord, but that made them mad!’

She couldn’t help laughing at the sight of him, transformed back into that rebellious schoolboy.

‘I couldn’t face anything nine-to-five,’ he said. ‘Not at school, not at work. The beauty of being in my line is that you get to fly.’

‘And you really have to fly,’ she teased. ‘I guess when you get near the earth you crash.’

‘Right. That’s why I could never be a teacher, or a museum administrator. I might have to—’ He looked desperate.

‘Might have to what?’ she asked through her laughter.

He glanced over his shoulder and spoke with a lowered voice.

‘Wear a collar and tie.’

He sat back with the air of one who had described unimaginable horrors. Della nodded in sympathy.

‘But doesn’t it ever get depressing?’ she asked. ‘Spending so much time surrounded by death, especially in Pompeii—all those people, petrified in the positions they died in nearly two thousand years ago?’

‘But they’re not dead,’ he said, almost fiercely. ‘Not to me. They’re still speaking, and I’m listening because they have so much to say.’

‘But hasn’t it all been said? I mean, they finished excavating that place years ago. What more is there?’

He almost tore his hair.

‘They didn’t finish excavating. They barely started. I’m working on a whole undiscovered area—’

He stopped, and seemed to calm himself down by force of will.

‘I’m sorry. Once I get started there’s no stopping me. I told you I’m a bore.’

‘I wasn’t bored,’ she said truthfully. ‘Not a bit.’

In truth, she was fascinated. A fire was flaming within him and she wanted to see more, know more.

‘Go on,’ she urged.

Then he was away again, words pouring out in a vivid, passionate stream so that she caught the sense even of the bits she didn’t understand. After a while she stopped trying to follow too closely. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he could make her see visions through his own eyes. It was like being taken on a journey into the heart of the man, and it was exhilarating.

‘You’ve let your food get cold,’ he said at last.

At some point they had passed onto the next course, and it had lain uneaten on both their plates while he took her on a journey to the stars.

‘I forgot about it,’ she said, feeling slightly stunned.

‘So did I,’ he admitted.

The voice of caution, which normally ruled her life, whispered, A practised charmer, but the warning floated away, unheeded. Something more was happening—something that would make her get up and leave now, if she had any sense.

But she didn’t want to be sensible. She wanted to go on enjoying this foolish magic, as crazy as a teenager. No matter how it ended. She would relish every moment.

Carlo watched her without seeming to. It was becoming important to him to ‘capture’ her in his mind, as though by doing so he could fit her into some niche where he would know what to make of her. Luckily the hours stretched ahead, full of time to get to know her better.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Carlo saw an acquaintance come into the restaurant, and he cursed silently. The man was well-meaning but long-winded, and if he didn’t act fast his evening would be in ruins.

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said hurriedly, leaving the table.

His worst fears were fulfilled. His friend greeted him with bonhomie, and a determination to join him at all costs. Carlo just managed to head him off at the pass, and finally made his way back to the table, determined on escape.

Della was talking on her cellphone as he approached, and he heard her say, ‘It’s lovely to talk to you, darling.’

It wasn’t so much the word that troubled him as the soft adoration in her voice, the glow in her eyes.

For pity’s sake, he chided himself. You’ve only known her a few hours. What do you care who she calls darling?

He wished he knew the answer.

She was laughing, her face alight with affection.

‘I’ve got to go now. I’ll call you again soon. Bye, darling.’ She hung up.

A moment later Carlo reached the table, showing no sign that he’d heard the call or even knew she’d made one.

‘Perhaps we should move on?’ he said.

She nodded. She had seen him talking urgently with a man, blocking his way so that he could not disturb them.

Outside, he took her hand and headed for the car, but then stopped suddenly, as though something had struck him.

‘No—wait! The time’s just right.’

‘Right for what?’

‘I’ll show you.’

He turned and began to lead her in the opposite direction. Gradually the houses fell away and they were going towards the shore, reaching the road that ran beside it and crossing over onto the beach.

‘Look,’ he said.

The tide had gone out, leaving the fishing boats lying lopsided on the wet sand. Water lay in the ridges and the tiny pools, and the last rays of the setting sun had turned it deep red.

She gazed, awestruck, at so much dramatic beauty before finally breathing, ‘It’s magic’

‘Yes, it is. Not everyone sees it, but I thought you would because of what you told me about dawn on the Thames. To some people it’s just wet sand and a few boats. If you see them by day they’re old and shabby. But like this—’

He stopped, almost as if hoping that she would finish his thought.

‘Another world,’ she said. ‘A special world that only appears for a short time.’

She thought he gave a little sigh of pleasure.

‘Just a short time,’ he agreed. ‘Soon it will be dark, and the special world will vanish.’

‘But it’ll return tomorrow.’

‘It may not. It isn’t always like this, only when everything is right. It’s like you said: you have to be ready to catch the moment before it vanishes.’

He was leading her out in the direction of the sea, leaving the conventional safety of the land behind, taking her into an unfamiliar world.

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Let me take off my shoes before they get wet.’

She did so, shoving them into her capacious shoulder bag. He removed his own and she grabbed them, putting them, too, into the bag, and taking his hand again.

Not speaking, they walked towards the horizon, until the shallow water just covered their feet.

‘This is when it’s at its best,’ he said quietly.

The setting sun covered the beach and the film of water with blazing red in all directions, so that they might have been standing in a fire. It drenched them with its mysterious violent light.

Carlo looked at her, smiling, and she braced herself, knowing that this was exactly the right moment for a skilled charmer to kiss her, and that he, who clearly knew all the moves, would be bound to make this one. But then she saw that there was something awkward, almost shy, about his smile. While she was trying to puzzle it out, he raised her hand and rubbed the back of it against his cheek.

She stared, too dumbfounded to react. According to the script he should have kissed her, and if he’d done so she would have known how to ‘place’ him. But the closest he came was to press his lips gently where his cheek had touched a moment earlier. And when she met his eyes she saw that he was as disconcerted as she.

The next moment the light changed. Something brilliant faded. And it was over.

‘It’s gone,’ she said, disappointed.

‘It’s gone for now,’ he agreed. ‘But there are other things. Let’s go.’

As twilight fell Carlo drove along the coast until they reached the outskirts of Naples.

‘Shall I take you to your hotel?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please. I need to talk to you where we won’t be disturbed.’

She knew she couldn’t put the moment off any longer. Something had started to happen, and if it were to flower she must be honest with him first.

As they went up in the elevator at the Vallini she was planning how she would explain that their meeting had not been an accident. Such was his good nature that she had no fears about his reaction.

The last of the light faded as they entered her room and shut the door. Before she could reach for the switch she felt his arms go around her, drawing her close, fitting her head against his shoulder.

At once she relaxed. This was what she’d wanted for at least the last hour. Why deny it? It was undignified to have fallen so easily into the trap, especially as she had seen it from a distance, but that was what had happened.

But the trap wasn’t the one she’d armed herself against. A glib tongue and an easy manner—those she could cope with. But the uncertainty in his eyes when they’d met hers had caught her unawares

It was the worst moment for her cellphone to buzz. Groaning, Carlo released her, and she turned away, walking to the window as she reached into her purse. Taking out the phone, she discovered a text message.

‘Shall we have champagne?’ came Carlo’s voice from behind her.

She hadn’t realised that he was so close, and jumped sharply enough to drop the phone.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get it for you. It went under that chair.’

He dropped to his knees and reached for it. Then, as he drew it out, Della saw his smile fade. In silence he handed it to her. Her blood ran cold as she saw the words on the illuminated screen.

Have you tracked Rinucci down yet? George

Looking up, she saw Carlo standing back, regarding her. On the surface his good humour seemed unruffled, but she could see the distance in his eyes.

‘You came to “track me down”?’ he asked coolly.

She sighed. ‘Yes, I did come here looking for you.’

‘What did I do to merit that?’

‘If you’d let me explain in my own way—’

‘Just tell me.’ His voice was ominously quiet.

‘You’re ideal for a television show I’m planning. I’ve got my own production company, and I’m setting up a series about places of great dramatic events in history. I need a frontman, and someone told me you’d be ideal.’