‘Look,’ he said, taking Helen’s arm, ‘they’re all watching us. Let’s give them something to watch.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Like this,’ he said, drawing her close and leaning down so that his mouth was almost touching hers.
‘What are you doing?’ she whispered, torn between indignation at his nerve and excitement at the way his breath fluttered against her lips.
‘I’m giving you the chance to stand up for yourself,’ he murmured. ‘Right here, where everyone can see you.’
‘You make it sound so easy.’
‘It is easy. Either you’re a modern, liberated woman, or you’re a dutiful daughter who’ll let herself be marched into marriage with a fat old man.’
With every word his lips flickered lightly against hers, making it hard to think clearly. He was right—maybe. It was hard to tell when little tremors of excitement were scurrying through her.
‘I don’t normally kiss men I’ve only just met,’ she protested.
‘Well, they don’t know we’ve only just met.’
‘But I don’t even know your na—’
The gentle pressure of his lips cut off the last word, and she felt his arms tighten about her just a little, not enough to be threatening, just enough to say he meant business. He was laughing too, inviting her to share the joke even while he kissed her with lips she instinctively sensed had kissed a thousand times before.
Those lips knew far too much, she thought. They were experts in teasing a woman until her head was in a whirl. And they brought back the visions that had assailed her when she first saw him, visions of abundance, riches and sunshine. The wind was as cold as ever, but now she was filled with warmth, melting her, overwhelming her.
‘It would look more convincing if you kissed me back,’ he murmured. ‘Put your arms around my neck.’
Her mind told him to stop his nonsense, but her hands were already sliding up until she could touch his hair, wind her fingers in it, relish the soft, springiness against her palm. She was pulling him closer because she wanted more of him, longed for what only the firm warmth of his mouth could give her. And when she found herself kissing him fervently back it was useless to pretend that she was only trying to ‘make it convincing’. She was doing this because she wanted to.
She flattened her hands against his chest. ‘I think we’ve done enough,’ she said in a shaking voice.
‘We haven’t even started,’ he whispered, and even then she noticed that his voice too was shaking. Looking up she saw his eyes in the near darkness, and thought there was a look of astonishment.
‘Let me go,’ she said urgently. She was suddenly full of alarm. She had to be free of him before it was too late. Trying to strike a lighter note she said, ‘If Lorenzo Martelli saw that he might take a stiletto to you.’
‘Let him come. I’m brave enough for anything tonight.’
There was the sound of doors, voices raised in excitement. Suddenly he grasped Helen’s hand. ‘You will take my side in the row, won’t you?’ he begged.
‘There may not be a row.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said in a voice that was hollow with approaching doom. ‘There’s going to be a row.’
She stared at him, puzzled. But before she could ask, her mother was on them, and incredibly she was laughing, hugging her eldest daughter to her and muttering, ‘What a clever girl you are!’
‘Mamma, I have someone with me. Didn’t you see what we were—?’
‘Oh course I saw. We all did. When Poppa told me who he was we got out the best champagne.’
‘Poppa knows him?’
‘He collected him from the airport two days ago. There now! Didn’t we choose a splendid husband for you?’
She was suddenly dizzy. There was a fog about her head, but not thick enough to shield her from the incredible, the monstrous, the outrageous truth. There was Poppa pumping the young man by the hand, bellowing, ‘Lorenzo!’ There were her sisters, surrounding him excitedly, urging him inside.
And there was Lorenzo Martelli, letting himself be hauled away, meeting Helen’s stormy eyes from the safety of a distance, and giving her a shrug in which guilt, helplessness and mischief were equally mixed, before turning tail and seeking refuge in the safety of the house.
CHAPTER TWO
MAMMA was almost bouncing up and down in her excitement, kissing her daughter again and again.
‘Isn’t that wonderful?’ she enthused. ‘Fancy the two of you liking each other at once! Just wait until your Aunt Lucia in Maryland hears about this.’
Helen blanched at the thought of this story spreading all over Maryland. How long before it got to California? ‘Mamma, don’t tell Aunt Lucia anything just now.’
‘You’re right. Wait until you’ve got his ring on your finger.’
‘Mamma—’
‘OK, OK. But you gotta tell me how you met him.’
‘He was at the hotel reception tonight.’
‘Of course. He wants to sell them his vegetables. Oh, it’ll be a marriage made in heaven.’
‘It isn’t a marriage made anywhere,’ Helen said crossly. ‘I’m not marrying him.’
Signora Angolini screamed. ‘What you mean? What kind of a girl kisses a man in front of the whole street and then says she won’t marry him?’
‘It’s not in front of the—’ A prickle on her spine caused her to look up the high buildings. Row upon row they rose, and wherever she looked the windows were packed with smiling faces.
‘I think we’d better get indoors,’ she said faintly. One ghastly fact was becoming clearer by the moment. There was no way she could tell her family the truth. If kissing her ‘fiancé’ in the street was bad, kissing a man whose identity she hadn’t known was a hundred times worse. The Angolini family would never recover from the shame.
Their home was an apartment over the butcher’s shop that was Nicolo Angolini’s pride and joy. Although large, it was always slightly cramped by two parents and three daughters. Tonight it was packed to the seams with the three sons, their wives and children. By the time Helen and Mamma had climbed the stairs the introductions had been made, and Lorenzo was the centre of a smiling crowd.
Now Helen discovered the purpose of the leather bag. Lorenzo had come bearing gifts, wine and delicacies from Sicily that made Mamma tearful as she recalled the homeland that she had last seen as a girl. Helen was so touched by her mother’s happiness that she almost forgave Lorenzo. Almost.
Her sisters were in ecstasies.
‘He’s really handsome,’ Patrizia whispered, seconded by Olivia and Carlotta. ‘Oh, Elena, you’re so lucky.’
‘My name is Helen, and one more word out of any of you will be your last,’ she muttered.
‘But I want to be a bridesmaid,’ wailed Carlotta, who was fifteen.
‘You’ll be a statistic in the missing persons’ column in a minute,’ Helen warned.
Her sisters exchanged significant looks, understanding that Elena (who had always been ‘difficult’) might be a little sensitive just now.
Turning away from them she edged her way up to Lorenzo, until she got close enough to mutter. ‘We have to talk.’
‘Look,