But still she looked, and wondered, and yearned.
‘Stop it!’ she muttered, and made the bed. Torturing herself with memories was pointless—as pointless as staring at the palazzo on the hill like a love-struck teenager night after night.
But she felt like a love-struck teenager, even after all this time. Nothing had changed—except now she didn’t have to imagine what it felt like to lie in his arms, because she knew.
She tugged the quilt straight, turned it back so he could get in, and went outside, switching on the porch lights.
He was awake. She could tell that, even though his eyes were closed, and as she walked towards him, her boots crunching on the gravel, they opened and looked straight at her through the windscreen.
He didn’t want to come in. She could tell that, just as she’d been able to tell he was awake. Well, that was fine. She didn’t really want him to, either, because it meant keeping up an impossible charade of indifference for the next two weeks, and she really, really didn’t know if she could do it.
But it seemed that neither of them had a choice.
He had to do it.
There was no point delaying it, he had to get out of the car and hobble into the house and try, somehow, not to remember the last time he’d been in there.
The night of his brother Massimo’s wedding, nine months ago.
Long enough to make a baby.
That was a random thought. And if he hadn’t stopped, if he hadn’t walked away and got back in his car and driven back to Firenze, they might have done just that.
They’d had a great day. A quiet family wedding, with a simple ceremony in the town hall followed by a meal in a restaurant owned by a member of their housekeeper Carlotta’s family.
And then Massimo had taken his bride home, and the rest of them had ended up at Luca’s with all the children. Too much for him, and too much for Anita, so he’d given her a lift home, and she’d offered him coffee before he headed back to Firenze, and he’d accepted.
Except they’d never got as far as the coffee—
‘Gio?’
He eased his fragile and protesting foot out of the car with his one good hand, and then swung round and stood up, propping himself on the door for a moment.
‘OK?’
‘Bit light-headed.’
She clicked her tongue and took his good arm, draping it round her shoulders and sliding her arm around his waist so she could help him to the door. He didn’t lean much weight on her. He couldn’t, she was tiny, so he wasn’t sure how much of a help it was, but it gave him a legitimate excuse to be close to her for a moment.
He actually didn’t need her help. So long as he took tiny, short steps, it was OK. Not good, but OK. And if he took it slowly, he’d be fine.
Did he tell her that?
No, because he was weak and self-indulgent, and he was enjoying the feel of her arm around his waist too much, so he told himself he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
As if it would. Anita was made of sterner stuff than that. He’d ripped her head off a million times when she’d been helping him limp home after he’d fallen out of a tree or off a wall or come hurtling off his bike at some crazy break-neck speed, and she’d never once turned a hair or paid any attention to his objections.
So he kept quiet and let her help him, and enjoyed the side-effect of being close to her firm, athletic body, savouring the nudge of her hip against his, the feel of her arm around his back, her warm fingers curled around his wrist.
And the scent of her, the perfume she always wore, the perfume he’d bought her countless times for Christmas or birthdays, always apologising for being unimaginative but doing it anyway because that scent, for him, was Anita.
‘All right now?’
He nodded, words failing him for a second, and she shot him a keen look.
‘You really are feeling rough, aren’t you? I was expecting you to tell me to let go and stop interfering and that you didn’t need my help and go and do something useful like cooking—’
She broke off, meeting his eyes and then laughing as she saw the wry humour reflected there.
‘Surely not? Surely you haven’t finally learned to be gracious, Giovanni Valtieri, after all these years?’
‘Hardly.’
He chuckled and lifted his good hand, patting her cheek patronisingly. It always annoyed her and her eyes flared in warning.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ she said, and dropping him there in the entrance hall like a hot brick, she stalked into the kitchen, hips swishing. ‘Coffee?’
He followed her slowly, enjoying the view in a masochistic way because there was no way he would act on this crazy attraction between them. ‘Only if you’ve got a decent coffeemaker now. I don’t suppose there’s any food in the house?’
‘Not yet. It’s in the car. I’ll put the coffee on. Do you want to lie down for a while, or sit in here?’
And there it was—the sofa, an old battered leather one where he’d nearly lost his self-control last June. But it looked really inviting, and it was set opposite a pair of French doors out onto the terrace and he could see the familiar lights of the valley twinkling in the distance. His home was out there somewhere in the darkness, and if he couldn’t be there, then this was the next best thing.
‘Here looks good,’ he said, and made his way over to it and lowered himself down cautiously. So far, so good, he thought, and stretched his leg out in front of him with a quiet groan of relief.
‘Better?’
‘Much better. Have you got that coffee on yet?’
‘I thought you didn’t like my coffee?’
‘I don’t, but I need caffeine, and it has to be better than the stuff in the hospital.’
She gave him a look, but got two mugs out and found some biscuits in a tin.
‘Here. Eat these while you wait. We’ll be having dinner in a while. I bought something ready-made so we can have it whenever you’re ready.’
‘Good. I’m starving.’
She laughed. ‘I’ve never known you when you weren’t starving. It’s a miracle you’re not fat.’
‘It’s my enormous brain. It takes a lot of energy.’
She snorted, but he could see a smile teasing the corners of her mouth, and he turned away so she wouldn’t see him laughing in response. Then his smile faded, and he closed his eyes and sighed quietly.
If it wasn’t for this intense physical tug between them which had appeared suddenly when they were fourteen and never faded, life would have been so, so much easier. They could have just been friends, just as they had all their lives until that point. They’d been inseparable, getting into all manner of scrapes together, but then their hormones had made things awkward between them and she’d started spending more time with the girls, and he with the boys.
But despite the occasional awkwardness, they’d stayed friends, and they still were, twenty years later. She was the first person he called if he had something interesting or sad or exciting to share, but since that time five years ago when they’d somehow lost their restraint and ended up in bed for a few giddy and delirious weeks, things hadn’t been the same.
He hadn’t called her as much, hadn’t leant