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A week went by, and, if not exactly forgetting about the man, then at least Cressida had put him out of her mind as she concentrated for the end-of-term production, in which she was playing Cleopatra.
It was a gruelling rehearsal, and she was glad enough to finish, sitting in the cramped dressing-room cleaning her face and trying to decide whether or not to go to her speech coach’s party that night. But she was strangely reluctant. And let’s face it, she thought, as she dragged the brush through her thick red hair—it’ll be the same old faces, the same old jokes. No one will notice if you aren’t there.
A long bath, a cool drink on the plant-filled patio and the flat to herself seemed an infinitely preferable option.
It was a warm, balmy night, with the setting sun gilding the clouds pink as she walked the short distance to the flat. She had been lucky to have hit it off with Judy so well in their first few weeks of term, and had been delighted to be asked to share the flat with her. Judy’s parents were rich. Rich, rich, rich, as she cheerfully admitted herself. And they loved indulging their only daughter—thus the spacious flat in a prestigious area of London. Otherwise, Cressida—with her elderly aunt her only relation in England—would have been living in some grotty little flat, goodness knew where.
Her only bone of contention was that Judy had refused point-blank to accept any rent money. ‘My parents have already paid for it,’ she had pointed out. The only way round this was for Cressida to buy new things for the flat—so that every month a new vase, pretty dishes or colourful scatter cushions were introduced into their home.
Cressida had her bath, and pulled on a filmy wrap patterned in soft shades of green. Her hair dried into a cloud of fragrant dark waves shot with fire. She had just poured herself a glass of weak Pimm’s and added lemon and a sprig of mint when there was a ring at the doorbell.
It must be Judy, she thought, back early and disenchanted by the party, but she opened the door to find the man from the park there, silently watching her, not a flicker of emotion on the implacable olive-skinned face.
She opened her mouth to say all the things which she knew one should say in such circumstances, from, ‘What are you doing here?’ to, ‘How did you find out where I lived?’ But she said none of these, just stood regarding him with the same intense interest as she saw reflected in his own eyes.
There was a mocking look in the quizzical way in which he surveyed her, one dark eyebrow arched, the trace of a smile touching the firm mouth. ‘You knew I would come.’
She looked into those dark velvety eyes and was lost. She nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, dry-mouthed, recognising the truth in his words immediately. ‘I knew.’ And, without another word, he had taken her in his arms and begun to kiss her.
Cressida groaned as she turned her head away from the pillow and lay staring at the wall. She had been so young, so naïve. Anyone who had ever doubted the veracity of the phrase ‘she was like putty in his hands’ had only to look at her relationship with Stefano.
She sat up, her hand going to her hair and encountering the thick lacquer which clogged it, her eyes going to the small clock on the rickety bedside table. It was gone seven, and David was due here at eight—and she hadn’t even cleaned her face properly. If she didn’t remove the heavy stage make-up soon, there would be hell to pay with her skin. Her head had begun to throb alarmingly. The last thing she felt like doing was going out to dinner, being forced to make polite conversation—even with someone as charming as David—not when her mind was spinning round like a Ferris wheel gone crazy.
She dialled his number with a shaky hand, and to her relief it was answered on the second ring. At least he hadn’t already left.
‘Hello, David—it’s me, Cressida!’
‘Well—hello to my favourite actress!’ came the cheery reply. ‘Are we still on for tonight?’
‘I wondered,’ she said apologetically, ‘if I could take a rain-check?’
The cultured voice sounded anxious. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’
She liked him—she owed him more than a flimsy excuse, but not the truth; she couldn’t face that. ‘No, I’m not ill. It was just a—hard day. Tough rehearsal—you know.’
The anxiousness in his voice was magnified. ‘Everything going all right with the play, I hope?’
She hastened to reassure him. ‘The play’s fine—you know it is. Hasn’t everyone said that you’re the best playwright since—?’
‘I know. Since Shakespeare. Just not so prolific, nor so acclaimed.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been looking forward to a date with my favourite actress all week, and now she’s turning me down for no reason other than it’s been a long day. I’ve had a long day, too, you know.’
‘Oh, David—don’t make me feel bad. It isn’t that I don’t want to see you—just that I don’t feel up to going out for dinner.’
‘Then we won’t!’ he said, sounding triumphant. ‘And if Cressida won’t go out to the restaurant then the restaurant must come to Cressida. We could eat a take-away—no problem. What do you fancy? Indian? Chinese? Pizza?’
‘Oh, no—honestly. I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ he insisted.
She was fighting a losing battle here. ‘But I’m not feeling very good company tonight.’
‘You’re always good company to me, Cressida,’ he said quietly.
And after that declaration, she found it impossible to say no to him, agreeing that she would see him at eight-thirty, and that they would choose what they wanted from a local restaurant, and he’d go out to buy the meal.
As she replaced the receiver, she thought how ironic it was that David should make his first hint at something approaching seriousness at precisely the wrong time. They had been dating now for almost four months, and he was the first man she’d seen regularly since Stefano. The only man, apart from Stefano, she realised.
It had taken a long time for her to even consider going out with another man after the breakup of her marriage, but David had seemed the perfect partner, the balm she needed to soothe her troubled spirit. He was everything she liked and respected in a man—and everything that Stefano was not. They liked the same things—primarily the theatre, but they also liked loading up their bicycles on to the roof-rack of David’s estate car and escaping from the rat race into the country, where Cressida would sit quietly reading, while David indulged his hobby of photographing birds. Most importantly for her, everything they did did not end up with them in bed together. Her face flamed, and a pulse began to throb insistently as she recalled Stefano’s idea of recreation. David was a gentleman. He was prepared to wait. But then a memory intruded—jarred and disturbed her—because so, too, had Stefano—at the beginning . . .
His kiss was like nothing she had ever experienced, on or off the stage. There had been no one special in her life—and at just nineteen that hadn’t been so very unusual. And even the on-stage embraces, where the current breed of up-and-coming actors prided themselves on simulating realism, kissing you with an intimacy that Cressida had found slightly repugnant and definitely unnecessary—none of them had even remotely resembled what this man was now doing to her.
His mouth cajoled her into instant response, so that she found herself somehow knowing that he wanted their tongues to lace together in erotic dance—the result of which sent her heart-rate soaring, and made her insides melt. She felt a tingling awareness in the tips of her breasts, a growing warmth in her groin. She found that she wanted to explore the substance of his taut, muscular body, so that when he pushed her up against the wall and ground his hips into hers, like a man who was out of control, she did not cry out her protest, but urged him on with a slurred and exultant, ‘Yes, oh, yes,’ and his answer was to lightly brush his hands over her breasts, gently stroking each one in turn until he had her almost collapsing against him in agonised arousal, which was replaced with an equally agonised frustration when he suddenly stopped, his hands leaving her, but he himself not moving, just surveying her with dark eyes in whose depths were sparks she could not fathom.
He did not speak for a moment. Months later, he was to tell her that it was the first time in his life he had ever been rendered speechless. And when he did speak, it was with a rigid control which astounded her.
‘Not now.’ He shook his head. ‘And not in such a way. If you had not been wearing such a garment—’ he shrugged in the direction of the filmy green wrap ‘—then I should not have lost my head.’ He lowered his voice. ‘When I collect you tomorrow—at eight—you will wear something more—’ he seemed to muse for a second, and then he smiled, a smile which transformed the handsome, stern face into someone she knew she would die for ‘—suitable. Cover up a little, yes? Or I will not be responsible for my actions, cara. But not trousers. Promise me you will never cover up your legs with trousers?’
It was preposterous, but she found herself agreeing in delight, loving the mastery in his voice as he spoke. Had she been older, wiser, surely she would have steered clear of a man who, even at that early stage, had shown such a strong inclination to control her?
He was turning to leave, his hand on the door-handle, when something shocking had occurred to her. ‘Your—your name?’ she stammered. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
He gave her a long, unbelievably sexy smile, before leaning forward to plant on her mouth a slow kiss of such unbearably sweet promise that she trembled again. ‘Names are not important,’ he murmured. ‘But it is Stefano. Stefano di Camilla.’
She liked it, loved the way he said it. It had an imperious ring to it. Her green eyes widened as she replied, almost shyly—and this in itself was strange, for she was never shy as a rule. ‘And I’m Cressida,’ she said. ‘Cressida Carter.’
‘I know.’ His voice was soft. ‘You see, I know everything about you.’
Cressida closed her eyes as she stood beneath the piercingly cold jets of the shower, remembering how flattered she had been by his research. It seemed that he had gone to a great deal of trouble to find out about her. Somehow, he had tracked down where she lived, and with whom, and where she studied—and what. He had even discovered that her parents had followed the dictates of the late sixties, and had ‘dropped out’—living in splendid if somewhat basic isolation on the Balearic Island of Ibiza. She remembered running her fingers wonderingly through the thick, springy hair, and asking him how he had learnt so much about her in such a short time, but he had shrugged nonchalantly, and kissed away her questions, telling her that things like that were of no consequence to her.
What he had meant, of course, she thought grimly as she massaged more shampoo into her scalp to attempt to remove the stubborn lacquer, what he had meant was that she shouldn’t bother her pretty little head about things which didn’t concern her. For wasn’t that one of the maxims by which the di Camilla family lived—that women should just sit quietly and beautifully in the background, providing comfort and satisfaction for their men?
Cressida shook her wet hair as she stepped out of the shower and began to rub herself dry, her pale skin glowing with the friction of the rough towel. She pulled on a short cream satin dressing-gown and sat in front of the mirror at her dressing-table, the hairdrier blowing the dark red waves into angry fronds which echoed her mood, when there was a loud shrilling of the doorbell. Her brow creased momentarily. David, of course. He was early. Well, he would just have to wait in the sitting-room while she changed.
She ran lightly to the door, and pulled it open, the welcoming expression on her face dying immediately when she saw who it was who stood there.
‘No,’ she whispered disbelievingly.
‘Oh, yes,’ he contradicted softly, and then his eyes moved down, lingering slowly on the satin of her wrap, as he surveyed the fullness of her breasts which were tingling uncomfortably under his gaze—she could feel the taut peaks pushing against the silky material, and she automatically crossed her arms around her chest, shielding her betraying body from his gaze. And the movement caused the hard line of his mouth to twist in derision.
‘I see you still answer the door as alluringly as possible,’ he said harshly.
As he stared directly into her eyes, her imagination stupidly led her to think that she saw a flash of some deeper emotion than plain desire, a softening of the harsh mouth, but it was gone before she remembered that it had been a common fault of hers—crediting him with feelings which he did not possess. She hugged herself tighter as she looked down at the carpet, a lump in her throat, willing the idiotic tears not to spring to life.
‘Tell me, do you always dress to please, Cressida?’
His words were a grim challenge and her eyes were drawn unwillingly to his face. Sometimes she had wondered if he was made of flesh and blood as she was, and now she wondered anew. How could a face which could move with such animation, which could dissolve so sweetly with passion—how could such a face remain now as cold and as unreadable as a blank book? And yet she could still look on it and remember how much she had loved him.
The sharp reminder of her lost love pierced her heart like a sabre cut and, afraid that he would see and taunt her moment of weakness, she moved a step away. ‘You’ve got no right to come in here and criticise me—and you’ll have to go,’ she said desperately. ‘I’m expecting—’ she made her voice linger fondly ‘—someone.’
That did it. She saw his muscles tense and a pulse at his temple begin an ominous throbbing.
‘And who is the lucky man?’ he ground out. ‘Do you always greet him like—this?’ His hand moved disdainfully as he gestured at the skimpy garment which covered her body. ‘Is it the dear David—the man who writes these plays which no one can understand?’
‘His plays are wonderful!’ she defended shrilly, and she saw his mocking smile and knew that she had fallen into some kind of trap. She leaned forward angrily. ‘And how did you know that I was seeing David? I suppose you’ve had all your nasty little spies out, haven’t you? I forget that you have a whole network of information gatherers to do your dirty work for you.’
He returned her angry look with one of infuriating calmness, which did not fool her for a minute. ‘From what I have seen of him, he does not look man enough to share your bed,’ he goaded.
Knowing that she had a weapon which would wound his pride more than anything—she used it. ‘He’s man enough,’ she retaliated.
For a moment she thought she had gone too far. She honestly thought that he was going to hit her—Stefano, who had never hit a person in his life before. She felt like shrinking away from the clenched fists at his side, their knuckles white with the restraint he was obviously exercising. She must have been mad to suggest to him that David was her lover, when he was due to arrive at any minute, and knowing Stefano’s fiercely possessive pride. She couldn’t repress a small shudder as she imagined an angry confrontation. And then, surprisingly, she saw his stance relax, and he walked straight past her to stroll into the sitting-room. She followed him in frustration.
When he turned round, all traces of his anger had disappeared, to be replaced with an expression of disdain. He stared incredulously at the small room, at the shabby furniture, the clean but well-worn curtains. ‘You live like this?’ he said scornfully. ‘Is this what you broke up our marriage for—to live like this! Like a—pauper?’
‘I like this flat,’ she defended. ‘And at least it’s mine. Paid for by me.’
‘It is not a suitable place for my wife to live,’ he said flatly.
Her temper was on the verge of eruption. ‘How many times do I have to tell you before you get it into your stubborn head? I am your wife in name only—and not for very much longer, thank God!’
‘We will see how much of a wife you are.’ He smiled infuriatingly.
That sounded ominously like a threat, she thought, but even if it was he no longer had a hold on her. ‘We could stand here scrapping all night, Stefano, but it won’t change anything,’ she told him with a studiedly cool assurance she was far from feeling. ‘Why don’t we just accept the fact of our incompatibility, and put it down to experience?’
‘Experience?’ he echoed softly. ‘Is that what life is all about to you, Cressida, mmmm? A series of experiences to be lived through? To be discarded when it falls short of perfection? Is that why you ran away? In search of pastures new? Different and better—’ his voice was harsh ‘‘‘—experiences’’?’
Her anger and her indignation were swallowed up by an inexorable sorrow. She had carefully and deliberately closed off that section of her life, had refused to dwell on the heartache he had inflicted on her when he had told her to go. And now it was as if he had ripped open her carefully healed wound, left her heart exposed and helpless.
She swallowed convulsively. ‘We both know why I left.’ She forced a quiet dignity into her voice. ‘And I don’t intend discussing it now. Just tell me one thing. Why have you come here?’ She felt in urgent need of a good, strong drink, but she didn’t dare get herself one. Stefano, a man never in need of any artificial stimuli, might interpret that as yet another weakness in her resolve, and hadn’t she already betrayed enough weakness before him today to last a lifetime? ‘Why have you come back?’ she repeated.
He smiled enigmatically. ‘There are a number of reasons.’
She felt as though she were playing a game of poker. ‘Such as?’
‘Perhaps I have revised my opinion of the arts—’
‘Don’t give me that!’ she interrupted hotly. ‘Why change the habits of a lifetime?’
‘Or perhaps,’ he continued, unperturbed, ‘I see the play as a good investment.’
She let out a pent-up sigh. Of course! As easy as that. Profit. She should have guessed. He had riches to rival Croesus, but still it wasn’t enough. In business, as in life, Stefano had a killer instinct. Life to him was just a series of deals to be made, possessions to acquire, then lock away. She’d been one herself, hadn’t she? And thank God she’d got out in time. She looked at him with scorn. ‘You’re backing the play even though you’ve openly admitted you don’t like it!’ she accused.
‘It is not to my taste.’ He shrugged. ‘But perhaps audiences are not quite so discerning.’
She found herself in the strange position of acting as David’s champion. If only Stefano knew of the fundamental innocence of their relationship! ‘The audiences are going to lap it up—because it comes from the heart. David believes integrity to be more important than profit,’ she said coldly. ‘Although it’s a word I doubt whether you’d find in your vocabulary.’
He made a small sound of disgust underneath his breath. ‘Integrity does not buy bread.’
Cressida suddenly felt very tired. This conversation was going precisely nowhere. When Stefano was in this kind of mood there was no arguing with him, and besides, David would be here at any moment, and the last thing she wanted was a confrontation. ‘Will you please go now?’
In direct opposition to her request, he seated himself in one of the over-stuffed armchairs.
‘Don’t bother making yourself comfortable,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t know why you’re here, Stefano—all I do know is that I want to be left in peace to get on with my life. And I want you out of here. Is that clear?’
He ignored her question. ‘And the company—do they know of their leading lady’s relationship with their new backer? ‘‘Angel’’, I think you say.’
Fear dried her mouth. ‘Of course they don’t. No one knows . . . ’
‘No one knows we are married.’ His voice was distorted with anger. ‘Of that I am only too aware. Cressida wishes to be single again and dunque!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Her wish shall be granted. This is a society where the vows of matrimony can be shrugged aside as casually as if they were of no consequence.’
‘That isn’t true!’ she flared. ‘There are reasons why I’m divorcing you—perfectly legitimate ones. And what is more I don’t want anyone—anyone—knowing of my past relationship with you.’
The dark eyes glinted. ‘Oh? And why is that?’
Her temper erupted. ‘Oh, don’t pretend to be so naïve, Stefano! My position would be intolerable! If any of them knew I’d been your wife, I’d be viewed with suspicion. I’d no longer be treated as an equal, would I?’
His mouth twisted. ‘And yet you do not mind it being known that you are dating the playwright?’
‘That’s different, and you know it!’ she exploded. ‘You’re backing it—you’re providing the money. And money is power—as you are perfectly well aware.’
He had got to his feet in a single, light movement, the grace of which only emphasised the powerful strength of his tall frame. He stood studying her through hooded eyes which told her nothing. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will agree to keep our liaison quiet—on the condition that you have dinner with me tonight.’
Cressida felt like pinching herself to check that this was really happening. ‘I can’t have dinner with you. I’ve already told you—I’m expecting David.’
He gave a ruthless smile. ‘Then we will take him, too.’
An involuntary shiver ran up her spine. Stefano sounding reasonable like this was Stefano at his most dangerous. ‘What are you saying?’ she demanded, her voice breaking on the question. ‘What do you want?’
He shrugged. ‘That is the thing to do in this country, is it not? The ‘‘civilised’’ thing? The husband and the wife who have once shared their lives to sit having dinner with the new partner. Did you not once tell me that you wanted it to be an amicable divorce?’
She looked at him helplessly, remembering the stumbling letter she had written to him after six months of separation—another letter he had ignored. Had she really been so naïve as to say that to him? ‘What do you want?’ she repeated weakly.
‘I told you. Have dinner with me tonight, and our little secret will remain just that.’
The doorbell pealed, not as loudly as when he had pressed it, but loud enough to shatter the fraught silence.
Stefano smiled, his eyes roving in a lazy line from her bare toes to the curve of her hips where the satin clung. ‘It is your choice, my beauty—so choose.’
She was trapped, she realised, as her wide green eyes stared at his implacable face. She should just tell him to go to hell and be done with it. But Stefano was not the kind of man to heed such a demand. And, apart from compromising her neutral position as one of the players in a very tight-knit company, if word of her marriage to Stefano got out, could she really bear the gossip, the surmising, the endless questions? If her marriage was laid bare for general analysis, then wouldn’t it just force her to confront its failure herself? To remind her with heart-rending poignancy just how destroyed she had felt at its end?
The doorbell rang again.
‘Well, beauty,’ he murmured softly, ‘have you decided?’
‘Yes, damn you. Yes. The answer’s yes.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_8a8738b1-63ac-5c65-ad07-a8cd05332508)
THE instant she had made her decision, Cressida began to regret it. As she opened the door to David, she wondered what possible motive Stefano could have for wanting to meet the man she was sharing her life with. David stood smiling on the doorstep, looking casual and windswept, dressed in blue jeans, a matching denim shirt and a rather old tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbow. The scent of the pipe tobacco he sometimes smoked hung around him as he stepped forward to drop a light kiss on Cressida’s mouth.
