The Baby Gambit

So, she had gone back to live at home. Grace had already begun to believe that she’d never get married anyway, so it was no great hardship. She was the perennial spinster, she thought drily, eschewing the more popular description of a bachelor girl. Euphemisms were all very well, but the fact was she’d given up believing she was ever going to meet a man who was not intimidated by either her appearance or her intellect. At a little under six feet in height, and with the kind of Junoesque figure most women would die for, Grace had always considered herself an oddity. She saw nothing attractive about her full breasts and generously curved hips and she kept her hair long and severely braided to quell the uncontrollable urge it had to tumble in a riotous tangle of silvery blonde curls about her heart-shaped face.

Of course, she hadn’t always been so cynical. When she was at college, and boys of her own age were falling over themselves to go out with her, she’d imagined that one day she’d fall in love and get married and live happily ever after. She’d been in no hurry to give up her single state, but the prospect had always been there, like a friendly beacon on the horizon.

It hadn’t happened.

She’d eventually realised that most of the men she dated wanted only one thing and that was to get her into bed. They didn’t seem either willing or capable of looking beyond the ‘dumb blonde’ image she presented to the world to the slightly shy and intelligent woman behind the sexy façade. The men who might have appealed to her were put off by her appearance. In their own way, they had judged her, too, and by the time she’d realised that the girls who found lasting relationships didn’t look like her she’d lost both her innocence and her trust.

She’d still dated from time to time, of course, but she’d changed, and she’d soon grown tired of defending her celibate state to men who still seemed to think that with her looks she must be desperate for sex. The truth was, her experiences of sex had not been particularly enjoyable, and she saw no sense in stressing herself over something she didn’t even like.

These days she was much more philosophical, she reflected comfortably, glancing down as the breeze that blew off the distant water caused the short hem of her nightshirt to flutter about her shapely thighs. She was thirty-four, with no prospect of a steady relationship in sight, and she’d finally come to the conclusion that she preferred it that way.

She sighed contentedly, feeling grateful that Julia had come to the rescue with the offer of this chance to share her apartment for two weeks. Booking a holiday at the height of the tourist season could have proved difficult, and she preferred the anonymity of private accommodation to the obvious disadvantages of a hotel. All she’d wanted was somewhere warm and sunny, with nothing to do but laze the days away.

‘I won’t be around much, I’m afraid,’ Julia had said, when Grace had phoned her from the hospital to tell her what was going on. “This is the busiest time of the year for me, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Portofalco is a pretty place, and if you get bored you can always hire a car and go exploring.’

Grace had assured her that it sounded like heaven and consequently here she was, the morning after her arrival, standing on Julia’s balcony just drinking in the view. And it was quite a view, she conceded, with the Bay of Portofalco below her, and the curve of the mainland sweeping round to Viareggio and beyond.

She took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling at the mingled perfumes of the flowers that rose from the walled garden beneath the balcony. It wasn’t much of a garden, really, and it had been sadly neglected, but the tangled scents of jasmine and verbena, and the roses that clung tenaciously to the crumbling walls, were a heady delight. Somehow, even the overgrown garden had an enchanted air about it, hinting of assignations beside the lichen-studded fountain whose basin was crumbling, too.

Turning away from the view, Grace decided it was time she took a shower and got dressed. When she’d arrived the night before, she’d been too tired to do anything more than phone her mother to assure her she’d arrived safely, and strip off her clothes and tumble into bed. But it was eight o’clock in the morning now and her unpacking beckoned. Then breakfast, she thought with some anticipation, remembering that Julia had told her there was a bakery just down the street. The prospect of warm rolls and flaky pastries was appealing, and she strode across the rather overfurnished salotto into the bathroom beyond.

Fifteen minutes later, she felt considerably more energetic, and although she’d decided to put off her unpacking until later she put on a pair of cream silk shorts and a matching tank top to make her feel more like a holidaymaker. A glance in the bathroom mirror assured her that her mouth required little in the way of cosmetics, and she merely added a trace of blusher to give colour to her pale cheeks.

Her face was only too familiar to her and therefore nothing out of the ordinary, so that when she scraped back her hair into its usual braid and several rebellious loose ends curled about her temples she saw only the untidiness of it. But the old caretaker who looked after the building, and who had given her the key Julia had left for her the night before, greeted her with genuine pleasure, his rheumy old eyes glinting appreciatively as he watched her saunter off down the cobbled street.

The Villa Modena—Grace privately thought its title was rather flattering—stood halfway down a narrow street of similar dwellings. The street, the Via Cortese, wound up from the harbour, and she could see snatches of blue, blue water between vine-hung walls and over colour-washed roofs. Every now and then, an opening offered a tantalising view of the bay, with the masts of yachts moored at the jetty moving gently on the incoming tide.

She smelled the bakery before she reached it, the delicious aroma of newly baked bread making her mouth water. Which was unusual for her considering she hadn’t had much of an appetite at all since her illness, and she looked forward to enjoying a warm roll with the pot of coffee she’d left on the hotplate at the apartment.

The baker was red-cheeked and friendly, dismissing Grace’s attempts to make herself understood with a cheerful shake of his head. ‘Va bene, signorina,’ he assured her firmly. ‘I have the English, no?’ He smiled and gestured to the impressive array of bread available. ‘You tell me what you like.’

‘Grazie.’ Grace gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I’m not very good at learning languages, I’m afraid. But I’m staying for two weeks, so perhaps my Italian will improve.’

‘Prego!’ The man laughed. ‘We Itatianos will always forgive a beautiful woman, sì?’

Grace’s lips thinned a little at the familiar compliment, but she accepted his flattery good-humouredly. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said, pointing to a batch of crusty rolls. ‘I’ll have three of those, please, and two pastries. Grazie!’

She was pocketing her change before taking the bag of sweet-smelling pastries from his hand when, to her relief, the arrival of another customer distracted him. ‘A domani,’ he called after her. ‘Until tomorrow.’ And Grace lifted a hand in reluctant acknowledgement as she made her escape.

She could smell the pot of coffee as soon as she opened the door. The apartment, which was situated on the second floor of the villa, opened directly into the living room, with the tiny kitchenette occupying an alcove off the living area. A trellis of climbing greenery set in an earthenware container provided an impromptu screen, with a narrow counter at right angles to it where Julia evidently took her meals when she was at home.

Grace found some low-fat butter substitute in the small fridge and spread some on one of the warm rolls. Then, after pouring herself a mug of the strong black coffee, she perched on one of the tall stools that were pushed against the bar to enjoy her meal.

She was flicking idly through an old copy of Figaro when someone knocked at the door. She turned at once, guessing it was a visitor for Julia who didn’t know she was away. Hopefully, not a man, she thought ruefully, wiping a crumb from her lip. If she remembered correctly, Julia was spending the weekend with the current man in her life and, judging by her excitement when she’d mentioned him to Grace, it seemed that she hoped that this might be the one.

Grace grimaced. Her friend was much less cynical than she was. Even with a failed marriage behind her, Julia had still maintained that there was a man out there somewhere just waiting for her to come along. Perhaps this weekend’s amoroso, as they said in Italy, was different. Grace begged leave to reserve judgement until she’d met the man for herself.

But she was wasting time. As another knock sounded at the door, she slid off the stool and crossed the room. It could just be the old caretaker, she surmised. Perhaps he’d smelled the appetising aroma of the coffee, and found some excuse to come up here so that she could offer him a cup. If so, he was going to be disappointed. She had no intention of inviting any strange man into the apartment.

But the man standing outside was not the caretaker. ‘Miss Horton?’ he asked, and although she was sure he was Italian there was no trace of an accent in his low, attractive voice.

There was a suitcase standing beside him, but Grace registered this only peripherally as she gazed at one of the few men who could give her a few inches in height. He was tall, extremely dark both in hair and skin, with a lean yet obviously muscular body. He was certainly one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen, yet no one, not even his mother, could have called him handsome.

His eyes—dark eyes, what else? she mocked herself sardonically—were too deeply set, with hooded lids and thick black lashes hiding their expression. His cheekbones were harshly carved in a face that looked more inclined to severity than humour. Yet his mouth belied that conclusion, she reflected. Thin-lipped, perhaps, but with an obvious tendency towards laughter. Right now, she suspected he was laughing at her, and she felt a sharp tug of resentment at the thought.

‘Yes?’ she said coolly, unhappily aware that she had been staring at him far longer than she should have. She registered the suitcase properly now, propped beside one loafer-clad foot. A foot without any sock, she appended cynically, below loose-fitting cotton trousers that only hinted at the powerful thighs that flexed beneath.

Who was he? she wondered irritably. Surely Julia hadn’t invited someone else to stay to keep her company. Yet how else had he known her name? ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, aware of the violent urge she had to scream.

He bent and picked up the suitcase. ‘I just want to leave this for Julia,’ he said, as Grace was preparing herself to block his way. ‘It’s hers,’ he explained, evidently recognising her hostility. ‘She was my guest last evening and I agreed to deliver it back to her apartment.’

Grace’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean, you’re—’

‘Matteo di Falco,’ he introduced himself easily as she stepped aside to allow him to set the suitcase down inside the door. ‘Unfortunately, Julia was obliged to cut the weekend short. She had to get back to the hotel.’

‘She did?’ Grace knew she sounded blank, but she couldn’t help it.

‘They phoned this morning,’ he agreed, straightening. ‘There has been some illness and they are short of staff. They asked if she could return immediately.’ He shrugged his shoulders, broad beneath the lightweight jacket he was wearing over a white tee shirt. ‘Cosi sia! So be it.’

Grace nodded. ‘Well—thank you for letting me know.’

His thin lips twisted. ‘It was my pleasure.’

She doubted it was, but he was too polite to say otherwise. ‘Um—thanks, anyway. I’m sorry if it’s spoiled your weekend.’

‘I will survive,’ he assured her drily, and she wondered what he really thought of her. ‘Enjoy your holiday, Miss Horton. Arrivederci!’

He turned away without further ado, strolling back along the gallery that overlooked the inner courtyard of the villa with indolent grace. All the apartments opened onto similar galleries, a flight of worn marble stairs giving access to the lower floors, and Grace waited until he’d started down the stairs before going back into the apartment and closing the door.

She leaned against the door for a moment, before taking a deep breath and walking into the kitchen. But as she edged back onto the stool and raised her mug of coffee to her lips she found Matteo di Falco’s image refused to be displaced.

She shook her head, a moan that was half laughter, half disgust escaping her throat. So that was Julia’s latest heartthrob, she thought self-derisively. And she’d behaved as if she’d never seen a man before.

She pushed the half-eaten roll aside and propped her elbows on the counter. She had to admit, Julia hadn’t been exaggerating this time. What was the expression she’d used? Drop-dead gorgeous? Well, he was certainly that, and unlikely to be any more reliable than the rest.

By the time she’d cleared her breakfast dishes away and unpacked, it was nearly midday. She had wondered if Julia might ring to confirm her change of plans, but she didn’t, so after making sure the apartment was tidy Grace decided to go and explore the town.

It was much hotter now, the early summer sun baking the walls of the old buildings so that there was little coolness in their shade. Grace was halfway down to the harbour when she began to doubt the sense in what she was doing, but she decided it would be easier to go on than to turn back.

Besides, there were cafés appearing at every corner, and tables set beneath canvas awnings dotted the small promenade. There were plenty of people about, but it wasn’t difficult to find a table in a shady corner, and she ordered a chilled glass of Campari and soda while she studied the menu.

There was a delightful breeze blowing off the water, and her eyes were continually drawn to the busy quay, where fishing boats vied for space among sleek yachts and sailing dinghies. Enviably tanned men and women were standing about in groups, modelling the latest styles in designer gear, or sunning themselves on the decks of gleaming motor cruisers anchored in the bay.

At the end of a short pier, a ferry was boarding, taking passengers to other resorts along the coast, and Grace mused that the whole scene looked as if it had been lifted from the pages of a glossy holiday brochure. So why was it that when the waiter appeared to take her order she felt so alone suddenly? And why did she find herself wishing that there was still a man in her life, too?

‘I’ll have the risotto salad,’ she told the waiter, pointing out her choice just in case he didn’t understand what she meant

‘Ah, bene,’ he said, smiling approvingly. ‘You like the vino, sì?’