Carl took his place at the table opposite to her.
The first course was king prawns in garlic. Hungry, she concentrated on the food, leaving the others to converse among themselves.
It was only as she was finishing, licking the last of the juice from her fingers before dipping them in the bowl of water provided, that her eyes met those of Carl. He never took them off her as he peeled a prawn and put it into his mouth, chewing it slowly.
Vicky coloured up again beneath his steady gaze, and averted her eyes.
God, would she ever stop flushing like an adolescent?
The main course was a thinly sliced steak, stuffed with olives and pate and served with sauté potatoes, mushrooms and a rich sauce.
She cut a small portion of the meat and raised it to her opening lips – her eyes finding his again as he did precisely the same thing. There was a strange gleam in those azure depths.
Distracted by the person sitting to his left, he was obliged to turn his attention in that direction, while Vicky, confused, got on with the meal, not unaware of a certain excitement coursing through her veins. Which was odd, because she didn’t even like him, and he, apparently, found her a tiresome intrusion at the best, and hinted that she had some sort of ulterior motive for trying to contact his father.
Suddenly, her appetite vanished, to be replaced by a solid feeling, as though something hard had occupied her stomach. She reached for her glass of wine and drank heavily. It was always instantly refilled by the white-coated waiters.
She continued to pick at the food, doing her level best not to show she was no longer hungry, and kept up the pretence until the other guests had set aside their cutlery.
The room seemed to be getting very hot, the voices, particularly those of the other women, became shriller and shriller as coffee was served.
She gulped down the remainder of the wine in her glass, and looked boldly in Carl’s direction.
He was in deep conversation with a raven-haired woman. Vicky felt an irrational and totally alien stab of jealousy, wanting to get up and go over and slap the attractive woman’s golden and polished face.
Amazed at herself, she was caught out still staring in Carl’s direction, when he turned, and those deep pools of unfathomable blue swept over her.
She remembered her nakedness.
Vicky began to feel weak, must be the wine. She had drunk an awful lot.
“Sorry....” one hand fluttered to her head as she was overcome with dizziness.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I feel...”
Pushing her chair back, she stood; Carl was up in a flash, striding purposefully around the table, his hands reaching out to her, as she swayed.
“Let’s get you outside,” he said, gripping her arm. “After cold old England this morning, now a heavy meal and jet lag, you’re probably overdoing it. It’s our fault, really.”
“No,” she protested, “I’m really all right.”
But she stumbled against him, hand on his chest for support, and even through her dizziness she felt the shock of the sudden physical closeness.
His hands held her with surprising gentleness, one around her waist to steady her, the other gripping her elbow.
“I think that fresh air is called for,” he explained in Italian to the guests. “I’ll take Miss Norwood out on the terrace. Do please continue with your meal.”
Another wave of nausea swept over Vicky, but as she was helped to the open windows she distinctly heard Anna say - in English, and obviously for her benefit – that Vicky had had too much to drink.
Outside, the air was fresh and cool, with the tang of the sea stimulating the senses. Feeling weak, she rested against a balustrade and looked out over the moon-kissed ocean.
Carl stood beside her, and then leant forward with his elbows on the stonework so that his head was at the same height as hers.
He slid a silver cigarette case from an inside pocket, and flicked open the lid, offering it to her. She shook her head.
“Mind if I do?” he asked courteously.
“No – of course not.”
He tapped a cigarette on the outer casing, his dark features momentarily lit by the flare of his lighter.
She gazed at the sea, at the shimmering column of light on the water that pointed to the moon hanging low in the night sky.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “Do go back to your guests. I’m better now. I’ll be back in a minute.”
He exhaled some smoke slowly.
“Come, let’s go for a walk.”
Before she had time to refuse he took her hand and led her down through the garden and to the beach.
“What about your guests?” she protested, half-heartedly.
“What about them?” he snorted. “They’ll be quite all right without us for a while. Anyway, Anna is a wonderful hostess.”
She felt a quick stab of jealousy – an emotion she was still trying to come to terms with.
They reached the beach and made for the sea’s edge, his hand still holding hers, gently but firmly pulling her along.
He stopped abruptly, and breathed in deeply.
“Come on,” he urged. “Do the same.”
She did.
“Do you feel better?”
Vicky nodded, conscious of his thumb coming across and stroking the back of her hand.
“You know,” he said, “the local men think that English girls are a bit cold – a bit – reserved. Are you reserved, Vicky?”
Was this really happening or was she dreaming?
“I suppose I am,” she admitted. “Anyway, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that – do you?”
She lifted her head defiantly, and before she realised what was happening he had turned in front of her and gently lifted her chin.
She had no chance to offer any protest as his mouth closed down on hers.
With infinite lightness he moved his hand along her cheek, down to her throat, spreading his long fingers around her neck beneath her hair, as his other hand slid along the material of her dress to the small of her back, pulling her closer.
The movement brought her into contact with the lower part of his body.
For a split second she felt a hardness pressing against her – then he pulled himself away.
“I.” His voice was gruff.
He turned his back on her and faced the sea, and ran a hand through his hair.
“.... I didn’t intend that this should happen,” he said. “Please forgive me. I can’t think what made me...”
But he couldn’t finish the sentence.
Vicky felt numb, and quite unable to say anything, for in the last ten seconds or so she had awoken to the fact that she had lived all her life without really knowing the one person that she had automatically assumed she knew so well – herself. Never before had she been so physically aroused, and its unexpectancy left her bewildered, weak.
She looked at him at his dark shape against the glittering night sea, and her senses reeled.
“Victoria,” he said, his voice barely audible above the waves rushing at their feet. “I must go back to the villa. We’ve been absent too long.”
She nodded, and whispered hoarsely –
“I understand. I’ll be along directly.”
“Take your time.”
His voice now seemed less soft, as though the familiar Carl had returned, and he moved away from her with long and powerful strides, soon to be swallowed up by the darkness.
Utterly spent, Vicky lifted the hem of her dress, and sank slowly to her knees, then sat down on her ankles, like she had as a child, mesmerised by the rhythmical fall of the waves on to the beach.
She thrust her hands into the sand, gripping the shifting particles, and trying to hold on to the world.
She stayed like that for an age; then lifted her head, and looked up at the Milky Way, a bright band of millions of diamonds glittering on a sky of black velvet.
It was like she had never seen stars that big, that bright before.
Vicky was finally brought back to reality by a long-reaching wave that touched her hands. The water felt warm. Hastily she got up, shaking the sand off her dress and retraced her steps to the villa.
On the terrace she instinctively touched her hands to her hair, and brushed at her dress again before entering by the terrace windows.
The room was empty. Voices murmured from somewhere nearby. She moved down the corridor, and was about to enter when she heard, quite clearly now, Carl’s matter-of-fact intonation, speaking in English.
“She seems genuine and above suspicion. But then, an impostor would need to be a good actress.”
Vicky froze, holding the wall for support. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He sounded so cold and clinical.
As if to confirm, her worst fears, Anna’s voice carried all-too-plainly.
“We must exercise due caution. It seems rather too coincidental to me that she should arrive the moment your parents are away.”
“Quite,” Carl’s voice mumbled, “but Security doesn’t seem to be worried.”
“They’re complete fools,” Anna snapped. “If she has been planted here whoever they are know what they are doing by sending a girl. Men are always turned by a pretty face. Still, we’ll let things cool for a couple of days.”
“One thing’s certain,” Carl said, his voice quieter now. “We must keep her here until my father returns to throw some light on the matter.”
Vicky’s blood ran cold in her veins, for there was no doubt who they were talking about. It had to be her. But what was this about her being a plant – an impostor. And for whom?
There seemed only one conclusion: that something illegal, criminal, was going on, and that everybody at the villa, with its protective walls surrounding the estate, had something to hide.
Her first instinct was to get out fast, make her way to Genoa, or wherever, and catch the first plane back to London. She wouldn’t be able to call a taxi, so she would have to walk.
No! That would be futile, dangerous even in the darkness. Besides, it was a long way to anywhere she might get help. So when the time was right she needed to seize the moment – leave her luggage behind – perhaps on a shopping trip if they took her out.
It seems she had a couple of days grace.
Still stunned by the speed of events Vicky tried to pull herself together.
But then she thought of that kiss. Could Carl have been play-acting with her? Whether it had started out that way or not there was no doubt in her mind that in the end his arousal had been as genuine and unexpected as her own.
Confused, Vicky made a conscious effort to look happy, and took the two steps that were needed to reach the doorway – and stepped into view.