Vicky slept badly, tossing and turning, and was wide-awake at dawn.
After showering, she spent some time trying to write a letter to Clive, but found it difficult – nigh on impossible. She just couldn’t concentrate.
So much had happened in the last few days; so much that she was unable or unwilling to communicate. Angrily, she screwed the last attempt up into a ball and tossed it into the waste paper basket.
Unable to put her mind to trying to compose a letter, was she realized, due to what was to happen in a couple of hours’ time.
She was on edge.
She went down to breakfast very early, and found none of the family were up – thankfully not even Anna. She ate in solitary splendour and surprisingly well, considering the continual churning of her stomach.
A long walk followed, which took her past the beach studio. She eyed it with some trepidation.
John McKinley, the Contessa and Carl, were seated at breakfast when she returned to the villa; but while they greeted her warmly, Carl only looked up from his newspaper, and nodded.
She chatted brightly enough to the Contessa, but her thoughts were plagued with uncertainty. Had he in the cold light of day, changed his mind about painting her? Perhaps it had been the wine he’d consumed that had really been talking, and now he was bitterly regretting it?
Her agonising was rudely interrupted as the Contessa spoke, huge breakfast coffee cup held two-handed in front of her, elbows positioned on the table.
“What are your plans for the morning, Vicky?”
Flustered, she glanced at Carl.
“I've invited her to sit for me,” he said, without looking up from the newspaper.
The Contessa raised a quizzical eyebrow, and shot a knowing glance at John McKinley, who was smiling.
“You are honoured, my dear.” his father murmured. He is very choosy when it comes to his subjects.”
The Contessa agreed.
“That’s true. Have you had your breakfast?”
Vicky nodded.
“Early,” she confirmed. “I’ve been for a walk.”
“Well, sit down, and have some more coffee with us.”
She sat opposite to Carl, and as she talked to the Contessa she was acutely conscious of his presence. She acted as casually as she could but it was difficult to concentrate on what she was saying as her thoughts kept going to what he intended doing with her when they were alone?
Would he just paint her or would he - -?
Suddenly Carl stood up, and tossed the newspaper to one side.
“Excuse me, but I must get my materials ready.”
He turned to her.
“In about half an hour – will that be all right?”
He kissed the Contessa on the top of her head, turned on his heels, and was gone.
Vicky excused herself some minutes later, and out of sight scurried to the safety and sanctuary of her bedroom. As she leaned back against the closed door, she spoke aloud to herself.
“Vicky Norwood what on earth have you got yourself into?”
But an alien compulsion drove her relentlessly on.
She slipped off her morning clothes and reached for the skimpy bikini she had previously laid out on the bed. It would make things easier on the beach – in the studio – wherever – when the crunch came”
She stilled her trembling lower lip with her teeth. Her hands were shaking so much that it took an age to fix the strap of her top. And then for no reason at all she got annoyed with herself.
Hadn’t she leant anything by now?
She pulled on her beach robe, slipped her feet into her wedges, and took one last look at herself in the mirror.
What she was about to do, she reflected, proved conclusively that the timid, unsure Vicky Norwood who had arrived on the plane from England only days before, was gone for ever. Thanks to Carl McKinley.
He was waiting for her outside the beach studio. From the distance, as she approached, she could see him moving about, easel already erected and in position.
As she walked nearer, with an affected nonchalance that was given the lie by her rapidly pounding heart, the expectancy began to build in her. This was it. When she reached him she dropped her bag onto the sand, looked around, hand on her hip, cotton smock open, tantalisingly. But her studied casualness was let down by the obvious strain in her voice.
“Is this the chosen spot?”
“Yes,” Carl said. “I thought against that rock would be the best.”
Vicky pulled out her beach towel, laid it down, and kicked off her wedges.
He sat down on a small canvas stool, crayons and paints set out in a businesslike fashion on a table close by.
Somehow, the sight of all the artist’s tools helped her, but even so, she felt very clumsy as she smoothed out the beach towel; and by the time he had adjusted the canvas board, she had knelt down, back to him, more because she might have fallen down if she hadn’t, her legs felt so weak.
His voice sounded different as he said –
“Right, then I’ll make a start – when you’re ready.”
Unable to trust her own voice, she just nodded.
Even at this late stage, Vicky knew that there was still the danger that she might not be able to keep her side of the bargain; especially if he said the wrong thing.
Still with her back to him, she took off the cotton smock. Her arms felt like dead weights. Her fingers seemed numb as she struggled for what seemed an age with her bikini strap. When it finally came free she hesitated, then pressed her lips firmly together, held her breath and tossed the top away.
A gentle breeze played around her uncovered breasts but her shiver was not with the unaccustomed feel of it – something else. She’d heard – seen in the newspapers – many were going bare-topped on holiday beaches nowadays. But this was different – very different.
Could she go any further?
It happened almost without any conscious thought or effort; rather like a dream, with the initial moment of total nudity a blur.
Suddenly she was free of everything.
Still with her back to him she knelt down on the towel, then turned on her side, arranging herself in a modest, natural post, draping her one hand so that she was not entirely uncovered, but he said nothing.
Carl began sketching immediately. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his arm moving in bold, confident strokes, and could hear the charcoal scratching on the sketching block. After a while he frowned, and tore off the top sheet, weighted it down on the tabletop, then turned his attention back to the block.
“Right,” he said. “Now sit up, and lean backwards on your elbows.”
Reluctantly she moved, knowing it would completely expose her naked body to his view.
She felt the hot flush extend right down her, and had to force herself to do as he had ordered.
For a very long moment, he studied her with his piercing blue eyes. It was the most incredible moment in her life.
“Tilt your head to one side,” he ordered. “Yes – that’s better. Much better. Now raise one leg and rest your foot on the towel.”
She did as she was told, feeling her confidence growing.
“Like this?”
“That’s good!”
He lapsed into a thoughtful silence, which was broken only by the gentle fall of the waves caressing the beach –low, lazy, and promising of a very hot day that was to come.
She looked at him through her eyelashes, still stunned at the enormity of what was happening to her, reminded occasionally that she wasn’t dreaming, as the gentle breeze continued to play on her nakedness.
As he worked away she realised how immersed he was in his work – in what he was doing.
His face was fierce and full of passion, the concentration of the true artist dominating all else.
Her arms and raised leg grew numb with a lack of circulation, but she dared not move in case it provoked a stiff rebuke from him - the artist, or Carl – the man.
There it was again, the new, darker thoughts she had only had since she had met him. Unsettling, but Vicky could not deny it. Otherwise she would never have allowed herself to be like she was now; however persuasive the artist, however unlikely the circumstances.
His eyes flicked constantly from the sketch he was making to her; and back again. Sometimes he held up his charcoal, measuring some part of her proportions. And each time she felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but knew thankfully that he was too wrapped up in what he was doing to really notice.
She eyed his strong mouth, set firm and clean above the bluish jaw, with its cleft. And she found herself wishing with all her heart that she was kissing that cleft, gently teasing it with her tongue; moving her lips up and down in a series of slow and deliberate movements to the corner of his mouth, tingling with the delicious expectancy of the swift retribution it would take on her own teasing softness.
She had to stop, had to move her head for a second so that her imagination was denied its source of inspiration. And in doing so, her gaze took in a figure hurrying down the beach towards them.
Vicky was stunned – couldn’t believe her eyes. She was convinced in that split second she was dreaming, that the morning hadn’t come at all, that she was about to wake up in her bed.
She rolled further on to her side, sat up, and covered her exposed breasts with one arm. The dream had ended now, surely!
“Hold still,” Carl snapped. “Just for a few more minutes. I haven’t quite finished yet.”
She didn’t pinch herself like people said they did to ensure they were awake, but she did run her hand along her thigh to still her wobbling knees.
It finally dawned, as the man was on top of her, that she was indeed awake, and that the unbelievable was happening.
With a shriek she scrambled for her clothes, doubling herself up, trying her best to conceal her nakedness. But it was too late. She could not dress herself properly without standing up and revealing herself in all her nudity.
Horrified, she looked into Clive’s face, as angry as ever she had seen it, as he bent down and snatched up her cotton smock, and flung it at her.
“Cover yourself. You’ve done enough flaunting for one day.”
Clive turned to Carl, pointing an accusing finger.
“I think that to take advantage of a silly young woman staying under your roof in this way is unforgivable. No – disgusting!”
Carl raised one eyebrow, and a smile teased his lips.
“What do you mean exactly? Taking advantage? She has kindly agreed to model for a study I’m doing in oils.”
“Really?”
Clive glared at Vicky, who had by now managed to pull on her smock. Humiliated, and still shocked by his sudden appearance, she hung her head down, ashamed and defenceless as he continued sarcastically – “I can see that I only arrived just in time. We will discuss this later on, back in London. I've already booked your return flight on the afternoon’s plane.”
Vicky protested.
“You had no right...” but he held an admonishing finger before her.
“I had every right. We can’t just overlook this unfortunate affair – pretend it never happened. I’m shocked Vicky and sickened by what I've found here. Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Oblivious of the dialogue between them, Carl continued to scratch with his charcoal, obviously shading in his previous work.
“This kind of behaviour leaves me seriously wondering at your whole attitude to life,” Clive went on. “I've always considered you an intelligent and presentable person. An asset to my political career...” He threw his arms wide, “but this sort of wildness frightens me. If you did anything – anything like this at home...”
Vicky stopped him in his tracks, to confront him with a thought that had surfaced from her frozen brain.
“Why did you come, Clive? Why are you here?”
Suddenly he looked shifty.
“Get your things together,” he snapped. “We’re leaving. I've got a car waiting.”
Another thought mushroomed in her head.
“How did you know where to find me? I’ve never said where I was.”
Momentarily, at a loss, he looked back guiltily at the villa. And in that split second, everything clicked into place.
Anna Mioretti
Like a brooding volcano Vicky felt the first tremor of her rising temper – made all the worse by the indifference of Carl. Was he, she wondered, for all his strong male dominance with women really only a pathetic ‘wet’ when it came to standing his ground against other men? Even the likes of Clive?
And when it finally broke, her outburst was spectacular.
“Why don’t you shut up, you silly little man? Can’t you understand? Your narrow-minded, ignorant world is detestable, I can see it clearly now.”
Shocked, he said, “Vicky I ....”
But she hadn’t finished.
“You and that mother of yours can get out of my life for ever! In fact, you’re ideally suited to one another. I’d stay with her if I were you. It’s not a wife you want, it’s ...”
Vicky never finished that which she had intended to say, but grabbed her things and made to leave, suddenly sickened with disappointment at Carl’s lack of involvement on her behalf. Tears were not far away, despite every effort on her part to quell them.
Why was he so indifferent to her? Had she misjudged his feelings and, more than anything – his character? The thought hit her like a tornado.
There was nothing left for her here in Italy. All she wanted to do now was get away – as far away as possible. Anywhere. And at that precise moment she didn’t want to see another man ever again.
She had to be alone. Needed time to think things over. Her life was in ruins. After so much promise, it was...
Clive caught her roughly by the arm.
“You little bitch,” he screamed at her. “Don’t you ever speak about my mother like that again.”
His open hand lashed her cheek with stinging pain, jerking her head and bringing tears to her eyes. He seemed to lose control, as if all the verbal bullying side of him was suddenly converted to beating a physically inferior woman. He did it again, on the other cheek.
Vicky yelped then flinched, as he swung round, raising his fist to strike her again, much harder.
But the fist stuck there. In mid-air. Carl had grabbed his wrist and now the two men were locked in a trial of strength, with herself caught between them.
Slowly, Clive’s arm was forced back. Perspiration stood out in beads on his face as he tried to counter the relentless pressure.
“Step aside Vicky,” Carl said quietly.
As she did so the two men came face to face, Carl’s steely voice saying –
“Gentlemen do not beat women, unless of course they are their own; and it is an affair of passion, and does not damage their beauty. That is unforgivable.”
Clive’s eyes widened with horror as he realised what was coming a split second before it happened.
“And Vicky is most definitely not your woman!”
The punch caught Clive low in the stomach, doubling him up. Carl raised his hand again, this time on the point of chopping Clive down with a blow at the back of the neck. But he changed his mind, and spun him round.
Contemptuously, he kicked him in the rear instead, sending him sprawling head first into the sand.
There was a shocked silence.
Vicky, overcoming her numbness, felt a momentary pang of pity for Clive, and she stopped to help him up; but he elbowed her aside.
“Get away from me,” he spat at her venomously.
Even with this rebuff, she was still sorry for the position he had got into. But when he got to his feet unaided, and walked away, what he said as a parting shot finally blew all traces of any lingering affection she might have had for him.
“Mother always said you were a no-good social climbing gold digger. I should have listened to her right from the start.”
Her jaw dropped in amazement. When the absurdity of it caught up with her – that Mrs Thorpe should accuse Vicky of what she could clearly see now was their biggest failing – she shook her head in resignation.
How could she have been such a fool? Maybe it was because he had represented for her security; a small town home life for which she craved as compensation for the insecurity of losing her parents at such an early age.
The sea rolled in, timeless, as another human being found her true self.
She was suddenly conscious of Carl at her side, watching her, waiting...
And she remembered his words.
Vicky is most definitely not your woman.
Slowly, he moved closer – much closer – to her, towering over her even with his bare feet sunk into the sand.
Such a longing assailed her that it seemed that she was aching all over for the touch of those hands.
She found that the sight of Carl aroused something akin to hunger.
During the fight with Clive, Carl’s shirt buttons had been wrenched off, and she saw now the thin gold chain and crucifix around his neck, flashing in parts as the sun’s rays brushed the hair of his chest with its own fiery fingers.
His waist and hips, tight and hard against the jeans torn off above the knee, resembled to her the trunk of a young tree – all hard steel-like muscle.
Then there was his face. And those eyes that she had just seen, hooded and cruel, like a primeval hunter.
But now they were wider, softer.
He reached out and took her arms surprisingly gently. And when he spoke to her it was no more than a whisper.
“Are you my woman, Vicky?”
She continued to search his face, fearful of any trace of insincerity, too frightened that he might be playing with her.
“Is that what you want?” she replied huskily.
He nodded.
“Yes, if you’ll have me.”
He shuffled his feet like a naughty schoolboy being reprimanded, and hung his head.
“I let things run longer than I should have because I had to know, had to be sure that you and what’s his name, were finished. I’m sorry I didn’t step in earlier, but it was unforgivable, but I had to hear you say things that you might otherwise not have said. It was wrong of me, and when he hurt you - -” he looked pleadingly at her with those blue eyes.
Vicky, for once took the initiative, and closing her eyes, lifted her head, and waited.
It almost took her breath away; for it was the gentlest kiss he had ever given her.
And when it finished he asked her to marry him.