Free Just South of Rome by Judy Nunn Page B

kiss. I opened my mouth to his, waiting any moment for him to open my bathrobe and run his fingers over my nakedness …
    ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Father Ralph and the herd will be finishing breakfast.’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ I agreed, trying to sound sensible.
    ‘You will stay another day, won’t you?’ Before I could reply, he continued, ‘I’ll be back soon. I take the Americans on a quick trip to the Pope’s summer palace, and the afternoon they spend in church or preparing for tomorrow’s trip to Assisi.’ He started to nuzzle my neck. God, it felt glorious. ‘I’ll only be gone a few hours, wait here for me.’
    ‘I’d love to. I would, really, but I can’t.’
    The nuzzling stopped. ‘Your itinerary? Break it.’
    ‘Oh, it’s nothing to do with my itinerary, it’s the Hotel Visconti,’ I explained. ‘I can’t stay another night here.’
    He laughed, assuming I was joking. ‘We won’t eat the food, I promise.’ The lips started on my earlobe now.
    ‘It’s not the food, Stefano,’ I laughed back, ‘it’s the hotel.’ He left the earlobe alone and looked at me, mystified. ‘It’s too expensive, I can’t afford it.’
    ‘You can’t afford the Hotel Visconti?’ Now there was genuine puzzlement in his eyes. ‘You are joking, surely.’
    ‘No. I’m not.’ I quelled the slightly sick feeling in my stomach. He didn’t know the prices Umberto charged, I told myself, that was all. ‘It’s very expensive here, you know.’
    ‘But you’re wealthy, a wealthy actress from Sydney, Australia. That’s what Umberto told me.’
    There was no quelling the horror I now felt, rising from the very pit of my stomach. ‘I’m afraid I’m not, Stefano.’ I edged out of his embrace, although he didn’t appear to notice,he was too busy staring at me in disbelief. He looked rather foolish, I thought. ‘I’m a working actress. I told you that, if you remember.’ My voice was sharp. I was angry, very, very angry. But I knew that it wasn’t really anger I felt, it was deep humiliation.
    ‘I thought you were being modest.’
    ‘I wasn’t. I was being truthful.’
    I splashed my way through the bathroom and concentrated on brushing my hair, gazing at my reflection in the mirror above the washbasin, willing myself not to give in to the tears of disillusionment which threatened.
    He followed and stood behind me, looking long and hard into the mirror, as if trying to discern some mystery.
    ‘You’re a struggling actress and you can’t afford the Hotel Visconti,’ he said eventually, as though he’d discovered the answer.
    ‘Yes.’ Why was he tormenting me? Why the hell didn’t he go away? Beneath my humiliation, I felt a genuine stab of anger. Anger at myself, at my stupidity and naiveté, my dreamy, girlish assumptions of a shared eroticism – the man had played me for the fool I was. Get out , something inside me yelled. What are you hanging around for? There’s nothing in it for you! But I remained silent.
    Then he laughed. Loud and long. ‘Poor Umberto,’ he said, ‘he is always getting it wrong.’
    I stood, hairbrush poised, staring at him as he delighted in his private and delicious joke. Eventually he calmed down, put his hands on my shoulders and grinned at my reflection. ‘Poor, poor Umberto,’ he said again, shaking his head sympathetically. ‘He has been winking at me and nudging me ever since you arrived.’
    I couldn’t believe it. Umberto had pointed me out and said, ‘Go for it, mate,’ and Stefano found it humorous! A joke to be shared! What was I supposed to do? Laugh alongwith him?
    He continued to grin at me, entirely oblivious to the anger and humiliation that must have been mirrored in my face.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I will sort out Umberto.’
    ‘Oh yes? In which particular way?’
    He failed to notice the iciness in my tone, or perhaps he merely chose to ignore it. ‘He will charge you the tour rate, I will see to that.’
    I watched the