Page 92

‘Then why tell me?’ he asked, feeling exasperated.

She shrugged. ‘I have no one else to tell. And I want you to know me – the real me. All these years I’ve imagined you in love with a beautiful blonde English woman, who stands at your side. I’ve imagined you with a perfect set of children – a son and a daughter – who you love and who loves you in return. Your lovely big home with a pretty garden. You in your study, writing about Caravaggio and reading about art history… perhaps with fond memories of Malta and maybe even the odd recollection of the teenager who wanted to believe she’d saved your life, and who loved you with every ounce of herself. I like to imagine you living the life I would like to have lived if I’d had the choice.’ She raised a finger to point at him, eyes moist with tears. ‘You could have had all of that. Instead you allowed yourself to wallow in a miserable life when you had the power to choose differently. Shame on you!’ She turned away and wept.

He was in deep shock. ‘Valentina.’

‘You should go,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m a terrible host. I hope you’ll find it within yourself to forgive my outburst. It’s just a lot of emotion.’ She swung around to face him. ‘I’ve held you in my heart all these years, and I needed you to be happy. It’s⁠—’

He gave himself no warning, let alone her. Before he could think himself out of the gesture, he reached for her and pulled her to his chest, wrapping his arms firmly around her. No longer the girl he’d enjoyed talking with, but a beautiful woman in his arms that he helplessly desired, even though he knew he shouldn’t, knew he had no right. But the flame that had been flickering since he’d seen her working in the cathedral now roared into its full burn.

‘Valentina,’ he whispered into her hair.

She turned her face up to his, and perhaps for the first time in his life, he let go of sensibility and jumped into the chasm of pure emotion.

He kissed her, tentative at first.

She didn’t flinch or pull away, but instead turned her head to welcome his lips and curled her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

Peter deepened the kiss and all of his misery drifted away as he held the woman whose love for him had never known doubt.

Good sense found Valentina first and she gently eased away from Peter’s lips; she knew them so well, she could have drawn their shape from memory, and yet she had never known them intimately.

It was better than she had fantasised.

The kiss was tender, and yet urgent. She could get lost, and she felt something inside her awaken… a current of desire she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager. ‘What are we doing?’ she whispered.

Peter smiled, their lips barely millimetres from each other. ‘I don’t know. It should feel wrong, but it feels right somehow.’

Valentina knew what he meant, but reality was creeping over her. What if someone saw them, told Lawrenz? He might actually kill her. ‘How about adulterous? We are Herod and Herodias.’

He laughed nervously and let her go, running both hands through his hair, which was already beginning to look bleached by the Maltese sun. Standing here, his shirt open, hair tousled, he looked almost as young as she remembered.

‘The Caravaggio. Yes. I hope no one dies for our sake.’ He stroked her cheek with the back of his curled hand. ‘I actually don’t know whether to apologise or thank you,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

Peter blew out his breath. ‘Well, first, I’m shocked at my own behaviour and I would hate to think that I just took advantage of the situation… especially after you’d only just explained to me the depth of your pain and misery.’

‘And why might you thank me?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘For giving me a glimpse of the affection that has long been missing in my life… all of my life, in fact.’ He paused. ‘So are you all right? Do I have anything to apologise for?’

She shook her head. ‘It was my choice. And if you want my complete honesty, I wish it could have gone on forever.’ Before he could reply, she continued. ‘Peter, I don’t expect anything of you. You have your life in England, and I have my life here. Even if I could somehow leave Lawrenz, I have Danjel to think of. If only I’d been born ten years earlier.’ She smiled. ‘I really would have run away with you.’

She saw his features relax. ‘If only,’ he echoed.

‘Peter…’ She reached for his hand and knitted her fingers into his. Was this too much?

‘Hmm?’ he said.

‘Will you dance with me? I used to dream of going to one of the nightclubs where they played music during the war and being in your arms.’

‘Put the music on!’ he said, smiling at her.

She skipped over to the gramophone. ‘We’re not allowed to play music when Lawrenz is home.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, it creates noise in his head, he says. But as soon as he leaves, I put some on and dance with Danjel. I’m teaching him some steps. There are songs recorded I would love to buy, but I dare not. Lawrenz would break them.’ She dropped the needle on a record, and he recognised the unmistakable voice of Frank Sinatra.