An Italian Affair Read online

  An

  Italian

  Affair

  JODI LUANN

  Smashwords Edition | Copyright 2014 Jodi Luann

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  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  Chapter 1

  I lie motionless as he groans and rolls off me. For the second time this week I am left to soak in his wet patch in the middle of the bed, feeling completely unsatisfied. At first glance, this doesn’t seem so bad. After all, it’s only the second time this week, right? But considering that my husband, David, has only been home for two out of the seven nights this week, I must admit that I’m less than thrilled.

  Within minutes he’s snoring, and as usual I’m left alone with my own destructive thoughts. What am I doing? How did I even get here? And most importantly, why the hell am I still here?

  His phone vibrates quietly from under his pillow. A text message. Probably from another one of his whores. Part of me wants to reach out and grab it, but the other part of me is too scared of what I might find.

  I know he’s cheating on me. We’ve been together for about five years, for three of those we have been married. But after the first year of our marriage, things began to dwindle. At first it started out small — he would go to the pub at night and return in the early hours of the morning smelling like liquor and women’s perfume. And then one night, he just didn’t return at all until a few days later. Since then, he’s been going away for days, even weeks at a time, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve asked him about it frequently, but he always denies everything — says that he’s going for ‘business meetings’. One night I even came home to find him fucking another woman in our bed.

  I want to leave him, I really do, but I have nobody else. When we married I moved all the way from Minnesota to Arizona to be with him, and I haven’t spoken to my family since. My only friends are the colleagues from my dead-end office job, and they all have families and problems of their own. So for now, it looks like I’m stuck.

  I scoot over to the other side of the bed to get away from him and squeeze my eyes shut to try and get some sleep. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s just after 3am when my eyes close for the last time to the sound of his snoring.

  I’m awaken the next morning to the sound of birds chirping and sunlight poking through the curtains. It’s like a scene from a romantic movie — except that my husband is nowhere to be seen, and has probably sauntered off to another woman’s house for sex because one woman alone is not satisfying enough, of course. A quick glance around the room tells me that he’s taken his briefcase. This means he could be away for a while. How long, exactly? I only wish I knew.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull on my silk nightgown. It feels good against my skin, and I shiver slightly as it rubs against my bare legs. Then I commence my morning routine: brush my teeth, brush my hair, get a (large) cup of filter coffee, and cook breakfast. I’m not very hungry this morning, so I settle for a slice of melon while I’m checking my emails.

  I’m right in the middle of replying to an email about next week’s meeting, when suddenly there is a loud rattle at the door. I don’t recognise the knock, but whoever is responsible must be banging the door pretty hard, so I’m almost hesitant as I walk to open it. My husband’s job means that we can afford to live in quite an upper class area in the nice side of town, but I can’t help being cautious. My fears are heightened when I open the door and peer out to find a tall, muscular man standing in front of me, a shovel swung over his shoulder.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” he says. His husky Italian accent immediately grabs my attention. “How are you this morning?” He sweeps a hand through his sandy brown hair as he speaks.

  “Very well, thank you,” I mutter. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Matteo. I just moved here a few weeks ago — well, I don’t live on this estate, of course, but somewhere nearby.” He begins to laugh to himself, but stops when he notices my raised eyebrows. “But anyway, I’m a gardener and I’ve been working my way around all of these houses,” he turns to motion to the rest of the street with his hand. “Now it’s your turn. How can I help you?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I don’t think I’m in need of your services, Mr. Matteo,” I say. “But thank you anyway.” I begin to shut the door, but he wedges his foot between the door and the frame to stop it from fully closing.

  “Are you sure?” He turns with his arms folded to look around my front garden. “Your garden could use some care, but I am sure you have much more important things to attend to. Why not let me take care of it?”

  “My garden is not one of my top priorities right now.”

  A crooked smile appears on his face. “Well, good. In that case, I can tend to it for you. I don’t charge much.” I open my mouth to protest once more, but he cuts me off before any sound comes out. “If it is references you want, I am sure that your kind neighbours would be happy to vouch for me. I am very good at my job.”

  I shake my head, but I can’t hide my smile. “Did you harass them as much as you’re harassing me?”

  He throws his head back, laughing. “They did not require any harassing. They gave me a chance to show them what I am capable of. I hope you will do the same.”

  I pause for a moment to look at him properly for the first time. Despite shutting him down so many times, his smile has not faltered, and his blue eyes are glimmering with confidence and determination.

  “All right, I’ll give you a chance. But you’d better be good,” I say, grinning.

  He laughs again, this time louder. “Of course, of course, miss…” he trails off, cocking his head as he looks at me.

  “Kelly,” I say.

  “Miss Kelly, thank you. I will be over tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Tomorrow it is.”

  “Thank you,” he says once more, taking my hand and shaking it. His handshake is just as I expected: firm, warm, and perhaps a little too enthusiastic. “Until tomorrow.”

  “Until tomorrow,” I repeat, smiling. I shut the door as he turns to walk away, and then jog to the kitchen window so I can keep watching him. He swings his hips as he walks back down the garden, keeping the shovel balanced on his left shoulder. I keep watching him until he disappears around the corner at the bottom of the street.

  Chapter 2

  I awake later than usual the next morning. David has still not returned, but the birds are still singing and the sun is still shining, so I decide not to let it phase me too much. Besides, I’m used to it now, right?

  I complete my usual morning routine, pull on a sundress and a pair of flip flops, and waltz into the kitchen. I’m just about to begin making breakfast, when I notice something — no, wait, someone — moving in the front garden. I only have to stand gaping at the window for a few seconds before he stands up and looks at me. Ah, of course, the Italian gardener. I almost forgot about him. What was his name again?

  He waves at me before bending back down to carry on with his work. How long has he been here for? He seems to be sweating pretty badly, so it must have been a while already.

  I unlock the front door and walk outside. “Would you like anything to eat? Some coffee, perhaps?”
>
  “Coffee would be good,” he says, stopping to look up at me. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Very well, thank you,” I say. For some reason I feel myself blushing slightly, but thankfully his attention has returned to his work. “I can do breakfast too, if you’d like? You must have been here pretty early.”

  “Just a couple of hours,” he says, standing up again and wiping his forehead. “I wake up early. I like to be in the garden. But breakfast would be good. If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

  “No trouble at all,” I smile. “Scrambled eggs?”

  He nods, and I turn and head back into the kitchen to prepare them.

  I return ten minutes later carrying a tray of food, setting it down on the table on the patio. It’s nice to have somebody to cook for again. Of course, it would be better if it were my husband, but there’s no chance of that happening. Besides, Matteo seems nice. I’d like to get to know him better.

  “Take a break,” I say. “You deserve it.”

  He smiles as he walks over to sit down next to me. He’s removed his shirt, and there are small beads of sweat glistening on his muscles. His scent is musky and moreish.

  “You have a lovely garden,” he remarks, taking a swig of coffee. “Much nicer than many of your neighbours’.”

  “Thank you,” I say, but I know it’s not true.

  “Do you spend a lot of time out here?”

  “In the garden?” I ask, as if it’s not obvious what he’s talking about. “Not particularly. I suppose I should, though.”

  “Definitely,” he says. He’s gazing off into the distance, absent-mindedly swirling the coffee around in his mug. I take the opportunity to look at his eyes while he isn’t paying attention. They’re so blue that it’s almost mesmerising, and I have to force myself to look away after a few seconds. I occupy myself by silently cutting my scrambled egg into small pieces until he speaks again. “Do you live alone?”

  I hesitate. Come to think of it, I pretty much do live alone. “My husband works away a lot,” I mumble. “He’s a businessman. Very busy.”

  “Ah.” He seems to snap out of whatever trance he was in, and takes another swig of coffee before starting on his omelette. “Do you see him often?”

  “Not particularly,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed to my plate. “As I said, he’s very busy.”

  “He should make more time for you,” he says. I can feel his eyes on me, burning through my skin. “You are like a beautiful flower who just needs a little more attention so you can bloom.”

  I smile at his awkward compliment. “Thank you.”

  “You are very beautiful,” he pauses, “and your cooking is beautiful, too.”

  I blush at his sudden influx of confidence, and drink the rest of my coffee in an attempt to hide my face with my cup.

  “Maybe when I finish giving your garden the attention it deserves, I can move on to you.” The words leave his mouth so casually that it takes a few seconds before I fully process his suggestion. I choke on my coffee as a result of my surprise, and I’m left spluttering and clutching my stomach. He leans over and pats me on the back. “I should get back to work.”

  “Yes,” I gasp. “Sorry, I just swallowed the wrong way.”

  “It’s fine,” he says, his chapped lips flirting with a smile. “Be careful.”

  I stare off at him as he walks back over to the flower beds to resume his work. Was he flirting with me? Yes, I think he was. For most women this would be no big deal, but for me, it’s huge. In my 26 years on this earth, nobody has ever spoken to me like that before, not even my husband. Matteo probably didn’t mean anything by it, but that doesn’t stop my heart palpitations. I suddenly realise I’m standing in the middle of the garden staring after him, sweat pouring down my forehead, and I quickly turn around and rush myself into the house before he turns around and notices.

  I spend most of the day checking emails and spreadsheets as usual, but by the time 2pm rolls around, I’m famished. I make a cheese sandwich for myself and Matteo, but this time I walk back into the house when I’ve served him. He seems mildly disappointed, but I can’t help it. Forget about holding a conversation, I can’t even look at him properly anymore. I give David a call when I get in.

  “Kelly,” he says, picking up after several rings. He sounds mildly irritated. “What do you want?”

  “I was just wondering what time you’d be home,” I mumble. “Sorry.”

  “Sometime later,” he says curtly. “Anything else?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “For dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” I say, but I’m not sure if he even waits for me to get the word out before cutting me off.

  I’ve finished most of my work for today, so I decide to make use of the extra ingredients in the fridge and make something for David and me to share when he gets home tonight. I eventually decide on spaghetti carbonara — nothing too fancy, but it’s his favourite, and it looks pretty good once I’ve garnished it with herbs. There’s also a bottle of champagne in the cupboard that we were saving for a special occasion, but I decide that this counts. After all, we haven’t spent any quality time together for quite a while. By 5pm the table is set, the candles are lit, and the sensual music is playing.

  By 8pm, David is still not home. I sit alone, staring at the clock and poking at my plate of cold spaghetti with my fork. The temptation to call him is getting stronger and stronger, and before I know what I’m doing, the phone is in my hand and I’m dialling his number. He should be here any second, I tell myself as it rings. He’s probably just stuck in traffic.

  He doesn’t answer, so I accept the idea that he’s just busy driving back. But by the time 8:30pm rolls around and he’s still nowhere to be seen, I begin to question myself. I call him three or four times, each time getting slightly more desperate, until he finally calls me back at 9pm.

  “I won’t be home tonight, baby,” he says, his voice unusually soothing. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

  “I…” I try to speak, but my throat closes. “Okay.”

  “Work has just taken over. I’ll make it up to you when I can.”

  No you won’t. I want to say it out loud so badly, but before I can say anything else, I hear the soft ‘click’ to indicate that he has hung up.

  Chapter 3

  I stare at my phone. At this point, my usual response would be to break down into tears. But for once, I don’t feel disappointment. I feel rage. And it’s building up inside me, getting more and more severe until I can’t take it any longer. Before I can stop myself I’m turning around, yanking the blue cotton cloth from the table and sending all of the food spiralling into the air, then around the entire room — spaghetti plasters the floor, the ceiling, the walls, and the cupboards, and the plates hit the floor with a loud smash, shards flying in every direction. Only seconds later I’m sitting in a heap on the floor, wailing and swearing, annoyed at David for letting me down, but even more annoyed at myself for letting him affect me like this.

  Before I know it, a strong pair of arms are stretching around me, lifting me up and holding me close. When I look up, my gaze is met by a pair of frosty blue eyes — the same frosty blue eyes that made my knees weak earlier today. Matteo’s frosty blue eyes. Except instead of being clouded with their usual mysterious glimmer, this time they’re brimming with concern. His brow his furrowed, his mouth pulled downwards.

  “Are you okay?” He asks.

  I try to reply, but my voice cracks and my crying only gets louder. He pulls me closer, rocking me back and forth in his arms, and then sits down with me on his lap. I nuzzle into his shoulder and he strokes my hair. I don’t know how long we spend sitting like this, not saying a word, but all I know is that I don’t want to let him go. I can feel his muscles through his shirt where he’s flexing to support my body, and for reasons completely unknown, I feel safe and warm in his arms.

  After what seems like hours, but must
only be several minutes, I peel my face away from his tear-drenched shirt and hold back my head so I can look at him properly. He looks at me too, still smiling and gently rocking me.

  He opens his mouth to speak, and I think he starts to ask if I’m okay again, but I interrupt him. Not with tears this time, but with a kiss. His words crumble into a soft groan as my lips meet his, and his muscles tense so that his grip on my body tightens. I move my hands so I’m holding him too, pulling him closer to me and cupping his sun-kissed cheeks with my hands.

  I can feel him smiling as he kisses me back, and I smile too. My crying has stopped now, but I can still feel some of the tears sliding down my cheeks. I think he can too, because after a few seconds of messaging each other’s lips, he pulls back my face with his hands, wiping them away with his thumbs and running his fingers down my cheekbones.

  “I’m okay now,” I whisper so quietly that barely any sound comes out. I think he hears me, though, because his smile gets wider and he leans back in. This time he takes control, burying his fingers into my hair and pulling my head towards his. But his kisses are so passionate that he forces my head back until I’m pinned against the back of the chair, unable to move, completely at his mercy. So this is what it feels like to be wanted.

  He leans back, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes on my breasts.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?” I manage to croak. His eyes dart around the room where the pasta is still sliding down the wall, and I can’t help but giggle a little as he looks back at me, his head cocked to one side. “Don’t worry, we can order something.”

  “It looks good, it’s a shame for it to go to waste.” He pauses. “What happened?”

  “My husband cancelled on me again. It’s no big deal, it happens all the time. I just lost my temper.”